Recently I was diagnosed with endometrial cancer, or uterine cancer. Until now I have had only cursory knowledge of my insides, and as soon as I had to start telling friends and family members, I was bombarded with questions that I could barely answer. Over the past week I’ve learned so much, and rather than relay that information over and over again to concerned loved ones individually, I thought I’d just publish it here and save myself some phone calls.
What is the diagnosis, exactly?
The doctors tell me I have cancer inside my junk.
Inside your uterus?
Yes. Or, if you don’t like the word “uterus” you could say my vagina has throat cancer.
That’s not much better.
Then let’s just say I have the C-word (Cunt-disease).
How do they know, exactly?
Well, they went in with a camera and took some photos that showed a lot of white noise, some blobs, a shoe, an old tire and some license plates. There’s a lot of nonsense going on in there. They did a biopsy, and found that some of the blobs are tumors (and some of the license plates are Jewish!).
Is the cancer also in your ovaries or cervix?
It’s hard to tell until they get in there, so they’re just going to take it all. One big clearance sale, from the waist down.
So you won’t be able to have babies, then?
I am going to save so much money on abortions.
Did you plan on having kids?
No, I specifically planned on not having them. But apparently not giving birth is one of the causes of uterine cancer.
Yeah, the uterus has a pretty firm “use it or lose it” policy. You don’t have kids, you could get cancer; you do have kids, you could get kids. I guess you have to pick your poison.
Well, you don’t need it, so I guess it’s not so bad to give it up.
Yeah, except that it’s fucking mine and I wanted it.
You know when you’re a kid and you have a stupid toy that you never play with, and then some other kid wants to play with it and all of a sudden that is the only toy you want?
So, I don’t want some other kid playing with my uterus. I made it. It’s mine.
But it’s full of cancer.
Yes. Right. So now, I guess I’m done with it.
When do they take it out?
My doctor said to go ahead with my summer plans and he’d get to it after that.
So it’s not urgent…
Not super urgent, no.
So this isn’t that bad, then.
I mean, it could be worse.
Yes, of course it could be worse. Everything can always be worse. That doesn’t change the fact that I’m going to go through goddamn menopause at age 39.
What does that mean?
It means that on any given day, the imbalance of hormones in my body could cause me to murder the shit out of anyone I see. It means that sweating, which I have purposely avoided my whole life, will just… happen. It means I’ll have to be on the pill, that I’ll have to quit smoking, and that I’ll be legally required to buy mom jeans, get a perm, join a book club and use the word “pocketbook”.
Or I’ll just eat ice cream and cry. I don’t really know, actually.
And will you also have to undergo radiation or chemotherapy?
Probably. They say they won’t know until they operate, but I think they just don’t tell you until it’s over so they don’t overwhelm you. I’m trying to stay positive. Like, maybe it will help with my diet.
Oh yeah, how’s that going?
Fantastic. I’m about to lose about five pounds of organs.
What goes into the space where your uterus used to be?
Styrofoam packing peanuts.
Are you going to get a second opinion before the surgery?
Good idea. I would hate to have my junk removed, only to find out that what I really had was “cankles.”
Have you told your friends and family about what’s going on?
Not all of them. This should just about cover it.
Any words of advice?
Sure. Don’t get cancer. If you do, try to be Caucasian–odds of survival are higher.
Stay healthy, be white. Anything else?
Have good health insurance, build a supportive network of friends, and blog about it. You’ve never been shy about letting people into your genital area before, so why start now?