So yesterday's offering was a bit of a wry, tongue in cheek funscapade, prodding at my own personal swath of misery. As a creature of habit, today's post follows suit but with perhaps more of a BLOODYFUCKINGYOUWHATNOW? to it.
Now I have never been one to shy away from a taboo and indeed I think it positively unhealthy to do so. With that in mind and a possible sense of shit got real loneliness, I have decided to be forthcoming with my own current health, catastrofuck. (catastrofuck is a bit strong but I do like the way it rolls of the tongue).
Now as most people will know I am a qualified GP. Not in the normal, been to med school, done all the hard work, actually know what I'm talking about way. That's dull. No I have in fact graduated, with honours, from the University of Google . I'm basically the modern day version of the old village witch, sitting in my hovel doling out medical advice and pseudo-diagnosis to all in sundry, particularly myself.
Being an incessant hypochondriac has it's down points. Constantly believing you have an ailing organ or another and living in the fear, no knowledge, that you are going to keel over from a massive heart attack any day soon, has a pretty detrimental effect on your every day life. I have to actively avoid that little smiling twat Dr. on GMTV for example, in case I suddenly start convincing myself I have testicular cancer. There is, however a less obvious advantage of this utterly ridiclous and time wasting affliction. The ability to be totally aware of your own body and notice things going wrong quicker than the average shmuck.
Perhaps this is why I am so completely, gob floppingly shocked that the only real thing that has ever been wrong with me has utterly evaded my roving eye for possibly years and were it not for my poor suffering boyfriend, begging me to shut up and go and see a doctor, I would have continued to rule out as 'nothing to worry about'.
Basically, it turns out I have a giant alien entity billowing around in my abdomen, waiting to burst out of me like Jean Claude Van Damme punching his way through an elephant seal and I didn't even realise.
Now I'm used to grey, indistinguishable images, having been the owner of a Nokia 5320 for the past three years but an ultrasound is a whole new level of 'fucks that? As I laid there, contented with warm jelly and a smiling sonographer wiggling all over my belly (just the picture stick in her hand, not the sonographer) I was blissfully unaware of the horror about to be unveiled to me. The large black blob, that was first mistaken for my bladder was later explained to me as a 13cm ovarian cyst.
I have called her Bertha. I find it helps to be anthropomorphic and besides, Bertha has a better ring to it than Potentially Life Threatening Glob of Internal Fluid.
Now ovarian cysts are very common in women of my age group, they can form naturally as part of ovulation, are usually harmless and disapear of their own volition but Bertha is one big ass mother fucker. The Dwayne Johnson of the of the vesicle world, you might say. And just like Dwayne Johnson (Sorry Jack), she is completely benign but ultimately a nuisance of the highest order and must be eviscerated . This means surgery and that means general anesthetic. Just as I was enjoying being made unemployed and confined to my hinterland prison cell, I'm now faced with my biggest life long fear. Cheers God, you massive invisible wanker.
I think most people who aren't dribbling, feckless, horror-movie inbreds are afraid of going under the knife and for many, the very thing that scares us most is the thought of being put to sleep like a foul breathed old farm dog. I am probably lucky in never having to deal with this before but in escaping it's dark velveteen grip for so long, general anesthetic is held in my mind as a dangerous and mysterious threat. I don't like the idea of being unaware of what some guy is doing in my abdomen. Poking around, losing bits and what not and I especially don't like the vision I have in my head of being put to sleep, resembling the dreams I have had in which I'm dying (not the best I've ever had, regardless of what Tears For Fears think). A warm hand of darkness stubbing me out, perhaps never to see the glow of life again. Forever floating, numb in a black sea.
Jesus, see, I go well fucking Tim Burton just thinking about it.
I am struggling to see a future in which I am walking voluntarily into the hospital and lying down voluntarily on the bed whilst some blue hatted psychopath, sticks a tube into my hand and creepily lulls me into the ether, promising definitely not to stick a finger up my bum or play Buckaroo on me whilst I'm out. I mean who the fuck would actually voluntarily do any of that? So I'm being forced to do this, through my own fear of mortality, because I've been advised not having this great big fucking lump of fuck taken out of me could eventually lead to sepsis, cancer or death. Led from the slaughterhouse to a smaller room where they just take bits off you instead.
I mean it's nuts right? Why haven't they invented something better? Like a tiny spaceship, like in that film where they go in the body and it's like a big sing song and the patient is like watching them travelling down his brachial artery doing old show tunes, on a monitor on the side of his bed, whilst exotic, be-sequined women feed him wine and pate.
Paralysing people and strapping them to a cold blue table, whilst people in futuristic religious attire blow gas under their skin and prod big metal claws into every orifice they can? Bloody perverts. So much barbarism, where's the Hollywood sparkle?
I am totally appreciative to those of you sat here right now thinking 'shut up you fucking drama queen, a laparascopy? Keyhole surgery? pah, I had a triple heart bypass and six ribs removed without anesthetic' or whatever. For some people, this is just me whining like a little shitty five year old. You're probably right.
But I wanted to talk about it on here because I am shitting myself and it could mean all manner of complications, like me being infertile or having to piss in a bag for the rest of my life and those sorts of things shouldn't go unmentioned. Especially, seeing as I am super sensitive to my body and didn't pick up on it. So on a positive note, it's not cancerous and it is relatively simple surgery but bitches please, check your bits. If you notice any unusual pains, a hard swelling etc. go and make your doctor check you out. Most will go away and you'll be free to populate the land with your ungrateful screaming bastards as much as you see fit, but just on the off chance, better safe than sorry.
I'm probably going to document my journey into the NHS as best I can. From hilarious gynecological mishaps:
"While you're down there doc!" *canned laughter*
to side-splitting anxiety anecdotes:
"Get the fuck off me, I'm not going anywhere near that fucking operating table, you blood lusting maniac" *Jerry Springer style OOOOOHHHH*
I'm going to aim to share with you my horrible and dignity stripping experiences from step 1 to my imminent death, sorry recovery.
On a plus note I now have a VERY valid reason for being fat.
*cries into Snickers*
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