Winter's Here

I stepped onto The Hungarian's porch and shivered. Although it was in the final days of November, it was the very first time it was cold out. I pulled on the coat that I brought just in case and zipped it up. The Hungarian, who usually watches to make sure I get to my car okay, had long shut the door and moved on.

It was also cold inside the house after the Great Dishwasher Incident of 2010.

I exhaled, but I didn't see my breath like I expected I would. The very last thing The Hungarian said to me was "It looks like Winter's here." I'm glad the outside matches my inside.

***

The next morning I had my appointment with my endocrinologist. He flipped through the results of my CBC and serum chemistry. It was good news. For the first time in three years, I was healthy.

"Now it looks like your body is never going to process calcium naturally," he admitted. He put the chart down and looked at me. "How far away are you from getting pregnant?"

I looked down at my feet and gurgled. Really? We have to have this discussion hours after I decide I don't want to see someone anymore? "Um, pretty far," I mumbled.

"Well you're still in your childbearing years."

What? I'm 29. I'm in the infancy of my childbearing years.

He expressed concern for my calcium levels if I ever do become pregnant. "The second you become pregnant, we'll want to see you immediately. Your calcium will need to be monitored carefully." He kept talking about pregnancy and pregnancy and pregnancy. I wanted to roll off the table with the paper sheet and die.

***

I've been dating in punctuation marks. Periods. Question marks. I want to date in commas, colons and ellipses. I want to date in prose, not statements. Let there be more to the story.

There has to be more to this story.

Fantasy versus Reality

RUBY: How many girls get to date their fantasy?

FELICITY: Yeah, but the fantasy is beautiful and

shallow. The actual relationship is a whole

different thing.

~Felicity

I'm confused.

What do you do when you get everything you thought you wanted, and yet it's not what you want?

Christopher was my dream guy. When we dated in 2006, I obsessed over every detail. I admired him. I adored him. He was incredibly handsome, magical in bed, intelligent, fit and lived in this amazing apartment in Midtown. He had it together. I thought if he would just commit, if he would just say that I was the person he wanted, then I would just be the happiest and luckiest girl alive.

And then he found me. When I was so low from my relationship with S that I didn't even feel human anymore, much less a woman, he found me and he saw all the things in me that I thought S had destroyed. That maybe even I had destroyed. He gave me back myself.

It was beautiful and shallow.

But now the little things are starting to add up and feel like big things to me. Like he's never, ever, in the history of the world, driven me on a date. I drive 100% of the time. Oh, he has a driver's license and a car, but he refuses to drive so if we ever go out, it's up to me. This is compounded by my relationship with S, who had neither a license nor a car, so it's been a minimum of three years since I have been driven on a date. I really wanted to put "Be driven on a date" on my 30 things list, but M-Joy told me I needed to raise my standards and then I got embarrassed of my need to be driven around town, so I let it go.

Also on that list, I've paid. I've paid more than I should have paid. He was unemployed and I wanted to do things, so it only seemed right that I paid. And I'm not really bitching about that. I'm bitching that now he is employed, he has bought me two meals, one of which was my birthday dinner, and he went out for drinks afterwards with my friends, and my friends paid for my birthday drinks. He had placed three calls me to me, questioning the price of the bill at all three places. "Why was the bill this much? what did we order? How much did I tip? Is that amount correct?" It feels like such a guilt trip. He called me at work about the birthday drinks. He told me my friends lied and didn't pay for my drink, and I flat-out told him he was wrong. I saw his bill; he only paid for himself. Yet I'm getting another call and guilt trip over money he spent on himself. He didn't realize that because the party was of 10 people, an 18% gratuity was added, and then because he was drunk, he added an additional 20% tip. He asked if he could call the restaurant and get that money back.

He wanted me to drive on my birthday. I refused. So he said he would rent a cab because he was planning on drinking as much as I was drinking on my birthday. Then he asked to split the cab. I said it was his decision to drink and if he couldn't get me to my birthday gathering, then I would call M-Joy, who would gladly pick me up, and I would go with her. He called me back and said we could take the bus. So we did.

