Pressing

I worked with D's surgeon this week. I'm having retroactive walking nightmares. And very glad of this surgeon's knowledge. Let me 'splain. When we in the job have medical issues, we worry a lot. When it's our own family, those we love, it's pathological for us. We have just a little too much information, experience, and way too much imagination.

A patient with a finger infection, ok, bad enough to need surgery to clean it out. Other complications, but nothing really critical, I thought. Until Dr. G asks that some of the tissue go to pathology. "Might be lung cancer."

I laughed, thinking he joked, not unheard of from hand surgeons. But no, metastatic tumor in the digits is usually from a lung cancer source. Well. Um. D just had a tumor removed from his hand, benign. Report back, all as expected. But a frantic moment clutched my gut, as I realized that Dr. G knew this last month, as I did not. My heart went out to this patient's spouse in the waiting room.

D heals, swelling down, strength and mobility returning with therapy. He's worn with the pain, which I understand better now than when he had the shattered elbow to heal. We shall consider this our welcome to middle age.

I stopped in a lovely little shop, with D's encouragement, came out with a pointless bit of old silver for my throat. We'd already found a cool toy for C, who is hard pressed. When the losses pile up, best to give to others, take care of oneself, pet the cat.