What not to do, part XXVIII

Don’t go to a sonogram with somebody if you’re going to watch the sonogram screen the whole time worrying that what you’re looking at is a tumor (unless you are a trained radiologist or an M. D. who interprets these things).

This morning I watched as the screen displayed these white egg-like things among the gray tissue with the striated white lines. The technician measured these things (with green lines that displayed measurement markings) and moved on to others. He wasn’t watching the screen, so he wasn’t worried. I have been terrified all day.

Images on the ‘net suggest that these were possibly not anything important or possibly were fatty tumors or cavernous hemangiomas that can happen in the liver. Still, I don’t know what I was seeing.

Results will be back sometime tomorrow, but the doctor’s office says HE is the only one who can be given the info, and he says he will be way busy at work tomorrow and won’t worry about finding out. I’m the family worrier.

I can’t think straight. When this kind of thing came up with my mother or even with me, I could think in some sense. But now . . . I believe I have a bit of PTSD from the carjacking, and there’s so much else piled up on my plate. I took to my sofa again this afternoon. Not getting anything done. Ridiculous.

But anyway . . . if anyone has any spare prayers, we always appreciate them. I want this to be anything but . . . you know.

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Author: shalanna

Shalanna: rhymes with "Madonna" and "I wanna," and is not a soundalike with "Hosanna" or "Sha-Na-Na." Aging hippie with long hair, husband, elderly mother, and yappy Pomeranian. I've been writing since I could hold a crayon. I started with fiction, which Mama said was "lying." “Don’t tell stories,” she would admonish, in Southern vernacular. “That's all in your imagination!” When grownups said this, they were not approving. So, shamed, I stopped telling stories for a few years--rather, I stopped letting anyone read them. I'm married to a fellow computer nerd who doesn't really like hearing about writing, but who reads sf/fantasy and understands the creative drive. I'm actually a nonconformist/hippie still wearing bluejeans and drop earrings and the Alice-in-Wonderland hair with headbands and sandals. Favorite flavor is chocolate/orange, favorite color is either Dreamsicle orange (cantaloupe) or bubble-gum pink, favorite musical is either Bye Bye Birdie, Rocky Horror, or The Producers . . . wait, I also love The Music Man. Is this getting way too specific and irrelevant yet? Obvious why I don't sell a ton of flash fiction, isn't it? To define oneself, I always say, it is good to make a list. How about a booklist? Harper Lee, To Kill a Mockingbird Frank and Ernestine Gilbreth, Cheaper by the Dozen C.S.Lewis, The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe (all the Narnia books) J.R.R.Tolkien,The Hobbit/LORD OF THE RINGS trilogy Gail Godwin, The Odd Woman F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby J. D. Salinger, Catcher in the Rye (before dismissing it, actually read it) George Orwell, 1984 Kurt Vonnegut, Cat's Cradle Donna Tartt, The Secret History Mark Twain, The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn James Allen, As A Man Thinketh Mark Winegardner, Elvis Presley Boulevard James Thurber, My Life and Hard Times The Wizard of Oz, L. Frank Baum Winnie-the-Pooh/House at Pooh Corner, A. A. Milne Peter Pan, J. M. Barrie The KJV and NIV Bible (each translation has its glories)

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