I don't know if I have written about the big ultrasound that I had this morning. I have known about it for a couple of weeks now but haven't wanted to mentally digest it. I still don't want to mentally digest it, and it took place this morning.
After sitting for an hour and a fucking half in the waiting room, I strode my big ass up to the window and asked if they could tell me how much longer it would be before I was seen. I wasn't staying that much longer. 9:30 was my limit; I had gotten there before nine. Amazingly, it wasn't two minutes after that until the woman came and yelled my name. Yay.
She told me that if they couldn't see anything in the ultrasound, a nuclear test of some sort would be ordered. Then she stopped for a second and said, "Oh, they won't be needing to run that other test." And then she showed the gall stones to me, telling me that she would guess there to be at least twenty of the boogers in there.
I don't know what to think about the whole thing, so I'm simply not thinking about it. I told mom that I was going to tell the doc that I wasn't in any hurry to have it done. She said in that stop being ridiculous tone of voice, "Have that thing taken out of there." And I guess I will. But it sucks, the thought of surgery.
I'm not even worried about the actual surgery; it's the fear of the antisthetic that gets me. What would happen to my girls if something would happen and I wouldn't wake up? No one, and I do mean no one, in my world would be able to raise the girls I want them raised. No one knows half the things about me that I would want them to know.
I know everything is going to be fine. I am taking this as a sign that I bitched too much about needing a vacation. The Universe is going to give me one, eh. I told Da Man that maybe the loss of the pizza shop gig was The Universe's way of making sure the girls would be here and taken care of while I was in the hospital. And maybe it is. Who knows.
Ugh. Now to just wait on the doc to call and set me up with a surgeon.