Losing Half an Ass, and an Entire Week

The One Not Used on Holiday Cards

So two productive things happened after my little surgery on Monday: One is we took photos for Christmas cards. Yeah, well, you all know damn well it wasn’t my idea. Heh. Although, I did tell Mr. Shoe that if we put two chairs together and sat there it would look a lot like one of those hostage videos… “Yes, even though we are horrible infidels who must die, we are being treated wondrously well…” And Mr. Shoe’s knees were being dumb, and then I’d have to pick up Penny while juggling the camera remote. (If you are wondering, Mr. Shoe’s knees are being difficult because… well, our sweet GP says it is just this thing that usually happens to women who have squished babies from their vaginas. She did… and I’m not sure what I missed there, but I hope I missed something. Men, knees, babies, vaginas. Go figure.)

The second thing was that I saw my sleep doctor, and could tell him that what was removed from my hip was not in fact a huge friggin’ Ritalin deposit. I did indeed tell him this. He was appreciative, because I know damn well he’s heard it all.

Basically, here is the deal: I know what I was told, which was what Mr. Shoe was told, which is what we had been suspecting (yep, my ass cheek is going to be what calls it). But we don’t know the real particulars. We might not by my follow up on the 8th. We should by the next one on the 14th. Also, the incision, despite being smaller than it would have been thanks to the hook wires, is pretty good sized. What’s even more remarkable is that I was joking when I said I’d have half an ass. But(t) — the excision required that muscle be removed as well. I didn’t think it would be that much muscle. I mean, it was only about an inch of tumor, and then… I mean, my ass takes up negative space. I know some of you think that’d be a good thing — it isn’t. It is weird. Also, it makes me feel lopsided when I sit on the toilet.

It wasn’t that bad in and of itself. What sucks is this recovery part of the whole shebang. I have a few more days of suddenly hitting the wall hard ahead of me, I suspect. Not that it really hurts much or anything… But all of a sudden I feel like I just had surgery. Go figure. So not much has happened this week at all beyond a doctor’s visit and this photo.

Also, Mr. Shoe didn’t want to use this particular photo on the cards, so we opted for another one. He says he looks weird in this one (yeah, well, join the club, dude.) Because he didn’t want it memorialized on a holiday card, it instead will forever haunt a wider audience on the internet. Poor sweet long-suffering Mr. Shoe. Hee hee.

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Behind a Rolling Gurney Comes a Running Nurse

So anyway, I now own half an ass. Actually, it really was pretty much down in my hip, towards my ass. The orthopedic oncologist (who is a surgeon – put the man in scrubs and an OR, and he finally acts natural) decided a fish hook technique to mark area would be best… I guess they usually use it on boobies. It limits the size of the excision. So I guess it’s only a three or four incher. 

The rough bit was it is usually used on boobies, and the wire markers dislodge easily, so I had two wires in my hip for the hour or two leading up to surgery and I was not to move, or be moved. And then I was quizzed on why that was (but that’s not a booby!) by a few nurses.

Tumor looked consistent with what core showed at least superficially (b-cells) and so I am getting the distinct impression we have confirmed the strongly suspected lymphoma and now just need to start staining and typing and classifying. That’s actually good news, because… that far in, if it ain’t scar tissue or whatever, lymphoma is probably one of the better case scenarios you can get saddled with.

But bedtime now. Zzzz.

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The Half Assed Post

All right, so I’ll have more than half an ass when this is all said and done… I ended up seeing the orthopedic oncologist (who is doing the surgery, I knew he did more than fill out papers! I knew it!) on Wednesday and he was perhaps dancing a little less around the issue of removing my (ahem) atypical lymphoid cell aggregate thingee (thingee is a technical term). Maybe it’s because he wasn’t so direct that he wanted the repeated needle biopsy last time around, and I didn’t immediately choose that option? I dunno. But it was kind of funny, because while the oncologist said he didn’t grok the idea of waiting four months to rescan, and the orthopedic onc was more along the lines of not wanting to wait even a month, I had to kind of lay it out this way: So if we did another needle biopsy, and it showed similar results that we couldn’t clinch this diagnosis — or even if we could and it’s what you think it is (but won’t spell out the finer details I’d want to know right now if you admitted it outright because… that’s what’s missing) — it’s going to have to come out anyway, huh?

Yeah.

