Schrodinger's Cat
0 mi, 0 ft
There has been a pain in the left hip since June 2018. It was attributed to an enthusiastic excess of biking. Biking for May bike-to-work month, 26 miles in headwinds both ways. Weekend biking. A personal best biking up Mount Hamilton for Memorial Day weekend. Hip pain not an illogical outcome.
For details of original diagnosis and physiotherapy, see here, here and here. Suffice it to say that in the interim, counter-balancing muscles have been vigourously developed to mitigate the strain on the hip flexors when walking, standing, sitting. The pain is not gone, but no longer a central feature. Focus has been dissipated to further pains - an October left knee injury at the gym, and ongoing slight pain in the left elbow, attributed to the general stresses of working out. Perhaps too many push ups. This is presumably the essence of mid-thirties life; chronic niggling joint pains.
Come 2019, a shift from the tax-favourable high-deductible insurance plan to the Platinum zero-deductible Kaiser HMO, to better align financial and health incentives. Step one, visit the doctor and convey that trochanteric bursitis was likely a mis-diagnosis. Fifteen minutes later an X-ray, ninety minutes thereafter a new test result in the Kaiser app. A white region spotted next to the pelvis; probably calciferous tendinitis or osteochondroma, a benign mass. Vindicated! Something tangibly definite in the afflicted area.
By the end of the same week, a visit to the orthopaedic specialist. He pulls up the X-ray and has no idea what the mass is, and whether it is connected to the hip pain. He sounds stressed out, but then, medicine is a stressful career path. A referral for an MRI scan one week thereafter.
The Friday morning of the MRI scan, layoffs at work reported on the news. An hour of panic before receiving the all clear. Somewhat wired on arrival at the medical centre.
Gadolinium contrast injection into the afflicted hip, and a reminder from the orthopaedic doctor and the injection-administering doctor to tell the radiology tech to closely examine the white mass in addition to the joint. A lengthy MRI scanning process took place, unremarkable as two areas were under examination. And then, nothing. No new test result in the app ninety minutes later, or that day, or news until Tuesday following the bank holiday weekend.
On Tuesday afternoon, a call from an unrecognised number. Sinking heart - if the test results are good they are uploaded to the app. A call is a bad sign. It is the orthopaedic specialist. In good news, no particular damage was observed to the joint, no labral tear, some "minor arthritis". In bad news, the radiologist was sufficiently concerned by the images of the white mass that my case had been referred directly to the orthopaedic oncologist, not at the local Santa Clara centre, but at a specialist unit in South San Francisco. The regular orthopaedic specialist, apparently no cancer expert, could not usefully answer any probing questions. "It is probably not cancer. But you will need to have an in-person consultation with the top orthopaedic oncologist in the Bay Area Kaiser system ASAP. And you should get a biopsy". "Is it cancer?" "It's probably not cancer". "What's the probability that it's probably not cancer?" "Oh very likely it is probably not cancer, although I do not know much about cancer. Don't worry, Andrew Fang is a top orthopaedic oncologist and he will take care of you. His office will call you." "When?" "In the next day or two. If you don't hear from them, ping me and I'll follow up." None of this interaction was reassuring despite probable good intentions on the part of orthopaedic specialist.
Whatsapped the news to mother, known for her pull-yourself-together attitude in relation to life's complications, inclusive of both relationship and medical types of woes. Instantly felt bad as it was late in the UK, and if she were capable of feeling worry she was probably in for a grim night's sleep. Instant reassurance. It's probably not cancer. It's probably from too much biking. Follow up messages over the days to come; she saw a documentary about a lady who had a big growth removed and it transpired not to be cancer.
Bailed out the office for thirty minutes between meetings for a walk to ease the melting mind. After considerable to-ing and fro-ing, decided to call the partner even though he would still be at work and would no doubt be stressed by the news. In the relationship, yours truly is freely acknowledged to be the more evenly-temperamented with respect to matters of logistics and finance. However, the partner, biomedical technician in a dialysis centre and son of an oncology nurse, has surprising reserves of calm and reassurance in matters of the medical nature, and some relief ensued. It's probably not cancer. Several more hours of meetings, then arrived home that evening and melted into a frenzy of terror. There, there, it's probably not cancer.
