Wednesday, October 03, 2007
project 365 #273: junkyard crane and junk
First, the good news of the bad news: after a sonogram (you would have thought, at my advanced age, that I would be through with that sort of thing) and various probings and pokings, it was determined that all this pain is not related to my kidneys or my female bits. They're fine; I mean, I have a small ovarian cyst and a polyp in my uterus, which I got to look at on the sonogram, inasmuch as anyone can see anything on a sonogram - I tried to look intelligently at the thing - but they are, apparently, nothing to worry about. On the bad side of the bad news is that noone is quite sure what's causing this pain but the doctor seems to think it's quite likely that my appendix is fixing to blow.
Damn. Let me write that down again, because I still don't quite believe it: the doctor seems to think it's quite likely that my appendix is fixing to blow. And here I thought that appendicitis, like childbirth, only happened during hurricanes on desert islands just as the brave doctor is hit on the head by the mysterious stranger. Or during snowstorms in 1880 on the great plains while the Indians are attacking. You know. Drama. Instead, we have mysterious pain that isn't going away and a bunch of blood tests. And, they wanted me to go have an abdominal CT scan. They wanted me to do this tomorrow, but tomorrow I have a big giant huge day at work, featuring an event which I have to set up and pour wine at and be charming and etc., so I said, "No, Friday." They looked at me funny and said, "Uh, you may not have a choice about that." Being the stubborn Taurus I am, I still said, no, Friday, thinking to myself that if I keeled over with appendicitis during a museum event, well, that would be much more in keeping with the kind of appendix thing you see on TV. Then I went over to the CT scan place and got two giant jars of apple flavored (the contrast dye stuff comes in banana, berry or apple. You get to choose. All three sound horrible. Why don't they just have barium flavor or whatever it is and leave it at that?) stuff that I have to drink on Friday morning.
Meanwhile, my stomach hurts and I'm terrified. I've always been healthy as the proverbial horse and stuff like this freaks me way the hell out. I'm always sure it's some kind of terrible disease that noone has ever heard of and I'll end up being profiled in some creepy women's magazine: Meet poor Felicity, who was healthy all her life until she was suddenly diagnosed with Aapoiremnfopimeuhroism, a very rare, debilitating condition that means she has to live in a small iron box in constant pain with no hair and also, she shouts random rude things at passersby and is blind. And deaf. And covered with poison ivy like blotches. You think I have trouble finding a boyfriend now? It could be so much worse. I could end up being inspirational. Ewwwww. I will not suffer nicely, I tell you. I will be cursing and shrieking until the very end.
The good news, though, is that for the measly sum of $10, I bought the Ugliest Chair in the World and as soon as C has a minute, he's going to pick it up at the Habitat store over by Biltmore Village and bring it over to my house. It won't fit in my car. There's a damn good chance it won't fit in my house, either, but I want it anyway. We need another chair to watch TV in now that M & I have discovered and become addicted to Heroes. It's made of wood. Big chunks of wood in a sort of Mission style, if the carpenters at the original Mission were Neanderthals, that is. It rocks. Well, it kind of rocks. And, the piece de resistance: it has orange plush cushions with a large orangish bucolic millpond and barn scene printed on them. It is so ugly, it's amazing and not only that, all that wood will give even Django (who ate Disc One of Heroes yesterday, which is going to cost me some serious $$ at the video store, goddamn that fucking dog) pause. Even he can't gnaw through that much wood very quickly. I may finally have found a piece of furniture that my dog cannot destroy. Be still, my heart.