Off we go, dh and me, to the local hospital and joined the queue for the appointments. Not too long for a hospital. We were sent away after leaving my results and they would call me back. The sceptic in me said they wouldn't call. I was wrong - they did - late afternoon saying that I needed a specialised biopsy called a Mammotone and guess what there are only 3 centres in Paris who do them! And, it being August, 2 were closed. Evidentally the radiographers are not those who can't afford a holiday either. Tough shit if you're ill in Paris in August.
Anyway, speak to dh. I scream at him cos I've 'wasted' a day waiting for this call from the hospital. He calmly asks for the number of the 3rd place, promptly calls them and makes an appointment for the next day. You rock husband!
Only thing, I have to go through the same procedure again - mammo, echo, in order for them to contemplate letting me lie on their special magic biopsy machine.
Did I tell you how hot the ipad was after I'd looked the fuck up all the possible sites for this test? I wanted to know something. I wanted to at least be in control of something. Nobody was explaining shit to me. I was in a vortex whirling round and round.
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