My breast ultrasound took place early this morning, so I spent the rest of the day twiddling my thumbs, waiting for results. Fortunately, the cool US tech girl gave me a heads up on the radiologist’s propensity to drag his feet on sending reports. I spent an hour on the phone harassing various agencies to get my results sent to my doctor’s office. Lucky me.
Almost ten minutes to the second after my final phone call, a Dr. Rubble calls me. I have no idea who he is, but he will be my surgeon tomorrow! I have a serious breast abscess. I need surgery. Would I like to come in tonight? Perhaps tomorrow would be better since I need to be without food for at least six hours to avoid aspirating my meal and dying a horrible death?
A nine o’clock appointment with Dr. Rubble is scheduled for tomorrow. The evening passes with about five more phone calls to prepare me for tomorrow’s procedure, including a call from Sarah Seamstress for stronger pain meds (codeine). I make a few more phone calls to my Mommy (Wah! Poor me!) and to Pat (Wah! Am I going to die?). Damn, I was hoping to avoid all this.