Trying to not give in to despair I'm concerned about this PET scan and the other tests that are going with it. I'm really at an either/or situation here, despite how I tend to spout that everything is a 50/50 chance. But this time it really is. Either what's in my lungs is inflammation or it's cancer. Of course, the cancer can be either benign or malignant, but I'm not at that point yet. Regardless, I'm already pissed off. This is what I was trying to protect myself from at Sunbelt, and it looks like it's here anyway. They still owe me money and I may be looking at long-term effects from the nonsense those assholes, namely Jim and Tony and Doug, put me through. I never signed on to do chemical finishes with xylene and tolulene and butane and other shit in a workspace that wasn't ventilated properly for such shit. But I can't really think about the worst case scenario because it may not be true. It's 50/50. Dr Dearth the crazy chiropractor is doing his best to keep my spirits up and tell me that it's most likely a Valley Fever sort of inflammation. He tries to thump my ribs and collarbone to assist my breathing, but I had to tell him yesterday it really doesn't help because my airways are simply so constricted. He looked so crestfallen; so I told him that he is helping with the pain. Although he did beat the shit out me yesterday with his dart on a spring acupressure thing. That hurt like hell. The problem, however, with it being inflammation is that most likely I will go on a steroid treatment, and that crap makes me balloon up, and I'm already having a problem with my weight and size. I was completely dismayed when Dr. Dishner mentioned that, and he tried to reassure me that he wasn't definitely saying I was going on steroids, but he saw that I was terribly upset about it. And I'm truly just scared. This was not in any kind of plan I had for myself. Not at all. I'm looking at Gary and already becoming angry at the idea that I may lose him or he may lose me due to stupid illness caused by the shithole I worked for, slaved for, bled for, for several years. This isn't my choice and I am not accepting it. The wheezing isn't cute anymore. The wheezing is scaring me now because it's a sign of something more sinister, something that could kill me. I'm too young for this shit. I'm supposed to be invincible and it scares me too much to read this anymore. Another thing that makes me mad is that if this turns into a situation that I have to tell the 'rents about, I'm going to have to comfort them and it will not be about me at all. Not at fucking all. I'd almost rather not tell them until afterwards. I can't do that, though. It'd be okay to tell Mary Lou and Bob. They'd be worried, but not the point where they'd fall apart and I'd have to take care of them. Mary Lou would actually do stuff for ME. They'd be intersted in the medical stuff, Bob would ask lots of questions, and they'd be good about it and offer support without being totally in my face. The appointment for the PET scan is Wednesday and I have to do practically a day-long prep for it. Soemthing like no exercise, low-carb, no eating for 6 hours before -- something about how the glucose they inject you with adheres to what it is they're looking for, I guess. I just know I'm gonna be starving to death while they fiddle around with their scanner. Shit, I'm hungry now. I'm always hungry. Tomorrow we see Hitchhiker's guide, though. That should be good.
|