Diagnosis A or B: Pick One

There are two possibilities for what's wrong with me. Either I have morphea (a rare type of scleroderma) or I have morpheaform basal cell cancer. Obviously, I'm hoping for the latter. Unfortunately, from all of the credible sources I've found on the Web, neither of them match my symptoms. We've got a biopsy, though.

Morphea is an extremely rare type of scleroderma, occurring in approximately 25 in one million people per year. It's characterized by red or purple splotches that gradually turn whitish. I assure you that if I'd had red or purple splotches running down either side of my spine, I would definitely have noticed. Unlike generalized scleroderma, it will not kill me. That's a plus. No one knows what causes it. It's not hereditary.

I don't even want to talk about morpheaform basal cell cancer. Will that kill me? Oh yeah. You can see why I'd prefer the first diagnosis.

I've been searching for information, obsessing, being absolutely crazy about it. Everyone assures me they would be, too, given my breast cancer diagnosis. Originally, my dermatologist had scheduled an appointment for me on August 21 to discuss the diagnosis and treatment options. This is after they rather frantically tracked me down to tell me the doctor wished to see me. It's not like I didn't make myself very available. There are two numbers where I can be reached and both have voice mail options.

I'm supposed to see Dr. Ross on the 23rd of August, so I contacted him and I'm having biopsy slides sent for his review. I started to think that was a really stupid idea and that I should just cancel the message I left asking for instructions on how to do that. My mother, my therapist, my co-workers all insisted that I shouldn't have to wait that long to find out what's going on. Furthermore, if biopsy results aren't examined by a pathologist at M.D. Anderson in advance, Dr. Ross will have no ability to make a reliable diagnosis. You know how I trust this man, so even if it's totally crazy and stupid, it will at least ease my mind to have his opinion.

Meanwhile, physical therapy continues. There are numerous places on my body, both inside and outside that have scar tissue build-up that we're trying to break down. I was surprised to find out that I even have scar tissue running from my groin to my new girl from the drainage tubes I had to have after reconstruction. Obviously, my upcoming surgery will only create more scar tissue.

Breaking up scar tissue is painful. Now there's a surprise. Has anything in the past two years not been painful? Hell no. It's all relative, though, and it's far less painful than the needles-in-the-breast episode and the whole reconstruction (so far) ordeal.

I have exercises to do every night to get my lymphatic system up and running. Then I have to use a hand-held massager to work away at that scar tissue. That's in addition to the twice weekly manual manipulation with the physical therapist.

It feels like virtually every working moment is dedicated to some sort of body maintenance or bodily healing or trying to get my records sent here and there or trying to get an earlier appointment. I could go on and on.

But I won't. I spend so much time now in my weblogs cataloging the latest events that I never get around to how I'm feeling inside these days. I guess there's not much point in examining it. I'm emotionally ragged and exhausted. I'm so stressed out that I'm barely functional. Maybe tomorrow I can think about that a little more and feel it a little more.

Right now, I'm going home to eat something and work out to manage my stress level. Manage. There's a laugh. There's no managing to be done; I'm just trying to get through this. I don't think that counts as actually coming to terms with anything.

With any luck, I'll have enough time tomorrow in between resolving more medical issues to chronicle the latest emotional debacle.

Things Can Always Get Worse, Part 57

Note: I attempted to post this yesterday, but it disappeared into cyberspace.

I got back from physical therapy a few minutes ago to find a message from my dermatologist's office. You know, I'd already decided that everything was fine and I'd just have stitches from the biopsy taken out text week and be on my way. Wrong again. Something is wrong. The message said they'd been trying to get in touch with me and want to set up an appointment to discuss my "diagnosis and treatment."

You know they're not going to tell me anything over the phone. They never tell you anything over the phone. I don't think it's skin cancer because I've never heard of skin cancer manifesting that way before.

Nonetheless. Things can always get worse. Can I put that on my headstone? I'd prefer to be cremated, but maybe they could just put a headstone in some random, unfilled corner of a cemetery. It wouldn't have to be big, obviously.

If not "Things can always get worse," then I'm considering just "Fuck you."

Keep you posted on the fun new developments.