Upstairs Forgotten

I begrudgingly went back to the doctor today. Unfinished business from the physical ten days ago. The appointment was simple. Feet in the stirrups and slide down. You know the drill and know exactly what I’m talking about. I wasn’t expecting much. Routine as routine can be until…blood. A whole lot of it. My doctor glances up, concern on her face. I can’t meet her eye or ask what it means, but I can feel blood drip to the floor. Remembering that “Ten questions to ask your doctor” commercial I take a stab, “What is it?” I’m sure that’s not one of the ten questions, being so vague and all, but I need to ask anyway before fear strangles me to death. Doc is slow to answer. “I’m not sure…” What follows is a foreign language with words I recognize, “cervix, blood clots, bleeding, old blood.” She pulls away from me with blood stained gloves and throws something away. I can only turn my head when she asks me to sit up. I am disbelieving and sluggish. There are more words, “ultrasound, blood work, more tests…” She admits that she couldn’t find my right ovary. What do you mean “couldn’t find it?” I wanted to scream. How does one lose an ovary?

That wasn’t the only thing she would lose. Doc wants to check the lumps in my breast. It’s been ten days since she first found them. With expert hands she relocates the first lump within seconds. She seems satisfied to have found it so quickly and points out its location to me. For a brief flicker of second I think I can tell what she was feeling. After much pressing and searching Doc admits she couldn’t find the second lump. Had two lumps become one? Had one simply gone away?  In truth, I could care less. All this worry about downstairs is making me forget about upstairs.

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