This whole trip to Mayo wasn’t even planned. Something odd had shown up on my MRI back home, and Inova had tried—but failed—to biopsy it with CT guidance. So in a moment of frustrated curiosity and mild panic, I called Mayo on a whim just to see if I could get in. Two weeks later, I was on a plane to Minnesota because when Mayo calls you, you don’t hesitate. You pack whatever’s clean, grab some hotel shampoo, and go.
This week at the Mayo Clinic has been an experience I’m still trying to categorize. Not bad, not good—just… surreal. The kind of week where you think you’ve seen it all, and then a hepatologist asks if you’re a heavy drinker while you’re sitting there in a brewery t-shirt.
To be fair, she had every reason to ask. My liver labs are a mess, the MRI looks like someone spackled “mystery dots” everywhere, and I had already told her I enjoy one, maybe two glasses of wine a week. Honest. Absolutely honest. But later, my husband pointed out that I was wearing a brewery t-shirt. And the only other shirt I’d brought? Also a brewery t-shirt. So essentially I walked in looking like a brand ambassador for craft beer and then tried to convince a liver specialist that I’m a light social drinker. Excellent. Perfect. Really love that for me.
Each morning, we rode the shuttle from the hotel to the hospital, and all I could think was that it felt exactly like the shuttle to Disney—if Disney had fewer churros and significantly more biopsies. Everyone sat in that early-morning fog, clutching their belongings, half-awake and fully anxious, like we were all trying to get there before the parks even opened. One morning, while my husband was eating breakfast (because he was allowed to eat, unlike me, the medically inconvenient spouse), I mentioned this out loud. The woman in front of us turned around and said she’d thought the exact same thing. For one beautiful moment, we were all on the same imaginary ride.
Meanwhile, my personal itinerary for the week could be titled “Hunger Games: Mayo Edition.” One day I couldn’t eat because I had a PET scan scheduled—which didn’t happen because two of their scanners were down. The next day I couldn’t eat because I had a liver biopsy. The day after that I’m pretty sure I wasn’t allowed to eat because… honestly, I don’t even remember at that point. I was on autopilot, wandering the halls with the blank determination of someone who hasn’t had a carb since the Clinton administration.
At one point, friends I hadn’t seen in more than thirty years came down from Minneapolis to visit us, and while they ordered actual food like functional adults, I sat there sipping vegetable broth—quietly nursing my cup of liquid regret like an Edwardian orphan.
And then came biopsy day itself. I showed up wearing a sweatshirt that said “Excuse Me, Which Level of Hell Is This?” because subtlety clearly died somewhere around Tuesday. Honestly, it felt appropriate. The staff didn’t comment, but several eyebrows did a silent little jump, which is really all I needed.
First I met a nurse named Luba, which she informed me (very cheerfully) is Russian for “love.” She said it in a thick Minnesota accent so perfect it felt hand-crafted by the Coen brothers. She mentioned she was from Duluth, which absolutely tracked. She was so upbeat while inserting my IV that I half expected her to offer me a hot dish afterward. Another nurse talked me through the early steps of the procedure with that calm, steady tone that could probably soothe a feral animal. Truly angelic.
Then, of course, right as they’re about to begin—after I’ve met the doctor who’s been doing this for forty years and exudes the emotional range of a very competent grandfather clock—I suddenly get the overwhelming urge to pee. Perfect. Absolutely ideal timing. I managed to hold it together while he numbed the area (which honestly hurt more than the biopsy itself), and then while he said, “Okay, deep breath, don’t move,” as he inserted the biopsy needle. Sir, I am doing all of that and clenching like it’s an Olympic event.
After the procedure, they wheeled me back to recovery, where I experienced something I hope never to repeat: peeing in a bedpan. I’m not exaggerating when I say it was one of the most humiliating things I’ve ever done. I would have preferred thirty more biopsies. Or a tax audit. Possibly both.
The next day, once the humiliation had faded to a manageable level, I told my Minneapolis friend that the biopsy was successful and that we were celebrating at one of the most fabulous Italian restaurants I’ve ever been to. I couldn’t toast with a glass of prosecco because I’d already had a much better cocktail earlier in the day: Versed and fentanyl, shaken not stirred. Instead, I ordered a mocktail topped with whipped egg white that tasted so sinful I’m convinced it bypassed the FDA. She texted back, “I’m sure it doesn’t taste as amazing as vegetable broth! It’s hard to top that!” And honestly? Fair. The bar was subterranean.
Somewhere in the middle of all this, one of the physicians told me that what I might have is one in one hundred million. Between that and the whole “getting Ewing’s sarcoma as an adult” thing, I’ve apparently decided to live my life as a full-time medical unicorn. Truly rare. Majestic. Possibly sparkly. Statistically improbable. If I show up at Mayo again with something no one has ever heard of, they’re going to start naming conference rooms after me.
The whole week felt like some bizarre mash-up of EPCOT, House, and a mindfulness retreat where the only mantra is “Don’t eat after midnight.” But in all the strangeness, something about it was—oddly—comforting. Every person we met was kind. Every nurse and tech seemed genuinely invested. Every patient on that shuttle, silently clutching their coffee or their fasting-induced rage, was in it with us.
So yes: I spent the week accidentally looking like a binge drinker, riding the world’s saddest Disney bus, fasting for procedures that didn’t happen, sipping vegetable broth like a Dickensian child, meeting a nurse named Love with a Fargo accent, trying not to wet myself during a biopsy, and peeing in a bedpan—all while learning that I may once again win the prize for “Most Statistically Bizarre Medical Chart.”
Honestly? On brand.
Absurdities and Fires 