A titorial or two

For those just tuning in, I’ve had some recent adventures regarding funk up in my junk. Then my primary care physician freaked out over high TSH numbers and immediately wanted me to take medication. Since the recommended drugs would do nothing to improve my mood or figure, I decided to see a dietitian instead. Giving up gluten and soy, plus adding dead animals to my diet, helped my numbers return to normal.

Power to the people.

Until an ultrasound technician found a small growth getting comfortable near my thyroid.

This past Monday I went in for a biopsy and apparently the little bugger is too small to drain.

That’s right.

Too small.

“We can’t get at it,” they said.

Blink. Blink. Blink.

“Did it shrink since the ultrasound?” I asked.

No.

“Look, I don’t do real well with uninvited guests,” I said. “Find a doctor with decent eyesight or buy some glasses. Let’s biopsy this bitch.”

My dad suggested they go in through my mouth. And numb up my tongue while they’re at it.

They refused. They said I’d have to wait until the cyst got bigger and a tad more uncomfortable.

They don’t know me too well, do they? I will not be transformed into Great Aunt Erma circa 1978 with a goiter the size of New England who, rumor has it, once coughed up a hairball and then her throat went back to normal.

I started to repeat what had been my mantra all through college:

“I can’t swallow. Get it out.”

Apparently my doctor doesn’t respond well to patients who have control issues. Anyone know a good doc/radiologist team in North Tampa with a working pair of eyes?

Then today’s adventure: Baseline mammogram.

We all look at pictures of our younger selves and wonder why we didn’t appreciate our biceps when they were above our arms where they belonged? Doctors do the same thing. They want pictures of young and healthy breasts so one day they can look back and see just how far we’ve deteriorated.

When I had my first mammogram at thirty-five, the technician groped me about as gently as a fifteen year-old about to lose his virginity and barked, “Sorry, but I have to move them up to where they USED to be, you know, before gravity took over.”

Ouch.

This year? My girls practically slid into position on their own.

Thanks, Dr. Berger.

TIP: Call around before scheduling an appointment because some radiology centers throw in a breast exam. For no extra charge, they will demonstrate how to play with yourself and feel for lumps all at the same time.

A multi-tasker’s dream!

After an hour of going to first base with two overeager women, one who had frozen fish sticks for fingers, I also learned how to make unattractive poses, in front of a mirror, while looking for “irregularities.”

Should find out in a week if anything strange lurks within. Let’s hope Moffitt’s radiologists can see.