If It Walks Like A Duck

So, the pain in my breast has become unbearable. If you haven’t been following me, “they” found “something” during the mammogram. That something turned out to be cancer, and, not just any old cancer, but stage four Big C.

My PCP put me on one dose a day of the weakest strength of the weakest pain medicine, if you want to call it that, available. Let’s just say that I could buy it off the shelf in other Capitalistic countries. It wasn’t doing jack.

I had four telehealth conferences with my PCP yesterday- four because I couldn’t hear him. At first, I thought the auditory problems were my fault. Something has to be wrong with my phone. What am I going to do about my mandatory zoom meeting? All I could hear him say was my office, eight o’clock, tomorrow morning. I soon learned that the auditory situation was one of his own making.

I somehow overslept twice passing two alarms- a very rare occurrence. I had missed my appointment. I called and begged for an appointment. They could squeeze me in at 10:45 but I would have to wait. I got there, got to a room within five minutes, and was being screened by him within another five. He even skipped over another patient waiting before me to get to me- boy, did he get to me.

It’s never a good sign when the doctor brings in a nurse- well, period, but especially when he is already putting gloves on and she is holding fifty more pairs. He went straight for my girls. I had to pull up the old bra and everything. Then, he throws this at me, “You have fibrocystic breast disease. You need a mammogram.”

Quack.