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There I sat, nervously flicking through a January 2015 women’s magazine (so reassuring to be in a non-surgical surgery waiting room that is so up-to-date) wondering if perhaps I should be knitting booties, or maybe even a ‘tailie’ (tails can get cold, right?) instead of trying to decide if Rhianna’s outfit really was too revealing. My focus was elsewhere so for now I was happy to let others cast doubts about her choice in see-through attire. Suddenly my name was called. The hour, well ten minutes of it anyway, was upon me.
I entered my doctor’s room where I was greeted with a cheery “How are you?” My brain, ready for the anticipated conversation, is nevertheless somewhat staggered. He’s seen my files, he’s read the test results, surely he knows. Do I have to fill in the blanks? With feigned sangfroid I smile and offer in return “I’m feeling very well thanks.” I sat quickly, as befits a person in my ‘condition’.
After his opening greeting my mind wandered off a bit as he went through what seemed to be the results of dozens of tests. Perhaps he was using the same evil-speak the ultrasound fiends used so I wasn’t quite sure what I heard next. “You have some gall getting stoned”. I was ready to retort that if he’d been advised that he’d been the victim of Junior II he too might get stoned but then I realised that I had not actually done so. It took a bit before I realised that he was still discussing the results of the tests. I offered an apology that I didn’t quite understand what he was saying and asked him to repeat. I was ready for the worst but it didn’t happen. There was no talk of impending confinement to bring forth a new, tailed life form. No outcome from a bizarre medical experiment. In fact, nothing less ordinary as “I said, you have a gallstone issue. One gallstone to be specific.” That was it? Just a lump, if sizeable, of bile pigments, cholesterol, and calcium salts? Oh happy day. I am so glad I didn’t start knitting those booties.
I was so relieved that I began to babble about the tests and from that conversation I discovered that ‘the tail’ mentioned, the one that had pushed my heart rate into the stratosphere, was simply the tail of the pancreas, a silly body part that apparently often plays hide-and-seek during ultrasounds. I knew that, really I did. As if it could have been anything else.
Having been relieved of the imagined natal experience that had occupied my mind for over a week it was almost an anticlimax to hear the doc say “Of course, you’ll require surgery.” Well, of course. What else did I expect in a non-surgical surgery where not-The Doctor practices his craft all day? So now I have ahead of me a further adventure. Not quite the surgery I once envisioned, nor something that will improve my bustline but maybe something else just as much fun. We shall wait and see.
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