“I’m going to send you to a surgeon who will slice open your neck, reach in with his left hand and rip out your thyroid.”
That’s exactly what my endocrinologist, Dr I’m Not From Around Here said to me last week. Well, that’s exactly what I heard, anyway.
My Hashimoto's Disease has kicked itself into high gear and has attacked my poor defenseless thyroid the way I attack Chunky Monkey when nobody’s watching. As a result, it has grown and grown until I feel sort of like one of those Siamese Twin chicks who used to be on the Discovery Channel all the time. I’m actually on the verge of naming it.
After I had the double breast biopsy due to the micro calcification clusters in my girls and especially after the first thyroid biopsy, I swore no one else would ever again plunge a needle into a sensitive area of my body just because they could.
Come on! The only sensitive place some doctor hasn’t felt a need to poke me with something sharp in the last coupla years is in my china, and as my chick exam is scheduled for Friday, I’ll get back to you on that. If I even get a glimpse of anything that looks like it might possibly be sharp, I’ll clamp down on Chick Exam Doc’s arm so hard he’ll need a cast when I turn him loose.
(Cause I'm talented like that.)
(No... I'm not.)
“If Zach Braff is gonna slit my throat anyway, why in the wide world would I let you do another biopsy, you sadistic, monkey-butt licking, ultra-marooon?” I asked sweetly.
“Because blah, blah, blah,” he said. I really couldn’t have cared less what the actual words were. I was already formulating a plan of self preservation.
“So here’s the thing guy. If you want to get anywhere near my throat with an instrument of any kind, you’d better hit your Pharmacy Sales Reps up for some of the experimental stuff they keep hidden in their hubcaps. It better be strong, bordering on illegal and you best have enough of it to make me forget I am plotting a murder for hire involving your family pet and a seedy character I found on Hitman.us.”
He smiled in such a way that Mr. Man felt the need to issue him a verbal warning.
“She’s not even kidding, Dude.” (Note to self: talk to Mr. Man about his use of the word 'Dude'. Not a fan of the word when used by anyone other than a 20 year old stoner.)
It’s going to be a long, drawn out process of course. The collective "They" don’t want to go ahead and put me in the hospital now. "They" want to run more tests, get more data and pay for their kids' gold inlaid gerbil houses. Tomorrow morning at 10 AM the journey to surgery starts in a city just north of here. The best part of waking up… is a freaking sonogram.
Poor, poor pitiful me. True that.
Copyright © 2004-2006, Sherri Bailey
This blog may not be reproduced in whole or in part without the express written permission of the author.
Tell me you love me at: HumorWriter@gmail.com
Tell me you hate me at: Yeah. I'm so sure I'm going to make that easy for you.
Visit Ms. Crazy On Her Face Online