The cool part of having the best friggin’ GP in the entire world, hands down, and the cooler part of knowing her so well and her knowing me so well, is that I get to hear what the specialists really think. Now, usually, that sucks serious amounts of donkey parts. Usually specialists think stuff like, “Patient seems to be ill, but it has nothing at all to do with my speciality.” Sometimes they do actually think real stuff. My sleep specialists do, for instance. It’s just I never had my sweet GP call before she heads off for the holiday about a note my sleep specialist sent.

First, she admitted she cried happy tears. And she used the word “bum.” And I thought: Is that what having kids does to you? This is the sweet doctor who has dropped an f-bomb or two and caught herself before she spit out a few more during the course of a physical? Is this the woman who respectfully (and I mean that, it was said in that reverential way) called my first sleep doctor a hardass?

After using the word bum, she then pretty much said what it was sure looking like from where we stood: they are reasonably sure there’s a low-grade lymphoma (of which there are many types) to be positively typed and subtyped, requiring the bum work to (as I saw on the pre-op notes yesterday) make the full diagnosis. Because as the orthopedic doctor said, “You can’t just treat any lymphoma on a hunch.”

She said, “I am happy for you. I mean, that’s a weird thing to say…”

No it isn’t. It could be a lot worse — say, if they’d seen a different presentation or look to the abnormality or if things had been extremely normal. And truthfully, even if it’s a particularly menacing bunch of stupid looking lymphoid cells and the malignant nature is questioned, it probably is getting handled similarly. And managing this stuff isn’t bad. It isn’t — it’s long term, but it can be long term because it is responsive, even if there’s the tendency to be very persistent and recurrent.

But as was mentioned (repeatedly) it would appear from the location and history and what they did see that it is a slow, chronic type, and there are boatloads of those and on the one hand they are kind of all handled alike, on the other hand, they aren’t, and since it is likely going to be a long haul and being overly aggressive shows little overall benefit by and large, it’s a long haul and under managing might not pay off either.  And certain ones respond somewhat differently or better to some types of biologics — straight up chemo might not be necessary now or ever, depending. But there’s that depending.

So I’m losing the extra inch of atypical lymphoid weight. Next week. They were going to go this Monday, but alas, my doctor who does more than paperwork was booked. I will be on crutches for about two weeks. They might do a bone marrow biopsy at the same time (I asked if they would, I mean, if this has to suck, and in the same general area, I’d rather they do it while I’m out and I can suck all at once). I don’t know how feasible it is, really. I mean, they might not have someone who can do it at that time, or who feels comfortable doing so while muscle is being worked on, and I imagine if they used the other hip — I might be wishing I sucked at two separate points in time. It’s also not always warranted, but I just get this feeling as it was mentioned as a “we might have to” this time as opposed to “I can’t see why we’d have to any time soon” the first visit.

God’s honest truth is this probably it, and it’s one of the better outcomes. This can be dealt with. This isn’t much different than I was expecting in a “reasonable case” scenario.

Prior to surgery next week, I have to keep my surgical soap away from children, apparently simply because it is a red color and not because it is unhealthy to ingest antimicrobial/antibacterial soaps. Go figure. Afterwards, I need to make up a good story to explain the substantial scars all down my left side (four thanks to my thymus, and now a nice four incher or so on my hip). What do you think? Bar fight? Badger attack?

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Chronic Illness — Ur Doin' It Rong!

The only thing normal about today is that I laughed when I heard. Then I felt weird about laughing, mainly because I thought I should feel weird about it, which isn’t normal.

So my cute nerdy surgeon was correct — cells quite identifiable. They are b-cells. Remember those b-cells? Those b-cells that kind of lend chutzpah to the statement, “My immune system has a posse?” The ones that blew up Don Thymus, causing his removal from my thoracic cavity? Remember how when Don Thymus was yanked, my electrolytes went whack, and my central diabetes insipidus decided to go back to sleep, but despite everything, my blood sodium levels plummeted to the “I can’t believe you haven’t died yet” levels? That generally, I hear, is associated with underlying malignancy. Except… Don Thymus wasn’t malignant. And the little buddy in my posterior pituitary and my right lung both look fairly well-behaved… Generally pituitary tumors mirror what one sees in someone’s thymus, and truthfully, I don’t want them digging in my brain. The lung is a more negotiable point, but truthfully — I’ve had surgeries before. And the lung would be much like the thymectomy in terms of access (same way, different side) and procedure. And I’d like to pass on doing that again if possible.

But I have a pretty damn significant cluster of b-cells in my fairly small (2-3 cms as opposed to some of the 20 cm behemoths that can pop up) tumor in my left ass cheek and hip region. Truthfully, it’s deep. It’s really not my ass cheek except for the gluteus minimus/medius monnikers of the surrounding area. It also sounds funny. And that’s not okay.

