Poked, Prodded, Scanned, Examined.

In the past 10 days I have had 5 medical appointments.

I’ve had needles stuck into my veins twice, wands inserted into my vagina twice, been face down inside a giant magnet, and had 2 doctors casually mention that if we’re hoping to have another baby we should do it ASAP (tick tick tick) because my ovaries should undoubtedly come out within the next 1.5 years.

That’s seems like an awful lot for someone who isn’t “sick”.

Transvaginal ultrasound results were normal…follicular cysts, but nothing suspicious. CA-125 result was 13. Also “normal”.

And now I’m sitting here, my stomach in knots, waiting for hear about my MRI.

“You’ll have your results in 24 to 48 hours,” the friendly MRI tech told me. “Best of luck with everything”. In my heightened anxiety I overanalyze everything. What does he mean best for luck? Did he see something? I come home and my spouse reminds me of a Marc Maron joke with nearly identical content. Marc thinks he has  brain tumor and the MRI tech tells him to “take care”…he hears this as proof that he’s dying. I always thought of Marc Maron as my husband’s spirit animal…maybe he’s mine too.

It’s now been about 45 1/2 hours. Waiting. Imagining the worst case scenario, no matter how unlikely it is. Knowing in the back of my mind that false positives are common on MRIs, bracing myself for this, but fearing it nonetheless.

I woke up this morning feeling sick. A somatic manifestation of my anxiety. The grey sky and steady driving rain makes it feel like the atmosphere is empathizing. I don’t really have much more to say today, just needed to put some of this waiting anxiety down on paper, hoping it helps me survive the next few hours. And if there’s no word on results by the 47 1/2 hour mark, you better believe I’m making a phone call. I don’t want another night of restless anxiety dreams.

The night after my MRI I dreamt that I had cancer and was in chemo sitting beside Eleven from Stranger Things.  We’ll just leave it at that.

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