Statistics

I'm a big fan of numbers. I find no solace in my friend Mel soothingly telling me that I'll find someone to share my life with, that she just knows it. I can't trust her faith over my own, but I can believe statistics. Statistics are more concrete than Mel's faith, and they tell me that 90% of Americans will marry in their lifetimes should they choose. 90% is a comforting statistic.

Much similar to when I ended up on Plan B some months ago after a broken condom. Plan B has a 90% chance of preventing pregnancy. And sure enough, even though I rarely feel like I belong with the majority, I fell into the 90% category.

The thyroid biopsy had a 90% return rate: 75% chance it came out benign and like a 7% chance of malignancy. Throw in human error and there was a 10% chance that it could be inconclusive. I felt fine, knowing that I was going to find out what was going on diagnostically one way or the other. After all, 90 is a big number.

But the doctor came back with "inconclusive" and "atypical cells." He can't rule out cancer, and wants to schedule me for another biopsy. Another one. And because of my virtually nonexistent health insurance, I'm out of money after writing a rather large check for the first one. Not the mention that once ruled inconclusive, the statistic goes up: 50% chance of the second test being inconclusive as well.

They can't tell me if I have cancer or not. Ah, I was going somewhere with this, but I can't remember after laying it out there like that. They don't know, and that's the bare bones truth of it all.