Detective Steve
365 Days - Day 156/Biopsy, Take 1
My disenchantment with modern medicine continues.
Went into Harborview Hospital for what I thought would be a "needle aspiration biopsy", a procedure by which a doctor roots around in your "mass" in an effort to pack into a hollow needle enough cells to examine and tell you how screwed you are.
"Will hurt like bee-sting," said the heavily accent Czech pathologist. Wait, I'm getting ahead of myself.
Where I ended up was the Otolaryngology Clinic, a specialty practice of which I was heretofore ignorant. In the language of plain speaking proletarians like me that means "neck doctor".
Despite having a golfball-sized lump growing out of the side of my neck, the doctor insisted on introducing me to the dubious pleasures of the laryngascope. So, since it's a teaching hospital, the doc and half a dozen med students and my soon to be ex-wife (who begins med school next year) gathered around the screen and were treated to guided tour of the inner workings of my throat. Everyone found it fascinating and congratulated me on a healthy epiglottis. Perhaps if I hadn't had a fiberoptic camera stuffed up my nose and tickling my vocal chords I would have been more pleased.
After this bonding experience everyone got to feel the lump on my neck and, after a group huddle, they all nodded their heads sagely and informed me that they were going to perform a procedure called a "needle aspiration biopsy". The head doctor actually made the quote gesture with his fingers when he told me. Fan-fucking-tastic, it's only what I came in for after all. I told him to, "bring it on," or words to that effect.
Next I got to meet the pathology team, led by a female Czech doctor who sounded like Natasha from Rocky & Bullwinkle. Her assistant was a rangy blond wearing a low cut top. Things were clearly looking up.
"Will hurt like bee-sting." Yeah. Once the needle was in she begins rooting it around with a look of utter concentration on her face, the two assistants hovering over her shoulder. The insistent urgency of her movements and the concentration on her face absurdly reminded me of Magnum PI trying to pick a lock. All I could think of was, "work the lock, don't look at the dogs."
"Like bee-sting, yes?"
Sure if by bee-sting you mean it feels like your had a slim-jim in my neck trying unsuccessfully to pop the lock on a late model Toyota, then yeah, sure.
Since the microscope in my exam room was busted, all three left with bloody slides of my neck-material in search of operational equipment.
A few minutes later the pathology doc returns with the kind of terminally sad look that can only be perfected by Eastern Europeans. She tells me the procedure was a failure, just blood, no cells were extracted. Furthermore, since my "mass" is squatting right on top of my carotid artery, she doesn't want to go in any deeper for fear I'll spring a leak. I have to come back so they can stick me again, but this time use an ultrasound to watch where the needle goes. Yay, more warm goo. I hope the cleavage assistant is available that day.
Mostly I'm pissed off and frustrated and the fear is still gibbering away inside me. My throat is sore from my own special presentation to the med students of ,"The Espophagus and You," and my neck is now throbbing from the Roto-Rooter job. My thought was, "this is fucked up", so I came back and took this photo.
Now, however, I feel childish, immature and humbled. For, once again, out of an un-looked-for corner of my life, unintentional wisdom was dispensed by lost in translatn. This morning, before I wrote this, perspective hit me with a sledgehammer blow, in the form of 18 pages of prose that she had no idea I would read.
I was reminded that, my fears aside, this could all be much ado about nothing. I was reminded that even if the worst is to come, what a waste it is to throw away those days and hours before the next test on fear, depression and anger. That is time I will never recoup. Better to live a full and passionate life than grumble, bemoan and await the Reaper.
So, even though this photo is ill-tempered, I'm dedicating it, my words and my belated insights to lost in translatn. Thank you.
365 Days - Day 156/Biopsy, Take 1
My disenchantment with modern medicine continues.
Went into Harborview Hospital for what I thought would be a "needle aspiration biopsy", a procedure by which a doctor roots around in your "mass" in an effort to pack into a hollow needle enough cells to examine and tell you how screwed you are.
"Will hurt like bee-sting," said the heavily accent Czech pathologist. Wait, I'm getting ahead of myself.
Where I ended up was the Otolaryngology Clinic, a specialty practice of which I was heretofore ignorant. In the language of plain speaking proletarians like me that means "neck doctor".
Despite having a golfball-sized lump growing out of the side of my neck, the doctor insisted on introducing me to the dubious pleasures of the laryngascope. So, since it's a teaching hospital, the doc and half a dozen med students and my soon to be ex-wife (who begins med school next year) gathered around the screen and were treated to guided tour of the inner workings of my throat. Everyone found it fascinating and congratulated me on a healthy epiglottis. Perhaps if I hadn't had a fiberoptic camera stuffed up my nose and tickling my vocal chords I would have been more pleased.
After this bonding experience everyone got to feel the lump on my neck and, after a group huddle, they all nodded their heads sagely and informed me that they were going to perform a procedure called a "needle aspiration biopsy". The head doctor actually made the quote gesture with his fingers when he told me. Fan-fucking-tastic, it's only what I came in for after all. I told him to, "bring it on," or words to that effect.
Next I got to meet the pathology team, led by a female Czech doctor who sounded like Natasha from Rocky & Bullwinkle. Her assistant was a rangy blond wearing a low cut top. Things were clearly looking up.
"Will hurt like bee-sting." Yeah. Once the needle was in she begins rooting it around with a look of utter concentration on her face, the two assistants hovering over her shoulder. The insistent urgency of her movements and the concentration on her face absurdly reminded me of Magnum PI trying to pick a lock. All I could think of was, "work the lock, don't look at the dogs."
"Like bee-sting, yes?"
Sure if by bee-sting you mean it feels like your had a slim-jim in my neck trying unsuccessfully to pop the lock on a late model Toyota, then yeah, sure.
Since the microscope in my exam room was busted, all three left with bloody slides of my neck-material in search of operational equipment.
A few minutes later the pathology doc returns with the kind of terminally sad look that can only be perfected by Eastern Europeans. She tells me the procedure was a failure, just blood, no cells were extracted. Furthermore, since my "mass" is squatting right on top of my carotid artery, she doesn't want to go in any deeper for fear I'll spring a leak. I have to come back so they can stick me again, but this time use an ultrasound to watch where the needle goes. Yay, more warm goo. I hope the cleavage assistant is available that day.
Mostly I'm pissed off and frustrated and the fear is still gibbering away inside me. My throat is sore from my own special presentation to the med students of ,"The Espophagus and You," and my neck is now throbbing from the Roto-Rooter job. My thought was, "this is fucked up", so I came back and took this photo.
Now, however, I feel childish, immature and humbled. For, once again, out of an un-looked-for corner of my life, unintentional wisdom was dispensed by lost in translatn. This morning, before I wrote this, perspective hit me with a sledgehammer blow, in the form of 18 pages of prose that she had no idea I would read.
I was reminded that, my fears aside, this could all be much ado about nothing. I was reminded that even if the worst is to come, what a waste it is to throw away those days and hours before the next test on fear, depression and anger. That is time I will never recoup. Better to live a full and passionate life than grumble, bemoan and await the Reaper.
So, even though this photo is ill-tempered, I'm dedicating it, my words and my belated insights to lost in translatn. Thank you.