And when we go out, it feels like we only go to the places he wants to go. I don't know how fair that statement is, and I know a lot of couples feel that way, but I feel like adding it to the list right now.

He hasn't met my parents. He hasn't told me he loves me. He is against marriage. Six weeks shy of our one-year anniversary, I feel alone. I feel single if I were being truly honest. We only see each other one night a week. If I were having a bad day, he isn't the kind of person to come over and hang with me and bring a pizza because he refuses to drive.

I switched my thyroid meds in the beginning of April and I've been having a really difficult time with it. I feel noticeably off. I sleep all the time and I'm weepy. I took a day off of work this week to go to the doctor and have a blood test to see if I'm hypo like I feel that I am. I told Christopher this. He responded, "My mother and brother have hypothyroidism, so I should get that checked. I probably have it too." I held the phone away from my face and thought, Did we just really make this all about you?

So that's it. That's my entire list of complaints about him. We don't fight; we actually get along very well. He doesn't call me names or throws things. He doesn't do drugs. He is a good person. I just don't feel like my emotional needs are being met. I feel single, but unable to date.

Which makes me think of 5k guy. He was the guy I was trying to impress when I drunkenly declared I was going to run a 5k with 5 weeks notice. He sent me an e-mail the next morning saying he would see me there. I blew him off. I went to the 5k, but still felt messed up from the thyroid meds and extremely unmotivated, so I purposely didn't meet up with him and walked half the race before quitting and going to get a smoothie. That's right, I am a quitter. (And then I watched The Biggest Loser this week where a 400-lb man with a SONY WALKMAN did a 5k in 50-something minutes and I felt shame.THE SHAME.)

5k guy sends me another e-mail after the race and told me he missed me. I sent a lame response, but gave just enough detail to indicate I was actually there. That was that, I thought.

Then I post my 30 before 30 list on my Facebook page at the request from my friends at birthday gathering. M-Joy read the list out loud and my friends cheered and clapped with every item like it was pure gold. When M-Joy hollered "Take a dance class" over the table, Harvey shouted, "We should do a belly-dancing class! No! NO! A POLE-DANCING CLASS!" It was momentous. Everyone in my life has met my list with an overwhelmingly response (My step-mother wants to shoot a gun with me, and we planned the swimming with the dolphins trip in August.) Everyone at my birthday wanted to go to the mountains for the rip-line adventure (Thanks for the tip!). They are pumped about rafting the Oconee river. Christopher, in hindsight, was silent.

So I post my 30 before 30 on my Facebook and 5k guy sees it. He leaves a comment with all the items he can help me with. Like change a tire, and doing the 5k thing right. He wants in on the rafting. I've met this guy once then blew him off, and yet he wants to help me meet my goals. Christopher did not even mention it.

5k guy isn't the messiah. He isn't the answer to my boy problems. But I bet he would drive me on a date. But I don't know anything about this guy: he could be a pot smoker who likes to refer to women as bitches. He could be against marriage too. Judging by his Facebook, he's way more active than I am. I don't really care for his dog's breed (wiry-coat dogs are just not fun to pet like my lovely, fluffy husky).

I've always felt more like a Charlotte (Pride and Prejudice reference, not Sex and the City). I always felt comfort in being safe. As evidenced from my list, I'm not much of a risk taker.

I don't know. I'm just thinking. Actual relationships are whole different things.

Do-Over

It wasn't just the same venue, but it was the same damn ballroom. The open bar was stood where the bridal party's table had been. The table catty-corner to the one Christopher and I sat at was the one where S had told me no man would ever love me. I looked down and shuffled my party shoes. The same carpet.

I wore my White House Black Market dress to the party. I've worn it at every company Christmas party for the last 4 years. I've switched jobs so much that nobody knows I'm wearing the same outfit. So it didn't occur to me to try on the dress and make sure it still fits. Of course it fits, I've worn it for four years.

Only it didn't fit.

I went to the doctor last week and learned I gained 10 pounds (!) in the last couple of months. A blood test confirmed that I'm still not regulated on my thyroid meds and he upped my dose so I wouldn't be hypo anymore. I'm feeling a bit better, but it wasn't enough to make my dress zip up all the way. Thank god I brought a shawl that covered up the back of the dress.

