Good news, they didn't strike oil! Or maybe that's the bad news considering gas prices these days. I could have been my own energy source.
Instead, they struck blood. Plenty of it! Running down my stomach and down my back simultaneously. I wish I'd had someone there with a camera so I could play dead while bleeding from front and back. It would have scared the crap out of Mom. Sorry Mom! You know I wouldn't have done that to you, but it sounded funny.
So, I get called back and meet the doctor who happens to be the brother of my neurologist. I haven't decided which one is the evil twin (not that they are even twins), but this one looks more like George Clooney. Both of them are the nicest guys you ever want to meet -- their mother must be so proud!
He tells me his nurse will numb me up and then we'll get started. Fortunately all three moles are located at roughly the same vertical position up my spine. The one in front, an inch or two above my navel on the left, and the other 2 within a half inch apart from each other right along my spine in the back. All I had to do was hold my shirt up and expose my midriff. No clothing removal, however I did take my sandals off to get more comfy.
The nurse came at me with this little baby of a needle citing her rehearsed speech meant to calm my fears. I laughed and said "is that all you've got! I stick myself in the leg once a week with the granddaddy of that baby needle!"
It didn't even hurt, but then I guess when it's filled with numbing agent it wouldn't tend to hurt, would it? Why don't they put a little bit of that in Copaxone needles? That stuff BURNS! A touch of Novocain would be humane, don't you think?
It only took a couple minutes before the doctor came back in and hovered close. I looked at the ceiling while he did something I couldn't see or feel. Then he said "all done!" and he was.
"That's it? Wow! That was fast and I didn't feel a thing!"
I asked if the family had any more doctors I could use, like a dentist or GYN or something. He just laughed and said "Fresh out of doctors; that's all we had."
I asked if he would be doing the pathology on them and he said no. I stressed the imperative, urgent need to get the results STAT. (I thought he'd understand the lingo if I put it that way, and besides, how many times does a patient get to tell a doctor "STAT"?) He said he'd send it to Shands Jacksonville and let them do the pathology. Fortunately, since the research dept. for this study is also at Shands Jacksonville, my trial coordinator can now pester them until they hurry up and say "Benign".
Which is what they'd better say, because I found out yesterday that Novartis will take nothing less for an answer. If these spots contain even one "atypical" or "questionable" cell, I'm kicked to the curb like yesterday's trash.
I can't let that happen. It's my only social outing to go to the study center and visit with all the nurses and doctors. If they take away that I'll have no reason to ever leave home again.
Worse, I will be feeling like the wicked witch of the west after they poured water on her. Take my Fingolimod away and I'll probably melt into a puddle and disappear, too. Perish the thought! I can't control what happens. The moles are now out of my hands, or off my skin, or however you want to say it. The results are going to be what they are. All I can do is send "benign" thoughts out into space and hope the words ricochet around enough to hit the brain of the pathologist and force him to dictate it as my path results.
I'll know something sometime...anywhere between today and 10 days from now.
In the meantime I'm out of shots and have about 12 pills left.
I'm starting to get that feeling of panic I used to get when I only had a couple of cigarettes left. Only I can't run to the convenience store and buy another bottle of pills. Gulp.
We shall see.