Scared

My youngest son visited the doctor yesterday.

He has a lump on the back of his head that has been slowly growing.

It is now 3 cm by 4 cm.

Not tiny, to say the least.

I, thinking it was a lipoma, was nonchalant about the whole thing.

Well, as it turns out, it MAY be a lipoma or a cyst but it may also be a brain tumor.

This, from the doctor.

My son now needs to get a scan to determine if his brain and skull are involved in this growth.

If they are, then a neurosurgeon has to operate on him.

It’s not a simple surgical procedure.

You can imagine, I am a little worked up about this.

To the tune of two cocktails a night.

It’s not every day a doctor tells you that your son might have brain cancer.

And just when I got over my own gynecological cancer scare.

WTF is happening?

The WORST part of all this is that the scan has been set up for A WEEEK FROM NOW.

Which means I have to survive a whole week carrying around this fear.

So, if you can, spare a thought for my little one.

Even though he’s not that little anymore.

We could use some good mojo.

Unremarkable

This blog post isn’t pretty.

Nor is it fun and lighthearted.

It’s serious.

It’s the C-word.

No, not THAT C-word (which I HATE with a passion).

Cancer.

Both my grandmothers died from gynecological cancer at a young age and I hate that cancer robbed me of a chance to meet them and get to know them.

I was 22 when I was reunited with my birthfamily.

So when I had my latest PAP smear come back irregular, I panicked a lot.

My doctor called me in for a biopsy.

Now for those of you who DON’T have a cervix, imagine a soft, delicate organ hidden safely within the depths of your body.

Now imagine someone using a harsh bristle brush and a device to CUT away pieces of that organ,

Ouch, right?!

BIG ouch.

To make matters worse, the doctor used a COLD speculum which almost lifted me out of the stirrups!

She grabbed her samples of my misbehaving cervix, and swabbed my nethers with something that looked like Dijon mustard which stopped the bleeding.

“So what do you think?” I asked.

“Your cervix is UNREMARKABLE,” she informed me.

Never was I happier being described as being unremarkable.

So now. . . the waiting game.

Is it pre-cancer? Cancer? Just a blip in my medical record?

Only time will tell.

But until the test comes back, there’s nothing to do except rest my mustard coated vagina, and try to chill the fuck out.

Wish me luck!

Mother of boys

I got sick this week.

This is notable for one reason:

It was an “All exits, no waiting” scenario.

And since there’s only one toilet and the exits are on opposite ends of me, I RUINED the bathroom.

First time this ever happened to me.

My guess is that I either caught the norovirus or I got food poisoning.

From sushi.

How awful is that?

I can’t even look at a slice of sake without feeling sick to my stomach.

The good news is I survived and I’m back at work.

The bad news is that it feels like I’ve been hit by a train.

Body aches up the wazoo. . .

Or OUT the wazoo, as it is in my case.

The worst part of it all, besides ACTUALLY being sick, is that I had an audience.

Round one: My youngest son watched me clean the walls in the bathroom and then TOLD ALL HIS FRIENDS ABOUT IT. He has also taken to calling me “Poopy McPooperson.”  So there’s that.

Round two: My oldest son watched me throw up in a garbage can and proceeded to tell me that it was happening to me because I wouldn’t buy him a $45,000 sports car.

That’s the kind of sympathy you get when you’re the mother of boys.

You don’t mess with my shoes

I didn’t mind gaining a little weight.

My boobs got bigger. . .

My stomach got a little softer. . .

My curves for a little more curvier. . .

What’s not to love about a little weight gain?

Well, diabetes for one.

High cholesterol for another.

And thirdly there’s join pain.

None of those things are fun and all of them can lead to long term health implications.

Things I don’t want to deal with for sure.

Sure, I am still fun in the sack (at least I used to be before I started this damn sex diet), but I have to say I’m not thrilled with the side effects of weight gain.

Of course, I wasn’t thrilled with being labeled pre-diabetic.

And I wasn’t happy to have elevated cholesterol.

And finding out that I had high blood pressure wasn’t fun either.

But I wasn’t convinced I needed to go on a fucking diet until my shoes stopped fitting me.

Yes.

You can fuck with my cholesterol. You can fuck with my dress size. But the minute you fuck with my shoe collection YOU ARE OUT!