I'm sitting here a little green, fighting the rolling bile that I assume I can thank to a lacking appetite and an every-four-hour regimen of Percocets and Ibuprofens. They changed me over to Percocet from Vicodin in the emergency room Friday night after determining the latter wasn't strong enough for my level of pain.

My P-A called me Friday afternoon with the results of my MRI, advising they found an 8cm in diameter pocket of what appeared to be fluid near where my tailbone should be—which would be what is causing all of my pain and discomfort—and further she mentioned that they really couldn't see much of a tailbone at all, after which my dear Barb replied, "Which is odd, but with your weird tailbone genetics, maybe not so odd." Also, she told me that my white blood cell count came back at 16, when I guess normal is somewhere in the 4-11 range. "So your body's trying to fight off something," she translated. She gnawed on her lip (I heard her doing so over the phone), and mumbled how it sucked to get this information so late on a Friday afternoon, that she didn't want me to suffer needlessly all weekend if it could be resolved that night.

She gave me the name of a doctor she'd spoken with in the emergency room. She ordered a CT Scan be completed, and perhaps my cyst or whatever the scan showed it to be could be drained that very night, or antibiotics prescribed. Well, in hindsight I can see that I latched onto this idea rather wholly. I called Nick to tell him the news, and without me yet reaching the portion of the conversation where I would ask if he would be willing to spend the night in the emergency room with me or if I should call a family member, he was planning away his night to be with a nearly-paper-gowned, naked-butted woman.

Par-tay.

We pulled out of the parking lot just after eleven, and before us sat a very dismal outlook. After hours of discomfort—the physical sort—and corresponding intravenous pain medication, nothing had been relieved. In fact, the doctor my physician's assistant had spoken with about my case, about my mother's disease, had gone off shift before he had a chance to treat me...which led me to believe that when the doctor who DID treat me came in to say that I was number 14 to my mother's 13, he didn't realize the full implication of what he was saying. He didn't realize that she was dead, that she had died from that tumor that started on her tailbone.

He did know there was a weird and totally unexpected growth at the site of my tailbone. He did know it was something that couldn't be drained. He did know it was something a comprehensive cancer specialist ought to look at. He did know to refer me to the UW hospital, the regional caner specialist mecca. He did know that I would require a biopsy, and he did know that nothing would be accomplished until that particular test gave us answers.

Disappointing...scary...and I want my momma...a very lethal combination.

Yesterday was the hard day...telling everybody...my aunts stopping by Nick's condo to check in on me when Brenda needs a biopsy herself, the 20 minute conversation with my father, the tear-laced voice of my brother calling to offer his services as UW-taxi again to another family member. We'll get through this one, bro...it isn't the same, we just can't believe it to be the same.