adventures in human anatomy
Jun. 6th, 2004 04:31 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
iceinyourmusicLast night, around two a.m., I was lying in bed, not sleeping, staring at the ceiling and listening to Tori Amos, with my hands resting on my stomach, when suddenly, a shot rang out! I noticed there was this hard, unyieldy, slightly prominent spot in me, a little down from the ribcage, and a little left from the center. And, oh my god! It was pulsating. I poked. After about ten more minutes of poking around and getting my abs sore and also determining that the pulse was decidedly erratic, unnaturally fast and uneven, I pretty much knew that I had a big lumpy well-veined tumor in my stomach, and that it was also messing with my heartbeat, and that every tick and tock I'd ever had was now explained, and that either they would cut me open and slice and dice or I'd die away like an abused lab rat.
Waaah!!!
... so then, when you wake up and go, no, woman, the abdominal aorta is something you're supposed to have? It's a sort of an anti-climactic way to start the day. La. Since I'm usually not much of a hypochondriac, I'll just file this away under variations on the current theme of general paranoia.
Also: I wonder whether there's some pre-historic cave-dweller gene remnant that causes an urge to crawl underneath furniture and hide whenever I'm stressed out. Because, sometimes, I'll be sitting in class and not hearing a thing the lecturer says, because I have to concentrate so hard on not sliding down from my chair & curling up on the floor under the desk. Not that I would actually do it - but the desire is very real, and very, very specific. Bizarre.
Let us have cake.
Waaah!!!
... so then, when you wake up and go, no, woman, the abdominal aorta is something you're supposed to have? It's a sort of an anti-climactic way to start the day. La. Since I'm usually not much of a hypochondriac, I'll just file this away under variations on the current theme of general paranoia.
Also: I wonder whether there's some pre-historic cave-dweller gene remnant that causes an urge to crawl underneath furniture and hide whenever I'm stressed out. Because, sometimes, I'll be sitting in class and not hearing a thing the lecturer says, because I have to concentrate so hard on not sliding down from my chair & curling up on the floor under the desk. Not that I would actually do it - but the desire is very real, and very, very specific. Bizarre.
Let us have cake.
