Tuesday, January 09, 2007

I met the radiation oncologist yesterday and...NO RADIATION FOR ME. I would have hugged him if he'd looked like he'd showered sometime during the past year. But I have to wonder why, when an appointment is scheduled for 1:30 and at 3pm you are switching a a little spot light on and off, pretending it's a laser gun, that all doctors' appointments can't even come close to being on time.

And I really didn't like being on the second below ground level floor of Princess Margaret Hospital because that's where they keep all the really sick people. People who look half dead and probably are feeling pretty much that way from all the radiation and chemo treatments they are going through. A group I thankfully don't have to join because again, I don't need radiation! Of course, Dr. Wells did have to be a bit of a bearer of bad news, he just couldn't leave it at "radiation will not reduce the risk of reoccurrence after having had the mastectomy." No, he had to throw in "women who are diagnosed with DCIS - meaning me - generally die from breast cancer." I asked what kind of time line are we looking at here and he said "30 years." I'm feeling pretty optimistic though so I'm going to move that number up to 40 because 72 is too young for anyone.

Outside of that, John my beloved contractor - oops sorry, I choked - wants to wrap up my house and was wondering if we found any light fixtures over the Christmas holidays. Nope, we didn't even think to look because it was Christmas and I'm only now up to driving. But the barn door is supposedly done, just needs to be stained - at our house, in our basement. This has Paul in a tizzy because he's positive John had told him that the door was finished and stained before the holidays and now we find out it's not done and has to be finished here so that we're subjected to all the odours. All said in a very loud voice while having the ray gun pointed at his head.

Pella is also scheduled to arrive on the 22nd to replace the panel of our french door.

And finally, Friday I'm off to my rock star plastic surgeon for a follow up appointment. That should be harmless, I think I'll bring up de-droopifying the non reconstructed breast when she goes in to fix the new one. I can hear my university professor (a nasty little lady who taught survey art history courses and had a full length portrait of herself in her house) now saying "MEG STOP MAKING UP WORDS!" I was never actually subjected to her wrath, that was Ian.

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