fucking. call. please.

Okay, I’m extremely hyperfocused at the moment–focused completely on waiting for my damn cellphone to ring. A week ago today my gynecologist took a great whopping chunk out of my cervix in the lovely shape of a cone. That particular joyous event is called a ‘cold cone biopsy’. No, they don’t do anything fancy or freezy–they just don’t use any heat to stop the bleeding. If they use cauterization they call that a LEEP–same shit, different tools. I don’t get to have sex for 6 weeks (5 now bitches *wink*) and I get to look forward to ‘passing’ stitches (seriously? my dog gets dissolving stitches and we haven’t figured that shit out for humans yet?).

Yesterday I called the office because I had to know…were there any results? Yep, there were and they are still right there and I can’t have a copy because the doctor hasn’t looked at them yet….well, hell. Luckily they thought I was being funny when I told them that Dr. T was acting too needy. But give me my fucking results you useless asshats. *deep breath* they are doing their jobs etc. etc. etc. but I want to know….how far has the cancer spread?

It’s a fair goddamned question, no?

You all know I have spent more time than should be legally allowed searching all possible results–at this point I could probably interpret anyone’s cervical biopsy.

Wanna know what else I keep thinking about? huh? do ya? My mother, not the good one, the one less-than-lovingly known as Lurleen’s Mom (long story–involved white trash party names and lots of hilarious chats with friends) asked me if I lost weight because of the cancer.

well, fuck. I don’t think so. But hell–maybe?

So, I am a wee bit wound up today. Feel like an overstretched rubber band!

May I have my results please?

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