Reliving earlier health scares; one from ten years ago where a neurologist announced "you probably have MS", which turned out to be false a week later following brain scans and a spinal tap; another from late 2017 where a sizeable breast lump transpired to be benign after a week of abject terror. During the latter episode, apparently both the conscious and subconscious had undergone intensive logistical machinations. The same equations immediately resurfaced, this time spoken aloud. "If it is cancer, we should marry so I can get health insurance through you when I lose mine because I'm too sick to work but still need chemotherapy and a leg amputation, and so you inherit my assets tax free, and so we can easily move to the UK together such that I may die at home." "Ok dear, whatever you need. We can do all of that. No problem."
Shallow, panicked sleep and a morning meltdown followed by slow mental recovery in the shower and on the drive into work. Pincered my manager upon his arrival and ushered him into a meeting room to discuss logistics. My manager is among the most principled humans in the Bay Area, if not all of California. One of the vanishing minority of early employees from our company, daily inspired in motivating his team to stop climate change in its tracks and save the world. "I have been referred to the oncologist following my MRI scan. I do not know when the appointment will be. They will call me. I may need to leave work early." "I'm so sorry. Prioritise your health. Do whatever you need. If you need to rush off on no notice, don't worry; I'll cover."
Two days spent waiting by the phone for the inevitable call from the oncologist's office, wherein he would no doubt announce a diagnosis of aggressive terminal cancer, having examined the MRI scans. Cell phone kept close at all times. Every vibrate, a jolt. No call. Messaged the orthopaedic specialist to nudge the wheels in motion once again. Two minutes later, a call from the oncologist's office. All discussion and questions brushed aside, this was a routine call on the part of the receptionist to schedule the in-person consultation for five days' time, the following Tuesday. Evidently used to dealing with panicked cancer patients.
Now it is the weekend in between the call and the appointment. No further information. Panic ebbing and flowing. A near future simultaneously dead and alive. Waiting for Tuesday, when direct observation collapses the eigenfunction into a single state.
There has been a pain in the left hip since June 2018. It was attributed to an enthusiastic excess of biking. Biking for May bike-to-work month, 26 miles in headwinds both ways. Weekend biking. A personal best biking up Mount Hamilton for Memorial Day weekend. Hip pain not an illogical outcome.
For details of original diagnosis and physiotherapy, see here, here and here. Suffice it to say that in the interim, counter-balancing muscles have been vigourously developed to mitigate the strain on the hip flexors when walking, standing, sitting. The pain is not gone, but no longer a central feature. Focus has been dissipated to further pains - an October left knee injury at the gym, and ongoing slight pain in the left elbow, attributed to the general stresses of working out. Perhaps too many push ups. This is presumably the essence of mid-thirties life; chronic niggling joint pains.
Come 2019, a shift from the tax-favourable high-deductible insurance plan to the Platinum zero-deductible Kaiser HMO, to better align financial and health incentives. Step one, visit the doctor and convey that trochanteric bursitis was likely a mis-diagnosis. Fifteen minutes later an X-ray, ninety minutes thereafter a new test result in the Kaiser app. A white region spotted next to the pelvis; probably calciferous tendinitis or osteochondroma, a benign mass. Vindicated! Something tangibly definite in the afflicted area.
By the end of the same week, a visit to the orthopaedic specialist. He pulls up the X-ray and has no idea what the mass is, and whether it is connected to the hip pain. He sounds stressed out, but then, medicine is a stressful career path. A referral for an MRI scan one week thereafter.
The Friday morning of the MRI scan, layoffs at work reported on the news. An hour of panic before receiving the all clear. Somewhat wired on arrival at the medical centre.
Gadolinium contrast injection into the afflicted hip, and a reminder from the orthopaedic doctor and the injection-administering doctor to tell the radiology tech to closely examine the white mass in addition to the joint. A lengthy MRI scanning process took place, unremarkable as two areas were under examination. And then, nothing. No new test result in the app ninety minutes later, or that day, or news until Tuesday following the bank holiday weekend.
