First of all:

Have a Million Billion Bucks.

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This last month or so has been a dizzying round of doctors’ appointments. I’m beginning to think that maybe my warranty is about to expire.

Two weeks ago, I had to see the skin doctor because I had this strange bump on my face that wouldn’t go away.

A bump my GP said looked suspiciously like CANCER.

Fucking great.

My mother isn’t even a year dead in the grave from CANCER and I’ve got some doctor telling me maybe I’ve got CANCER.

No PTSD triggers there.

Have you ever had a doctor tell you he suspects CANCER?

(Actually, to be perfectly honest, my mother is not dead in the grave; she’s dead in the closet in my office.  But that’s a whole ‘nuther post for a whole ‘nuther day.)

My doctor–the new one, not the old one–referred me to a specialist to have this suspicious bump checked out.

The problem with specialists is that, since they are so special, everybody wants to see them. When I called to make the appointment, the receptionist told me she couldn’t get me in for 6 weeks.

6 WEEKS!

I’ve known people to be dead less than six weeks after being told they have CANCER.

I told the receptionist, “Hey, I could be dead by then. My doctor said this could be fucking CANCER, don’t you think you could move the appointment up?” ( Relax. I didn’t cuss at the receptionist. I just thought the cussing part. I’ve found in my life that cussing at people does NOT motivate them to see things from your point of view.)

She said, “No can do.”

I said, “But my mother just died from CANCER. Can’t you do anything?” (Okay, I admit I did play that card.)

She said, “Oh wait, I think I can get you in three weeks from tomorrow.”

I said, “I’ll take it.”

So I waited for three weeks and a day–plus an hour and change in his office, because specialists are notoriously known for running late–to see this Aspergery doctor (meaning that he was very analytical and methodical, but had zero bedside manner) who told me that I do not have CANCER.

I was grateful.

I am grateful to all the people who have Aspergers who’ve made my life better by being methodical and analytical. While a pat on the shoulder and a comforting word might have been nice, I was so happy to hear that it wasn’t CANCER that I almost didn’t care that he was as cold as a stone.

And he didn’t know what the bump was either, but now it is going away.

Whatever.

Maybe I shouldn’t have spent all that time tanning, huh?

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And then there was my bone scan.

The day before seeing the dermatologist, I had my second follow-up bone density scan.

I had my first bone scan two years ago after my mother’s osteopoosis diagnosis.

Am I the only one who has become crazy after their mother gets a bad medical diagnosis? 

My spine is unchanged, my hip is a little bit worse, but I found out I have osteoporosis in both wrists.

Thanks for the crappy bone density, mom.

Although I can’t completely blame genetics.

I guess those two years I spent doing cocaine and living with a meth dealer wasn’t such a good idea, huh?

The bone density scan was the day before I did that photo shoot in the park with Rachel, my daughter,  in those ridiculous 5 1/4″ heels.

 

The entire time I was tottering around, I kept thinking, “If you fall, you better roll.”

 

 

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And this week I saw a hoity-toity Urogynecologist.

I waited nearly 7 months to get an appointment. I drove 4.5 hours to get to his office. That’s just how special a specialist he is.

Because my vagina is just that important to me.

I’m pretty sure I’ve talked about my bleeding problems here before, but if I haven’t, then there ya go.

I have bleeding problems.

And because I’m such a damned type-A over-achiever, I also grew ginormous babies who’ve wreaked some kind of havoc down there.

This specialist revealed to me just how much havoc. It’s a havoc much worse than I knew. Apparently, all those kegels have been nearly miraculous in keeping things as good as they are, but it isn’t going to last because there is significant tissue damage that is only going to get worse with age.

I’m fairly devastated about it. I really like things the way they are right now.

But I’m going to need a hysterectomy (keeping the ovaries) and major vaginal reconstruction if I don’t want to wake up one day and find my uterus lying between my legs.

On the good end, if my husband is lucky, he’ll get one more chance in his old age with a virgin: Me.

I guess having that 10lb VBAC at home was just as dumb as my OB told me it was going to be, wasn’t it?

Fuck.