Musings of a Musician’s Wife: reflections on averting disaster.

Those of your committed readers know I faces intense breast exams in the past few weeks.  By the end of the slew of them I was starting to ponder what such tests could lead to and what that problem would lead to.  All day Friday I awaited the call for my partial biopsy to come back.  It was 2pm and I had no word.  I momentarily slipped and my mind wandered into the abyss of disaster…

They’ll chop my boobs off and I won’t be able to nurse any children.  I am simply doomed to die.  I will have to sickly endure radiation until I die.  I am going to cry at work.  I am going to have to leave work early when they tell me this so I can go home and cry.  I don’t have Josh to go home to and cry with about this.  I don’t have anyone to go home to and cry with.

I called the office and was put through to the voicemail of the Wendy who was apparently responsible for divulging such information.  I got calls from most of my family to comfort me and pray with me.  And I got one evil unknown call from a client, stupid me for thinking it was the doctor. It was  three more dreadful hours later before I got the call.  Everything is fine.

Musings of a Musician’s Wife: encouragement

This morning was marked with repeated alarm snoozing and peering at Sam’s excited dog eyes waiting only inches from my face.  I was stuck in one of those unbreakable sleepy stupors, the kind that is unbreakable because you mind is yet unwilling and not wanting to greet the day.  On those mornings I can often will myself enough to roll over and open my email and Facebook on my phone.  I’ve found that the sudden use of mental faculties wakes me up and awakens excitement.  In my inbox this morning I read over a comment on one of my earlier blogs that was not just unexpected, but extremely encouraging.

As I mentioned at the beginning, I started this blog as a way to process this new life.  What I’ve already found is so much more!  So many encouraging words have shot my way and I am so grateful.  Friends, you give me hope and have delivered beaming smiles to my face even earlier than my face was prepared to receive them. Today it comes on an especially needed day as I am getting some important test results from my doctor.

A couple weeks ago I was conducting the exhilarating task of shelving paint at Sherwin-Williams when I noticed a moderately sharp pain somewhere under my right arm pit.  The next morning it was still there so I hunted around for the source of the pain, which I assumed to be a knot.  Instead I found this yucky feeling mass on top of my breast. That same day I awoke with the most terrible allergies that I haven’t had before and I haven’t had since.  I went hunting for any medication to tame them so I could work in peace and I found Benedril.  That fast acting drug swept over me like a snuggly, fuzzy baby blanket and knocked me right out for a couple hours, fortunately not before my manager told me to take the day off to rest up.  I definitely don’t consider the pain in my breast and the debilitating allergies to be a coincidence because that day I was able to get into the doctor.  He told me to see a specialist.  I saw the specialist on Tuesday.  She did the general feel up then concentrated her fingers where both Dr. Fojtik and I had.  One unrevealing ultrasound later she said “partial biopsy” and the next think I know she’s poking me with an unremarkable needle saying “local anesthesia.” My mind screams and then my body starts quivering and my eyes shoot wide open at the site of her next object for operation.  It’s a massive needle, several inches long and the widest I’ve ever seen, and there is some sort of plunging device on the other end.  She says, “you shouldn’t feel a think, maybe just some slight pressure.”  She inserts the sadistic device into my unfeeling boob and starts plunging the device around inside.  Then another time.  By the end she’s saying I can change into my clothes and head to the front and that I should get a call with results on Friday.  I shakily sit up and head for my bra and shirt but have to grip the bed to maintain sure footing.  I reach my belongings and look down the once sexy piece of anatomy and verbally apologize to my inanimate and numb pice of fatty flesh, “I’m sorry little boob.”

I have bungee jumped over the NIle in Africa and been mugged but that was the scariest thing I have ever been through.  Not to mention, the word sexy will never escape my lips on behalf of my right breast ever again.