File under "Body, Continued Malfunctioning Of"

So. As it turns out, the f*cking cyst was never actually a f*cking cyst; it was a f*cking tumor. Something called a borderline malignancy. Now I don't know about any of you, but I don't typically like to hover anywhere near the borderline of things labeled malignant. So you'll understand, I hope, why I have not yet mailed out invitations to the party celebrating this particular diagnosis.

Borderline tumors of the ovary, when they are truly just that and truly contained to just the ovary, are unobtrusive little fellows and almost never create any further problems once they've been removed. They can, however, come back, and they can spread, and they can (not commonly, but sometimes) turn into full-on cancer. The generally accepted treatment, as you'll see noted in the WebMD link above, is surgical removal of the tumor and/or ovary and staging/biopsies of surrounding tissue.

Hey! Guess what Dr. Furry, having assumed the grapefruit-sized mass in his hand was a benign cyst until subsequent pathology reviews completed by his peers AFTER I WAS ALREADY SEWN BACK UP came back otherwise, didn't do? If you guessed "take even half of a glance at anything other than the ovary he hacked out of my body," you win!

At my post-surgery followup exam, Dr. Furry shared this news with me as if he were informing me that the breakfast counter was out of blueberry muffins, and would I consider a lemon poppyseed instead? He was all "you probably have nothing to worry about -- just be vigilant about getting your annual exams." Naturally I went home and promptly applied for an NSF grant to fund the 24/7 internet research I was to conduct for the next solid week. The husband and I, armed with the best PDFs that a liberal arts professor's academic database subscriptions can buy, then went back in for a second appointment to ask Dr. Furry some questions, at which time Dr. Furry was all "children, please, I am a Medical Professional and you cannot surpass my knowledge with google-searching," and we were all "BAM, jerk, do you want to go over the stuff from Hopkins first or would you rather start with these 17 PubMed articles?" For half the concerns we brought up, he could offer little more than a shrug. So we got a referral to an oncologist for a second opinion.

Apparently, the approach to managing this kind of tumor is controversial. Lots of women get complete hysterectomies. Other women just get the tumor removed and hope for no recurrence. What's key, though, in determining what approach to take is doing a complete exploration of what's going on inside, taking bits of tissue from a bunch of places and testing them for signs of spread. Which Dr. Furry didn't do. Because he thought it was a benign cyst.

Fast forward to this part Tuesday, when we drove an hour to the fancy cancer center -- which I'm pretty sure is the official Saddest Place On Earth. Everyone there was very kind, but really: what a hideous, awful place. I want to cry when I think about how familiar some of those patients seemed to be with the hallways and waiting rooms. Anyway, long story short: oncologist looked horrified that I had been told simply getting my annual exam would be an acceptable approach to handling the situation. She's ordering another review of my pathology and running some other tests. Apparently Dr. Furry ruptured the tumor while operating (what - did I forget to mention that? Maybe that's because SO DID HE) which also could complicate the situation. She wants to do another surgery, this time to take all those tissue samples that Dr. Furry should've taken, as well as to remove my appendix -- which is often linked to the particular type of borderline tumor I had.

I had a CT scan this morning, one of the tests the oncologist ordered. Because apparently cancer doctors like to subject you to procedures that, you know, give you cancer. Call it job security. The dude administering the scan was young and ridiculously attractive, and I was all "awesome, so happy I haven't shaved my legs for two weeks," but then I stopped caring when I learned that Hot Radiation Doctor was also Doctor Who Thinks He Knows How To Put In An IV But Totally Doesn't And Has Tiny Testicles That Keep Him From Calling An ER Nurse Until He Has Made The Patient Suffer Through Three Failed Attempts. This bastard sucked. And of course, after failed attempt #2, I started Ugly Crying, because that's just what I do. By the time Anna the ER nurse arrived I was covered in snot and she was visibly annoyed by me and all that I stood for. But she got the IV in in about 3 seconds so I honestly wouldn't have cared if she had openly mocked me and broadcast it via webcam.

I go back to the oncologist in a couple of weeks and we have to decide whether or not to do the second surgery. After which time I had better be in for some serious spans of nothing-to-report. I know there are tons of people dealing with much worse situations than this, but a pain in the ass always seems like the HUGEST pain in the ass when it's your own ass that's pained. Put that in a Hallmark card and sell it.