Last week commenced with my swollen underarm full of fluid needing expiration from the lymph gland surgery. It was stretched, puffy and very hot, so off to Peter Mac I trot for a timely needle straight into the scar under the arm. The relief was immediate and the swelling disappeared before my very eyes. About 70 mls of fluid was collected in the syringe and it was a very bright yellowy colour.
I had wanted to take a pic or even a short video so that Clare could express her incredulousness about my propensity to 'share' such personal stuff. Wait til she reads about the internal ultrasound I had to have!! But my Visiting Fellow was simply too efficient for words so no gruesome photos folks of underarm waste by-product!!!!!! I am regarding this as a personal mission as to how far one can reasonably push the boundaries of genuine educative value versus sensationalism!! So in true quality speak jargon.......I welcome your feedback.
My arm again hung in a straight line down my left side, no longer pushed out and hanging awkwardly over a lump of fluid that didn't know where to go to exit my body. My Visiting Fellow said that in the event that it refilled again, just pop back in and they would expirate it again. All over and done in 15 mins I head home.
The next day it was off to my lovely Voodoo Doctor to pierce my skin with little needles to manage the post menopausal symptoms which have reached such a level of discomfort as to make me wish I was a bloke - after all, how difficult is it to get your prostate checked occasionally when compared to all this carry on? In addition to placing the needles in my legs and feet, I now have a new set of hair pins .........literally.
A few days later having emptied my bladder two hours prior and then, in accordance with instructions, I proceed with all the commitment of a camel commencing a cross dessert trek, to refill it with a few litres of water and NOT pee prior to having a kidney and pelvic area ultrasound. (I find it simply extraordinary that I am talking about bodily functions in such a banal way, where once upon a time, the use of a unisex toilet was enough to give me a chronic case of stage fright!!) These days I can flash a tit or talk about fluid outputs of urine without batting an eye.
Up to Diagnostic Imaging I head. I pop into a cubicle and don one of the lovely frocks in seconds flat. It is amazing how something once so foreign becomes so routine. Into a darkened room I head and lie down on the bed. A foam dooverlackey is placed under my left side to tilt my left side up and forward, warm gel is placed over my skin and then this very polite but clearly, totally masochistic imaging person presses the little microphone shaped camera thingie deep into my kidney to take lots of pics.
It doesn't take a rocket scientist to deduce, extremely full bladder subjected to firm and constant pressure equals strong probability of wetting of the bed!! But just when I am about to explode ( think Star Trek original series and the Starship Enterprise Engineer, a little Scotsman whose name escapes me but was probably called "Scotty" ) screaming ......Capt'n I joose canna hold her any looonger", the evil Imaging person, moves the foam dooverlackey to the right side and recommences exerting the same pressure on the other kidney.
All to get some good pics of my innards including my uterus because apparently, if the bladder is full, it moves out of the way that ensures a crystal clear pic of the body part that neither the Prime Minister nor myself have had much to demand of. It also provides a clear shot of the ovaries which was the reason I am here. The original report from the CT scan indicated a "mass" on the ovary but in all probability should have in fact read " the mass WAS the ovary. But my surgeon wanted to be absolutely sure. So dear readers not only did they do an external ultra sound but following a post pressure pee, I was subjected to an internal ultrasound.
Rest assured that it is safe to read on because in the interests of decorum I decided against any happy snaps of the camera in situ. I hear a collective gasp of relief! If that is your thing though, then I recommend a visit to MOMA in Hobart that has a scuplture which is a wall of clackas (remember people, its art!!! )
In the darkened room with only the machine lights glowing in the dark, there was a touch of a beginner Harry Potter trying to illuminate his magic wand about the Imaging Chick as she wielded her instrument towards my lady bits. I half expected her to point it making small circles and in a deep voice command "Lum-in-os" . What she actually did doesn't need further explanation, suffice it to say though, that one wasn't much impressed when in seeking to get a better 'shot' of whatever she was trying to capture, the angle of the instrument vis a vis one's natural dimensions was sorely tested!!!!
Stay tuned for the "Bad Hair Day"coming soon and then "Kelly Does Chemo".
Stick that up your jumper - trust me its preferable to elsewhere!!
Kellyxxxxx
minow gewee, the wall off clackas at MONA was a temporary installation which sadly has been replaced with a far less interesting exhibit..... from the Dalmatians of South Yarra
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