So that's how I ended up in the bathroom. I was re-adjusting the dress that didn't zip.

When I walked in, the infamous stall was occupied and I was glad I didn't have the option to confront it. I heard the familiar metal bar being pulled to lock and unlock the stall door. So they fixed it since S kicked it in. Any remnants of that night had been covered up so you would never know it had happened. The boy was in rehab, covering up himself.

I stood at the sink and inspected myself in the mirror. I remembered his sister coming into the bathroom and escorting me out like everything was my fault. She didn't want the bride to know what was happening. You don't understand, I had cried, shaking. He attacked me.

But S had already approached her with his version, saying he came to the bathroom to talk to me and inadvertently scared me. I laughed coldly at the sheer audacity of it.

He attacked me, I whispered again.

It was obvious she didn't believe me. How can someone just not believe a woman who says she's been attacked? How can that happen? The wait staff saw me being dragged across the floor and yet she didn't believe me.

She sighed, I don't know what to tell you. He's an alcoholic. She shrugged like it excused his behavior, like I deserved it because I knew how he can be. Like it was my fault for... for being attacked.

I don't think I have gotten over the treatment his sister gave me that night. I used to really like her and admire her, but since that moment, I really kind of despise her.

I swiveled to the side and inspected myself in the mirror. Even though the dress didn't zip up all the way, I think it's the prettiest I ever looked in it. Because I filled out the top of the dress, it made my waistline look tiny.

Besides the impromptu memorial I held in the bathroom, I really didn't have too much time to entertain my anxiety. Even though a company Christmas party is a gift for the employees, it's still very much work function and Christopher and I schmoozed with the owners and their spouses.

I was very pleased with Christopher. There was an open bar that cost the company $43 per person just to drink. I joked to him that he was required to get the company's money's worth. So he hit the bar pretty hard, but no one could tell he was slowly getting drunk next to me. He was also unshaven (at my request); he looks steamy with a five o'clock shadow. I enjoyed watching watching my co-workers' reactions when they realized the handsome man was my boyfriend. (I don't write about work much, but of the 35 employees, 33 are women in their 20s and 30s. It's like walking into a sorority house every morning. Cattiness abounds. For example, it's really cold today and most of the office are wearing Uggs. Someone is keeping track of who are wearing the real ones and who are wearing knock-offs. Mine are real.)

As Paige put it, the night was a do-over. This time we happily got in the car and drove home listening to my Christmas music. I put on my jammies and headed to Christopher's where we cuddled under his flannel blanket and watched Tropic Thunder while drinking Diet Coke and eating Cheez-Its. I had slept the best I had all week.

Scars

It was Swayze's birthday. He chose to spend it at Medieval Times and a buy-one-get-one-free offer made it the perfect opportunity to finally introduce Christopher to my friends.

We had a good afternoon getting ready and pre-gaming the event. Christopher made fun of the scarf I was wearing in the heat of the summer.

"It's August."

"It's silk."

"Scarves are only meant to be worn when it's cold," he argued.

I thumbed the pink silk between my fingers. "I wore it the night I reconnected with you and you said you liked it," I said thoughtfully.

Christopher was silent.

"Were you lying when you said you liked it?" I asked. I remember thinking that Swayze made fun of my scarf, but Christopher had complimented it and it definitely put him up a notch in my book.

Christopher was still silent. So okay, he lied and didn't really like my summertime scarf.

"Why do you wear that thing anyways?" he eventually asked.

"First of all, I have not worn it since June. And I like the color," I justified. "And it covers my scar," I eventually admitted.

For some reason, the surgery scar across my neck that I acquired this year makes me extremely self-conscious. I feel like it greets people when I face them and I see their eyes travel downwards as they stare at it while they talk to me. Especially—especially—now that I've moved to the medical field for work. They know exactly what's wrong with me down to the disease I have just by looking at me, and it makes me feel vulnerable and exposed. And weak for not being perfectly healthy.

"So you wore it when you didn't want me to see your scar, and now you're wearing it again so your friends won't see? Why would you hide it from your friends?" he asked.