On Tuesday afternoon, a call from an unrecognised number. Sinking heart - if the test results are good they are uploaded to the app. A call is a bad sign. It is the orthopaedic specialist. In good news, no particular damage was observed to the joint, no labral tear, some "minor arthritis". In bad news, the radiologist was sufficiently concerned by the images of the white mass that my case had been referred directly to the orthopaedic oncologist, not at the local Santa Clara centre, but at a specialist unit in South San Francisco. The regular orthopaedic specialist, apparently no cancer expert, could not usefully answer any probing questions. "It is probably not cancer. But you will need to have an in-person consultation with the top orthopaedic oncologist in the Bay Area Kaiser system ASAP. And you should get a biopsy". "Is it cancer?" "It's probably not cancer". "What's the probability that it's probably not cancer?" "Oh very likely it is probably not cancer, although I do not know much about cancer. Don't worry, Andrew Fang is a top orthopaedic oncologist and he will take care of you. His office will call you." "When?" "In the next day or two. If you don't hear from them, ping me and I'll follow up." None of this interaction was reassuring despite probable good intentions on the part of orthopaedic specialist.
Whatsapped the news to mother, known for her pull-yourself-together attitude in relation to life's complications, inclusive of both relationship and medical types of woes. Instantly felt bad as it was late in the UK, and if she were capable of feeling worry she was probably in for a grim night's sleep. Instant reassurance. It's probably not cancer. It's probably from too much biking. Follow up messages over the days to come; she saw a documentary about a lady who had a big growth removed and it transpired not to be cancer.
Bailed out the office for thirty minutes between meetings for a walk to ease the melting mind. After considerable to-ing and fro-ing, decided to call the partner even though he would still be at work and would no doubt be stressed by the news. In the relationship, yours truly is freely acknowledged to be the more evenly-temperamented with respect to matters of logistics and finance. However, the partner, biomedical technician in a dialysis centre and son of an oncology nurse, has surprising reserves of calm and reassurance in matters of the medical nature, and some relief ensued. It's probably not cancer. Several more hours of meetings, then arrived home that evening and melted into a frenzy of terror. There, there, it's probably not cancer.
Reliving earlier health scares; one from ten years ago where a neurologist announced "you probably have MS", which turned out to be false a week later following brain scans and a spinal tap; another from late 2017 where a sizeable breast lump transpired to be benign after a week of abject terror. During the latter episode, apparently both the conscious and subconscious had undergone intensive logistical machinations. The same equations immediately resurfaced, this time spoken aloud. "If it is cancer, we should marry so I can get health insurance through you when I lose mine because I'm too sick to work but still need chemotherapy and a leg amputation, and so you inherit my assets tax free, and so we can easily move to the UK together such that I may die at home." "Ok dear, whatever you need. We can do all of that. No problem."
Shallow, panicked sleep and a morning meltdown followed by slow mental recovery in the shower and on the drive into work. Pincered my manager upon his arrival and ushered him into a meeting room to discuss logistics. My manager is among the most principled humans in the Bay Area, if not all of California. One of the vanishing minority of early employees from our company, daily inspired in motivating his team to stop climate change in its tracks and save the world. "I have been referred to the oncologist following my MRI scan. I do not know when the appointment will be. They will call me. I may need to leave work early." "I'm so sorry. Prioritise your health. Do whatever you need. If you need to rush off on no notice, don't worry; I'll cover."
Two days spent waiting by the phone for the inevitable call from the oncologist's office, wherein he would no doubt announce a diagnosis of aggressive terminal cancer, having examined the MRI scans. Cell phone kept close at all times. Every vibrate, a jolt. No call. Messaged the orthopaedic specialist to nudge the wheels in motion once again. Two minutes later, a call from the oncologist's office. All discussion and questions brushed aside, this was a routine call on the part of the receptionist to schedule the in-person consultation for five days' time, the following Tuesday. Evidently used to dealing with panicked cancer patients.
Now it is the weekend in between the call and the appointment. No further information. Panic ebbing and flowing. A near future simultaneously dead and alive. Waiting for Tuesday, when direct observation collapses the eigenfunction into a single state.
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