So here’s the deal: The biopsy wasn’t enough tissue to test for the sixty plus types of lymphoma it could be. So we’re kind of thinking that taking the little bastard out is best. Learning opportunity: Buttockectomy is a medical term! I don’t think that’s what’s being done, truthfully, as I think it only pertains to the gluteus maximus. My gluteus maximus does not, as yet, have a posse. But I like the word, just like I enjoy saying that I have a tumor in my left ass cheek.

I go see the lovely orthopedic oncologist tomorrow. I think he’ll do that part. I mean, he didn’t do the CT guided stuff and I have just seen him and he orders these tests and I am damned if I know what he really does, but I imagine he does actually do something more than order tests — otherwise, who the hell would go through that much schooling? So maybe he cuts the big’uns out. Then they’ll look more at the b-cells and tell me what they think.

I kind of know what they think — to the tune of Mr. Shoe and I might just ask if there’s a way, since they’re going right by my hip anyway, they could rationalize doing the bone marrow biopsy right then when I’m all unconscious and messed up to start. But today’s discussion had a few moments with a doctor going back and saying, “I am not saying it is lymphoma, but…”

And I said, “In my ass cheek. All of this, and it is something we find the key to in my ass cheek? Is that… right?” (I love this guy at Dana Farber, and the sad fact is, all bets are off now, my friends. All bets are off. Ass tumors are the great equalizer, it seems.)

His take was that while it isn’t the usual manner, chronic, indolent forms of lymphoma are just weird little animals, and sometimes they don’t act like they really should. They often don’t act like anything at all. I can’t get a lymph node to look overly impressive if I have the friggin’ swine flu on top of mumps and kennel cough, but hey, my immune system has a posse in my left ass cheek and my brain.

To quote Tracy Morgan, it’s just like the joke my kidneys are playing on my lungs. If you know what he means, you know it makes way more sense than the heart and head cliche.

So I have a feeling this might turn into a “name that lymphoma” as opposed to an “is/isn’t it” deal. And the sad fact is that even if it’s merely a bunch of very normal looking b-cells… They keep doing this, and that’s a problem. It’s a problem that causes other problems (like the ones I have, alas) and in some cases the concept of a benign vs. malignant cell posse is just… irrelevant. I think that what this comes down to is more figuring out how conservative we can be (or aggressive we’ll have to be) in dealing with this. If nothing looks overtly amiss, it’s steroids and then, should things continue (and while I feel better with steroids, I can attest this will continue. Sorry, folks) it might mean scaling up to biologics. If it looks nastier and is a chronic form that they see, then I’ll probably start in chemo land and then tune down. By and large, however, most cases of slower stuff like this get a middle of the road treatment that is ongoing.

So it gets treated a lot like histiocytosis, or more nasty manifestations of immune diseases, and it is played by ear.

It’s still stupid though. I mean… So they find some people’s lymphoma in their necks, or their armpits, or even their groin… Am I really going to have to tell people that I don’t have any significant amount of slow wave sleep, my blood pressure whacks up and down at random and my extremities are often a mottled purple color because of the lymphoma they found in my ass cheek? I must have been a horrid person in a past life. Thank God I’m so awesome in this one, huh, Penny?

You Still There? Good.

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24 Hours of Win, Lose or Drawers

Cake is Lie. Lie is Cake.

Never trust a lying cake. And never, ever, let the guy at the bakery counter not answer (and just start working) when you ask whether what you want written on your cake will fit… Because even if he’s got a strong work ethic, if he’s not concentrating on the fact you’ve asked him a non-rhetorical question, he’s probably not including some pesky words or letters, either. In this case, however, it just made the cake more friggin’ awesome.

So Friday came and went and I thought really someone at Brigham and Womens dropped the ball on calling me back about the biopsy results.  I mean, c’mon. But since I see the guy at Dana Farber tomorrow, I wanted to know we were hauling in for a reason because… well, maybe the biopsy pathology wasn’t back yet. That would be a waste.

So I hadn’t heard, and I called Dana Farber (personally, on his home phone line. I asked how young James Fund was doing… The stupid joke that never gets old). Turns out, the pathology just came back. Just came back like today… Further evidenced by Brigham and Womens calling this afternoon to set up an appointment to discuss the results.

