Over 40 and Doctor-Bound: Is This a Thing?

Tomorrow is a day of many medical follow-ups, which I’ve been putting off because problems disappear if you ignore them right? That’s what my brain told me. But I suppose it’s time to pay the piper and face the music because my doctor finally called and basically said, “stop being a pansy and get in here for your blood tests or I won’t renew your mind medication.” Except she actually said that.

So in I go for tests to check for high cholesterol, anemia, hormonal imbalance, thyroid dysfunction and all the other crap you probably have when you’re over 40. My original physical was in January and my blood work was scheduled to follow that appointment, so I suppose in April, my doctor made her “I’m a pansy” point.

I just really hate needles. I had two natural childbirths because I avoid needles on sight and on principle. One of those births was induced with pitocin, which makes cramps like 1,000 chainsaws mincing your organs into ground beef meat, but at least I avoided the spinal needles.

And also, the blood work is the least of my problems.

Because I may have to undergo surgery, and if you’re a hypochondriac, when you hear “surgery” all you think is “WHAT IF I DON’T WAKE UP?” “WHAT IF THE ANESTHESIA DOESN”T TAKE AND I FEEL EVERY SLICING OF MY INNARDS WHILE SILENTLY PLEADING FOR YOU TO HEAR ME ?” ” WHAT IF I CHOKE ON MY OWN VOMIT DURING RECOVERY?” “WHAT IF YOU LEAVE STAPLES IN MY GUT AND I BLEED THEM OUT MY BELLY BUTTON?”

I already have a guarantee from my husband, The Rock, that he will monitor my throat after surgery so it doesn’t throw up and kill me.

Which would be a feat given the surgery will take place on my troublesome left ovary.

The ovary that grows cysts like trees grow cherry blossoms in Japan (can someone give me a simile intervention?) and is the bane of my hormonal existence. I mean, I know my endocrine system have been all out of whack for years (I’m never hot and now, the Sahara Desert is like a ski destination) and I told my doctors as much, but no one listened until my ovary sprouted a bowling ball.

I have a follow-up ultrasound tomorrow that will tell us if I need to have the mass removed. Pray I don’t. I’m really not good with being opened up and probed. It’s just that I feel it inside me and its foreignness is disconcerting like Dr. Drew at Coachella (did anyone call the simile interventionist?).

It all started when I told my doctor that every few months my left ovary acts like it’s filled with shredded glass threatening to explode its walls. The pain lasts for about 45 minutes and makes me want to puke and cry and fetal roll and then it goes away like it never happened. I mentioned this in passing like you do when you’re convinced you have everything else but the thing you actually DO have.  Given that the shredded-glass-analogy sounded alarming, my doctor scheduled an ultrasound and there it was…a hemorrhagic cyst.

It was big, too. But the last time I had a cyst of that size I visited an acupuncturist and changed my diet and it went away. I didn’t see an acupuncturist this time and I’m convinced that’s the problem. Although I DID lie facedown on the ground several times because I’d read that a man cured his liver cancer by coming into contact with the Earth’s healing ions after he made it a point to lie on the ground every day for a year to let the inner planetary core send up its miracle light rays.

I want to believe in things like that.

Instead, I fear that my hormonal maladies have come home to roost in my ovary and I’ll need to remove it.

Also, I might have a congenital heart defect.

Tomorrow is a big day for a hypochondriac like me.

Stay tuned for soon when I know more about whether I’ll have to worry more about post-surgery vomit asphyxiation.