Friday, February 5, 2010

HM Returns

This week has turned out rather well. After a three-day work week, I went to visit my thyroid specialist Thursday, and this morning at 5:35 I received the magical NO SCHOOL TODAY phone call. Can't beat that with a stick, by cracky!

The gist of the thyroid wizard is that my monstrous nodule is not cancerous, but that it still should come out, due to its size. T-Wiz, however, was not a pushy, knife-happy doom-cryer like that ENT dude. In fact, he said that from everything he saw, there is less than a 10% chance this nodule could be cancerous, and that while he would normally recommend that it be removed within three months, he has no qualms about waiting until June when I am out of school for the summer. Oh, and he says only the left thyroid lobe needs to come out, not the entire ball of wax, and that it is a 23-hour hospital admission, with no drain after surgery. I need to call a month before to schedule that surgery, and go talk to the anesthesiology department. I'm not looking forward to it, but it's the best deal I've been offered.

T-Wiz does thyroid surgery every day. A bit different from young doctor Whiz Kid, who spends his days dealing with snot-nosed allergy offspring of well-to-do snobs. I say that because of the people in the waiting room when I went to visit young doctor Whiz Kid. Like that dude in jeans and running shoes who rolled his 5- and 3-year-olds into the waiting room in a fancy schmancy three-wheeled royal blue canvas running stroller that probably cost more than Hillbilly H's $1000 Dodge Caravan. And the couple who sat down to 'reason' with their 4-year-old son on why he couldn't take home the book he liked from the magazine rack in the waiting room. I don't know about you, but I would have simply said, "No. It's not yours. Let's go." Because I am the adult. I don't think a grieving session and a detailed analysis of the loss is necessary.

More on my hospital excursion tomorrow.

The day off from school was a surprise and not. Last night, the #1 son had an academic match until 7:30. When we left Newmentia, sleet was falling and slushing up the roads. It was 31 degrees. I was sure we would cancel for Friday. So much so that when I returned from the doctor to pick up The Pony, I graded my papers and got everything caught up in Gradebook for the progress reports that go out next week. But no. Overnight, the temperature increased. The freezing rain melted on the ground. This morning, the freezing rain was still falling. I stepped into the shower, and of course that's when my phone started singing

Come on and tell me what you told my friends if you think you're brave enough
And I'll show you what a real woman is since you think you're hot stuff
You'll bite off more than you can chew if you get too cute or witty
You better move your feet if you don't wanna eat a meal that's called Fist City

So I had to turn off the shower and traipse about soaking wet to call the next colleague on the phone tree. Not that I'm complaining. Because checks were handed out yesterday instead of today, due to the forecast, but I did not know that until I got back to Newmentia, and by then it was too late to go to the bank, what with #1's academic meet about to start. So this morning at 10:00, I loaded my boys into T-Hoe and off to the bank we went, making a stop to take my mom a Sonic Cherry Diet Coke, gas up, buy Super Bowl fixin's at The Devil's Playground, lunch for #1 at McDonalds, lunch for The Pony at Sonic, and a stop at Save-A-Lot for fresh hamburger that does not bear the saline injection stigma of The Devil's meat.

The rain switched over to snow on the way to town, and by the time we arrived back at the Mansion, the temp was down to 32. Working Man H saw three cars off the county road on his way home. We could have made a day of school before the snow hit, but it's better to err on the side of caution. Besides, there would have been a high absentee rate because on Monday when we went with snow still on some roads, the kids who didn't show were given excused absences. So the ones who came to school felt like suckers, and would no doubt have stayed home to get their piece of the excused pie this time.

If we have to go longer at the end of the year, so be it. That will only delay the scheduling of my throat-cutting adventure.

4 comments:

Kathy's Klothesline said...

Surgery, yes , I think I will go with the one who does this a lot and let the young guy practice on others....

Sinead O'Clobber said...

Because I am the adult. I don't think a grieving session and a detailed analysis of the loss is necessary.

People who do this make me sick. You know, cater to their every little feeling like it's gonna scar them for life if Mommy and Daddy don't show how very much they really understand. It just sends the message that your every whim is so important that everything else must stop and people should understand why you feel so crushed. Brats and future MTV reality show participants, that's what they're raising.

BTW I have a blog now. It'll knock your socks off.

No it won't.

Chickadee said...

Glad to hear you found a more suitable Throat cutter, I mean, doctor. I'm sure while you're not looking forward to the surgery itself, you're looking forward to having all of that finished.
And omg I know what you mean with the strollers. I hate those things. You forgot to mention that some of those strollers are probably as big as your Dodge Caravan.
Supposedly we're going to get another round of the snow/winter mix Sunday night/Monday morning. I'll believe it when I see it. The last few snows kinda petered out.

Hillbilly Mom said...

Kathy,
My sentiments exactly.

Sinead,
Yeah, I did some snooping a little while back because your comment sounded OH SO FAMILIAR, and I found your little roller-bloggy.

Chick,
As I tell the kids at school who ask if I think we're getting snow..."We'll know for sure when the meteorologist sticks a ruler in the snow and tells us how much we're getting." Because they are so far off with their doom-crying forecasts that we've missed two unnecessary days of school this year.