While I was otherwise distracted ...

I've been a somewhat abstracted correspondent to the Fragile Industries Chronicles for the past month or so.  The occasional knitting report notwithstanding, I've been not entirely, what, engaged in my ego-driven monologue here.  The thing is, I had a bad mammogram.  After three years of ignoring my duty towards my annual exams.  My bad.  So I waited until I had the whole story.

This health care ignorance was not the result of cheerful denial, but rather due to insurance nonexistence.  Due to my co-insured's decision to not pick up his half of the bills, I decided that $453 a month for both of us was too much to pay by myself so fuck him.  And, unfortunately, fuck myself because, once not under a general health policy, I turned out to be uninsurable on an individual policy, even a catastrophic health policy with a $5,000 deductible.  I had, under the prior joint coverage, the bad taste to go to a loony bin, and future insurers therefore viewed me as a bad risk.  "But I'm not seeking mental health coverage," I said to the various insurers who turned me down.  "Under California law,." said the oh-so-reasonable insurers, "we are required to provide mental health coverage, and we must factor that in.  The lower rates are only available to those who do not present a bad risk for any of these coverages."  What that meant was that I could not obtain individual catastrophic coverage for less than $500 a month.  At those prices, it was cheaper, so I thought, to pay cash and take my chances.  Thanks to whoever decided that mental health coverage was mandatory, therefore an automatic denial was meted out to anyone who had any need not only for mental health coverage, but also more pedestrian health concerns.

So, since 2005, I pretended I did not have breasts or a cervix or uterus.  The annual women's exam was a high-priced exercise in "no news is good news."  Then my dear friend of decades past, my law school study partner, the bride to whom I was bridesmaid and vice versa, got her own bad news about her hooter health and had to face a malignancy.  "What can I do for you?" I asked.  She replied, "Go get a mammogram."  So I faced the out-of-pocket nether zone of "cash patient," found a doctor willing to risk a bad check and went for my annual. This included a blood panel.  My Pap turned out to be the expected non-news event, all clear, but the blood work revealed that my thyroid had dropped to barely perceptible levels.  Much lower and all metabolic function ceases entirely, i.e., death.  Turns out that at least one-third of post-menopausal women have low thyroid.  This would explain a whole lot of things, such as my ebbing energy levels and semi-chronic depression, and the 30-pound weight gain and 30 point cholesterol jump.  Take heed, all women over 50 who read these tales: it could be you.  Within 10 days of one very cheap prescription later, I felt oodles of energy, a lift in spirits, and my skin and hair improved to tameable levels.  I mean, this is a beauty boost, never mind the endrocrinological benefits.  I don't need to look for more and better plastic surgery.  Just take the thyroid pills.

So nothing but good news until my mammogram results.  I had reported to the imaging center and had watched with some amusement as my hooters were compressed to the diameter of tractor tires, and held my breath while some sadist tickled odd, distorted images of my tissues.  A few days later, I got a callback.

Why, when I had the brief illusion that I was an actress, had I never had a callback?  My tits garnered more interest than my 1970's audition monologue from "Waiting for Godot."  So I reported back for more boob compression.  My right tit was deemed unremarkable, but my left garnered me an immediate appointment with the ultrasound room.  There, in a more magisterial gloom and hush than the mammogram room, I was swabbed with cold gel and poked and prodded with a device that resembled a staple gun, and watched as images appeared on the screen that looked like every photo of the Loch Ness Monster ever recorded.  The technician pulled a long face and went to hobnob with her fellow wizards. Then a male radiologist manned the helm, or staple gun, and after much fussing about, pronounced my left titty to be worthy of a biopsy.  I told him that I couldn't tell what the hell was causing the furor, and he was very helpful.  As the first male to have touched me in such regions in two years, he had my attention.  He prodded my fatty tissue about with the gizmo, then pointed to the screen and showed me what looked like a jellybean.  "This," he announced, "is questionable."  It was novel since my 3 year old images.  "It could just be a fibroplasmia something something, but it could be something else."

OK, let's find out, I said.  Well, that took a special needle, on back order, and would be at least three weeks, but don't worry.

Right.

