I am just tired: too tired to write at the end of the day. Working seven days a week is taking its toll. I wish I could learn to say ‘no’ to the weekend tour work but I find it very hard to turn down work. I’ve been dumpster diving poor in the last five years and I am always conscious that I am just one health crisis away from that again.
My relationship is still very happy. We’ve set a wedding date (October 12) and decided on only our kids there, so as to avoid the repercussions that would inevitably occur as a result of having my dysfunctional family attend. The best part of my day is lying in bed with him at night. We continue to strengthen and grow together.
My mother is still very ill. Back in hospital again and looking like a famine victim. I hate to even think it but I honestly wonder if she will ever pull out of this period of bad health. I feel guilty that I don’t spend more time looking after her but I don’t have it. I do what I can and feel bad about it, even though it is so much more than either brother does. It’s in the feminine psyche to feel guilt, I think. In my opinion, men don’t bother much with this emotion and don’t understand female suffering of it.
I am sore.
I went back yesterday for my three month boob checkup, having taken the day off work because the system takes so long. I was just expecting an ultrasound and a two minute doctor convo (‘yep, looks the same, see you in six months). Instead I got a deep frown from the ultrasound expert, the calling in of another doctor and a 10 (TEN!) size core biopsy sample.
TEN means that they snip ten little apple corer tubes out of your breast. Yes, they gave me enough local anesthetic to immobilise a rhinocerous but it still isn’t fun. It’s also very bloody. It’s a bit disconcerting to tell the nurse that something is gushing down your back and not realise that it is your own blood until you see the white sheet beneath you turn rapidly red, at a very fast rate of spreading. This also leads you to another disconcerting experience, involving you face to face with the very cute doctor as he leans with both hands hard on your boob to try and stop the bleeding.
I am no good in social situations. I always feel the need to make conversation; this wasn’t exactly social but we were eyeball to eyeball and it was awkward. So I asked him if being a boob doctor took away from his enjoyment of breasts. Yeah, that got past the awkward moment nicely, because he burst out laughing. (I genuinely wanted to know – afterwards, he told me absolutely not).
I liked this doctor but I didn’t like the procedure. I also didn’t like the fact that they said ‘there have been changes and we need to find out why’. Remember that last time it was said to be a benign tumour of the ducts? They aren’t so sure any more. More tests and in the meantime I am so very sore.