Be Calm. It Was Just a False Alarm

I'm not going to lie to you, but it's been kind of a tense few weeks for yours truly.  About three weeks ago, in preparation for a visit to my diabetic counselor, I was sent for blood work, to monitor various levels of my blood in my daily battle with Type II Diabetes.  Within a couple of hours, I received an urgent phone call from my doctor, in reference to the test results.  Normally, I don't concern myself too much with such trivialities, but when a physician, especially one as busy as mine, takes time out of her busy day to place a personal phone call, one has no choice but to sit up and take notice.  She informed me that my platelet count was abnormally low and that I should return for another blood test the following week.

In the olden days, before the internet, news such as this would cause the mind to race in a thousand directions, imagination taking over and running thousands more scenarios.  These days, with the advent of the worldwide web, a diagnosis is available at one's finger tips and I wasted no time typing "low platelets" into Google and was not very encouraged by the results.  Web MD listed a few culprits, including Leukemia and Colon Cancer, but I wasn't experiencing any of those symptoms, so I quickly discarded them.  However, I was intrigued by the list symptoms for Prostate Cancer. I'd been experiencing some oddities in the weeks prior and Googled those symptoms which brought up Prostate Cancer as a possible cause.  Now seeing the ugly name rear it's head, once more, I became a little more concerned.

By and by, I never let it get me down, believing "It is what it is".  In years past, I've always believed that if I ever faced off with cancer, that I could and would beat it, so these past few weeks were definitely a test of that belief.

The following week came and I returned to the clinic for a follow-up blood test, only this time, I never received a follow-up phone call from my doctor.  A week came and went, followed by a second and still no telephone call from my doctor.  "No news is good news." they always say, and so I continued on, like there was nothing to worry about.

I saw my doctor, today, for my usual monthly visit and we touched base on the "low platelet" issue.  She chalked it up to a mistake made by the lab, as it's not normal for one's platelet count to fluctuate such a drastic amount within a few days of testing.  We each breathed a sigh of relief, mine much heavier than hers, I'm sure.

I've had a lot of close calls, in recent years, close calls and near misses that I've had to face on my own.  I know I have a small circle of friends that, if I needed to, I could lean on someone's shoulder.  However, I'm not the sort to trouble others with my bullshit.  When I broke my back a couple of years ago, that was a tough ordeal to get through on my own.  I'm not going to lie, but I managed to get through it.  When I had pneumonia, before that and X-rays discovered what was described (to me) as a "black mass" on my lung, I'll admit that was a heavy burden to shoulder, too.  All-in-all, recent years have really been taking their toll on me, emotionally, but god damn it, I'm grappling each one, wrestling it to the ground and rising above it all.  I'm like the Batman, only without the cool threads or the kick ass car.  I'm an excellent survivor.

Dance With Death - Part One

Tuesday night I found myself short of breath, partnered with an painful ache in my back.  Having injured my back, drastically, back in January.  Although I've been feeling a helluva lot better in the months since, I thought I might have tweaked my back.  Not the case.  The shortness of breath increased, followed by vomiting, sweats and chills.  Finally on day 3, I went to the hospital.

It's pneumonia.  Spent the entire day, hooked up to oxygen and an I.V., before getting uprooted and sent to another hospital, where I remained under observation and tethered to either an oxygen outlet on the wall or an oxygen tank that I could take along with me to the john, if needed.  I was allowed at 3:30am to wander out, oxygen tank in tow, to search for a soda machine.  Best damned Diet Pepsi, everrrr.  Dressed in a housecoat, to cover my sexy butt, I had to pass through security to get back to observation, and the dude actually had to ask if I was a patient...  "Seriously?" I asked, referencing the housecoat and oxygen tank.

More than twenty-four hours later, closer to twenty-six, I was allowed to return home, with a prescription for anti-biotics in-hand.  I went to pick-up said prescription and god damn it that motherf*cker had a price tag of over $72.  For 9 pills.  One pill a day is all I'm required to take, and they want $72 for that shit.  I flat out refused to pay and opted not to take the pills.

Most of my family.., nay all of my family would pay the outrageous price then bitch and moan about it.  I'm more the type to thumb my nose at the establishment and say F*ck you.  Seventy-two bucks for nine f*cking pills?  Complete bullshit.

This isn't my first go around with pneumonia.  This is actually my fourth bout with the deadly virus.  Two years ago it was quite serious, more so because when the hospital took x-rays, they found a little extra goody on my right lung.  Described at first as an anomaly, it later became a mass, then a large mass.  Although the mystery seemed to get worse, the specialist seeing over my case, seemed to down play it, finally telling me in October of last year that she was sure it was "nothing".  Fast forward to this past Thursday, where I was treated to an x-ray AND a CT Scan, I was informed that this "black mass" has increased in size.  That it may be a contributing factor as to why I've become so susceptible to sickness as of late.  The physician also told me some other doctor-jargon, a bunch of latin-sounding words that didn't make any sense to me, but by the serious tone the doctor kept and the first sign of compassion he'd shown toward anyone that day, had convinced me that I was in store for a whole lot of shit.

Taking into consideration that my life may be in jeopardy as a result of this latest bout of sickness, should I really be concerned with a $72 bill for anti-biotics...?  Yeah...  I don't think my life is worth shelling out $72.  Not for nine f*cking pills.