Thursday, October 10, 2013

An Ovary Bite?

I think I’ve made clear how much I hate being a chick. I even rebelled against my gender by refusing to grow a respectable set of tits. Hey, some women burn their bras, I took it a step further and just flat out (see what I did there?) have no need for those mammary-muzzling contraptions of titillating torture. But now... well, NOW my genetically inferior reproductive system has really shown its cunty side.

I began having abdominal pain that would not go away a few months ago. At first I chalked it up to just another side effect of the depression/anxiety shitshow that has been gnawing away at my brain nonstop since my latest (but certainly not greatest; I’ve had better) meltdown. But after weeks of constant pain and a few nights spent crying in the fetal position because it hurt too much to move, I decided I’d better suck it up and go to my dumb doctor. You don’t have to feel sorry for me here, as crying in the fetal position is one of my favorite hobbies. Now if I had an affliction that caused me to mall walk whilst sipping a pumpkin spice latté and swapping some super juicy sex stories with members of the local Parent-Teacher Association, then I would request your sympathy.  As well as a mercy killing. But I digress.

After stealing some of my piss and listening to my bowels (he called their sounds normal—I think magnificent is a much more accurate adjective) my primary care physician ordered an ultrasound of my lady bits in order to make me go away. In his defense, I’m a total pain in the ass patient. Thanks to a traumatic ER experience during my first panic attack I pretty much have to be fully sedated to even have my blood pressure checked, which is apparently a little counterproductive.

Anyway, the ultrasound showed a “large, septated mass” on my right ovary, requiring an MRI for further diagnosis. Figuring that the medical field was just fucking with me, I considered putting an end to the whole diagnostic adventure right there. Transvaginal ultrasound? Fine. It’s not like I’ve never had a lube soaked, condom-cloaked wand shoved up my twat… I did go to a public high school. But an MRI was a little much for an anxiety-plagued fucktard like myself to endure. But I handled it like a rock star (Translation: I took a LOT of pills first) and got through it. Two days later (and two days before my follow up appointment with my gynecologist) the clinical report, complete with diagnosis, came in the mail: Ovarian Teratoma.

I believe this is the appropriate place for a: Dafuq?!?

The follow up appointment with my gynecologist confirmed it: my abdomen is harboring a tumor roughly ten times the size of my ovary that may or may not contain hair, teeth, and brain matter. I don’t know about you, but I think that is fucking spectacular. I mean, if you’re going to have a tumor, it may as well be the freakiest fucking thing imaginable, amirite? Some less sadistic medical professionals call this a “dermoid cyst”, but where’s the fun in that title? I mean, TERATOMA. Like tarantula, only with sharper teeth and GROWING INSIDE YOUR FUCKING BODY. Anyway, she scheduled surgery to have the alien mass, as well as the victim ovary, related fallopian tube, and whatever other lady bits that need scooping removed and sent out to be dissected in some lab, where I’m sure they’ll come to life and eat the faces off of a few pathologists. While I learned all this back on September 20th, my surgery isn’t scheduled until October 30th, which is the icing on the cervical cake.  I mean, a monstrous tumor being cut out of my body on Devil’s Night? I couldn’t write a better ending than that. Mostly because I’m not that strong of a writer.

Anyway, the good news is that my little demon has a 98% chance of being benign. While a 1 out of 50 chance of cancer is still not a risk I’d choose to take, the odds are quite lopsidedly in my favor. The MRI showed no other abnormalities, except for something about my uterine lining, but I always knew  that bitch was a little shady. Basically I’ll probably hobble away from this still being completely fertile (Sorry, world!) and no worse for wear. The biggest unanswered question at this point is how major the surgery will be. While most ovary extractions are done via laparoscopy (small incisions, fast recovery) at the time of my exam little Georgette Stark (fuck yes I named her) was hiding behind my uterus, which means her removal might entail a full C-section incision. The fun part is my doctor won’t know until she starts slicin’ and dicin’, so I’ll get to play the Wake Up and See How Big Your Scar Is game. Trick or Treat, motherfucker!

While I’m nervous as hell and totally dreading surgery, in typical panic patient fashion the part that is worrying me has nothing to do with pain or what other parasites may be found leeching off my fertile crescent. No, I’m afraid of anesthesia, all because the last time I had to be knocked out by a trained medical team I flipped out, and I’m worried I’ll lose my shit again. Yes, all of my worst fears boil down to being afraid of having a panic attack, even though I have them nearly every day anyway. Also, I tend to sedate myself to the point of near-coma without any sort of medical supervision on a nightly basis... but having those pesky professionals involved freaks me the fuck out. Dumb.

The strangest part of this whole ordeal (yes, it gets weirder than having a hairy tumor with teeth) has been the reaction from others. I mean sure, this fucking thing has caused some discomfort. But seriously, compared to the multitude of bullshit that going through life being bipolar and with an anxiety disorder has caused, a little abdominal pain isn’t that big of a deal. I certainly didn’t expect the reaction I’ve received.

Handmade with love -- a crocheted teratoma from my bff. She gets me.
At first I got pissed about the barrage of well-wishes that were needlessly pouring in. I have spent my life fighting thoughts and urges that would make even the most gangrenous of growths quiver in their cystic little shells. Nearly every day that I’m forced to go out into the world I face “fight or flight” panic on level with being attacked by a rabid donkey that’s only sustenance has been Viagra enemas. I blow off every obligation I can in order to embrace every opportunity to hide from civilization… and the breaks only make my fear worse. I’m constantly being told to cheer up, calm down, or get over it. Now… well, now I have a glorified stomachache and suddenly I’m a target of unsolicited sympathy.

It’s amazing (and slightly infuriating) how differently people with REAL ailments are treated. Even my doctors, once hostile toward me, are now warm and sympathetic. In the long run this isn’t even a major condition. My recovery time, depending on the surgical procedure required, will be ten days to six weeks. The recovery time for my mental affliction is NEVER. But if I complain about that, I’m a whiner, or a pill seeker.

But like most things, I’ve decided… fuck it. I’m going to milk my little gremlin for all she’s worth. I’m going for all the time off from being a functional human being I can get out of this. Because when you’ve been told most of your post-pubescent life that you just need to suck it up, it’s kind of nice to kick back and leave the sucking to everyone else.