Communication in the Dominican Republic doesn't need to have a language barrier to make it difficult.
It just isn't their strong suit.
Mind you, it's not the strong suit of some friends who seem to have gone dorment since this all started, echoing the experience after my motorcycle accident, when people just didn't know what to say, so instead of supporting me, they merely vanish along with their awkwardness.
All I can say is, I'm grateful for the few that have said words of strength. YOU lift me up.
"Come back on Monday for the biopsy, the doctor will be ready," said our attending.
So, I freaked out all weekend, having never had a biopsy before.
I had panic attacks. I cried. There were more than a few Hurricane Andréa sightings as I was at the bottom of the Pit of Doom once more.
No matter how hard I tried to calm down, my mind just whispering, "Monday, you're mine. Monday, it all comes down. Monday ..." like some stalker calling me on the phone every hour to torment me.
Only, I couldn't hang up.
Well, Monday came and I was a mess. I had done so well the day before with everyone telling me it was just a cyst and I actually felt that I believed it, but the day came and I was hooped again.
Off to the hospital we went, and after 2 hours of waiting the appropriate Dominican Time to see the doctor for our 2:30 appointment, he asked us, "So, what can I do for you today?"
Really? You're for real right here? Papi and I looked at each other with disbelief, like he'd just barfed shards of glass through our already thin skin.
We started from the beginning of the story, sounding monotonous, because the story now FEELS tiresome.
He had me disrobe right there, felt Mr. Lumpy for a moment then said, "It's probably benign, but we should do the test anyway because it's on the lymph node. Come back tomorrow after fasting for the blood tests and after the results we'll book you a biopsy."
You're fucking kidding me, right? I panicked all weekend for you to push around Mr. Lumpy and tell me to go starve myself?
Now I have to deal with this bullshit for a few more days?
Well, we did what we were asked, and the blood tests were ready for that afternoon and he went over them and told us to come back tomorrow for the biopsy at 9 a.m.
We were there, he wasn't.
He showed up around 11. Dominican Time.
The biopsy was finally done at about 12:30.
It really didn't hurt all that much, so really, I was afraid of nothing.
Again, he said, "It's probably benign." The only problem is, there's a mark on my mamm where the needle went in, but that's not where Mr Lumpy resides.
Mr. Lumpy is about 3 cm lower, and my damn tit is still just as itchy as it was the day I started complaining about it.
Now we wait for a week to find out that the results say, 'benign', then we go for a 2nd opinion.
After that, I carry my ass off to Canada to get the cancer gene test, where I get to go be in pain from the temperature difference.
I'm so sick of all this that I just don't even care anymore. I honestly don't. I'm done crying, I'm done being afraid, I'm done worrying.
I'm fucking pissed off.
This was not what moving here was about, but all of a sudden it's all about Mr. Lumpy.
Well, you know what Mr. Lumpy? You can just fucking sit there and do whatever you have to do for a week. For a month. I don't care.
Grow if you want to, go away if you get bored now that I refuse to be entertained by you anymore, but Mr. Lumpy, I'm done.
The depression Mr. Lumpy has put me in has robbed me of all strength and energy.
This is not living. If you're going to kill me, get it over with. If you're not, then fuck off.
If I could pop you like a zit, you'd be MY victim.
Go bug someone else your own size. Like a cockroach.
At this point, I feel if this really was something sinister, I doubt my angels would put me through the wringer to find out.
I'm through with your pestering.
It just isn't their strong suit.
Mind you, it's not the strong suit of some friends who seem to have gone dorment since this all started, echoing the experience after my motorcycle accident, when people just didn't know what to say, so instead of supporting me, they merely vanish along with their awkwardness.
All I can say is, I'm grateful for the few that have said words of strength. YOU lift me up.
"Come back on Monday for the biopsy, the doctor will be ready," said our attending.
So, I freaked out all weekend, having never had a biopsy before.
I had panic attacks. I cried. There were more than a few Hurricane Andréa sightings as I was at the bottom of the Pit of Doom once more.
No matter how hard I tried to calm down, my mind just whispering, "Monday, you're mine. Monday, it all comes down. Monday ..." like some stalker calling me on the phone every hour to torment me.
Only, I couldn't hang up.
Well, Monday came and I was a mess. I had done so well the day before with everyone telling me it was just a cyst and I actually felt that I believed it, but the day came and I was hooped again.
Off to the hospital we went, and after 2 hours of waiting the appropriate Dominican Time to see the doctor for our 2:30 appointment, he asked us, "So, what can I do for you today?"
Really? You're for real right here? Papi and I looked at each other with disbelief, like he'd just barfed shards of glass through our already thin skin.
We started from the beginning of the story, sounding monotonous, because the story now FEELS tiresome.
He had me disrobe right there, felt Mr. Lumpy for a moment then said, "It's probably benign, but we should do the test anyway because it's on the lymph node. Come back tomorrow after fasting for the blood tests and after the results we'll book you a biopsy."
You're fucking kidding me, right? I panicked all weekend for you to push around Mr. Lumpy and tell me to go starve myself?
Now I have to deal with this bullshit for a few more days?
Well, we did what we were asked, and the blood tests were ready for that afternoon and he went over them and told us to come back tomorrow for the biopsy at 9 a.m.
We were there, he wasn't.
He showed up around 11. Dominican Time.
The biopsy was finally done at about 12:30.
It really didn't hurt all that much, so really, I was afraid of nothing.
Again, he said, "It's probably benign." The only problem is, there's a mark on my mamm where the needle went in, but that's not where Mr Lumpy resides.
Mr. Lumpy is about 3 cm lower, and my damn tit is still just as itchy as it was the day I started complaining about it.
Now we wait for a week to find out that the results say, 'benign', then we go for a 2nd opinion.
After that, I carry my ass off to Canada to get the cancer gene test, where I get to go be in pain from the temperature difference.
I'm so sick of all this that I just don't even care anymore. I honestly don't. I'm done crying, I'm done being afraid, I'm done worrying.
I'm fucking pissed off.
This was not what moving here was about, but all of a sudden it's all about Mr. Lumpy.
Well, you know what Mr. Lumpy? You can just fucking sit there and do whatever you have to do for a week. For a month. I don't care.
Grow if you want to, go away if you get bored now that I refuse to be entertained by you anymore, but Mr. Lumpy, I'm done.
The depression Mr. Lumpy has put me in has robbed me of all strength and energy.
This is not living. If you're going to kill me, get it over with. If you're not, then fuck off.
If I could pop you like a zit, you'd be MY victim.
Go bug someone else your own size. Like a cockroach.
At this point, I feel if this really was something sinister, I doubt my angels would put me through the wringer to find out.
I'm through with your pestering.
loving myself heals my life ... i nourish my body and soul
Hugs to you Andrea, and a round of fucks to lumpy, get yourself relaxing on some secluded beach away from everyone, and find some serenity xxx
ReplyDeletefinding it. it's coming back. i'm grateful to be feeling less fear :) xoxoxo
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