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[personal profile] northwestmagpie
I thought I'd provide a little backstory on my thyroid lump, and the trouble it's caused me lately. So here's the repost from the LJ entry I made as [personal profile] xanath, back in October 2006. That's how long I've had this damn lump.

So You Want To Be A Surgery Candidate



Just follow these simple rules:

1) Ignore the lump in your throat for being either the Adam's apple from a cannibalized twin or, and more likely, excess neck fat, leaving it to double in size over 7 years.

2) Go see a lovely, grandfatherly doctor who presses on the lump, now the size of a golf ball, and orders an ultrasound and imaging scan (not in that order).

3) Have the imaging scan turn up absolutely nothing, but let the ultrasound pick up on the fact that your thyroid seemingly has a beer gut.

4) Have the grandfatherly doctor schedule an appointment with an endocrinologist and a follow-up on your bloodwork for diabetes and anemia just five days apart.

5) Get stuck in traffic due to roadwork sites erected every two miles in midtown Phoenix. To increase your chances of getting lost in the ADOT automobile obstacle course, try taking a side street that you just know will get you to an "open" main street . . . only to find that they're repaving that street too.

6) Arrive twenty minutes late for your appointment, and have the receptionist curtly inform you of the time you were actually supposed to be there. (Extra points if you visualize the receptionist being dragged behind your car like a load of tin cans on a string.)

7) Fill out paperwork and be called in by the endocrinologist, an Indian woman barely 4'11, whose pregnant belly takes up one-third to one-half of her total body mass.

8) While the heavily pregnant endocrinologist paces to relieve her backache, sit on a table and explain that yes, you were without medication for three straight months, which is why your glucose level is at 11 instead of your previously safe 6.8.

9) Have the endocrinologist place you on the medical table (thus making sure she has to stand on tiptoe to reach your throat) and feel for the lump. Make sure you're looking right at her when she recoils in horror.

10) Go stand next to the door on the endocrinologist's order, while she goes to the other side of the 10' x 10' examining room and declares that she can see the lump from there. (Extra points if you start visualizing evil cancerous tendrils winding their way up your throat and into your brain via the aural canal.)

11) Have the endocrinologist inform you that she will perform the biopsy of your lump (which you have now affectionately named "Get this thing the hell out of me") on Oct. 18th, with surgery soon to follow, as "it's much too big to be left in there."

12) Leave the endocrinologist's office with a warm fuzzy feeling, which you realize is relief that the poor woman didn't go into labor while you were there.

13) Go see your grandfatherly doctor on October 10th, and get scolded because you really don't feel like jabbing your fingers thrice-daily to monitor your blood sugar. (You already know it's too high, and your anemia is dangerously low. Taking blood? Not an option, in your opinion.)

14) Tell the grandfatherly doctor that your new endocrinologist wants to take over your diabetes management. Watch him recoil, not in horror, but in outrage, and snarl, "We'll just see about that!"

15) When your grandfatherly doctor demands to know what the endocrinologist said about your lump ("GT3HOOM"), inform him that she could see it from across the room. Bonus points for not laughing when the doctor snips, "At least we know she has good eyesight."

16) Swear on the lives of your unborn children that you will poke your fingers thrice-daily and bleed all over the stupid glucose tester just to see if your medication should be increased. (Extra points for not saying, "How about I just make something up?", even if that is your plan.)

17) Get handed a packet for another stool sample, as, unfortunately, taking the other one proved . . . never mind. Suffice to say, you've been eating cheese for five days.

18) Poke fingers and snarl. Extra points if you snarl in German.

19) Get called to schedule a Pap smear, which, as it also involves a check on your fibroids, will include a poke or two with the John Holmes Vaginal Probe of Don't Even Think You're Going To Put That In There.

20) Get told that you will need to purchase iron ASAP, as it's a wonder you can even stagger out of the examination room under your own power. (Bonus points if you don't crack wise that Blue Cross is just too cheap to spring for a damned wheelchair.)


And this was just how it started. Tomorrow I'll tell you how it all ended this last week, and how it's taken me this long to realize I've been insane about my job search in Washington.
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