(no subject)
Jun. 24th, 2013 10:13 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
lighterthanairSo my appointment with Dr. S didn't involve any arguing. She gave me an additional 2 weeks off work, hesitant to give anymore in spite of my continued pain and fatigue because "sometimes workplaces call [her] and want more information if she puts them off longer." (Uh, then tell them? Radical concept, I know...) I was very tempted to tell her again that I've already been off since February, my workplace isn't going to notice an additional week here or there are this point, but though that would be entirely truth, that would probably look like I'm just fishing for time off when I don't need it, even though I do. So I kept my mouth shut.
Also turns out that the tumour had grown so large that it outstripped its blood supply and had started to die off. And while that sounds good in principle, keep in mind that meant I had dying tissue trapped inside my body, and that can easy spread infection to other nearby tissues. Again, signs that this should have been done long ago instead of her dilly-dallying to avoid potentially harming my reproductive ability.
And where that's concerned, if a few months she wants to do some scans to determine that. See, with the tumour's infiltration and the amount she had to cut and move in order to remove it all, she's not even sure my fallopian tubes are even attached to my uterus anymore, let alone whether they're in good enough condition to allow the egg to keep passing through. The only reason I give enough of a damn to let her do these scans is because I think it will be supremely ironic if it turns out that I'm infertile, because my infertility will have been caused by her delaying things and letting the tumour grow so large while she tried to save my fertility with lesser treatments. And if she'd just done the surgery sooner, before the tumour had grown larger and infiltrated further, she might have actually been able to save what she valued so highly in me.
If that happens, I'll have to try my best not to laugh. It would be bitter ironic laughter, but I doubt it would go over well.
In different news, last week I managed to get out 2 reviews (David Walton's Quintessence and Madeline Ashby's iD). This week I plan to write up a review of Joelle Charbonneau's The Testing, which, in a nutshell, was a pretty decent YA dystopian novel, but unfortunately was so derivative of the dozens of other YA dystopias and brought nothing new or interesting to the genre, so it largely fell flat. I think that genre's getting pretty tapped out at this point, and yet because it's still popular, more and more novels are getting written and more and more of them and just the same as what came before. Same Story, Different Day.
And considering I love reading about dystopias, that's saying something.
I've been doing a fair bit of reading this past week. It's felt so good to just lie in bed, the window open and a bag of tasty candies by my side, getting buried in books and running off to far-away lands. Though I'm still doing it for review fodder, it doesn't entirely feel like it. It feels a lot more like reading purely for my own enjoyment, which takes a lot of the pressure to review off me and cycles back to make the whole experience that much more enjoyable. I kind of wish I didn't have to go back to work at all, even in a few weeks, because I've been having so much fun reading like that. If only there was a way to make reviewing into a decently-paying career. Sigh. But I've been doing that thought-road before, and short of selling out and charging for reviews, that's not going to happen.
And that's dishonest and fills me with a sense of discomfort so profound that I wouldn't do it even if it were an option.
Also turns out that the tumour had grown so large that it outstripped its blood supply and had started to die off. And while that sounds good in principle, keep in mind that meant I had dying tissue trapped inside my body, and that can easy spread infection to other nearby tissues. Again, signs that this should have been done long ago instead of her dilly-dallying to avoid potentially harming my reproductive ability.
And where that's concerned, if a few months she wants to do some scans to determine that. See, with the tumour's infiltration and the amount she had to cut and move in order to remove it all, she's not even sure my fallopian tubes are even attached to my uterus anymore, let alone whether they're in good enough condition to allow the egg to keep passing through. The only reason I give enough of a damn to let her do these scans is because I think it will be supremely ironic if it turns out that I'm infertile, because my infertility will have been caused by her delaying things and letting the tumour grow so large while she tried to save my fertility with lesser treatments. And if she'd just done the surgery sooner, before the tumour had grown larger and infiltrated further, she might have actually been able to save what she valued so highly in me.
If that happens, I'll have to try my best not to laugh. It would be bitter ironic laughter, but I doubt it would go over well.
In different news, last week I managed to get out 2 reviews (David Walton's Quintessence and Madeline Ashby's iD). This week I plan to write up a review of Joelle Charbonneau's The Testing, which, in a nutshell, was a pretty decent YA dystopian novel, but unfortunately was so derivative of the dozens of other YA dystopias and brought nothing new or interesting to the genre, so it largely fell flat. I think that genre's getting pretty tapped out at this point, and yet because it's still popular, more and more novels are getting written and more and more of them and just the same as what came before. Same Story, Different Day.
And considering I love reading about dystopias, that's saying something.
I've been doing a fair bit of reading this past week. It's felt so good to just lie in bed, the window open and a bag of tasty candies by my side, getting buried in books and running off to far-away lands. Though I'm still doing it for review fodder, it doesn't entirely feel like it. It feels a lot more like reading purely for my own enjoyment, which takes a lot of the pressure to review off me and cycles back to make the whole experience that much more enjoyable. I kind of wish I didn't have to go back to work at all, even in a few weeks, because I've been having so much fun reading like that. If only there was a way to make reviewing into a decently-paying career. Sigh. But I've been doing that thought-road before, and short of selling out and charging for reviews, that's not going to happen.
And that's dishonest and fills me with a sense of discomfort so profound that I wouldn't do it even if it were an option.