Ovarium Scarium

Tell a girl in her mid-fifties she should have had her ovaries removed when she had her uterus removed, and a wan look takes over the face. Not again, not another cutting on me. This one then has to be the death knell for me.

I hate surgery. Most of all, I hate shivering alone waiting for the anesthesiologist to ask me who I am for the fourth or fifth time and asking me why I am there at the hospital. I was trembling so before the first surgery that I had them send for a minister who has an office at the hospital to hold my hand and pray over me. I was that scared.

Turning my fate over to the professionals has always been scary, but to have to turn over my consciousness to professionals who are perfect strangers to me is the hardest.

I felt they were going to kill me. I didn't think any of this would do any good. So last February, Valentine's Day, it was, I was 50% right. They didn't kill me. But it didn't do any good.

I still need to be opened up. This time because my ovary on the left overreacted I think, to the tumor on the right hand side of my uterus insisting on being removed and disected. No, it was the Dr, no, three of them, that insisted. So now the ovary is besot with cysts. My left one four times larger than my right.

I will soon go under and hand over my body, my fate, to the Doctor.

They say I don't need this stuff anyway. Gee, I thought I did.

But that's another story. Well, at least I am not writing about Peyton Manning this time. And there is a cute boy in a wheelchair here that says Mt. Auburn Hospital on the back. I think it will be o.k. to talk to him. Perhaps he likes to blog as well.

Best wishes to all except Peyton Manning. He doesn't need my best wishes. He has his Super Bowl ring after all, and the way he snarled at those two poor boys Jimmy Kimmel hired away from American Idol, well, it just let me in on the real Peyton Manning. He wasn't there to be kind to them, you just could tell. So much for the egocentric sports heroes. Enough said.

Kath