I do not know. In fact, I told Mr. Farber (who was a woman, and not named Dana or Farber) that I just wanted to know if the results were in, and I really didn’t want to know what the hell it said. I am glad right now that my appointment was set up before the biopsy was re-done, because if the orthopedic oncologist said to come in tomorrow (which I know damn well he would if I had as of yet returned the call) I would probably be having more of a friggin’ cow. Because I am surprised I am somewhat cowing out.

Let’s face it, getting a call about your results within 24 hours or at the tail end of a report time (or even past that point) is never really, um, normal. The cute nerd surgeon said it would take a week (Monday to Monday). It has taken two weeks, but even if you factor out weekends and holidays, it is the longest report time you might expect. So it could mean that they needed a second or third set of eyes. It could mean it needed some detailed or reflexive work up (because it wasn’t what you’d think) and then more eyes. It could mean they played spot the Magic Eye picture in the colorful cells with my slides all week and then finally someone wrote it up. But it probably means nerd surgeon was right and they could work with the stuff he pulled.

Here’s the question: Do I think it makes a damn bit of difference if I am having a cow right now? No. I mean, I am glad my bovine is minimal. I am glad it seems the sample was good and possibly there was a result that leaves at least two pathologists no longer on speaking terms with each other because they had such a deep seated, passionate disagreement on what they saw. Or maybe they agree that it is something — the same thing — and that we can deal with it accordingly. I hope in any case, it doesn’t suck any more than it has to.

Have some cake.

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Caution, iron you strike may be hot

I am updating here via my phone, so hush on any typos. I have been meaning to do so the right way, but then stuff interferes.

Many of my peoples have heard, but on Wedsnesday we had to put dear little Norman to sleep. He was an old, old man. I was afraid on a few fronts: I didn’t want to cheat any of us out of good days, but I feared too many bad days would pile up before we figured it out. It was time and he sort of let us know. He was senile enough that he didn’t seem miserable, but it was clear that health issues were accelerating both discomfort and (moreso) brain dysfunction. So while he was just moderately sleepy and mildly to moderately loopy, it seemed it was right. I was beginning to fear he’d hurt himself. (He stopped reacting to the mail falling through the slot in the door, but he would try to bound up the stairs if I coughed — through the baby gate.)

It could’ve been worse. He was a good boy, we’ll miss his neurotic sweet self, so a round of applause for Norman.

I have to, it appears, call Dana Farber on Monday. See, the orthopedic oncologist ordered the biopsy, and I am not sure if the biopsy results will go to my guy at DFCI as they come back. I know that the orthopedist should make an appointment when the results are in… but I’ve heard nuzzink. Two weeks is not an unusual time to wait, and they would call me in either way to schedule an appointment with the ordering doctor if they had results. I made the appointment at DFCI last visit, thinking that they would be back… but it might be cutting it close. And without some input from pathology, I know their hands are tied as to where and when and how to proceed. So I don’t want to waste my time, energy or Mr. Shoe’s sick days to have them say they need to push it out another week.

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I

So anyway, we all managed to survive the onslaught of kids seeking free candy. Penny is not real fond of children (or people of short enough stature that she thinks they could be children. It’s really fun to watch the show “Pit Boss” with her — between the dogs and the cast, she gets pretty miffed. Also, for some reason, Enbrel and Campbell’s Chunky Soup ads piss her off to no end, too. Don’t ask me.) Norman, who is now old enough to see kids who were trick or treating when we first got him taking their own-too-young-to-get-it kids out now, didn’t take it quite so well as he used to.

The lights had to go off early, because we had to pack up into Boston at an early hour to get my ass cheek re-biopsied. It’s not like Boston is far, of course, but it’s always good to get appointments really frickin’ early thanks to my bad self, traffic flow, and the fact that after ten or eleven in the morning, you’re gonna be hard pressed to find an empty parking garage around the hospitals.

I had half as many people sitting in on this biopsy (the last was done by a fellow with an attending — and lest you think the fellow was a contributing factor to the non-diagnostic nature of the reading — most of the samples were taken by the attending. I knew that much.) I met the doctor, who was the cutest nerdy dude, and man, he loves his job. I mean, it’s cool when you can tell. He was young (and I am saying this so often I am starting to feel geriatric) and so had that little spark that when you asked him something, he was all excited to explain it. He said that it’d be a procedure like last time, where they took four or so cores probably…

Uh, no. They took a lot. A lot.

“Huh…” he says, and then he says he’ll get things reviewed and ready to go.

