A tumor? Seriously?

I've always had issues with asthma. My heavy smoking (mmmm, cigarettes) probably never helped the situation. (FYI: I have quit smoking. So you can put your pitchforks and torches down)

Well, my primary doctor ordered a chest x-ray. Just routine. Every smoker's nightmare.

I receive a call a few days later from the nurse talking about an enlarged aorta. Aorta? What the hell is that? I'm an English major but science terms sounds like Star Trek jargon (I don't do the Trek) to me. She told me not to worry but I should probably come in for a second one, I was probably just standing funny. I have crappy posture. It made sense.

When I came in for my yearly physical I went ahead and had the second one done. No big deal, in and out. 

Then I received the phone call, on the way to get my son's haircut, in the Shopko mall parking lot. Lots of technical jargon, enlarged aorta, need a chest cat scan done. Again, don't worry. Don't worry, don't worry, don't worry. Chest x-rays are not always accurate.

By this point that whole 'not worrying' advice was starting to sound like a mute point.

I went in for the CT scan on January 23rd, 2015. They pushed me in the tube, pumped me full of contrast that makes you feel like you pissed your pants, took some sci-fi pics, and sent me on my way. Of course, I tried to quiz the dude about my results afterwards. No dice, you have to wait for that phone call. By this point I had done the Googling. Web MD always tells you you're going to die or you have cancer. But at this point I didn't really think either of those were going to happen.

My mom, my son Adrian, and I all went to Target to go shopping to distract ourselves from the worry. Again the worry at this point was more like the gnawing of a tequila worm. It's irritating and bothersome but not necessarily blinding agony.

In the middle of my fashionista march to the dressing room- I got the phone call. It was my doctor with my results. Time stood still. After I heard the words: mass of cells, near the heart, possible beginnings of lymphoma. My ass just planted itself on the floor in the middle of the sweater section at Target. My doctor continued to talk medical jargon at me but all it took were those first three words to stop my heart.

This shit doesn't happen to people my age. Does it? Is this really happening? I have a god damn tumor? Fuck. I better buy these five pairs of leggings in my shopping cart and buy them NOW.

We met with a surgeon at Baycare clinic in Green Bay, Wisconsin a few days later. That is when I got a few more scraps of information. Definitely scraps. I wouldn't even call it a meaty bone of info. Yup, definitely a tumor. A tumor that looks very Hodgkin's like in nature. Tumor tumor tumor. About the size of a fist. Dimensions, roughly: 9cm x 6cm x 4cm. Not the dimensions of a dresser that I'm trying to squeeze into the back of my minivan after a day of garage sale or anything. Tumor dimensions.

The the age of friggen 27 I have a giant tumor chilling right next to the top little valves of my heart and hanging out by my lungs.

See where the little mouse cursor is? Yup, there she is. That big little mass of tissue that has rudely interrupted my routine. It kind of looks like a potato.

So ta-da! Tumor selfie! 

Because how often do we get to take a tumor selfie? 

Of course, is it really a selfie if the CT people took it? Guess we can call it a tumor portrait. 

These are deep philosophical questions I want you all to consider.