A tale of woe, told in as many cliches as I can dredge up.
I’m in a bit of a holding pattern these days. After nearly 2 years of post-hysterectomy complications, which have resulted in (in no particular order) regularly-scheduled pain and bleeding, visits to 2 different GYN-oncologists, 2 MRIs, 1 CAT scan, innumerable ultrasounds of the invasive variety, a few rather unpleasant tests at the urologist’s, 1 burst ovarian cyst resulting in 1 missed Trans-Siberian Orchestra concert, and 1 cyst drained “just in time” of 1/2 liter of fluid, my GYN has finally decided that it’s time to shut down the rest of the system. The plan is to remove my ovaries to cut off the estrogen supply that’s feeding my endometriosis.
I have a cyst larger than my own fist in my left abdomen (they always show up on the left.) It’s painful, and it takes up a good amount of space. Hence the wearing of the sweat pants (or, as Little Brother insists on calling them, athletic pants) as much as possible unless I have to actually get out of the car, in which case I suffer through the wearing of the jeans.
Frankly, I’m going to be glad to get this over with. Even though it means going to a hospital with “Cancer” in its name. I have not been diagnosed with cancer, but my GYN says that this doctor is the best surgeon to deal with the type of problems I’m having. I keep telling myself that when I freak out a little bit about the name of the hospital. I keep telling my husband that when he freaks out about the name of the hospital. And I hope that none of my kids check the caller ID on the phone, because the word “Cancer” comes up in the name when I get the robo-call to confirm my appointment.
On Tuesday afternoon I’ll see the surgeon and receive my marching orders. Until then, I have no time frame, no plan. Anyone who knows me knows how crazy that makes me. I’m guessing that something is going to happen soon, because my GYN said that they’ll want to take care of that cyst before it explodes on its own. It could be done separately, or together–whatever the specialist decides.
Meanwhile, back at the ranch (or more accurately, back at the split-level), I’ve got a part-time writing gig that would have to go on hiatus, I’ve got arrangements to make for leadership at Secular Franciscan meetings, I’ve got kids to drive around, I’ve got “work to be done–an estate to be run–a boy to raise.” Other than laundry and cooking, the bare minimum is getting done around here because physical stuff like scrubbing, vacuuming, mopping and taking down curtains is painful. If I feel good enough, I do it. Otherwise, I let it go. There’s been a good amount of letting it go lately. There have been afternoon naps, probably because I’m a little too keyed up to sleep well at night. There’s been a lot of comfort eating.
I don’t feel like baking cookies, I don’t want to start up another sourdough starter, and there’s no use making a meal plan for April when I don’t know what April’s going to bring or when it’s going to bring it. Other than Instant Menopause–I know I’m going to get that after the surgery. Won’t that be fun for everyone lucky enough to live with me?
Meanwhile, I wait, and I worry. I go to the high-school musical to take my mind off things (50 kids tap-dancing on the biggest stage in the county will do that for you). On Tuesday, I’ll drive to Philly and find out how things are going to go. And then I’ll drive home in rush-hour traffic and get on with it.