I walked into the doctor's office, decorated with shmaltzy mirrors and black laquer, and this made me even more nervous. There were Jewish prayer books, maybe to say a prayer before you experience massive pain. There were also doctor's magazines in Russian, with stern looking Eastern European doctors staring right into the camera and articles about all sorts of disgusting things. That didn't make me feel any better. All of the geriatric patients in the waiting room were wearing sparkly clothes and too much gold jewelry.
Okay, now it's my turn. My husand, Keith came with me for moral support, but in the weeks leading up to the test, he seemed more nervous than I did.
In the exam room, there were large diagrams of tumors and growths, just to calm my nerves. There was also a large frame filled with vintage Wacky Packs. I love Wacky Packs!!! This made me feel instantly better. Keith and I laughed about Quacker Oats and Badzooka Guggle Bum.
The yarmulke clad doctor walked in. He was a sharp tongued intelligent guy who seemed to know what he was talking about. The needle was so thin, I hardly felt it, and before you could say Wacky Packs, the test was over.
We were called into Dr. Minkowitz's office, whose desk was full of slides of other people's biopsied gunk, and he told us the bad news. I have a suspicious lesion that is 2.4 centimeters, a big sucker. I have to have surgery to have it removed and I have a 20 percent chance of having cancer. Yippee!!! Now I'm in the club with my sister.
The news didn't quite hit me until the next day. My sister was more upset about this then I was. "It isn't fair," she said. "You already have enough health problems. Why do bad things happen to good people?" she cried.
I guess that's just part of life. It's just another wacky part of my pack.
