Carotid rhymes with garrotted.

I've had this sore neck for a few weeks, because of a lump. Aren't lumps brilliant? "Hi, I'm a lump. I could be nothing ... or I could be everything. AND YOU DON'T KNOW MWAHAHA."
My logic says that because my husbands lumps turned out to be the worst case scenario, then probability dictates I will be fine.

I thought it would just go away but it didn't, it got bigger. Today, the doctor didn't say, "Oh that's just a swollen gland." She asked me all these questions and I told her about the swooshy noise I hear and the light-headed feeling, and thinking I was going to faint. I laughed and told her that I've had an *especially* stressful week and when I get angry it feels like my lump pumps so much blood it's going to explode ... like, Homer Simpson after he ate that huge sandwich.

She laughed too and then she told me we need to rule out a Carotid Artery Aneurysm.

I KNOW .... isn't that the coolest thing? I could drop dead any moment. This is thrilling to me. I'll die on the operating table, of course. My Highly Dangerous Carotid surgery, with the HOTTEST carotid surgeon in town. He will fall in love with me, laying there. And Dave will feel bad for going to footy tonight.

So, I have an ultrasound and some bloodwork tomorrow. If it looks suspect, it will be followed by a CT scan ... the word biopsy was mentioned.

I think this is highly amusing. I know I shouldn't, but it's so absurd - there is no way I have a goddamn aneurysm. We just need to rule it out. Dave has had cancer ... he took the bullets for all of us, forever, right? Isn't that how life works?

Maybe I'm a tiny bit concerned - only because it feels like I have a goitre. So we still need to work out what it is. I wasn't going to write about this tonight, but I need to take the power away from it, lest it all build up like a hot air balloon of mania.

I'm blessed with some of the best blog readers of all time, and as google is not being of ANY help to me, can anyone tell me if they have any experience of this? I would appreciate it.

I know I'm fine.

I also know I'd like to be buried in jeans, my black skull t-shirt, and yellow boots. I want everybody to get so drunk at my funeral they vomit on my casket. I want weeping and hand-wringing. And bagpipes.

And the usual empty promises people make at funerals, vowing to change their lives for the better. And I want the single people to hook up and have sex in the bathroom.

And curried egg sandwiches.

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