Because Harvey and Helen are perfect.

***

As we walked through the parking lot to the castle, I grabbed Christopher's hand. This was a huge moment for me because it was the first time, ever, in the history of the world that we held hands. He said he was an affectionate person when I asked him that one Sunday morning, but it ebbs and flows and it has been seriously ebbing the past few weeks. Christopher didn't protest or flinch and I inwardly cheered over my victory.

We headed to meet my friends, and when I reached for his hand again, Christopher basically slapped it down. He said he had to pee and I couldn't figure out what bearing that had on holding my hand. I summed it up to not being affectionate in front of my friends or people that would actually know him versus strangers.

Of the group that actually paid the hefty sum for Swayze's birthday outing, I only knew Harvey, her husband, and Swayze himself. Harvey courteously extended her hand to Christopher. She was the only one. The guys muttered "hey" with their hands in their pockets.

Afterwards we met up at our local bar and sat outside on the patio bricks. Helen and her boyfriend showed up. I sat next to Helen and listened as she told Harvey stories. Christopher obligingly sat next to me. And no one, no one, spoke to him. The husbands and boyfriends stood a distance away. Harvey and Helen never asked him anything about himself. In reality, they never really addressed me either. I would just jump in their conversations.

My friends aren't usually like this. They are outgoing and friendly and never cool and distant to someone new. I saw a side of Christopher that I never saw before as he sat silently next to me, following me if I went to the bar for another drink. He never tried to speak to them either, but I think it's harder being the outsider. I wondered if he is shy and I just never knew it, but then again all those times I took him up to my college town with me, he never had trouble talking to my guy friends.

I think I may have lost the faith of my friends. I feel like I ruined my character judgment with them through my last relationship. They were probably afraid of Christopher like they were afraid of my ex and it made me so sad.

He's not like that, I wanted to jump up and shout. He's not perfect and he has flaws and I don't know where this is going, but he is a safe person. He will not hit me or hurt me or spit on me and tell me I'm nothing. He is safe.

All of a sudden, I didn't want to be there anymore. My actions caused my friends to not be accepting towards someone who has done nothing wrong to them. Or me. I thought of my scar that I try to hide from them and once again I felt damaged and not up to snuff. I wanted to go home to the safety of my new apartment and cuddle up with my safe man who would finally talk once we were removed from this situation.

I stood up and announced we were leaving. Harvey once again shook Christopher's hand. "It was nice to finally meet you," she said. Only they never really met.

Things You Need To Know

1. I was laid off from my job on February 4th, 2009. If I hear "Due to the poor economic climate..." one more time, I'm going to rip my ears off and shove them in my mouth.
2. The day after, February 5th, 2009, my third biopsy of my thyroid came back inconclusive again. The big C-word was being whispered around. I was scheduled for immediate surgery to have my thyroid removed. When I cried (about paying for the surgery. The idea of spending money while unemployed freaked me out more than the big C-word did.), the doctor said this would be a great time for surgery "because [I] had nothing better to do." 
3. The pathology lab came back a few weeks later and said that all the tumors on my thyroid were benign. I finally had a diagnosis, but it didn't really make me feel any better. I sort of feel like I went through the whole thing for nothing.
4. I had to stay with my mother following the surgery to recuperate. Scott didn't have a driver's license or a car, nor did he schedule the day off for my surgery, so he was pretty unfit for taking care of me. When I ended up in the emergency room for complications of surgery, he told me that my problems were psychosomatic and that I needed to snap out of it and come back to the apartment. He said that his surgery was worse and more painful and he got through it, so I shouldn't be such a wimp. I tried telling him that this wasn't a patch job, that my entire endocrine system was screwed up, but he hung up the phone on me. This had no bearing on why we broke up, but it always gnawed on me that when I needed surgery, he wasn't capable of taking care of me.
   

Bad, Good, Ugly

"We found a few benign cells," the doctor tells me over the phone, but before I can breathe a sigh of relief, he quickly finishes, "but not enough to rule it as benign."

"So it's inconclusive again?" I ask, thinking about the inconclusive statistic which means imminent surgery.

"No, not inconclusive, just... not benign."

So, not cancer, but not benign.

