May 16, 2007

Preparing for the Worst

This story has a happy ending. But I didn't know that last week when I sat in the doctor's office awaiting the results of my CT scan.

A routine chest x-ray to explore why I couldn't stop coughing showed a quarter-sized growth of some kind in my left lung. The doctor wasn't especially worried, despite the fact that to the lay person and owner of the above-mentioned lung, it looked like I had inhaled a golf ball.

"I think it's just a calcification, but I want to send you for a CT scan of the chest and have someone else look at it," he said. He didn't mention what else it could be and I didn't ask. I chose to accept his explanation that it was probably harmless.

I went home to await approval of the test by my insurance company. They responded with the opinion that they weren't sure it was medically necessary to check out the colossal growth in my chest with an expensive procedure. There was some back-and-forth with the doctor's office that took three weeks to sort out. On my third phone call, I was informed that I had finally been approved for scanning. The test was scheduled for the next week.

If you're keeping track, this makes a full month that I spent on WebMD, diagnosing myself. I re-lived the smoking years (Stupid! Stupid!) and the years when I worked for a manufacturer who used carcinogenic substances and didn't tell us. (Get me a lawyer!) I remembered inhaling a yellowjacket on a hike. (Had he built his own little hive in my lung?)

On Thursday, the day of the CT scan, Keeper drove me to the hospital, where I did some more waiting. I waited to get checked in while another patient harangued the clerk about a mistake the hospital had made. I waited in a drafty hallway while the technician called my doctor's office to get the results of a necessary blood test. I waited on the table while the iodine they injected into me whooshed into my veins. I held my breath as instructed by the disembodied voice. Then I waited in the waiting room until they told me that I didn't have a pulmonary embolism (they called it a blood clot in case I didn't know the terminology) and I could go home.

I spent the weekend alternately praying and acting brave for Keeper's sake. On Tuesday, the doctor's office called and asked me to come in that afternoon.

I arrived at the appointed time. I glanced at some of the People magazines but couldn't concentrate on celebrity gossip. A dying person loses interest in Cameron Diaz' hair color. Meanwhile, the clock ticked away. Half an hour into my wait, I was rehearsing telling my family I was ill. I sat and brooded while two pharmaceutical reps in short shirts and strappy sandals were ushered into the inner sanctum where they made happy talk with my doctor. I could hear them discussing cycling behind the wall where I was banging my head, once for each Hail Mary.

A full forty-five minutes after the time of my appointment, as I was pre-planning my funeral, I was called into an examining room. The doctor handed me a copy of the radiology report, which described a calcification. He explained that this was likely the result of a prior infection or inflammation and was harmless. He asked me if I had any questions.

"Why did you leave me out there contemplating my own death while you collected free drug samples?" is what I wanted to ask.

Instead, I wrote a check for my co-pay and went to my car, where I finally gave in to the tears.