Turns out, I’m having a little surgery tomorrow.
A few months ago, my OB detected a good sized cyst growing on my ovary. Oh, if you don’t want to read about ladyparts then just skip this post. For real, skip it. Did you leave yet? Okay, anyway, so I had this cyst on my ovary. We decided to watch it for three months to see if it was a growy cyst or a non-growy cyst. A recent appointment determined it was a super growy kind so he recommended it come out on the fly.
When he told me I would need this kind of surgery, I kind of laughed and said, “well, I’m not doin THAT.” He replied that I was, in fact, doing that unless I wanted it to grow and take over my entire torso, risking all of my reproductive organs. Not my idea of a party. After meeting with another doctor and discussing my options, I went ahead and booked the surgery. It’s technically a laparoscopic cystectomy and hopefully they won’t have to take my whole ovary because you see I need that ovary. I need all of my ladyparts for all the future babies that will be sent down my way. Surgery should last a couple hours and I should be home in time for the Bachelor. (Hopefully.)
I’ve been dreading this for awhile because 1) I’m just not that person that needs surgery. Ever. This will be my first time admitted to a hospital other than the birth of Isabelle. 2) I will leave with three shiny new scars. 3) I’ll have to give the child rearing reigns to Jazz and my mother for a few days until I can lift/feed/change Izzie. I hate feeling weak and helpless and needy. At least ten times a day I say, “I CAN’T BELIEVE I HAVE TO DO THIS.” (PS Have you ever had to do a bowel preparation? Not fun.) (PSS, Mom sorry if this post is mortifying.)
I would post a picture of this lovely cyst to show you what it looks like, but in reality it looks a lot like an ultrasound with a big black blob in it, not unlike a pregnancy. As soon as people see that photo their brains will immediately go OH LOOK A FETUS. And it’s not. The main difference is that this cyst could explode at anytime causing acute pain and vomiting, and I’d rather not incubate it for nine months only to have to deliver it and take care of it. Fun Scale- about a -2.
I just painted my toenails a fresh coat of gloss because we all know I can’t be layin on some table all unconscious with gross toes. It’s just wrong. The good news is that I will have some time to read a new book (The Uglies). Oh, and the percocet! Bonus.