In my flow chart of hypothesized outcomes, this wasn't one of them. He then looked over my blood work to see if I was eligible for medication to shrink the tumors. "No," he tsked. "Your levels are high, so any medication would not only be useless to you, but it would also throw your body into hyperthyroidism."

"Hyper? As in rapid weight loss?" I asked.

"Yes, as in eyes bugging out of your head," he corrected.

"Oh."

He gently encouraged me to have the surgery to remove my thyroid and "put this behind [me] and move on with [my] life." When I told him I was not ready to have surgery yet, he then gave me the option of waiting another six months and having a third biopsy to see if there are any changes. I greedily accepted and promised him that if I felt any pain in my neck, or noticed it larger in size, I would have it out immediately.

In other news, I had to have a different biopsy on a very scary part of my body, but that came back all clear with nothing wrong. The relief of a benign biopsy made me giddy.

In other other news, they are laying off 20% of my company tomorrow. The shit keeps a commin'.

Results

Today, I am tired.

I spent 11 hours at the hospital yesterday, sitting in uncomfortable waiting room chairs (whoever thought an aluminum pipe was adequately served as an armrest is an idiot) and watching re-runs of at least 8 reality court room dramas. Judge Joe Brown, Judge Christina, Divorce Court, and Judge Judy—apparently they air them once in the morning and again after lunch. I'm glad to be employed.

If it's even possible, Scott's injuries were worse than everybody thought. The white stuff that I thought I had been looking at in Scott's hand over the last couple of weeks were not his tendons; it was his bone. Instead of shaving off the top layer of skin on his thigh and leaving a sunburn mark, the doctor instead had to remove, to quote him, "a sizable chunk" from his leg to adequately cover his hand and elbow. He now has a stitched scar running from his knee cap up the length of his inner thigh—like an inseam to his pants. He may never be able to use the last few fingers on his left hand again; the pin inserted was merely to keep them straight and not grow permanently curled into his fist.

The surgery lasted over three hours. I got a lot of knitting done, a little reading done, but absolutely no work. It's hard to write a magazine article in the state of mind I was in, followed by the background noise of Gary Coleman's appearance on Divorce Court.

He had been awake for over two hours before I could see Scott. The ambulatory surgery wing has closed by then, leaving me alone in the waiting room with the lights off. The anesthesiologist did an additional procedure to block the nerves in his left arm—if Scott had absolutely no feeling in his arm, then he also wouldn't feel any pain.

My endocrinologist called me first thing in the morning and gave me the results of my biopsy. It wasn't good news and that's all I'm going to get into for now.

Today, I am tired.

Mr. Freeze Versus the Thyroglobulins

Having become something of a biopsy regular, I don't have the same story this time that I had last time. The only noticeable difference is that my newly acquired, super expensive, super exclusive endocrinologist doesn't believe in local anaesthetics.

"The injection of the anaesthetic will be just as painful as the biopsy needle," he tried to explain to me.

"Yes, but there isn't one biopsy needle, there's three. And you don't just insert the biopsy needle, you stick it in and wave it around like a damn jackhammer." Seriously, by the time you get to the third needle, who cares about the first teeny weeny anaesthetic injection? And this isn't even touching on how a needle actively moving around inside your throat doesn't feel like a shot of B12 to the arm, which I also had to look forward to, followed by another round of blood samples after that--what's one more needle prod?

But I lost out because the super duper endocrinologist prefers the freeze method. I didn't get a good look, but I assume it's a can of frozen air something or other which he sprayed liberally on my neck, causing me to break out in a fit of shrieks and giggles on the operating room table. The opera playing on a tape deck in the corner of the room was accompanied by the whoosh of aerosol and my full belly-laugh hysterics.

"Looks like someone is ticklish," chirped the nurse.

"I get a lot of reactions with the freeze, but I've never had anyone laugh before," said the doctor, which really made me uncomfortable, because how many patients has this super endocrinologist seen during the life of his practice and I'm the only one? I never like hearing something I do is abnormal.

