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When my grandfather had skin cancer, he was treated at Princess Margaret.

When my best friend's dad lost an eye to cancer, he was treated at Princess Margaret.

When my dad was diagnosed with throat cancer, he was treated at Princess Margaret.

Conquer cancer in our lifetime.

I fell over and twisted my ankle on the way into work today.

Anyone who knows me, knows this doesn't happen infrequently. Anyone who knows me is probably saying "what? Again?" right now. Well, I work across the street from a hospital and my boss and my coworkers were suggesting I get checked out, so at lunch, I decided, argh, why don't I go to the walk-in clinic and get the doctor there to wrap it and maybe I can get a prescription for anti-inflammatories so that I can get back to my jogging program maybe Sunday...

Right, then. I limp to the urgent care clinic (some urgent cases are, needless to say, less urgent than others), fill out my form (think "oh, God, never check your symptoms online" at the woman telling the triage nurse she'd Internet-diagnosed herself with Toxic Shock Syndrome) wait, limp back to the treament area, wait, see the medical student, see the resident, ride in the wheelchair (uncomfortable!), get X-Rayed (good Lord, I've sprained my ankle at least a dozen times, so unnecessary), wait, wait, then the resident and the med student tell me they've found a chipped bone in my ankle (not good) but they think it's old (better) but the radiologist won't read my x-rays until tomorrow (draw) so they're putting me in a temporary cast (bad) and giving me crutches (worse) and I'm not to put any weight on my ankle for at least a week (worst)!

Actually worst was when I overbalanced coming out of the urgent care ward and wound up flat on my back on the floor in front of an audience for the second time today (fucking Christ). So... no idea how I'm getting home, my ankle's throbbing somewhere in the splint I'm stuck in for at least the next 24 hours, I have to use these fucking crutches and all I can think is "this is karma for making such an unGodly fuss about the 'Providing Customer Service to the Disabled' training they made you take the other week."

Le. Sigh.

And my arms are like spaghetti from crossing the street and walking back to my office.

This is going to be a fun week.

That said, total direct cost to me = $30 for crutches.

Try that in a US hospital.

The good: they still haven't found anything malignant after who knows how many mammograms (five or six - I've lost track), three doctograms and one surgery - just wonky, occasionally bleedy breast ducts.

The bad: Dr. Mac-the-Knife still wants to operate, take out the ducts that are dilated and poke around to see if he can find anything nasty.

The potentially-less-ugly-than-expected: the good surgeon didn't seem to think that the surgery would leave Righty noticably less... er, full? than Lefty. And if not, "that's what they invented plastic surgeons for."

O_o

I can't decide whether hearing my surgeon say that is comforting or not.

The brightside: two or three weeks off to recuperate in April.

The hope: that after this, I'll see the end of this stupid fucking problem.

Grr. Arrgh.

The reason the comments are turned off:( read wank )