Friday, February 19, 2016

You're not my freakin' nanny....

    Sometimes people suck.

    So I decided to start writing on my blog again....
    Late last night, someone who I hadn't hung out with in a few months sent me an email. It said:  
    "I'm very upset that you didn't tell me you might have a tumor before you posted it all over social media. I thought we were friends."
    Dear Friend,
    Not everything in MY life is about you. You are not my freakin' nanny.  

    Her email went on to say:
    "Please know that this is simply a constructive criticism, but your voice in your latest post could use some work. You sounded like an uneducated Republican hick." 
     Once again, Dear "Friend,"
     Thank you for taking this exact moment to edit my writing. My voice may sound uneducated, but that's far better than sounding like a pompous b*tch.
    *stepping off of my soapbox now*

    I saw the gyno today. He confirmed that I have an ovarian tumor--still the size of an orange.
    He didn't realize I'd already looked over the results with a friend of mine who knows medicine and krap. He tried softening the blow. "I don't know how you feel about surgery," he said, "but I don't feel like a tumor this size will ever go away."
    Ya think? I remained quiet, listening.
    "I can try to save your right ovary, but I might not be able to. It's your choice. Just know that I could get in there and have to take it anyway. And even if I do save it, more tumors could grow."
    So...that was some psychological shit. I don't think there's any way you can save an ovary with a tumor that's grown INSIDE of it, and is now the size of Kansas! But he was giving ME the choice, which actually did feel a little empowering.
    I played his game. "I always hated the right ovary anyway. Go ahead and take it out. God gave me two, and using both of them seems greedy."
    He stared at me and simply blinked before saying, "I also need to tell you you're young"--cool, I hadn't heard that in years--"and I'd be surprised if you have cancer at this age. But this IS a tumor, so we should do a blood test before the surgery. After the surgery we'll send the tumor to the lab to be tested as well."
    I had my blood drawn a few minutes later by a saint of a woman who's practically a magician at drawing blood. She talked so much I hardly even felt the needle. 
    By the time I left, they had me all scheduled for surgery; it'll be a couple of days after they get the blood test results back. They're going to remove my zombie ovary and the connecting tube. 
    Waiting for that test is driving me crazy. If waiting doesn't kill me, who knows what will. 

                                                  A kinda spicy Elisa

P.S. I mean it. I really hated that ovary anyway.