I so should have known. Dr. G was playing me, and I didn't even realize until later. I had the MRI on Friday, and on Monday they still didn't have the results. I called, I called again. They hadn't even looked at the results. Same on Tuesday. We were decrying the callousness of the medical establishment. Don't they know I'm waiting to find out if I need to have my kidney removed? Can't they bother to look?
Dr. G called me on Tuesday and said that the best thing to do was to go to the hospital together and raise a little hell. I wondered why she didn't just go over there herself, raise hell, and report back. But I met her bright and early on Wednesday morning, and we marched into the radiologist's office, where the radiologist seemed to be, well, expecting us. A wisp of a flicker of suspicion blew through my mind, but the radiologist had such a fancy monitor, and those were my insides on the screen, so I looked.
And by the way, POW!
Of course, Dr. G had known, and hadn't wanted to tell me over the phone; wanted me to see and understand for myself. She also knows my mother, and knew that we'd need a plan for telling her. Most people don't understand, until they see it for themselves, what Old World freaking out is like. I'll spare my mom, and withhold the details, but it involves making a not-very-Midwestern spectacle of oneself. I told her, and relatives were called in for reinforcements, and by early evening, we'd all come around to the view of the linked post: manageable, could have been worse, pretty damn lucky, in its way.