Anyway, I really would like some answers. If you remember, we were led to expect that the pathologists at F'in' Famous Cancer Hospital would have a clear ID on my possible tumor a week and a half ago. At the last minute, they let on that they were kidding, and they needed another week to figure it out.
Finally, 3 days ago, Dr. Agent Skully's nurse called. Skully had had enough. She stomped down to the Pathology Department to get some answers. She burst in on Drs. Droopy and Pokey. They were smoking a joint and getting hairy hands. She was outraged. "THIS IS THE LAST TIME!" she said. "NO MORE WARNINGS!" *
Chastened, the pathology slackers got to work. The very next day, K was contacted by the administrative assistant in Dr. Skully's office. She finally gave us the answer. . .
It turns out that Dr. Skully's administrative assistant is actually a Magic 8-Ball. She told K that next week, the brilliant doctors at F'in' Famous will put their heads together and come up with a plan. So K asked, "does that mean that the pathology is finally back? Does it mean that Pokey and Droopy have finally taken their thumbs out of their ears and come up with a diagnosis?" The Magic 8-Ball said, in so many words, "reply hazy. Try again later."
My best guess is that they don't have a clear diagnosis. They're going to want to go in and get more tissue. They will have to persuade me that this will somehow make my life better. After all, if the options are either:
1. I have an inoperable tumor for which the non-lifesaving treatment is only worth starting if I become symptomatic, or. . .
2. I have my skull is turning to cinder, which is, somehow, not a big deal.
If those are the only the options, why should I submit to yet another exceptionally unpleasant nosepicking? If it's cinders, it's cinders. If it's a squamous cell carcinoma, it will declare itself soon enough when I start hurting. Knowing one way or the other would not help me live any longer, so I would see no point in another surgery. After all, I have a family to enjoy, and I hate to stand up all the patients who have appointments with me in the near future.
But my bet is that there is a third option. Perhaps they are thinking that it may be cancer, but something not so aggressive. Let's say, a squeamish cell farcinoma.*** If there is something useful to be gained by picking my nose, then, I will tell them:
You want a piece of me? Well go ahead!
* I am fairly sure that isn't really what happened. I'm just feeling a bit harsh right now. I am sure that the pathologists in two of the world's leading hospitals are first-class doctors. They have taken so long to get answers because my tissue is weird. A clivus specimen from a guy who has basically spent months with his head in a microwave (twice!) is just not something you see every day.
** Does anybody say that anymore? Or have I completely descended into old fartitude? Remind me to ask B.
*** Blogspot spell-checker has underlined squeamish. Really, Blogspot? I understand not recognizing farcinoma. I just made that one up, but you don't know that squeamish is a word?
A picture that may or may not have anything to do with this post:
You want a piece of me?!?