Sarah Louise goes for a sonogram...

Update: I won't know the results until like Friday, so rest easy. And apparently what we're looking for may not show up on a sonogram, which means we have to go for the lacroscopic deal. I will keep yins updated. Pinky swear.

There are some things I will not blog, so don't worry, this is PG. But I did take some nice pictures of the flowers outside the hospital, since my mantra is SLOW DOWN. So I actually smelled a rose.


Irises, aren't they nice?

The rose I smelled.
The rosebush from whence the rose I smelled came.

The player piano in the lobby. Can you see that some of the keys are pressed down? It's playing on its own.
Maybe you can tell a little better in this picture.


The fun parts:

• My driver's side window is still broken (to be fixed tomorrow, for a pretty penny), so to push the button to get the thing to open the gate for me to get in the parking lot, here's the routine: put the car in park, put on the parking brake, get out of the car, push the button. Puh-leeze!
• I get to registration, wait for ten minutes, only to find out I was pre-registered by phone and could have just walked down to the imaging lab first thing. My appointment was for 4:15 and I get to the lab at 4:30. Lovely. Then I sit and wait for them to call my name, they give me a lovely bracelet. So attractive, and plastic. There's your age, for all who can do quick math with your birthday.
• (Not that I care--I'm 34 1/2. Yes, I have six months to get used to the idea of being thirty five.) (Gah!)
• I go up to the waiting room for the imaging lab (yes, it's the next level of inner sanctus) where there is a sign that says sit here and someone will come get you. But it seems a completely un-manned (or woman-ed) room. There *are* two windows, but they both have mini-blinds. I look through one set and see offices, the other set is too tight to see through. (One set is beige, the other maroon...is this code?) Then there's a door that says "No entrance--authorized personnel only" and there's a woman sitting in there, reading a magazine. Another waiting room? I glumly read the sign that says "If you've been waiting for more than 15 minutes, alert personnel." Who would I alert? There aren't even any courtesy phones, and while there is a "patient concerns" phone number on the wall, I'm not technically supposed to even have my cell phone on at this point, much less use it.
• So I read Oprah's February, the one that says it will take your romance life in one month from rocky to rocking. Oh, they lie like a snake on the floor. The only slightly helpful article is about a program run by a guy in Seattle, I think. But it's like a profile you'd find in the local section of the newspaper, not an advice article for a women's magazine. I think I actually bought this issue of Oprah. Never again. And besides, does she have to be on the cover EVERY month? (Apologies to all y'all Oprah lovers. I just don't see the appeal.)
• Finally, some one comes and gets me, calling me by my formal name, the one only doctors use. Yes, in my real life, I am an -ie, y or i. (Cindy, Vicki, Lizzy.) But to doctors, I am always my formal name. (Cynthia, Victoria, Elizabeth.) This does not apply to therapists. Although I think my psychiatrist uses my formal name. I digress.
• (this part we skip.)
• Finally, I get to pee. (Part of the sonogram process is the kind the opposite of the colonoscopy--instead of expelling everything, you're supposed to hold 32 oz of water in your bladder for two hours. Lovely.)
• (this part we skip.)
• Back into street clothes, back to the elevator, back outside, back to the car. I'm free--no, I turned out of the hospital in the wrong direction. On a country road. I turn around in a cul-de-sac and go on my merry way.
• Oh, I bought the Newsweek that rebutts their 1986 article about women and marriage. Apparently, the line "more likely to get abducted by terrorists" was a joke that no one got. The author says, yes, I wrote it, the most irresponsible line in all of journalism. Well, no need to boast, now.
  
• I treat myself to a dinner at Abate. I eat too much.

The end. Oh, and I didn't know until today (I talked to the nurse at the gyn) that fibroids are different from endomitriosis. I couldn't tell you what the difference is, but I'm sure if you're really curious, you could go to Ask.com or Google.