So I had an ultrasound-guided vacuum-needle biopsy scheduled for the 21st of April.  Fine.  I made the appointment, went home in good spirits, then I realized that all these professionals were getting their knickers in a twist about the possibility of CANCER.  The big C.  Let's call it what it might just be.  No more denial.  And I'm uninsured.  I am in an enviable position among the uninsured.  I have family with resources.  Should I need really expensive care, there are bank accounts, not my own, into which I could tap, so I wouldn't be completely without options.  But that pissed me off.  I don't want to bankrupt parents who did nothing more than conceive me and have good moral sense.  And I'm not some feckless will o' the wisp, relying on the kindness of blood kin to bail me out of some malignancy.  I'd tried to do the responsible thing for health care, and had been shown the door marked "bad risk."

I went to my best friend, the internet, and found a plan within Medi-Cal called "Every Woman Counts."  Based on income only, not assets, it guarantees every woman whose income is below a certain level to annual exams and coverage for female bad news, like cervical or breast cancer.  Over the phone, I was qualified and was then sent a package of information and lists of appropriate folks with whom I could consult.  I brought them my reports, mammo and ultrasound screens, and they agreed that the biopsy was the logical next step.

I let slip my uncertain cellular status to a select few angels, and asked for good thoughts on the day of the biopsy.  I was, to a humbling degree, rewarded with email, phone, snail mail and other support, and promises of prayer and other sacrifices to my heavenly credit.

It's hard to pick out the most blatant demonstration of love, but bragging rights probably go to my dear pal who shall remain nameless.  He's been witness to much bad behavior, my compradre, and partner in crime since 1990.  He performed the wedding ceremony for my most recent ex-husband and myself in 1995.  When I told him of my situation and that I was uninsured, he drawled, "Well, I married you once already, sugar."  My dear darling big gay brother would  share his excellent health benefits with me in the only way recognized by the legal system, as that system would deny him those benefits and rights should he have a spouse of the same gender.  "We've always been outlaws, honey," he purred.  I have never been so grateful for a proposal, and this was not my first.  I have never, also, been the recipient of such a gesture of absolute love and generosity.  After a few hours to mull it over, I accepted, provisionally, the proposal.   If the results of the biopsy were positive, with all that might entail, I would become his wife.

My mother (my roommate, here in Bakersfield-by-the Sea, at Casa de Gray Gardens) was over the moon, of course, and was having fun planning a beach wedding.  Mom would be best man or bridesmaid, depending on her whim, and she would finance a white linen Armani suit for the groom.  My groom's mother, another Dorothy, aged 82 or so, could be flower girl, and maybe, just for symmetry, we could talk my most recent ex-husband into pronouncing the vows.  It all escalated into wonderful heights of silliness while we avoided thinking about what might bring it all about.

The morning (mind you, this was an EARLY morning) of my exam, just as I'd fished my keys out of the black hole I call my purse and I was heading my newly bathed and shaved bodily parts towards the door, I got a call from the imaging center.  The radiologist would be out that day.  I would have to wait a week.  I rescheduled, as that was my only option, but I warned the other end of the line that if I heard the radiologist had merely been improving his golf game, there would be blood on the walls.  I never got an explanation or excuse, but I'm willing to cut him some slack.  I alerted the prayer circle of the delay and joked that the saved-up prayers, good intentions and incense would not only spare me bad news on the biopsy, my jellybean would have disappeared entirely when I reported to the hushed enclave of the ultrasound room.

This last Monday, I underwent the biopsy, which also included 1) the complete removal of as much of the jellybean by means of a gigantic needle and heroic suction as was visible by ultrasound, 2) the implantation of a titanium chip at the jellybean's former location should that become relevant for further surgical or radiological procedures, 3) a final compression and mammogram of my left hooter from several angles to document removal of jellybean and location of bionic woman titanium chip.  The biopsy procedure included administration of painkillers at various tissue depths with needles of increasing circumference, and a secondary administration of a needle as wide as a #2 pencil with vacuum assist, which emitted a noise far less reassuring than a dentist's drill.  I found new applications for my lessons in self hypnosis and monitored the tension in my knees and jaw and toes, willing them to relax while I slipped into a lovely beta state of stupidity.

