The Mitford Life

 Marta's Journey. I've ambled here and there in my posts. A little commentary, a recipe or two, day to day happenings... For the most part it reads like a Jan Karon Mitford book. For those not familiar with the Mitford series, which by the way I highly recommend, Father Tim is an Episcopal priest and lives in a small bucolic town in North Carolina. That about sums it up. He has adventures, a small crisis or two, a few highlights, but overall, his life is pretty level. That's why I love reading these books.
What I see on TV, or scroll through on my Facebook page can turn a fairly decent day into a death spiral in a matter of minutes. I get weary of angst and carnage bombarding my eyes and ears, especially when I don't seek it out. So, yes, call me Pollyanna and I enjoy wearing rose colored glasses, thank you very much.

However, I've now been torn out of Mitford, North Carolina and plopped smack dab in New York City - the bad side, during a blizzard and garbage strike.

My new journey began a year ago in January. I've had issues down in the south end of my body for quite awhile. Diagnosed with the dreaded hemorrhoid, I figured this was my cross to bear and moved on with life. Come January, I had to endure the even more dreaded (cue da-da da dah music) colonoscopy. Yes, sends shivers down the spine of even the most hardy soul. I'll spare you the details of it all (and the collective "thank you" was heard 'round the world). But suffice it to say, the prep is worse than the procedure (well kind of).
I had one of those comedy of error moments going into the procedure, though. About a half hour before I scheduled myself to leave for the hospital, which thank goodness is only about a fourth mile from our house, I got a frantic call from the GI department.
"Where are you?"
"Um, at home?"
"You are suppose to have been here a half hour ago! Your procedure is scheduled to begin in fifteen minutes. We need to prep you."
There we go with that prep thing again. Not good. Not good at all.
Hubster and I dash out the door, arrive in record time, check in at the GI desk and I'm met by Frantic Nurse. I throw my purse at Hubster and am whisked away down the hall and through the "not for public" doors into the pre/post op ward for a quickie prep (vitals, IV and disclosure of any information needed to insure I don't flat line on the table). At this point, I don't have time to worry or panic, which was probably a G~d send.

Fast forward about one hour later (give or take because they drugged me), I emerge from quasi la la land and my gastroenterologist is looking down upon me. Now, I haven't watched many episodes of House, but I know Dr House has a reputation for being blunt, irreverent and a bit rude.
 I met his sister.
I'm not sure if she asked how I was, I don't think so, but her pronouncement was, well, a bit blunt, irreverent and rude.
"We have a problem. You have cancer."

Just like that. No beating around the bush with this one. No, "I saw something suspicious and want you to get further testing". Not even a "why don't you go home a sit on it for a day, we'll get to the bottom of this soon". She gave me the usual post-procedure pep talk, encouraged me to get a CT scan and ultrasound mass measurement, an oncologist and surgeon, shook mine and Hubster's hand and wished us luck.

Next: Now What? or I Think I'd Like to Wake Up From This Nightmare Now, Thank You.