I started off my Tuesday being ushered into a waiting area much like that of a spa—as if I were getting ready for a massage. A plush robe was waiting on the bench for me. A locker with a key was waiting for my valuables. There was tea and water in the waiting area.
It looked like a lovely robe, but I decide to skip it and just wear the gown that tied in the back and take my seat in the waiting area.
I'd already had my annual mammo. I've been getting them since I was thirty-five due to family history. This was a follow-up. A call-back because of my scar tissue, or breast density, or whatever. I was still trying to remain calm.
Pro tip: when trying to remain calm, don't arrive thirty full minutes early for your appointment. You'll end up reading every InStyle magazine in the place, decide you need a serious makeover, and realize you have neither the money nor desire to pull it off.
Finally, I was called in for my tit squish. I had a fabulous tech. We had each other laughing with radiology horror stories. I told about voiding cystograms. She topped that with a voiding defecogram! Dude, can you imagine having to drop a deuce while someone takes an x-ray? I think not! It was bad enough having to pee mid-film. (I used to work in the field, but had the honor of posing for those earlier in my life. Bonus: no need to smile.)
Once she was done, I went back in the holding tank until I was called in to have an ultrasound thanks to my fabulously hot tits. Or it might have been related to my dense breasts and scar tissue. I wasn't really listening.
All I know is that I passed with flying colors, they gave me a lollipop, and I got to go home.
Until Thursday. Thursday I have to go to see another doctor because my gallbladder is an asshole. We're going to have a pow-wow about what an asshole my gallbladder is. That's the official diagnosis. Asshole gallbladder. Look it up on WebMD.
Then, for Valentine's Day, I'm having it removed. Well, the day after Valentine's Day. I guess the surgeons don't like to do that kind of thing on Valentine's Day, which is weird because I got my uterus removed for Xmas a couple years ago, but they wouldn't do it on Xmas; I had to do it a couple days beforehand. It's like these doctors make plans on these holidays. Odd. I wonder if they'll agree to put the gallstones in a heart-shaped box for me.
Anyhoo. I've been reading up on the post-op joys of having one's gallbladder removed and came upon an entire message board of people who swear you'll be doomed to a life of diarrhea and sharting yourself, which has me super excited. I refer to them as the Debbie Downer Gallbladder Removal Society and refuse to believe in them or their complaints because, really? Who would start a board to talk about how awesome they felt? They'd just be out feeling awesome.
That's what I plan on doing. Feeling awesome. Me and my bewbs and my gallbladderless self. Feeling groovy.
Just as soon as I find a ride to the hospital.
I kid. Sort of. At least the kids are spoken for.