I had mentioned to you recently here, dear reader, that surgery was in my near future. I was so sure that I was planning for it: making arrangements to have my mom come stay with me, scheduling leave from work, lamenting over having to miss a semester of classe de Espanol. Ugh.
The surgery was needed because I found out that I have a cyst inside my uterus. And this non-cancerous, golf ball-sized interloper is causing me grief. I learned of its existence by happenstance really - the cause and effect modus operandi was more like, A Funny Thing Happened on my Way to the Forum, if you will. I wanted to remove this thing – after all, who wants an intruder inside their uterus? Okay, don’t answer that. This is primarily an erotic blog, after all.
La doctora numero uno expressed concern; telling me that yes, she could remove this golf ball, but because of its location – I would have to essentially be ripped open.
“Um…what…? No teeny-tiny incision just under the belly button, kinda-quicky recovery?”
Surgery was a large, steely, sharp and dangerous instrument skulking about my nether region. Fear struck me fast and furiously. Let’s be honest here, not only did I not want to have surgery, but I really, really didn’t want to have surgery on my soft and sensitive body parts; cutting into layers and layers of delicious tissue that I’ve grown rather fond of - and that have been doing just fine for years. Yikes!
No call back to schedule this nightmare after being promised a no later than date. That date passes.
I find myself increasingly irritated with the fact that I’m pursuing something I don’t really want to begin with…and this is when the light bulb went on…um, over my head. And I don’t know about any of you, but I take light bulbs going on without electrical switches as a sign.
I suppose it was luck that the administrative office of la doctora numero uno was a complete disorganized debacle. So much so, that I started to have second thoughts. I seriously envisioned my uterus falling through the cracks and finding its way into someone else’s 8.5 x 11 manilla folder - lost forever. Yikes!
Before too long, fear was replaced with doubt. More doubt ensued. And then logic kicked in.
“Hello logic. Where ya’ been, buddy?”
Soon I found my normal credulous nature had become increasingly skeptical of the medical office’s lack of organizational skills. Logic convinced me to get a…wait for it…second opinion. Someone I know recommended another doctor: enter el doctor numero dos.
“He works at the Clinic, he sits on the board, he’s really good, I highly recommend him….”
Okay, I’m convinced. I call and make an appointment; not leaving out any of the sordid details to the poor woman that answered the telephone.
More time passes as I hurry up and wait for my scheduled visit. The day arrives, which was actually just last Friday. Expecting the worst, I came prepared: I sat in the doctor’s office waiting room with a book on quantum physics –I needed something to keep my mind occupied – an escape hatch to another world perhaps, while I waited for what I thought would be a long time. Much to my surprise, only five minutes passed before the nurse called my name: a good sign. I was escorted into see el doctor numero dos within minutes after I’d given the nurse my vagina’s detailed history – this took a minute…but I digress. El doctor numero dos gave me six, yes six different options for the insidious, free-loading golf ball. The last and the least recommended option in his opinion was…wait for it…surgery.
Suffice to say, I’m electing for the least invasive option to manage my golf ball, which means no surgery is on the horizon anytime soon for this pussy cat.