A few days ago I had a marathon of doctor appointments all in one day. We opened with a pre-op physical which included a blood draw and an aggressive nasal swabbing, followed by my first visit to the oncologist and the grand finale was one last visit with my breast surgeon. Are you already jealous? Just wait.
Physical went fine outside of the handsy nose swabber. The below picture was taken right after said swab, or as I like to call it, nasal assault.
I’ll skip ahead to the breast surgeon as the oncology appointment was the main event, stay tuned… Breast surgeon, Dr. Pesce, was pretty palatable. She is such a warm and kind woman who is close in age to me so I feel she relates. No breaking news there.
The oncologist. Here is where the title of this post comes into play. The photo of me with the Kellogg Cancer Center sign was taken right before we went into the office. I was a happy, shiny circle peg, about to be jammed into a sad, dull, square hole.
Here is what an oncology office waiting room is like… Close your eyes, picture a place that evokes misery and despair. Now add a ton of fake flowers and a lot of old, sick looking people and, voila! You have yourself an oncology waiting room.
To say that the 36 year old in the high pony and sequin leggings was a foreign object, would be a massive understatement. This was really the first time since diagnosis that I felt doom. Like, real deal, slam into focus, doom.
My mom and sister were with me and we were taken to an exam room. While we waited, I had to take a detour to the restroom to handle what I like to call, ’emergent panic diarrhea’. On the way to the restroom I passed a bunch of ‘treatment rooms’ or, rooms where sick people are getting chemo. This was yet another blow to my sunny sequined leggings attitude.
How I held it together during that appointment is a testament to my dear, dear friend, Prozac. Nothing much new came out of that appointment. More of a meet and greet and yet another person telling me that ‘we will know everything after surgery,’ which is quickly becoming my least favorite sentence after, ‘you have invasive ductal carcinoma.’
My mood has slipped a bit since that day. I am having a slightly harder time seeing the sequin leggings (replacement phrase for ‘silver linings’). Right now I need to take my sad face off and replace it with sparkle again as I am headed downtown to attend a black tie gala with my cute husband. Let’s all say a collective Hallelujah! for the fact that he works for Harry Winston and that I will get my sparkle back whether I want it or not as I am being FORCED to wear $100,000 worth of diamonds. Woe. Is. Me.