Much Ado About Nothing

There once was a Girl.

Girl met Boy, fell in love, married. Girl had baby, like, 11 months later.

Girl's mother had breast cancer, lumpectomy and radiation, and got a clean bill of health.

Girl's doctor felt a lump during a breast exam, and doctor sent Girl to breast surgeon for further feeling up. Surgeon recommended mammogram just for safety. Girl became anxious. Girl worried about her husband and baby.

Girl was fine. Breasts were pronounced 'bumpy-lumpy,' but spectacular and healthy.

Girl and Boy had another baby. Life was rough, but good. Spectacular breasts were put to spectacular use, feeding new baby with delicious milk.

When baby is six weeks old, Girl's mother is diagnosed with Stage III colon cancer. Girl is ever so frozen, unable to help mother, unable to do anything but breastfeed and not sleep. Girl's mother goes through surgery and 6-months of chemo. Girl's mother gets another clean bill of health. No evidence of disease.

One day, when baby was around 17 months old, Girl went to use potty during a sacred naptime. Lots of blood came out of Girl's rear. Like a bowl full. Bright, red blood. Girl was alarmed. She had pooped blood.

Girl called doctor. Doctor suggested calling a gastroenterologist, which Girl did, quickly. Gastroenterologist took Girl's medical history, and recommended a colonoscopy. Girl went through hideous prep, pooped herself while nursing toddler in the middle of the night, had terrible migraine from fast and no caffeine, and got successfully probed up the tush. Girl's colon was pronounced beautiful and healthy.

On the way home from colonoscopy, Girl is driven to McDonald's by relieved Boy and orders medium #2 with Coke.

So Girl is healthy, vital, well...but family history and two brushes with 'maybe' leave her anxious. Skittish. Uneasy. Mistrustful of her own body.

And when Girl experiences a prolonged bout of abdominal discomfort, she knew what cancer could fit that bill. The ovaries, those little sacs filled with gleaming pearls, could be rebelling within. The Girl's midwife seemingly confirms her fears, noting the right ovary isn't as smooth as the left, saying, "I feel something here."

The ultrasound tech presses down on the girl's full bladder, moving, shifting. Girl recollects lying there before, seeing her babies' first images in gray and black on the screen beside her. Boy has dropped her off, taking the children to dinner to occupy them.

The technician tells Girl that her anatomy is beautiful, that nothing appears wrong, but that the radiologist will confirm this. Girl wishes there was a beauty contest for innards, because maybe she'd win some prize money.

The technician says that a manual exam can sometimes catch a piece of intestine, especially if the bowels are full.

Girl thinks, instantly, What you're telling me is that I'm officially full of shit.

$80.00 later, Girl is sheepish. Feeling idiotic and alarmist. Boy seems irritated, not relieved. Girl is irritated with Boy's irritation. Boy tells Girl to ditch midwives and get a gynecologist. Girl is silent during the car ride home.

Later, Girl and Boy kind of have it out. Boy admits that Girl's habit of being fearful with her health is somewhat annoying. Boy says, My knee has been creaking for 10 years and I still haven't seen someone about it. Girl says, You don't even have a regular doctor! Boy says, Exactly! We have different approaches to our health. I'm one extreme, and you're the other.

Girl wonders quietly if next time, she should wait until she inexplicably loses 25 pounds and turns yellow before calling a doctor. If that would be more Boy's style.

But then Boy admits to the rollercoaster, of having imagined in the brief whirlwind, losing the Girl, and so Girl sees this for what it is, and how it tumbles out.

Boy and Girl make up, make tea, and sit on the couch for the rest of the evening. Healthy, well, alive.

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Wait, just wait, until you hear my theory on what has actually been the problem. You're going to poop yourself laughing. But that's gonna have to be for another time. Gwen, you were right on the money.