And so I wait. Again. If this biopsy comes back inconclusive again, he's operating and taking my thyroid out as a cancer precaution. Apparently the cancer risk is very high with two inconclusives. If my thyroglobulin levels come back high, he's operating and taking out my thyroid. I didn't bother to ask why. If my levels are come back normal, then I get to keep my thyroid, but get put on medications to try to shrink the tumors. Even though it looks like I'm going to be one of those people who has to take medication every day for the rest of my life no matter the outcome of this, obviously I'm still hoping for the third option because frankly I kinda like my thyroid even though my body doesn't.

I asked him why all of this happened in the first place, and he said my body got confused and thought my thyroid was now magically a foreign object, so it started attacking it. Apparently my body isn't very smart.

Aftermath

I've been fortunate that my new place of employment lets me work from home when I need to. I took most of last week off to take care of Scott. The first couple of days he couldn't move around much and he was bleeding through his bandages every couple of hours. This product is really good at getting blood and ooze out of blankets, sheets, and couch covers. Good news is that he didn't lose his appetite like he did last time, so the roles have been switched and I've been cooking for him. However, my role of cooking has been heating up a can of tomato soup and grabbing the crackers out of the cupboard.

We went to the impound lot to visit his bike. Neither of us could agree what it looked like from the accident. He asked me in the hospital and I told him the mirrors and the handle bars had broken off. He looked away, assuming I was exaggerating.

"No, I remember looking over at it when I was strapped to the gurney. It didn't look that bad," he argued.

"Babe, you were unconscious for over 10 minutes. You are deluded if you think it's fine. It's totaled."

I told him that again when he got a $105 of his money to get the bike out of impound. He dismissed me again.

The bike was actually worse than I thought. Not only were the handle bars and mirrors broken off, but so were the tail lights, the wind screen, and the instrument panel. The front is a heap of broken plastic knotted by exposed wires. Instinct told me to grab my camera from my purse and take pictures of the bike. Maybe I'll upload them later. While I was zooming and focusing, Scott took the bike off the kick stand and found the start button dangling to the right side. He inserted his key and tried to start it. After a few tries, the damn thing started. It was all he needed to think that he can haul the bike home and fix it.

"Yeah, you'll just need a whole new front end," I said wryly.

As we waited an hour for his step-father to drive into the city with his pickup truck to load Scott's bike, we ran to a nearby fast-food joint to get lunch.

"I really thought I could just drive it home," Scott admitted.

"Deluded," I repeated, mouth full of burrito. "I told you there were no handle bars on it."

"I thought you were just being a woman."

I raised an eyebrow.

"You know," he explained, "Making things sound worse than they really are."

"Well it was really missing its handle bars."

***

On Thursday, I called in a favor with my family friend who's a doctor and made an appointment for Scott. My mother goes to him and says he's a good doctor, but I just don't get that same feeling. After seeing a specialist for my thyroid tumor, the specialist was shocked that he put me on steroids for it. I did some research on it as well and I told my parents and Scott that I wasn't comfortable with his treatment. Not really having an alternative, and partly not wanting to hurt his feelings with my doubt, I took the steroids. Which, according to the specialist I'm currently seeing, was a huge mistake. (By the way, I'm having another cancer biopsy next week, so awesome that all of this is going on at the same time.)

In the cramped room we waited for the doctor. I took out my camera again and took pictures of Scott's injuries (too gross to upload). The doctor came in and took one look at Scott's knees and pulled out his prescription pad. Scott started on the story with the accident, what hurt, and he started to unwrap his hand to show the doctor his injuries. The doctor cut him off. Scott looked at me helplessly.

"We want to tell you what happened," I tried.

"No, I don't need to know and I don't need to see it. I can tell from his legs that he has an infection. He needs antibiotics."

"I asked for some at the hospital and they wouldn't give me any," said Scott.

The doctor shook his head, presumably about the quality of the hospital, and continued writing on his pad.

"But won't you look at his hand? It looks bad," I said.

"No, I don't need to see his hand," he said visibly irritated.

"Well, he has a hole in his arm and he's complaining about painful breathing."

"Look!" the doctor whirled around. "We can either sit here and talk about what needs to be done, or we can do it! Which do you want?"

