It turns out that the first doctor who looked at her was using an old, low-resolution ultrasound machine. When she had her leg re-scanned by a better machine, the second-opinion doctor said that it's not a tumour, at all. Definitely just a cyst. It doesn't even require minor surgery at this point, or drainage. It will resolve on its own over time.
So. That was an emotional roller coaster I won't soon forget. (Assuming that's the end of it, which I sincerely hope it is.) As if Christmas weren't enough of a psychological minefield all by itself.
I'm glad that I have a bunch of time off work without many plans. I shall spend it regaining my equilibrium.
I hope that you had a Merry Christmas! Ken and I celebrated on Christmas Eve with my family, because it was my younger Bubbe's 94th birthday; and on Christmas Day we spent time with his family. My new sister-in-law is a professional pastry chef and could easily be a... you know, a CHEF-chef too. For savoury food. Like roast beef with veggies and dressing and gravy and homemade Yorkshire puddings. I never understood what Yorkshire pudding was all about until last night. It's all clear to me now! (It's about buttery fluffiness with a soft, hot middle.) I almost didn't have room for my personal-sized, fully-homemade-including-the-perfect-crust apple pie. My goodness, did we eat last night.
Today we visited my elder Bubbe, who will now tell you that she's 98 and a half, because you go back to counting the halves at her age. As usual, she made tea, excavated some fossilized pastries from the back of her freezer and commanded us to eat. We ate. Elder Bubbe may be old and tiny, but you'd better do what she says. She's fierce, and a marvel.
I guess that's it for the season. Family members have been embraced, gifts exchanged, and bellies filled. I think now I'll spend the weekend reading my incredibly absorbing book. And sleeping. That sounds about right.