When doctors become vampires

In the week since I posted, I've had blood work done twice.  Once on the 19th and once again on the 23rd.  The blood work was to check all sorts of things, such as hepatitis, my kidney enzymes, my liver enzymes, how well my blood clots, et cetera.  I had to return on the 23rd because one of the initial tests was supposed to reach the lab frozen and it had thawed by the time it got there, so they had to do it again.  The doctor had also ordered another test be done (nurse wouldn't tell me what it was) so that was drawn too.

I spoke briefly with Debbie, who seems to be the head nurse, and she told me the CT scan won't be booked until "they" receive all the blood work results.  So soon I should be hearing about that appointment and hopefully the liver cancer specialist appointment.  I am hoping to get them done a few days apart so I can get the CT scan, head to Winnipeg, see the specialist, and fly back here all in one excursion.  I imagine I will have to do some phoning around to get that set up.

Last night, my husband was beginning to find out how much of a fatalist I am, because in my mind I'm assuming the tumour is cancer. I told him I'm preparing for the worst. He said I should hope for the best. I said "No, you have to prepare for the worst. That way then they tell you it's not cancer you're almost upset." "Because you spent all that energy preparing?" "Yeah!" He facepalmed at that point.

I also told him yesterday that the 5 year success rate for early stage liver cancer is 50% (which means that 50% of people in the early stage live at LEAST 5 years).  That's if it was a single tumour which was removed, with no cirrhosis or other major health concerns.  He started freaking out at that.  He then decided that like Han Solo, he never wants to hear the odds.