Squick Alert:
If you are particularly squeemish about medical stuff, or in any way
upset that I'm discussing my Lady Business in a relatively public way,
then maybe you should stop reading and go do something else.
On Doctor Amy's recommendation I get short-listed to see Doctor Justin. I do a little pre-visitstalking research and learn that his specialty is Cancer in Female Reproductive Organs, he comes highly recommended and won some kind of "Best Of..." Magazine award last year. I'm fairly confident that I'm going to get great care.
I show up at his office, fill out the forms, wait around awhile and then get ushered into the examining room. There is the usual ominous tray of gyn spelunking tools, several posters of lady parts and an assortment of cancer pamphlets, cancer books, cancer yoga class flyers and cancer hotline numbers. "Holy crap," I think, "I really have the cancer."
Instantaneous thought avoidance kicks in and I focus on some mysterious medical device that has been shrouded in an incongruous, brightly colored fabric printed with day-glo flip-flops. Really? Flip-flops? Who thinks up this stuff? Oh, I think what the world needs is more neon green and pink flip-flop fabric. Then who decides it belongs in the lady-part cancer office? Yeah, cause what I want to be thinking about as they calmly discuss my lady cancer is the effing beach.
Finally I meet Dr. Justin and his scared-looking intern. One of the really traumatic parts about getting old is noticing that your doctors are a lot younger than you are. Dr J looked like he'd be more comfortable doing jello shots at a frat party than performing hysterectomies, but I decide we're going to get along just fine. They ask a bunch of questions, get my family medical history back to 1889 and perform yet another pelvic exam - first by the Terrified Intern then repeated by Dr.Doogie Justin. By the way, this is for the fellows - you have all my sympathy for your annual prostate check. I haven't had a "Turn your head an cough" exam in many years and had forgotten how surprisingly unpleasant they are. Dr. J at least had the good grace to apologize.
After all the poking, scraping and palpitating is over I get dressed and go over to his sit-down office to discuss a treatment plan. He hastily swipes a packet of Peanut M&M's into his desk drawer as I come in. Freaking adorable, but it doesn't exactly make him seem older. He says that from all appearances I have Stage 1 Cervical Cancer and that he wants to do a cone biopsy right away to get a more accurate diagnosis. Then in 6 to 8 weeks after the inflammation has subsided, he'll do a hysterectomy. Depending on how far the cancer has spread, it will be either a simple or radical hysterectomy. They may even use the hysterectomy surgery robot. He doesn't think I'll need any chemo or radiation.
OK, this guy has said he's going to carve out a thumb sized chunk of my cervix, later remove one of my most favorite organs completely and all I can think is "Oh thank the Little Baby Jesus, I get to keep my hair!" Good to know my priorities are as clear as ever.
On Doctor Amy's recommendation I get short-listed to see Doctor Justin. I do a little pre-visit
I show up at his office, fill out the forms, wait around awhile and then get ushered into the examining room. There is the usual ominous tray of gyn spelunking tools, several posters of lady parts and an assortment of cancer pamphlets, cancer books, cancer yoga class flyers and cancer hotline numbers. "Holy crap," I think, "I really have the cancer."
Instantaneous thought avoidance kicks in and I focus on some mysterious medical device that has been shrouded in an incongruous, brightly colored fabric printed with day-glo flip-flops. Really? Flip-flops? Who thinks up this stuff? Oh, I think what the world needs is more neon green and pink flip-flop fabric. Then who decides it belongs in the lady-part cancer office? Yeah, cause what I want to be thinking about as they calmly discuss my lady cancer is the effing beach.Finally I meet Dr. Justin and his scared-looking intern. One of the really traumatic parts about getting old is noticing that your doctors are a lot younger than you are. Dr J looked like he'd be more comfortable doing jello shots at a frat party than performing hysterectomies, but I decide we're going to get along just fine. They ask a bunch of questions, get my family medical history back to 1889 and perform yet another pelvic exam - first by the Terrified Intern then repeated by Dr.
After all the poking, scraping and palpitating is over I get dressed and go over to his sit-down office to discuss a treatment plan. He hastily swipes a packet of Peanut M&M's into his desk drawer as I come in. Freaking adorable, but it doesn't exactly make him seem older. He says that from all appearances I have Stage 1 Cervical Cancer and that he wants to do a cone biopsy right away to get a more accurate diagnosis. Then in 6 to 8 weeks after the inflammation has subsided, he'll do a hysterectomy. Depending on how far the cancer has spread, it will be either a simple or radical hysterectomy. They may even use the hysterectomy surgery robot. He doesn't think I'll need any chemo or radiation.
OK, this guy has said he's going to carve out a thumb sized chunk of my cervix, later remove one of my most favorite organs completely and all I can think is "Oh thank the Little Baby Jesus, I get to keep my hair!" Good to know my priorities are as clear as ever.
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