“P-V-N-S. . .”
“I have what you call PVNS. . . “
“It’s a . . . tumor. . .”
Their faces freeze, but their eyes tell it all. Confusion. Fear. Shock.
I try to keep calm because I know they didn’t hear the word BENIGN in my brief explanation. But then again, I empathize as I felt my doctor halt my racing mind and freeze every cell in my body with the diagnosis. Although I do recall my eyebrows shifting up in surprise. . . They tend to have a personality of its own.
Of course I heard the word BENIGN. It’s just the word TUMOR has so much connotation: abnormal growth, debilitated, . . . diseased.
My memory flashes back to only a few days ago staring at the grotesque MRI of my left knee as my infamous selective hearing pick up the basics. . . Open knee surgery . . . Tumor. . . Cut around the flesh . . . Tumor. . . Radiation therapy. . . Tumor. . . Slow growing disease. . . Tumor. . . I begin to chant it back to myself, it’s ‘benign-it’s benign-it’s benign’ just so I don’t turn myself mad. . . .
It’s like a mole. They’ll cut it off and with a little radiation therapy to seal the deal. Boom and it’s done . . .
Right away I research online as I “educate” myself even more. I read blogs, surgery horror stories, find an online support group. . . As I still chant in my head ‘it’s benign-it’s benign-it’s benign . . .’ until I lurk through the support group threads. I continue to read everyone’s experience and articles. I see a pattern forming in the feeds. . . ‘this is my fifth surgery’. . . ‘going back to radiation therapy’. . . ‘ugh, swelling again, it’s back with a vengeance’ . . .
I slump in my chair. Nope. Definitely not like a mole. . .
Back to the present, my lips spilling out in perfect pronounciation . . . t(y)o͞omər
. . . My face mirrors theirs. . . Confusion. Shock. Fear.
“I have what you call PVNS. . . “
“It’s a . . . tumor. . .”
Their faces freeze, but their eyes tell it all. Confusion. Fear. Shock.
I try to keep calm because I know they didn’t hear the word BENIGN in my brief explanation. But then again, I empathize as I felt my doctor halt my racing mind and freeze every cell in my body with the diagnosis. Although I do recall my eyebrows shifting up in surprise. . . They tend to have a personality of its own.
Of course I heard the word BENIGN. It’s just the word TUMOR has so much connotation: abnormal growth, debilitated, . . . diseased.
My memory flashes back to only a few days ago staring at the grotesque MRI of my left knee as my infamous selective hearing pick up the basics. . . Open knee surgery . . . Tumor. . . Cut around the flesh . . . Tumor. . . Radiation therapy. . . Tumor. . . Slow growing disease. . . Tumor. . . I begin to chant it back to myself, it’s ‘benign-it’s benign-it’s benign’ just so I don’t turn myself mad. . . .
It’s like a mole. They’ll cut it off and with a little radiation therapy to seal the deal. Boom and it’s done . . .
Right away I research online as I “educate” myself even more. I read blogs, surgery horror stories, find an online support group. . . As I still chant in my head ‘it’s benign-it’s benign-it’s benign . . .’ until I lurk through the support group threads. I continue to read everyone’s experience and articles. I see a pattern forming in the feeds. . . ‘this is my fifth surgery’. . . ‘going back to radiation therapy’. . . ‘ugh, swelling again, it’s back with a vengeance’ . . .
I slump in my chair. Nope. Definitely not like a mole. . .
Back to the present, my lips spilling out in perfect pronounciation . . . t(y)o͞omər
. . . My face mirrors theirs. . . Confusion. Shock. Fear.
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