Pro tip: Try not to read every single article about a person close to your age being diagnosed with cancer the day of your own biopsy.
In anticipation of this, Ed planned out a super-fun Weekend o’ Distraction: Steven Wright on Friday night, a trip to a pumpkin patch (where you cut your pumpkins off the vine LIKE A BOSS) and roller derby on Saturday, and champagne brunch at home followed by massive reorganizing/cleaning in anticipation of the holidays. Then he made an excellent white bean and chicken chili that a.) was delicious and b.) had me in terror that I would fart on the doctor during the exam.*
So, yeah, I had a biopsy yesterday to rule out cervical cancer and things look good. If we’re talking a scale of 0 to 10, with 0 being “nothing to see here folks, move along” and 10 being “you have cancer” I am at a 1, maybe 1.5, in terms of weird shit going on. I’m waiting on the official results that tell us exactly what’s happening, but the (totally hilarious) doctor was confident that the bad cells could be frozen off and that good cells will regenerate and all will be well. Full disclosure: when the doctor first mentioned cryotherapy as a treatment for whatever the fuck this is, I inadvertently tuned him out and immediately thought of being cryogenically frozen, which made me think of Austin Powers and Ted Williams. My brain: ’tis a frightening place. But I am also convinced that this ability to drown out unpleasantness kept me from fainting in the doctor’s office, which is something that has happened to me before. Like I told the doctor: I am a delicate flower.
This whole process has been overly long and drawn out thanks to my previous docotor’s office being complete and total fuck-ups** in terms of a.) notifying me that there was an abnormality and b.) getting my results to another doctor so that we can address the issue. So, this won’t be truly, fully resolved until December-ish (and what woman doesn’t want a healthy cervix for Christmas?) once all tests have been completed and results are back and my body has had a chance to heal.
I’m not in any pain, and this doesn’t affect my daily life in any way. Well, other than the fact that I need to rock it old school style with maxi pads next month. And I am under strict orders NOT to go and get myself knocked up in the next 3-4 months, which is actually kind of awesome. Now when my in-laws demand that I bear them a grandson I can legit tell them, “No can do. Doctor’s orders!” BOOYAH! I’m hoping that next time the doctor tells me I am absolved of vacuuming. Our vacuum is really old and loud and heavy. Maybe I’ll get a Dyson for Christmas along with a clean bill of health.
Other than providing you with more knowledge about my cervical health than you ever needed, I just want to remind the ladies out there – and the men who love them – that your annual is serious shit. It’s not fun, but neither is the alternative.
*This did not happen.
**They also kept telling me – upon arrival at my appointment – that I did not need to come in annually, and that every two years is fine since I have no family history blahblahTHANKSFORNOTHING!