I had my biopsy yesterday.
Let’s review my stupid health in case anyone missed my last poignant post on it. [Cue dramatic music.]
Okay. First, in late October, I started feeling like I have to pee all the time. I went to my regular doctor twice and the urgent care once, all to be told, “You don’t test positive for a UTI but here are various antibiotics anyway.”
They didn’t work. Convinced self I had bladder cancer. I mean super extra for real convinced self.
Then I went to a urologist, who said, “You probably don’t have bladder cancer. Here’s some old lady cream that will probably help. Also, avoid these foods and take these supplements.”
I started to do so, but in December I saw blood in my urine. Super extra supersized freaked out and died of bladder cancer IN MY MIND and didn’t tell anyone, but went to a second urologist, who gave me a CT scan and a rather unpleasant test for bladder cancer that I didn’t tell anyone I was having because I didn’t want to ruin Christmas.
Did not have bladder cancer. But, “We found a rather alarming ovarian cyst and you need to get that checked out right away with an OB-GYN.”
Immediately got ovarian cancer IN MY MIND.
And when I tell you I got these cancers in my mind, I mean I spent hours online, reading chat rooms and forums, sweating and weeping and carrying on.
Meanwhile, I had my scheduled mammogram, which if you’ve been here awhile you know is my annual week of fretting and anxiety and panic and this year it was but a blip. So. Silver lining. Got results of that same day and it’s good.
Back in ovary world, I had an ultrasound and a blood test, because while the ORIGINAL giant cyst looked fine, of course they found ANOTHER cyst they were suspicious of. It had a very sneaky expression and hung around dark alleys.
Bloodwork came back good. No ovarian cancer. “But we did see something weird in your uterus during the ultrasound. You need to come back and have a biopsy for endometrial cancer.”
That’s when I just started to get mad. Meanwhile, I still have days I have to pee all day. “I don’t think it’s gynecological,” said my OB-GYN, who is, you know, board certified and therefore probably right. “I think the old lady cream will work better the longer you use it,” she said.
Which means if I’d have just stuck with the first urologist I wouldn’t be going through any of this.
Between getting my bloodwork back and going in for this biopsy, I had my annual eye exam because of course I did. “We have a new machine now that tests for eye tumors. Are you interested in getting that test?”
I said yes, fully expecting I’d have to have an eye biopsy or something, but all was well other than my eyes got dramatically worse this year. If you are a contacts person, my prescription went from -5.25 to -7.00. Hello, darkness, my old friend.
So now that I’m Mary Ingalls and any minute now Ima meet Adam who will get his sight back and also ADAM NEVER EXISTED IN REAL LIFE and also I DON’T LIKE THE SHOWWWWW. NOT THE SHOWWWWW. Because they invent people like Adam and Albert with his opium addiction and it pissed me off.
So yesterday was the biopsy. I wasn’t as scared as you’d think, because the doctor has said it’s “probably normal” and that I “shouldn’t worry.” Which. I mean. That’s my hobby. So.
But really. And people were being very kind, offering to go with me and calling to check on me, which actually made me sort of more nervous, because then it seemed like a real biopsy and not a “probably normal” test I was just taking, no big deal. People called and texted with their worried voice and it made me anxious. Mostly I told people I didn’t wanna talk about it and tried to carry on and I drove there yesterday not all that terrified.
So when the doctor entered the room yesterday, the first thing I told her was they’d spelled my name wrong on the giant screen on the wall that was going to show me my innards, and to go ahead and send the bill to let’s say June Gardeens instead of June Gardens. Everyone here knows how they misspelled my name, including the bitch-ass who follows me on Instagram and then complains about me on Reddit and tells people my IG handle, which pokes fun at the oft-mistaken spelling of my last name.
To sum, you are a bitch-ass, person on Reddit.
“Did you take ibuprofen beforehand?” my doctor asked me, and that was the first I’d heard I ought to. “No,” I said, “as this is the first I’ve heard of it.”
They offered to get me some but I hadn’t eaten and didn’t want to feel bad.
Then we got ready, and why are OB-GYNs so interested in you scooching down? Scooching down is a big turn-on for every OB-GYN. They aren’t happy till you’re perched precariously at the edge of that table.
“We need a different speculum,” she said, and I imagined myself as Large Vadge Marge. The grand opening.
“Is it because I have enormous parts?” I asked, and everyone laughed. It was the last time any of us would laugh, ever.
By the way, when 29 people need to be in the room, perhaps you should be more nervous.
In fact, they needed a SMALLER speculum, so why don’t you run and tell THAT, Reddit bitch-ass, whose vadge serves as a rest stop for the Green Giant.
“Now we’re going to expand your cervix,” she said, and
Oh my god, OW!
Dude. I don’t know what they were doing down there, and I could have looked on the giant screen but didn’t want to, but all of a sudden that pain was a 10. Not a hard 8. Not I-can-handle-this-let-me-breathe. A 10. Oh my god.
I was literally writhing on the table.
“I’ll stop for a minute so you can gather yourself,” she said. To use an expression of my mother’s, she was as calm as a cucumber.
Mother FUCK. I tried to calm down, to become a cucumber, and we started again.
“STOP! Please stop! Are you almost done?” I asked.
“I can get a block,” said a nurse. And whatever a block was, yes, I wanted her to get it. Get a block. Get Jenny from the block. Get a blockade.
And guess what. Once I had “a block” it was fine. It HURT, but it hurt like a 7 or 8 and not an unbearable 10. Geez Louise. While I was lying there, I formed the thought, “Was this worth getting a Dyson dryer?”
A: Yes. Totally.
So the results will be in in a day or two, but she said, “I feel pretty good about this” and that’s reassuring. I felt crampy and traumatized all day but that was it. A little spotty.
In summary, I’ve had five tests for cancer since December. Once I’m in the clear for endometrial cancer, I can get my damn cysts out. Apparently when you’re my age you shouldn’t be having cysts and they really should get out. I’m the Amityville Horror house and my cysts are the Lutzes.
Oh, and I saw your votes on my Stitch Fix, and maybe I should tell them to go down a size. I’ve been working out with a trainer for a while now, and I think I weigh like five pounds less, but I might be smaller anyway. I agree I need fewer black and gray things.
I’m keeping the pants, though. I liked the pants. I like any pants you can just pull on. Which by the way, mom, does not count as elastic-waist jeans.
When I was young and cute my mother told me that when I was her age I’d opt for elastic-waist jeans and I said I never would and so far I never have.
We bet on it, but I can’t remember what age she said I’d be when I finally acquiesced, and I also can’t remember how much we bet.
But also too, I was in the back of the car once when my parents made a bet that by the time I was their age (27), there would be people living on the moon. My father said there would be. My mother said there wouldn’t. I once again don’t recall how much money they bet, but I know my father lost that bet.
Or did he…? [Cue mysterious music.]
June, who doesn’t want medical advice that begins, “You should really…” or “Your doctor doesn’t…” or really any medical advice at all. Or really any advice, ever. Okay, thanks. Glad we had this talk. Bye.