Wednesday morning Dr. Ash stopped by and told me that I had to do another MRI with dye to be able to get a clearer picture of the cyst. My heart began to race and I told her I didn't think I could do it. She then offered me Xanax. Most like would probably jump at that offer, but I cannot stand the feeling it gives me. Instead, they gave me something lighter. Apparently not light enough, I passed out and jerked myself awake. Not good for an MRI, but I kept it quiet.
She then told me I was going to have a paracentesis. In a nutshell: some kind of doctor came in and jammed a huge needle in my stomach region and pulled out weird brown juice. Sorry, that's gross - but sometimes shit is gross.
Finally, in the early afternoon, Dr. Ash arrived and delivered some news that could have been terrifying for people who know about ovarian cancer. She said, Dr. LyBarger looked at the images and it's more than likely cancer.
I sat there. On the bed. No expression.
She asked, "are you going to be okay?" I could tell by her demeanor that it hurt to tell me the news.
I answered, "Yeah, I don't know what to think." To which she responded, "I'm sorry."
Sorry. There was nothing to be sorry for, but I appreciated her calmness in the moment. I felt compassion for all the times she's probably had to deliver heart-wrenching news.
I sat alone in my hospital room, on the bed, no thoughts.
Then I proceeded to do the one thing technology affords us: I googled it.
The first post I read, "ovarian cancer is typically called the silent killer." Great.
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