The personnel attendant on the procedure were fabulous, gave me all appropriate warnings, cautions for future after care, and assurances that I would receive the results within 48 hours.  I went home and conducted a phone barrage of messages to ensure that I would be informed of the results by anyone able to read and speak at the other end of the fax-machine payout.  I then retreated into a quivering mass under the covers with an ice pack over the bruised, sore and swollen left hooter and was hateful to one and all.  For the continued health of my mother, who is dependent on me for the mail, morning coffee, and basic nutrition, I had frozen dinners perched in the microwave and told her to have at them.  In the meantime, I alternately froze my swollen, hot left hooter and scratched at the adhesive on the compression bandage.

Within 24 hours, the radiologist gave me the good news: benign.  And no threat of the jellybean's revenge, as it was, to all intents, completely gone, sucked away in the needle.  My joke had come true: it was not only a negative test, the blob was gone.  Prayers work. 

So I've sent a swift global email to the prayer circle, including the jilted bridegroom.  All recipients have been stellar support, and I've been staggered by the warm response.  In the meantime, I wanted to go to a spa next week for R'nR.  Turns out there ain't a hot springs hotel, mud bath vendor, etc. in California that will permit drinking and smoking and bad behavior on the premises.  We must all take our Purification and Detoxification very seriously.

Fuck that.

I'm going to Vegas, where drinking and smoking are almost required by statute.  I'm not a gambler, I don't get throwing money away like that, but I can have a massage and facial in my room while surrounded with bottles of Crystal.  I don't plan on putting that to the test, but I like the idea that I can go raise hell and sign up for the Hangover Special Reflexology the next morning.  Wish me luck.  I've got a lot of living to do, and the wedding's off.

On the other hand, I'm still knitting like a fiend.  Hope to God I find a better use of my time in Sin City.  I'd promise an on-the-road report, but remember, What happens in Vegas ...

Comments

[KathyR]

Holy moly! I read this entire account with my teeth clenched!

I'm glad it wasn't an evil jelly bean.

Have fun in Vegas.

[fragile industries]

I plan on fun. I'm staying at Planet Hollywood, the former Aladdin, which has the optimum feature drilled into me by various real estate agents selling or buying my homes: location, location, location. It's next to Wynn and across the street from the Bellagio, and Ceasar's Palace. All have 4-star rated spas. I've signed up for a slate of self-indulgence at them all. And a Big Deal Show each night: Love (the Circ De Soileil Beatles tribute) the Penn and Teller Show, AND the Divine Miss M, (hat redheaded minx I've seen a dozen times before live and have adopted as my Personal Savior). And I've also made reservations with all the Big Deal Chefs restaurants. I've got a lot of living to do.

[Peter]

Good grief, I'm glad it's benign. Keep getting your girls to the doc for their check-ups, please!

Went through something like that after college, a chapter of my life entitled "Lymph Nodes Behaving Badly." Turned out to be nothing. (Well, more accurately, after months of cutting, prodding, filling little test tubes with blood from my arm, and testing, it turned out not to be anything the docs could call "something," so "nothing" seemed like a good candidate for everyone involved, save the insurance companies.) I don't think anything is more surreal than a bunch of men in lab coats trying to be good, objective clinicians while you have nothing but your emotions to fall back on.

[Sid Leavitt]

Like KathyR, my teeth were clenched, too. Whew, glad at the result.

I also had another reaction -- a negative one about the dismal goddamned state of our health insurance system. What the hell are we thinking when we spend thousands of lives and billions (probably trillions) of dollars in some war in some other country to prove some guy's virility but leave millions of people in this country twisting in the wind, hoping a serious medical problem doesn't bankrupt -- or kill -- them?

[jaye]

Okay, so now I breath. I didn't while reading this.

You and I used to have a mutual friend who was very helpful to me in my time of need and then I lost him.

Keep in touch. And get those breasts touched every year.

what a good way of your law school buddy to be a real friend. There should be beautiful cards--you are the creative one you make them--that say, "I was thinking of how much I love you. Now go get a mammogram." or "I love your breasts, now go get a mammogram."