And they didn’t do it like last time. I roll in, and I am told that I’m going to stay lying on my back this time around, because it might be a better angle (or maybe there’d be less scar tissue to fight with, who knows?) It didn’t hurt. It doesn’t hurt. I didn’t feel the needle pop every time they busted through the muscle with the lidocaine. It didn’t make me jump when they stuck in the needle for the aspirate or the cores and wiggled a bit. And I could walk out on my own — across the street to the garage.

Plus, I could see what they were doing, which was friggin’ cool. I mean, they’d take the picture of the port/guide thing, and then do a poke, and then another image, and the monitors showed the positions of the needle, the actual tumor area close up, and the general “starting point.” I wished I could have kept my glasses on. He took five or six cores, the last two or three of which prompted “ooohs” and “aaaahs” of how awesomely straight on the money he was at grabbing a tissue sample from the middle of the growth from both the radiologist and cytologist. Man, he was beaming over those. He showed me where they were pulled from on the screen (although they were whisked away to the pathologist really quickly this time. I kind of wonder if that wasn’t part of our problem last time, when it seemed there was a swarm of people roaming around the room with slides and vials and blocking doorways and stuff).  He said that if there is something that can be learned from this little sucker, it will show in those samples. Of course, there is still a damn good chance that they can’t tell what it is exactly, or why, and that it wouldn’t relate much to start. But the samples were good and clean and quite clearly from the tumor.

The worst part was the IV port in my hand… I have veins that look like they should be kinder than they are. At any rate, my hip and my ass cheek are fine today. My hand is still touchy.

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My Ass, On Couch.

If you check ye olde time stamp, you will see that it is Friday morning on the 29th day of October. If you remember my earlier post, it was about when I was scheduled to have my left ass cheek lump re-biopsied. But what’s this? I’m writing here, on my laptop, while seated on my ass cheeks (bilaterly) on my couch. Now, so you know: There is no CT scanner in my living room (an MRI would be cool though. I could turn it on and watch all the metal in the house fly towards it). There are no surgeons, or tru-cut needles, or anything in here that one would need to biopsy an ass cheek.

Scheduling conflict came up last Monday and I was given a later in the day on Friday or a this coming Monday early option. For real, I am a bitch in the afternoon. I get very tired. They did not want me in there at one thirty. And that’s the line I used to excuse my absolutely uncalled for attitude problem when I talked to the poor woman in scheduling. She laughed… and it’s true.

Sad fact is, it’s just as well. I went to Dana Farber to see the fine folks there (and man, they are really good. I like them. I also dig the orthopedic oncologist’s secretary. Just you find there are people who know how to deal with… people this crap). We have a plan in place, just on hold pending the results this time (and unless there’s a strong reason to indicate otherwise, it will be put in to practice when I see them in three weeks). I got a flu shot, too. It was an inactive vaccine, so the sniffling cold feeling I have right now is either from an elevator button at Faulkner Hospital or a reaction to the actual fact that I had a foreign (though inert) something or other injected into my blood stream. It can happen.

So I feel kinda crappy from that. Also, Penny had a bit of a something going on herself… and it wasn’t helped by the fact she gets really, really, really excited when mama returns from… well, anywhere. If I go to the doctor or into the bathroom and then re-appear in front of her, she’s frickin’ thrilled. Sometimes she gets so excited she starts coughing and then can’t stop, especially if she is feeling a little yech to start. Like this time…

Penny coughs loudly. I mean, so loudly that I can’t imagine why the police don’t show up at our door at 3 am citing noise ordinance violations. I mean, so loudly that when she coughed while a vet up in the bigger clinic was holding her closely, the vet was hopeful she might have the hearing back in her ear sometime by the weekend’s end.  She coughs constantly. It was very tiring on Tuesday night, and on Wednesday our regular vet (who is the sweetest man ever, even if — or maybe especially because — it’s hard to call him our “normal vet”) said Penny had a slight fever, needed her teeth cleaned, was fat, and also looked incredibly intelligent and that he was not at all surprised the Nobel committee awarded her another honor in the smart category. He also gave her some antibiotics and cough medicine, and a sedative (a sedative is a sometimes food!) for when mama has to go to the doctor, so that when mama comes home, Penny doesn’t get so worked up she makes herself ill. He also gave her a sticker, as per usual,  for being such a good girl (not because she gives a rat’s ass about stickers, trust me).

I have a groupie. She is seven years old, shaped like a beer keg, sheds something fierce, has a Nobel Prize in smart and pretty, and also really likes to eat cat poop. Actually, I’m not sure if that last one is really something that I want in a groupie.

