Tomorrow morning an Asian man with small hands (and who looks A LOT like Ken Jeong) will be taking out my cervix, uterus, and tubes. Don’t worry. He’s a doctor. Well, he wears a white coat anyway and promised to robotically remove my lady junk. I have to be at the hospital at 5:30am (which is fine because I’m an early riser but not one of those chipper people you want to punch in the face) where I’ll probably wait 3 hours for my surgery wearing nothing but a flimsy gown and sweaty hospital socks. My blood pressure will be through the roof because when I’m nervous my body betrays me and does batshit crazy things like get explosive diarrhea and try to stroke out. The nurses will cluck over me, make small remarks and tell me to calm down and they’ll eventually shoot me up with some ultra-calming stuff that’s supposed to make you feel all floaty and relaxed. Spoiler alert: the last time I had the floaty stuff it didn’t work on me, barely even took the edge off. I went in for biopsy last June and was so worked up over not knowing if I had cervical cancer or not that nothing but anesthesia was going to bring me down. That was the best part, the anesthesia. The nothingness of it. The juice dude put that mask over my face and the next thing I knew I was awake, muttering “Is it over? Can I go home now?” Just like my first time having sex.
After the biopsy I had this conversation with my doctor:
Me: So, do I have cancer?
Me: What the fuck do you mean, almost?
I didn’t say that last part out loud. I just sorta sat there and gawped at him. What it comes down to is this: I sorta do and sorta don’t have cancer. I have those asshole cancer cells roaming around my cervix that if left untreated would spread to my uterus. The doc said he won’t know until he pulls out my baby hammock and takes a peek. Hysterectomy is the only way to treat it.
Here’s some shit I’m worried about:
- The doc’s going to open me up and find cancer everywhere. And Jimmy Hoffa and Waldo and that necklace I lost in the third grade.
- I’m going to blurt out to the anesthesiologist “You guys better not draw dicks on my face while I’m out!”
- The catheter will feel like a UTI.
- I’ll have uncontrollable farts because they pump you full of air to better see your organs.
- My hospital roommate will have Ebola
- I’ll get MRSA
- And Ebola
But the odd thing is I’m kinda excited about the whole (hole) thing. After almost 30 years of suicide-inducing periods, I’ll be free. I’ll still have my ovaries so I won’t go into early menopause. The best part is I’ll get to spend $7.50 every month on candy instead of candy and tampons. I just hope my bladder doesn’t slip and try to make an escape via my vagina.
I hear that shit happens sometimes.