I’m sitting in Brigham and Women’s Hospital (BWH) for an ultrasound. It’s just a precaution; they are looking for any remnants or regrowth of my cancerous thyroid, which was removed over a year ago.
This isn’t my first ultrasound, that was the one that detected the seminoma on my left testicle, beginning my whole “cancer patient” thing. That was awkward because the semi-attractive, young, female technician was rubbing a humming, lubricated wand back and forth over my nuts. I was petrified of having an embarrassing and inappropriately timed erection. Of all the subsequent indignities I suffered, that wasn’t one. But it did reveal yet another humorous aspect to these procedures – I sit in the waiting room with a bunch of pregnant women and their family members. I’m old and fat and alone, and hoping not to find anything while they tend to be young and glowing and hoping to hear that what’s growing inside of them is a healthy new life.
See? I juxtapose!
Anyway, of all my many tests, ultrasounds are the easiest. I’m laying down for the whole thing, the lights are dimmed and even the sonically conductive gel they use on the wand is warmed. No contrast to drink or iodine IV like a CT Scan and no awkwardly held positions like my standing x-rays. This is a cakewalk!
And though it’s not official (in that the doctor hasn’t signed the report letter and added it my thick and growing file), both sonographers have assured me they found nothing. No thyroid regrowth, or calcified spots, or even swollen, nearby lymph nodes. “Clean as a whistle!”
So that’s that and now I return to work. But, because I like adding photo’s, here’s the bench outside BWH I sat on to finish this post; notice the cool looking, concrete jars? They look canopic to me.
Here’s a picture of the patient “pods” wing of BWH.