I’d say more, but truthfully, it’s speculative and I’m just tired and have a groupie I need to hug. She’s feeling better, incidentally.

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Incidents and Accidents, Hints, Allegations (You Can Call Her Penny)

Don’t tell anyone… My pug is my BFF. Why? Damned if I know. She is a cylindrical, tyrannical, obstinate, prone to snittiness toddler. And she thinks mama is awesome. Even if she’s pulling the snitty I don’t think mama’s awesome act, it’s pretty clear she forgets two seconds later and I’m awesome again.

So on Friday the 29th I’m getting my left ass cheek repoked. I knew that as of last Friday. As I think about it more, I think it’s pretty damn clear that I wasn’t really meant to choose whether or not it was re-biopsied, but it’s nicer conceptually to make patients feel like they have a choice. I don’t think he expected me to choose the CT option, and, er… Well, pretty damn passive aggressive, eh?

I see the doctor at DFCI next Tuesday, just to ask what the frig… And maybe have stuff in place to start up as soon as the ass cheek is poked.

What I do know now… Not scar tissue, as yet. What they saw could be becoming scar tissue — essentially it is all connective tissue stuff that is made up of fibrin and fibrinous cells… So it could be that it’s a hematoma (or basically a deep bruise… I mean, it’s more on my hip than ass cheek, so I guess it is possible, since my hips suck) that’s taking some time to heal, or a case of these fibrin cells bonding with platelets for other reasons… And if that’s the case, we probably do want to know why. In the first case, that’s fine. In the second case… um, we want to know why, cause it really shouldn’t.

Anything else going on here? Not a whole hell of a lot. The Nobel Committee called again, of course. Penny got a repeat prize in pretty and smart.

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Srsly? WTF?

I will never learn. See, I know better than to say things along the lines of “this can’t possibly get much worse” or “something has to give” at this point because it always can get worse, and when things do give, they never give quite like you’d expect. So I probably should have known better than to say “if I had to do it over again…” about the biopsy.

Because now I get to do it over again. Whee!

And yes, 27 friggin’ samples, including 11 cores, and…  um, it’s hard to tell exactly. I know the samples were good (I asked yesterday… was it a collecting/mounting/preserving glitch. Apparently, no.)  Pathology is pretty damn subjective (if you’ve ever worked in a pet store and had to do water tests on people’s aquariums you know what I mean… C’mon, that’s sometimes unclear, and you’re just comparing the color of the water in the test tube to the colors on a little chart. And pregnancy tests might be easy read, but not if there’s eight more blue lines that the instructions say there should be.) And the pathologists are looking at cells under microscopes that they have to determine if they’re normal or just slightly atypical or downright abnormal or straight out “holy crap, that’s not human!” Then they have to explain why and back it up, because really a lot depends on it.

So the growth itself is made of some fibrous connective tissue, which apparently didn’t look like it was going to kill me in the next six months, but didn’t reveal a whole lot about why it was there — and, as the orthopedic doctor said, it really shouldn’t be there in the first place — and so they can’t say for sure that it’s necessarily benign. It could be scarring from an old hematoma, but… they couldn’t really tell given what they had.

My three options were a repeat biopsy, an excisional biopsy (no, thanks. I like to be mobile), or just watch it. I wanted to just watch it. I mean, hell, I’m getting scanned all the time anyway, and so a three month CT… Big deal. And, uh, it was indirectly kind of suggested by the orthopedic doctor that he’d maybe do the biopsy if he were in my shoes.  So I don’t know if there was some disagreement as to what was seen, or the stuff seen in the tumor was just kind of conflicting or vague enough that a little more information is warranted. So here we go again.

I made an appointment with the doctor at DFCI as well. The orthopedic doctor said he didn’t see that starting to deal with this in a conservative way (which isn’t conservative at all, but it isn’t blazing guns madness either) would affect the biopsy sample should it be started before the procedure is repeated. Since the appointment at DFCI is two weeks away, it probably won’t matter much anyway. I gather that needing clarification is not unusual, really, here, and since we weren’t sure a biopsy was going to to be warranted to start with, maybe there is a chance this will at least clinch once and for all what that little bastard in my left ass cheek is, even if it is something that’s not directly relational to anything else… It shouldn’t be there, but since it is, it’d be reasonable to expect that we could figure out why, especially if the reason is pretty damn tame. But there can be lots of variable cells in a one inch or so area of growth.

Pain in the ass. Still beats the needle in the eye socket single fiber EMG and definitely beats the hell out of the water deprivation test, though, when it comes to it.

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