I've been ... preoccupied
Posted by Judy Hill at 7/12/2007 9:34 PM and is filed under uncategorized 
In retrospect, I should have picked up on her comment to me as I left: "Stay healthy," as in, "You are healthy."
She'd just spent 30 minutes performing an ultrasound on places only "seen," so to speak, by my children.
It was a precautionary test precipitated by my age and some other relatively benign health issues.
I didn't worry about it beforehand, nor did I worry after I left the St. Anthony's outpatient facility at Carillon in St. Petersburg about 2 p.m. that afternoon.
I didn't worry until the phone rang at 10 a.m. the next morning.
"This is the doctor's office. He wants you to come in as soon as possible to get the results of your sonogram."
I was stunned. It hadn't been 24 hours.
It didn't dawn on me that the speed of the call might have nothing to do with the seriousness of the findings, but the efficiency of the office staff.
So, with my heart in my throat I choked: "Can't you tell me what's going on?"
"We can't tell you over the phone. You'll have to come in."
"When? Today? Tomorrow?"
"No, we don't have any openings until the end of the week."
We settled on an appointment and I hung up.
And stewed. And fretted. And panicked.
Given the ominous nature of the phone call, it had to be serious. Since I believe that if you expect the worst anything less than that is a victory, I immediately decided I had ovarian cancer, or uterine cancer or bladder cancer.
I spread the word to my friends and kids, really only because I knew if I didn't tell them and there was something wrong, they'd be furious.
I did finally call the doctor's office back and said I'd freak if I had to wait to the end of the week to find out what's wrong with me.
My appointment was moved back to the next day.
When I finally got into the examining room and the nurse practitioner came in, I said, "Please put me out of my misery and tell me what's wrong."
She gave me a look.
"What are you talking about?"
"Since I had to rush in to find out what's going on I figure I'm on death's door. I even wrote my will last night."
After she apologized for the efficiency of the staff, she said that anytime a test reveals anything is even a little out of the ordinary they ask folks to come in for the results. They don't give the information out over the telephone.
So what's the big deal?
"You have uterine fibroids."
"I know," I said.
"But they're big."
"I know."
"Oh," she said.
"Don't you want to do anything about them?"
"Not really."
"Well, at least go see a gynecologist."
"OK."
And that was that.
Thank God.
She'd just spent 30 minutes performing an ultrasound on places only "seen," so to speak, by my children.
It was a precautionary test precipitated by my age and some other relatively benign health issues.
I didn't worry about it beforehand, nor did I worry after I left the St. Anthony's outpatient facility at Carillon in St. Petersburg about 2 p.m. that afternoon.
I didn't worry until the phone rang at 10 a.m. the next morning.
"This is the doctor's office. He wants you to come in as soon as possible to get the results of your sonogram."
I was stunned. It hadn't been 24 hours.
It didn't dawn on me that the speed of the call might have nothing to do with the seriousness of the findings, but the efficiency of the office staff.
So, with my heart in my throat I choked: "Can't you tell me what's going on?"
"We can't tell you over the phone. You'll have to come in."
"When? Today? Tomorrow?"
"No, we don't have any openings until the end of the week."
We settled on an appointment and I hung up.
And stewed. And fretted. And panicked.
Given the ominous nature of the phone call, it had to be serious. Since I believe that if you expect the worst anything less than that is a victory, I immediately decided I had ovarian cancer, or uterine cancer or bladder cancer.
I spread the word to my friends and kids, really only because I knew if I didn't tell them and there was something wrong, they'd be furious.
I did finally call the doctor's office back and said I'd freak if I had to wait to the end of the week to find out what's wrong with me.
My appointment was moved back to the next day.
When I finally got into the examining room and the nurse practitioner came in, I said, "Please put me out of my misery and tell me what's wrong."
She gave me a look.
"What are you talking about?"
"Since I had to rush in to find out what's going on I figure I'm on death's door. I even wrote my will last night."
After she apologized for the efficiency of the staff, she said that anytime a test reveals anything is even a little out of the ordinary they ask folks to come in for the results. They don't give the information out over the telephone.
So what's the big deal?
"You have uterine fibroids."
"I know," I said.
"But they're big."
"I know."
"Oh," she said.
"Don't you want to do anything about them?"
"Not really."
"Well, at least go see a gynecologist."
"OK."
And that was that.
Thank God.
Thank goodness it wasn't something really serious. It always amazes me how "thoughtless" the staff in a doctor's office can be. I realize they can't tell you anything, but be a bit more thoughtful about getting a patient in as soon as possible. I always wonder how they would react if the tables were turned.
Don't know if you've heard this .... The Sarasota Herald Tribune announced today (Thursday) that it is offering buyouts to employees over age 50,at a time when the newspaper had already eliminated 21 positions from its newsroom, downsized business and sports sections and cut daily TV listings and its Sunday business section.
Very interesting ..... all I can say, is "bring it on"
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Good Morning, Judy:
Hope it's a wonderful day for you in NE St Pete...I'm here, too. On Snell Isle. Just wanted to tell you that I loved reading part of the JHOnLine this morning. Haven't been there before, but will again. You make me smile and that is always good. I don't feel your pain re: retirement, but one day maybe I will, as I'm 66 also and wonder when I can...or will want to! And re: Baxter; hope the little tyke is doing great. My Corgi Extraordinaire, Gwynedd, is on a chemo maintenance program now after 16 wks of injections for CLL. If she's gotta have it, it's the most desirable as it's the most treatable. She's a little Show Pup and has 10 titles so far. What would I do without her? She's a Smile Magnet Extraordinaire; wanna meet people? Take your Pup with you everywhere. (My policy is: Better to Beg Forgiveness than Ask Permission) 'Nuff said. You take care and maybe I'll see you out walking some morning in the ONE or SI area!
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