The Bibopsy

In May, at my yearly physical (I call it that, but technically, for me it was neither yearly nor annual ... more like a quarter decade physical ... but I'll spare you those inane details on which I constantly dwell) my Dr. found a lump in my thyroid.  An ultrasound was scheduled, because apparently, lumps are abnormal and should be investigated ... blah, blah, blah.  The ultrasound resulted in more questions.  Thus, I was referred to a surgeon and scheduled for a biopsy.  

Before I go on, here is a relevant fact:  I don't like needles.  In fact, I don't like them to the extent that I refuse to have an epidural because I've seen the size of the needle and opt for the purposeful discomfort provided by labor.  I'm not necessarily proud of this dislike, but for me it exists and besides, I don't think labor is that bad.

Back to the bibopsy.  If you haven't heard of a biopsy or seen a needle, you should.  Not in the sense that one should hope for one, but in the sense that it's educational.  Look here.  So last Friday, the Mr. and I dropped our sweet kiddies off at a friend's house and went for a fun date to the hospital.

As I lay on the table-gurney-thingy with my fidgety feet and clammy hands, I explained my apprehension and the nurses explained the procedure ... Ultrasound directed needles, lidocaine, pressure, pressure and more pressure.  At the end, a 5 day wait, a band-aid and a bruise that resembles a hickie.  

Nurse:  "If you've ever gotten a hickie, it'll look like that."

My Mr.:  "Oh, well, she's the one that usually gives them, so that'll be a change."

I was laughing (along with everyone else) and that was his goal.  I was red from embarrassment - inasmuch as a person with my complexion can turn red - but I was laughing.  And no, we're not into that.  Well, not anymore.   ;)

Kidding, kidding ...

Today is Monday and the nurse just called to tell me the results are in, but they can't tell me what they are until I meet with the Dr. tomorrow morning.  It's as though they bought me a present and are like little children taunting me in a professional version of, "I know something you don't know."  Oh well.  We're not too worried.  Whatever the result, we'll be fine; of that we're certain.  I'm just glad I married a man who could make me laugh.  The kids were jealous of my band-aid and that made for a fun story (a true one; devoid of all worst case scenarios that sneak into an adult's imagination, of course).  

Overall, it wasn't bad.  My friend, who has experienced what I just did, said she'd rather give birth again because at least that pain was purposeful.  And to be honest, I agree.  If I didn't encounter another biopsy needle, I'd be fine with that.