Let's see. When last I wrote, I had been told my gallbladder was coming out, one or more of my chick parts may need to go as well and I had the pleasure of having a garden hose shoved up my behind, otherwise known as a colonoscopy.
Since that time I braved the ice and snow and drove to the Big City to visit with Dr. GYN Oncologist. "You may keep your chick parts," she said after studying my sonograms and holograms and various other assorted expensive medical pictures and of course, after making me put my feet in stirrups while she rooted around in my lady business like she had lost something in there.
I can keep my chick parts! Sweet! I love being a girl and I am firmly in favor of ovaries.
"However." Don't you just love that word, Dear Diary? However. Nothing good has ever come after someone says that word.
"However," says the man after he tells you he loves you for the first time. "I am a woman trapped in a man's body."
"However," continued Dr. GYN Oncologist, "I did find a lump in your breast."
Sour! I am even fonder of my girls than I am my ovaries. Nothing against ovaries, but I can't see them in the mirror, they don't make my sweater look cuter, and no guy has ever told me I have bodacious ovaries. Come to think of it, no guy has ever told me I have bodacious boobies either.
Stupid guys.
"Well, seeing as how I am having surgery on the 23rd, I think I'll just wait until after and then I'll go get a mammogram." I don't like having too many things to do in one month. I especially don't like it if one of them is having my boobies squished in a giant boobie squishing machine. (Just a thought here, kids. Why do women have to put their girls in a mechanical device until they are approximately tortilla shaped in the interest of good health, but men get their jewels checked with a physician gently cupping them and asking them to cough? Something is awry here.)
She didn't like my idea very much, so she looked at me sternly and said words that made me throw up a little in my mouth. Needless to say, my mammogram is in the morning...right after I give my other doctor, Dr. Dances With Wolves, more of my blood. Although I can't be sure, I think my doc's are conspiring to clone me. No one needs that much of another person's blood unless there is an evil plot involved.
So, Dear Diary, I did what any woman does when she has had it up to her eyeballs with doctor's and lumps and tests and so on. I went to a salon and had an extreme head makeover. What was once blonde is now the opposite of blonde. With red highlights. And a new cut. I look like I should be wearing a cape and have a hunch-backed slave named Igor.
And that's OK with me. I needed a total and complete change and that's exactly what I got.
The Evil Berta Lou said, "Oh, Sher!" after hearing what I'd done.
My ex-wife-in-law-friend said, "I love it!" in that way only friends will say "I love it!" even though they are sort of certain you have had a tiny stroke.
Deputy Pretty said, "I will love you anyway and I will tell you that you are beautiful when I see it." Of course, that's only after I reminded him that he took a vow to love me in good times and black and red hair times, so help him his gun.
Mr. Man, my beloved, said drooling, "Come here, Baby, but don't tell my wife!"
And speaking of Mr. Man, Dear Diary, I forgot to tell you that his doctor thinks he has ruptured a disk as he is in great pain. He is scheduled for an MRI tomorrow and currently is drugged to his teeth. That explains the drooling. He waits anxiously for four hours to pass so he can have another happy pill. I am witnessing the birth of addiction.
Now back to me.
Because Mr. Man is selfish enough to injure himself in such a dramatic & painful way, I have no idea how I'm getting to the Big City hospital for my surgery next week. I could drive myself there, but I might experience some difficulty driving back the next day. I thought about hitch-hiking, but I'll bet people don't tend to pick up women who look like they might suck all the blood from their bodies. Just a guess.
What is going on around here, Dear Diary? What have I done to bring such a string of unfortunate events to this house? Perhaps the gods are angry with me, or more likely with Mr. Man, and need to be appeased. Wonder where I can find a virgin and a volcano in the Midwest? Do you think a blow up doll and a Hibachi would work in a pinch?
Signed,
Sher
AKA The incredible hollow woman with ovaries.
Copyright © 2004-2007, Sherri Bailey
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