Scott and I both looked to the ground like scolded school children. I don't know if he's that good of a doctor and just doesn't need to see Scott, but I know I want the peace of mind of telling the doctor what happened and showing him the injuries just in case there is something going on that he doesn't see from a skinned knee.

He's been on the antibiotics for five days now and there is no improvement. If anything, Scott's hand continues to swell. Fortunately, the painful breathing has stopped. I called my mom and told her about the doctor's visit. Concerned, she said he messed up once with my thyroid tumor treatment and now this. She said he's going through a messy divorce and his kids no longer visit him because their mother now has all the money. She thinks that this is affecting his work.

Screwed over by a hospital and now a loose-cannon doctor, we continue to seek medical treatment for Scott.

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.

Waiting

The nurse walked into the waiting room.

"Sarah Hck...hck...chk," she stuttered.

Scott corrected her and I gave her the warm, forgiving smile that I reserve for strangers who attempt my last name. That's okay. I forgive you. You tried.

"Thanks for waiting for so long, if you just follow me back here-" the nurse continued. Scott stood up and gathered my purse, book, and jacket for me so I wouldn't have to carry them.

"Well, can I come with her?" he asked.

The nurse looked sideways at me, "Do you need him to?"

"No!" I chirped. I flashed him a quick, broad smile so he'd believe me. I didn't want Scott with me. I was the one with the hospital band tied around my wrist; I needed to do this alone. I didn't want the nurse to think I was weak. I didn't want Scott to see what they were going to do to me. I had to be strong.

I blocked Scott from the exit door, "I'll be right back!" I waived and disappeared with the nurse. I wish that I hugged him and kissed him before I went away, but I had to be strong. I guess I was more nervous than I originally thought. A lot more nervous.

I followed her through the halls of radiology. "So were you in a different department?" she asked, making conversation.

"Yes, they originally sent us to nuclear." I tripped over my own words. All of a sudden I'd forgotten how to say nuclear and I didn't want to pronounce it the way Bush does, so I ended up slurring the end of my sentence. A lot more nervous, I thought again.

One opened-butt gown later and the nurse spread the jelly on my neck and the ultrasound began. I reminded her that the pain was on my left side, and she told me she needed to see what the right side looks like as well.

"So, um, lumps in your neck, are they normal—I mean common?" I asked.

The nurse widened her eyes and shook her head no. Okay then. Not common. So imagine my surprise when the ultrasound screen showed five of them on the right side of my neck, and that wasn't even the side that hurt. She saved each screen and measured each lump. I quit asking questions, deciding that maybe ignorance was really bliss in this circumstance.

The nurse adjusted her pressure when she moved to the left side of my throat. Bob quickly appeared and took up the entire ultrasound screen. I'm familiar with Bob. He's the giant lump that made my breathing shallow, eating difficult, and yawning painful. He's the lump that I've had since January and is visible to the naked eye. Stupid Bob the tumor.

Once again, the nurse froze the screen and captured Bob. She said he's about the size of a ping pong ball and, according to the screen, he's got some brothers and sisters behind him on the left side as well.

The doctor arrived and everyone suited up: hair nets, surgical masks, et al. "The good news is that the lump-"

"Bob."

"What?"

"She named her lump," explained the nurse. "Bob."

She laughed. "Okay! Well then. The good news is that Bob is so big we won't have to do a lot of digging with the needles. We can go in and get our samples and get out."

There was a pinch and then fire filled my neck as she injected the local anesthetic. The biopsy began. To my left was the doctor with the scary, tissue-collecting needles and to my right was the ultrasound machine that showed the needle plunging into my neck, towards Bob. I chose to close my eyes for the procedure.

I could feel the needle and the poking and prodding, it just didn't hurt. I was okay with that. Her promises were going swimmingly until she took the needle and shook it furiously while it was still in my neck. "Just need a good sample!" she chirped as I involuntarily groaned, realizing that I had been holding my breath the entire time.

"You're doing really well," the nurse offered. "Do you want to hold my hand?"

Lying on the bed, I couldn't even remember where my hands were. I flexed my right hand and discovered it was in my left hand. I was holding my own hand. My only goal for the biopsy was to not cry, so I accepted the nurse's hand. One hand on the ultrasound and the other comforting me; I was grateful for her.

