Overwrought and Overcysted

The Journals of Sylvia Plath  Foreward by Ted Hughes 1998

White Oleander  by Janet Fitch 1999  *Complete with a bird feather I found over ten years ago*

Weight: 2 lbs

Method of Disposal: Leaving Somewhere

I am fully prepared to be more dramatic than necessary.  That is why I chose Plath and Fitch to get rid of.  I am sure I need not explain.  

There is one word I would use to describe myself over the last couple weeks: Overwrought. 

And on a completely separate note, I may have another word--cyst-riddled.  

I got my ultrasound results early this month and they proved what the doctors and I have known for over a decade.  I have ovarian cysts.  Very normal.  I have at least 8 on my right ovary, 4 on my left, and one in my cervix.  I am taking Provera to regulate my periods.  The usual stuff.

Today, I saw my doctor because in between Thursday and Sunday I developed multiple lumps on my skull and neck.  Gross, yes.  My lumps, my lumps, my lovely lady humps.  Not what the singer had in mind, but that song comes to the fore as soon as I speak aloud about all these bumps and so here we are.  She seemed to disagree with the ones on my neck about as much as I disagreed with all of them being anywhere.  She whisked out of the room, speaking of scheduling a biopsy.  Then, on second thought, decided to do an MRI first.  Yes, please.  Let us take a little looksee before you carve into MY NECK.  Not my leg, back, or belly, but my neck, with all of its major bloodlines.  I might have grown a little queasy, even though I am a badass and would never admit it.

She decided it was time to visit the hematologist and so I am off to the cancer center.  I know all the logical things that people tell you to know in these moments.  She just wants to rule it out.  The machines are better.  You don’t have a family history.  It may just be a strange showing of lymph nodes, maybe it is the tattoo, or the herbs.  I know I know.  I no longer get the “you are too young.”  I miss those days.  I hate growing older.  I hate the idea of disintegration and death.  It is hard to not think about these things when you are handed a card with the word “cancer” on it.  I am not trying to proclaim my own death or seek out sympathy.  I am not terrified, but I am a little uneasy.  I might have felt tears come to my eyes while I was driving, even though I am a badass and would never admit it.

I have never had an MRI before.  I know they make some people nervous.  I do not think they will make me nervous, but I don’t know.  Should I be?  So many people I know get regular MRIs so I vote “no.”  Or is this nervous?  The people I know have serious medical conditions and/or moments.  Why should it be any different for me?  Because I said so.  This will not become a serious thing because I said so.  That is why.

I so often feel like a five to sixteen year old still.  I get smitten and silly.  I get self-conscious and self-deprecating.  I am not prepared to face my own mortality in any real way.  I am not mentally at the age of my physical body.  

That’s not even true.  The truth comes next week.  We will probably never know whether I have mettle or not  because the chances of these things not being serious are great, and I know I know, before you tell me, I will focus on that and not panic.