I started thinking about this post in the shower because I was thinking about what I dreamed last night. And although I can't remember what that was now, I do remember that, albeit strange, it was not scary. I was contrasting this in my head with the nightmare I had two nights ago, a recurring adventure that involves a haunted island at dusk with much, much badness.
I hate scary dreams, but scary life isn't much better.
Although I didn't have to flee from badness or swim to the mainland yesterday, I did see the doctor. This was my first real visit with him since immediately after the surgery, exactly three months ago.
He palpated a mass in the right side of my neck. I told him it was nothing new since surgery and had no complaints about it... and of course it was tender if he was going to keep mashing on it... and we did another ultrasound to take more pictures... and we drew more labwork, including another tumor marker to chance the mass being more cancer. Because it's a possibility.
I'm holding out for scar tissue from the surgery since it's been with me since then. And considering my cancer was totally encapsulated with no lymph or vascular involvement ... and considering I've already finished a round of I-131... and considering that I don't want anything to get any more complicated.
Yesterday I received what I'm hoping is the last hoop that my insurance company needs to fix the financial drama. I'll fax it today, which I hope they'll get tomorrow, and maybe process by the end of the week so that the offices will quit calling me and asking for thousands of dollars that Blue Cross Blue Shield would like to pay for me.
This morning I'm thinking seriously that it would be easier to battle badness with my stellar hand-to-hand combat skills and swim the great divide where you're always about halfway to the other side than worry about scar tissue.
It has to be scar tissue.