Okay, I’m done.
Last night, reflecting on the MRI maneuver, I realized this ultra-sensitive search mechanism is just bound to find more threatening (at least in the minds of doctors) stuff in my boobs. And when that crops up, as it surely will, I can say good-bye to the scheme to bring the ongoing horror show to an end by having them lob off the damn boobs.
I can feel it coming: Sometime next week someone is going to call from the Mayo with another “good news/bad news” call, and the bad news, as usual, is going to be some scary-looking thing that they want to carve out, carve up, analyze, diagnose, and use as the basis for more slicing and dicing.
A-n-n-n-d…that is not going to happen anymore. If they won’t just do the job without any more jacking around, I quit. I do not care if I die. I’m going to die anyway. We’re all going to die anyway. I’m not afraid of dying.
But I sure as hell am afraid of any more of this business as usual.
If they call me up and tell me they want to torment me in some new or extended way — more biopsy, more testing, more surgery, more treatments whose long-term effect will be to destroy my health, all in the name of “it’s not really cancer” — I’m going to tell them “fine, thank you very much, good-bye” and hang up the phone. That is IT. I’m not doing any more.
If they’re willing to take off my boobs without any more screwing around, then fine, they can do it. But I’m not going to be subjected to anything more than that. If they have some other scheme, I and they are done. If I die, I die. Then we can say it was time.
Enough. Is. Enough.