May 17 8am
The results are back. The gyno is especially eloquent. “It’s bad,” he says bluntly.
Right. Can we get this guy an Academy Award? Also, tell me you have whiskey in your desk drawer like a doctor qualified to deliver this sort of news.
More noise happened at me but I was no longer mentally in the room. Disbelief played see saw with Denial. It wasn’t happening. Or if it was, it wasn’t what they were saying it was. A mistake. Obviously. Why were they scaring me like this when clearly my test results were mistakenly swapped with some old woman who drinks things manufactured by Monsanto and smokes 2 packs a day? I mean, this IS. NOT. HAPPENING.
The doctor tells me to go home and start imagining how I’ll look bald, if I survive, that is. No, he doesn’t say that. BUT THAT’S WHAT HE MEANS!
I will never trust another doctor who says they can’t give results over the phone. What they mean is they can’t give BAD results over the phone. Got it.
In hindsight, I appreciated the doctor’s inability to disguise his pity and fear. He almost looked sorry as he handed me blurry fax machined papers of biopsy results. I thanked him for the worst news ever in the same Midwestern way that I thank a police officer for giving me a speeding ticket. My Mom raised me right, after all.
Is this what running headfirst into a brick wall feels like? Pretty sure.
I decide to sit in my trunk for a while in the parking lot, because that’s logical. I consider crying but it seems unnecessary since this shit isn’t actually happening. I slump home and call the toughest person I know to come over and get drunk with me and make sense of this thing I need now called an Oncologist. Not that anything is even happening because it isn’t. Holy shit. This might be happening.
Kill me now. Wait…too soon?