F*ck

For weeks I’ve been dealing with some medical stuff – a routine mammogram uncovered evidence that one of my boobs had gone rogue.

Second mammogram, and ultrasound wasn’t reassuring enough, so I had a biopsy last week.

Now if you’re thinking (as I was) that a fine needle aspirate is not that bad, you’re right. But this was not that biopsy. This was the sandwich press and apple corer type. Can. Not. Recommend.

Last night, Auckland went back into lockdown. This morning, they rang to offer me the option of getting my results by phone, which I accepted. Probably not ideal, but much easier for me mentally, to be sat at home in my trackkies, listening to my audiobook while ignoring the phone.

It’s not cancer. It’s something which might one day turn into cancer, or maybe something that might turn into the thing that might turn into cancer. And apparently we need to know which.

So I’m scheduled for some more fun adventures in boob sashimi in the 25th, and apparently it’s serious enough to be scheduled in spite of covid restrictions.

If I’ve been weird or distant, or more scattered than usual, there has been some stuff on my mind. It’s been scary, but I’m so fortunate to live in a country where this is routine, and completely covered by the public system. Total cost so far is just the Uber home after the biopsy.