My Fresh Hell
Life in Scribbletown.

C Is For Cyst


How much does bunny hate being 40? Thhhhhiiiiiissssss much!

I got a call from my lovely ob/gyn (and I do love her; she's swell) yesterday as a follow-up to an ultrasound I had last week. Which was, in itself, a follow-up to an u/s I had back in March. Which was done to determine exactly why my body said, “no” to an IUD.

Back in March, she’d found a smudge. A little cyst on my right ovary. No big deal. A wee fibroid of some sort. The usual kinda girly thing.

This time around, the smudge was still there but, lo! Upon my left ovary she discovered a cyst the size of a silver dollar. Which had not been there in March. Which shouldn’t be there at all because I’m back on the pill. Which is supposed to prevent this kind of thing.

The ob asked about my previous ovarian surgery back in ’88: “Did they do a laproscopy or did they open you up?”

“Oh, they opened me up, alright. Even threatened to take out the whole works if need be. The cyst was as large as an orange.”

“And you’re not in pain?”

“No. And I wasn’t then, either.”

“Hmm. Well, I really don’t want to do anything surgically if you’re not in pain. On the other hand, it concerns me.”

Do. Not. Tell. Me. That something in my body concerns you. Please do not say that.

“I think we need to bring you back in in October, do another ultrasound, run a blood test and see where we go from there.”

I’ll tell you where we go: away. Far away. Because I am supposed to still be here in thirty years. I am supposed to see my children grow up. So, we can go all kinds of places but the only c-word I’m willing to discuss is “cyst.”

End of story.


8:51 a.m. ::
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