A Conversation and a Story

Dear blog reader, we have been having an ongoing conversation today, you and I. It goes something like this:

You: Hey, Zany Mama.

Me: Hmm?

You: Why don’t you give us an update?

Me: You can call me Tuesday, you know.

You: Indeed, it is Tuesday. Anyway, why don’t you give us an update?

Me: An update on what?

You: Don’t be deliberately obtuse, lady. You haven’t mentioned Keith Richards for approximately 3.5 posts now. That’s shady. What’s up?

Me: Oh Keith Richards! (hits forehead dramatically)

You: So…

Me: Okay, I’ll tell you a story, but don’t interrupt me…

There once was a beautiful young maiden who developed a terrible pain in her belly after eating prime rib for 4 days straight. Everyone in the kingdom thought it would pass once she resumed her normal repast of steamed chicken and vegetables (ha!), but, alas, it didn’t get better.

The beautiful lady’s discomfort caused much pain and strife in her kingdom. It caused famine and widespread ill-humor. Thin broth and melba toast filled the damsel’s days, and grey clouds hovered over her castle.

With near-legendary patience, the gentlewoman went through many, many medical tests until it was discovered that in her lithe mid-section there was a heinous liver tumor. A big, fire-breathing, dragon-like liver tumor.

Upon the advice of her friends, she named the tumor Keith Richards.

Once it was determined what caused her malady, the doctors told the lady that she must co-exist with Keith Richards for several months in an effort to make him shrink.

You know those Keith Richard types, the doctors said, if you simply do not feed them drugs (or birth control pills) and you limit their adult activities (leading to pregnancy), eventually they will get bored and flee your delicate system.

Although our heroine wasn’t sure about the “wait it out and it will shrink method”, she dutifully followed her doctor’s orders for several months. And finally, this week she took her carriage to the doctor’s office to hear the results of the barbaric MRI she’d been subjected to the week before.

While there, the doctor gave her grave news indeed: the tumor was not shrinking. It was the exact same size as it had been before.

The pain was better, to be sure. But Keith Richards was still living the high life in her gut.

You: So are they gonna take it out?

Me: I believe I was clear that I am not tolerating interruptions. One more and Keith and I are leaving.

Ahem…so the lovely maiden was quite disheartened – especially when the doctor said that she could expect to have this tumor FOREVER and that there wasn’t much else to do at this point.

You: But wait. You aren’t supposed to get pregnant or be on birth control with this tumor, right? What are you supposed to do?

Me: Second warning, Chatty Cathy – that’s the last time you get to interrupt. This is painful enough without your completely relevant and reasonable questions.

You: But…

Me: Oh cripes, you’re ruining the story. Fine. We’ll skip to the ending.

So the maiden was referred to her "lady parts" doctor for further evaluation and treatment. The end.

You: But that kind of sucks doesn’t it? You just have to live with a liver tumor which may or may not flare up at any time?

Me: Yeah. But the “kind of good” news is that it appears that the tumor is not affected by hormones. So hopefully, I’ll be able to, you know, resume normal operations around here. But I’m sticking to my guns here…I said one more interruption, and I was leaving.

You: But I didn’t interrupt you. You said, The End. You were done - there was no interruption.

Me: Whatever. Good day, sir. I said, Good day!

(Harumphs out of the room with a hand on her upper right quadrant crooning softly to Keith Richards.)