Scared Ovaryless

I am scared.

That's it.

I am not "super" or "special" or particularly "strong".

I am deformed and bloated and sore and tired.

I have never wanted "magical fairy dust" more in my life than I do right now.

I already lost my boobs.

Now I am losing part of what's left of me as a woman.

This is psychologically fucking.

I can usually hold it together.

I can usually feel sexy...even with my scars.

There is, however, something completely un-sexy about swollen ovaries.

Ewwww.

(Yep...that is a swollen ovary being removed. saWEEEET!)

I am exhausted.

My body is shot and not yet recovered from the last surgery.

I cannot get anyone from the medical community to give me even a false sense of comfort.

With the swelling that started Sunday all they can say is that the best way to alleviate said swelling is by removing the cyst/ovary.

(Derrrrr!)

...however...

There are so many surgeries scheduled at the end of the year so that people can claim their deductibles on their taxes that I am sort of screwed by the schedule fairy.

Seriously?

Yes.

...and while they *hope* that it does not rupture, that is likely the only way that I am getting in before the 30th...but they have put me on "the list" to be moved up if someone cancels.

(Lucky me!)

This list must be the medical community's equivalent to the "Naughty List" and my name is written in thick black Sharpie.

I am to be a "good girl" and to take my pain meds (sweet baby Jesus!)...

...and try to use a heating pad (is baked ovary like baked brie? Will it be complimented if served with grapes and red wine?)...

....and limit my activities.

Hmmmm.....

Define "limit" please...I am unfamiliar with this adorable term and it does not quite dance off my tongue.

She couldn't really clarify this for me and maybe I should not have asked, but I asked if I should continue racing my bike and her immediate response was, "Good heavens, NO!"

Soooo...

Is that a "No" then...?

Ughhhh.

Why did I bother to ask?

I was additionally told to take it easy, no strenuous activities (Sorry Jay. This means we are over yet again), no trauma to the body (there goes running...at least the way that I do it), and rest.

Rest?

Help run a company, raise a teenager and a horse-loving-super-girly 1st grader, raise a puppy, decorate for the upcoming holidays, keep body from atrophy and keep my ass the size that it is (yes, that actually matters), nurture a relationship (while sharing a residence), and keep a healthy attitude about things...

Where in that scenario is there time for this alleged rest that I hear people speak of?

Rest is like the excitement/hype surrounding Duran Duran and NKOTB in the 80s...

It somehow eludes me and I just don't get it...

I don't think it's my thing.

I want to have fun.

I want to sing Christmas songs and believe in Santa.

I don't want to take it easy because some fucktard with a medical degree neglected to make a big deal out of a big deal in September simply because he discovered the issue a week after I had had surgery.

Sure, had they ripped me open then I would have missed almost the entire 'cross season...but I would not be in the position I am in right now.

Pussyfooting around trying not to rupture body parts because the surgical schedule for tax write-offs has been filled is not really all that groovy.

My bad.

I feel that you should just get a medical procedure done when you need it. Not when you can best fiscally benefit from it.

I am terrified and stressed and terrified (did I already cover this?).

I am wigging and approaching a funk and trying to find the funny...

But I feel that I have made all the ovary tossing jokes I can humanly make, so unless someone can somehow tie my ovary to a Tiger Woods joke, I am out of funny at the moment.

I am on the verge of tears and yet happy that I can still cry and contemplative about whether I will lose that ability after the 30th.

Should I cry more just for good measure?

Should I attempt to embrace kittens and Lilly Pulitzer so that I feel like a girl?

Should I buy sparkly nail polish?

InStyle magazine...?

I don't know.

I know that I am suddenly feeling very young to be losing my junk and my bottom lip has made more guest appearances in the past week than it has all year.

I'm scared.

It is what it is.

...but I *might* feel better if the doctor tells me I can take my ovary and cyst home in a jar of Formaldehyde.

Then at least I have the comfort of knowing that I could (hypothetically of course) throw it at a skanky ambulance-chasing attorney or a boss...

I will wrap myself in the comfort of these warm and amusing thoughts and tuck myself tonight as I watch/listen to the people whom I love sleep...

*sigh*