I don’t have much to say about the plastic surgeon except he is obviously very good at his job, and I’m pretty sure we would never be friends socially.
I had the MRI today and if you haven’t had one, let me tell you, it’s an experience. Imagine the massage table from hell. Then imagine it in a really cold room with a loud jet engine on top of it that goes off at irregular intervals. At one point during the procedure, my chest hurt like crazy. Mostly because it was resting on a vertical bar between the girls that was padded with a bedsheet. Yes. A bedsheet. So of course, the brain starts a-going and I start to think, “I’m having a heart attack. I’m going to have a heart attack in the stupid MRI machine.” “I am NOT having a heart attack, that’s ridiculous,” I tell myself, “You’re just very uncomfortable.” At the same time I thinking all this I figure it hurts because they’ve already put the dye in. Five minutes later, the tech tells me they’re putting the dye. Dang. Chest still hurts and now I’m even colder. I’m listening to classical music this whole time and I imagine I’m at one of Allegra’s concerts. I really miss going to see concerts. And this helps for a bit. Then the techs tell me it’s the last set of pictures and I need to be REALLY still so I focus all my energy into not squeezing the emergency ball that they give you at the beginning because I’m having a freezing heart attack and my forehead is sticking to the forehead thingy. Not going to squeeze the ball. Do not squeeze the ball. I am NOT going to do this again because I moved. No ball squeezing. Next thing I know, the guys (who were very cool by the way) wheel me out to see if I’m OK. “We got good pictures” they tell me. “Well at least I photograph well.” I replied into my forehead doughnut. It’ll be a couple days before we hear the results.
Stay tuned Monday for Stereostatic Biopsy!