I stayed home most of the day yesterday, expecting to get a call to schedule the P.E.T. scan and/or the biopsy, but I didn’t get the call. If I don’t hear anything by noon or thereabouts, I’ll call my doctor’s office to see what gives. Coincidentally, my annual visit with my cardiologist is scheduled for mid-afternoon today. I suppose I ought to tell him about the suspected malignancy.
Reaching the birth month of my sixty-fifth year is revealing more medical “crap” than I ever dreamed it would. Mostly little things that aren’t new but are annoying: a clogged sweat duct on my left foot that makes it painful to step “just so;” a skin rash on my scalp that itches like crazy (and is the reason for a visit to a dermatologist the day after my birthday); arthritic knuckles and elbows; stiff and arthritic knees; the list could go on. Adding lung cancer to it is not the icing I would have chosen to put on the cake. But none of this crap would have been my choice, so there’s no compelling reason to complain except that I’m in the mood to do it.
I doubt I’ll write much today. I got up obscenely late, after 7:00, which for me is like sleeping in half the day. I feel like I’ve wasted time I could have spent in productive pursuits. Maybe I’ll continue my “medical journal” later. Or maybe I’ll put it off until the wee hours, as I am wont to do.