Let’s cut to the chase: I have a tumor. In my leg.
I’m not that worried, actually. I’m sure it’s nothing. I just kneeded a subject, tibia honest.
It’s (probably) called an enchondroma, unless it isn’t, in which case it could be called a chondrosarcoma and this will become a very awkward post in the near future.
No, YOU shouldn’t joke about things like that, asshole.
It turned up this week on an x-ray that was taken to answer the question “Do I need to stop running, and also do you need to bring shorts with you when you go to the leg doctor?” to which the answer, for the record, is “yes.”
Enchodromas are coy like that. Sometimes they turn up when you are expecting something else, like a torn patella, which I may also have.
Or y’know, like when you reach into a bag of what you thought was Fritos and find a narcissistic blowhard who wants to destroy your country for his personal profit.
No YOU should stay on topic, asshole.
Yep. And sometimes you have to wait in the exam room for an hour and a half, wearing shorts that the physician’s assistant gave you after he rolled his eyes because no one told you that you had to bring shorts. Then, an hour later you have a surreal moment where you have waited so long that you are about to pee someone else’s pants and you are going to be late for work so you give up and take them off – and the door swings open and in walks the doctor and his embarrassed intern.
Who knows why he is embarrassed. Maybe they are his shorts.
But they stand there in the open door and avert their eyes and wait for you to re-pant which is stupid and makes you even crankier. Come in and close the door. Did they not see thighs in med school? Yes, they totally did, I know because I watched ER and Grey’s Anatomy and House and there was plenty of thigh there, people.
At that point, the doctor asks you several questions about where and when it hurts, and he says “that’s weird” and then he grabs your leg, or “tibia” and squeezes the fuck out of it until you make scared little screamy noises and promise never to do whatever you did to make him angry again.
And he says “weird,” again, and schedules you for an MRI.
Which is confusing.
Because based on that diagnostic test, I have enchondromas all over my body. There is NO WHERE that it does not hurt when you squeeze like that. I know because I did a self-exam. On someone who is not my friend anymore, and also you can’t call it “self” when you do it to another person. Apparently that is “assault” BUT SHE MUST BE ALL FULL OF ENCHONDROMAS TOO!
No, YOU should maybe see a therapist, asshole.
So I’m pretty sure it is nothing, but I am a “leg half empty” kind of person. What if it’s not? What if I need a new leg?
This raises some questions. Like “How do you suppose that any member of the current administration looks themselves in the eye every morning?” (Answer: They can’t. They don’t have reflections.)
I’m pretty sure the MRI is a psychological experiment, or maybe a source of amusement to use for office staff motivational purposes. (It’s my turn in the observation booth, Sylvia! No, it’s mine! You got a Slurpee!) And since the rest of the world seems determined to continue it’s unapologetic reinforcement of my conspiracy theories, why should the medical field be any different?
This is how it works: they lead you to a little room after making you wait 1.5 hours because not everyone had lunch on time, apparently. They hand you a garment that looks like it is also used to clean the windows. When you are done changing into the garment that exposes more of you to the elements than you are comfortable with – which I suppose varies from person to person, and I’m also pretty sure is a separate psychological experiment – you are asked to open the door, sit down, and wait.
As I was sitting there, one shapely leg crossed over the other, trying to look as casual as possible while not wearing pants, the door across the hall opened. From around the corner stepped two men in DOC uniforms. Yes, one of them was hot, but that’s completely irrelevant, why would you even ask that?
Inside the room was a middle-aged man with a fade….wearing leg irons. And arm irons. Are they called arm irons? OH, WAIST CHAINS! Yes, those.
It was then that my PA seemed to understand that sharing close proximity with a shackled prisoner and two armed guards while wearing a giant coffee filter with sleeves might not be on my bucket list – but in her defense, she doesn’t know me. I was swiftly guided down the hall in one direction, as Shackled Man was led down the other. I never saw him again.
Dum dum dum DUM!
Nothing puts that little thrill of mystery and trepidation into a story like that sentence, does it? “Then the lady who was parked next to me at Publix got into her car and drove away. I never saw her again.”
“The toll-booth attendant handed back my card and told me to have a good day. I never saw him again.”
I then spent the next 90 minutes with my head sticking out of a tube trying desperately not to move as my legs went numb, which, by the way, is impossible. I think that is part of the joke. Every four minutes they play a new industrial sound mix at varying decibels while the Employee of the Month drinks a slurpee and gleefully watches as the hope slowly fades from my eyes.
No, YOU get to the point, asshole.
All of this has made me realize that I may be headed for another mid-life crisis. Ten years ago, as a result of an x-ray taken to answer the question “Do I really need to quit smoking now?” for which the answer was “yes, but wait six more years, you fucking idiot,” they found a fist-sized mass in between my heart and lungs.
It turned out to be an alien that later burst from my chest and set off my first mid-life crisis, which nearly ended in a me-shaped dumpster fire after listening to Tim McGraw’s “Live Like You Are Dying” and “I’m Already Home” on repeat until the alien died of catastrophic regret, and also it turned out to be just a thyroid thing, anyway.
I would like to avoid that this time. The dumpster fire. So I’m taking a break. It’s summer and life is pretty good and you never know how long that will last, especially in this current political climate, where I could wind up hiding out in the basement drinking my own urine any day now. Which I don’t do currently, for the record.
Why do I need to write about taking a break? Because I am so self-important that I need to notify my public so they can properly mourn? Not really. I took a writing job where I write generic facebook posts about subjects that I have no experience with so I have to do research on things I don’t care about. It is tedious and time consuming and it pays. I’m hoping this resets my brain. I think I just needed to give myself permission to go upstairs for a bit.
I wrote this just in case I decide to stay upstairs, and Morgan Freeman can narrate it, but that’s it, after that he can keep his judgy voice to himself:
“And so I took the worn and weathered cards of my mundane life, and I carelessly cut them with glossy new ones that I had never played, and curled them in the palm of fate until they burst out into the darkness, leaving to chance whether the winning hand would be graced upon the quick.”
And I never saw her again.
Damn, that was beautiful. DAMN. Stop reading, Morgan. I SAID STOP.
IDK. I’ll probably be back next week.