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!

Will anyone love me like that?

Today, Facebook popped up a story about a woman’s double mastectomy and I felt compelled to read.

She wrote:

“My husband and my boys (literally, my own little band of brothers) pretty much carried me through the battlefield. I mention that, because you deserve something great in your life, so I want you to set the bar high. A man who looks upon your scars and sees strength and courage . . . grace . . . and beauty. Not broken. Not impossible to love. Worthy of love. Believe.”

My immediate reaction was sadness.   Not for her but for me.

I’m not sure anyone will ever love me that way and boy would it feel good to be loved like that.

It’s been 10 years since my divorce. Enough time to have some relationships. Enough time for those relationships to fail. And even though I know nothing is wrong with me, I can’t help but wonder why it hasn’t happened for me yet.

Is there no great love affair destined for me in my future?

Should I resign myself to being a “temporary lover?”

Always a bridesmaid, never the bride, so to speak?

I can practically hear my friend Michelle echoing the sentiment to “set the bar high.” She’d likely say that when a man doesn’t measure up, I mold myself into something that fits. Something that isn’t me. And that’s non-sustainable.

She may be right.

At least I’m still out there. At least I’m still looking.

I may not be getting it 100% right, but failure is illuminating what’s not right for me.

All I have to do it get it right once.

How hard can that be?