The doctor plunged the needle in my throat and swished it around two more times and then the procedure was over. A Band-Aid, a pack of ice, and the nurse showed me the way back to my boyfriend. "He was really worried about you, you know," she said. "He was very anxious, so you better get back to him."

Despite the absence of drugs, I was dizzy and reeling over the whole ordeal. I couldn't walk, only shuffle unsteadily back to the ultrasound waiting room. Scott took my arm and guided me as I teetered down the hallway, towards the car to go home.

"What'd they say?"

"They said I get a free blow job pass."

"No, when will you know?"

"A week."

And so we wait.

My Very First Valentine's Day

So I've been sick. I have been sick for quite awhile actually. I started feeling ill last Tuesday or Wednesday, but made it until Thursday afternoon before I allowed myself to leave work. The flower delivery had just come for Valentine's Day and I wasn't on the list. I didn't think I would be—it's too expensive a gesture for our budget—but when the rounds had come and I had nothing else to hold out for, I went home with a fever.

We never talked about our expectations for Valentine's Day. I had never had a real one before, so I didn't really know what to expect. The one I had in college, Valentine's Day came within a week of our six-month anniversary, so we decided to beat the crowds and just celebrate our anniversary instead. The one I had after college, I was in a long-distance relationship, so we celebrated the weekend before. This was my first honest-to-god, I love you and will see you on the actual day, Valentine's Day.

Scott woke me up in the bedroom at 6:30 pm. "You're hot."

"Ugh, no I'm not."

"No, I mean, you're hot. As in feverish."

"Oh."

Scott left the bedroom and headed to the kitchen, "Do you want your gifts?"

I didn't. Because if I get them now, then it's over; nothing else to look forward to. I yawned and stretched. Getting up from naps is pretty easy for me, but my eyelids felt... bloated.

Scott returned with a glass of ice water and handed it to me. He sat down on the edge of the bed. "I didn't know where you wanted to go to dinner, so I called and made reservations at three different places. One is at 8, another is at 8:30, and the last one is at 9:30. Your choice."

"Aww." All week he had been complaining about Valentine's Day and its conspiracy, blah, blah, fueled by women for women, blah. But in the end, he came through.

I got up to take a shower, hoping the hot steam of the bath would relieve some of the pressure I felt on my face and chest. I kept standing under the stream of water waiting to feel better, but instead I felt tired and sweaty with bloated eyelids. I eventually gave up and got dressed and ready for dinner.

By this point Scott had dozed off on the couch and there were still a few minutes before I had to wake him. I clicked around on the TV while tugging at my turtleneck until I felt claustrophobic and smothered in my own clothing and I ran to the closet with a wimper, exchanging my deviled turtleneck for the fat pajamas. You know the ones. Then I crawled back into bed without waking him up.

We missed all the reservations except for the 9:30 one at our regular place. But when Scott hovered above me on the bed again, talking about dinner again, I began to cry. I was sick. I finally had to admit it. And hell if I want to put on clothes that don't have a drawstring and and do things like sit up. So instead of a Valentine's dinner with candles, I sent Scott down to our other regular place—the Chinese take-out downstairs—and had him pick up some wonton soup for me.

He also brought me a bottle of wine, a single red rose, and a small box of chocolates. Only my boyfriend has alcohol issues, so he drank the wine. And my lovely dog snatched the box of chocolates off the coffee table while I was napping and tore off the cardboard heart top with precision and ate my chocolates.

I've just now replaced my chocolates in the seasonal 75%-off aisle of Walgreens while picking up my prescriptions (all $250 worth. Ouch.) after missing a week of work. In addition to bronchitis, it seems I have an unknown thyroid problem which I have to get screened for cancer (Yea!) and possible surgery (Woo.) And who knows how much all of this is going to cost because I have the worst health care plan in the United States. No lie. It's like I don't even have insurance. Actually, it is so bad that I just tell doctors I don't have insurance. It only covers me for catastrophic events like car accidents and cancer. Well then, it looks like I am covered.

So that was my Valentine's Day.