I've got an assload of weird cataloging to do today--obscure Sotheby's sale catalogues, Russian art books, Native American silversmithing tomes; normally I'd think this was fun but today none of it matters. Somehow I've researched 8 or 10 titles in a stupor. At some point Eskimo came over and chewed my ear for 45 mins. I was unresponsive enough that she left before the standard 90 minute jawing session.
Two weeks ago Cha had an "indeterminate" result on a test at the ob-gyn. Today she went back for further scraping and there are 'atypical' cells in her cervix. Right now things look ok--her doc says they won't know for sure until the new test results come back in two more weeks, but his instinct is that the area is confined and treatable; this battery of lab tests will help decide the course of treatment. So we wait.
She came home as I was leaving for work--I'd just hung up after talking on the phone to two insurance companies over our stupid fender bender Sunday, and she started crying and told me the news. She's scared, and right now that's completely understandable (I vividly recall my own run-in with the big C--there's nothing quite so awe-inspiring as hearing "We won't know for weeks whether you'll be alive next year or not"). All I can do is keep her mind off it as much as possible, which will be no small task given the fact I'm freaked out now too. Just keep thinking It's nothing, they'll cut/burn/freeze/laser/radiate it, and that'll be that. But the idea of her ill or undergoing treatment is unbearable.
"Why am I crying?" she asked me.
"Because nobody wants atypical cells. They stink. It's ok to be a bit bothered."
"The doctor said 'no sex for two days.'"
"No wonder you're so upset!"
All the house worries and the car accident--that's all bullshit. And I knew that all along, but here comes some perspective to reinforce the fact.
