I goofed: last night I reminded Richard of my appointment today.
He reminded me that I had okayed his having been asked to meet up with someone today.
We only have the one car. He couldn’t miss his. I couldn’t miss mine, I mean, I could reschedule, but…!
And so it was that the woman who knew all of my cousins back in Boston, being a peach, drove me to the clinic. She offered to come again to take me home afterwards and I assured her I was fine with my knitting till he could come across town when he was done.
Which meant we had a little more time to get to know each other one on one on the way there and I had a rah rah go team go! cheering me on at the moment I most needed it. I felt much readier for this. She’s the best.
I told the doctor about my grandmother having had–they said it was ovarian cysts–and being treated with what was then the very latest thing: massive doses of x-rays.
Her jaw was hanging and her eyes went huge.
Which turned into a laugh when I added, And then she lived to be 96.
Well all right then but we don’t do radiation like that anymore!
Well no!
I didn’t realize till after I came out just how much I had talked myself into believing we would just continue doing what we’d been doing, ultrasounds, attempts at biopsies, keeping tabs on it.
Not so much.
Not that having a period every day till I’m the one who passes at 96 was so much the problem, it’s that it had been slowly steadily increasing. That’s not sustainable.
(I told Richard afterwards, I didn’t want our two granddaughters to think I was willing to risk major pain and surgery and possibly losing my hearing just to not have to bleed anymore when they’re going to start on all of that soon. I didn’t want them to think that that itself was the bad thing I wanted to get away from. He said, I would never have thought of that! and I said, Because you’re not a woman. I wouldn’t expect you to.)
So. The only way to get a firm diagnosis and to rule out cancer once and for all is a hysterectomy, and there was no point in leaving in the possibility of ovarian cancer–out they go, too.
She gave me two surgeons’ names, assured me they were both top-notch, and said the Da Vinci robot would do the actual surgery. It would be laparoscopic and minimally invasive and given the age and stage of those parts, it would be a lot less of a recovery than if I were younger.
Oh, said I brightly, so they can do it without needing painkillers?
She said decisively, Oh. you. will. need. painkillers.
With Tylenol being the only one that doesn’t deafen me?
And that is why “But I don’t want to!” kept ear worming in on my thoughts for the rest of the day. We have to do it. I don’t want to do it. She’s right. We have to do it.
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Edited to add, I suddenly just remembered our friend Lance’s story long ago of being in the middle of doing surgery when the 7.1 Loma Prieta quake struck, with his unconscious patient suddenly projectile-missiling as he and the nurses grabbed him and held him and themselves to the table for dear life.
Tell you what. Let’s skip that part.