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Perfect CT Scan!
So, with the caveat of I know better than to tempt fate, and I will be going to screenings for as long as they tell me to- I do not have ovarian cancer! Nor do I need to remove anything else, have any more surgery, prepare myself to die in my thirties, etc, at this point in time! I have so much yay about this!
There is so much bullet-dodging in this house. There's unfortunately a few catches too, and occasional wings, but- ye gods, we're just a lightning rod for the weird.
So yeah. Because my insurance ran out (I aged out of my mother's coverage), I got everything I could done at the last second, things I had been putting off for years because copays on the household budget I was given were laughable (and yet people would nag me to do things for myself at the same time I was having to beat my head against the wall to make food and medicine for my elders stretch to next payday). In looking for PCOS and to ensure the IUD I wanted was a good idea, we found the two giant cysts. In hemming and hawing over 'is it *really* necessary' and 'we won't *know* anything until we go in and take a look', I decided to hell with it and took the risk of surgery and a few days' vacation from my 24/7 household job and ohmygodtheyFOUNDsomething. So yeah. Worth it. Scary, but worth the whole reluctant 'I don't want to raise a damn fuss, but it's not supposed to be that bad, I might as *well*...' decision to take the surgery on the teeth and get it over with. Because if I didn't, of course something bad was going to happen and I wouldn't know until it killed me.
And it would have. The difference between 'abnormal' and 'cancer' is speed of growth- and this stuff was slow-growing, but it had the structure of aggressive ovarian cancer, pappilari serrous (sp?), two main tumors and some loose cells in the abdominal wash- and I had no fucking idea. I would not have known a thing about it until it had spread all over the place, switched over to malignant speed, and went off like a bomb.
I'm babbling. Can you really blame me?
Also, Daddy is taking testosterone. His levels were apparently comparable with my Vitamin D levels, that is, where there's normally a range of 200 to 500 he was in the thirties. Low testosterone is apparently also linked with diabetes. So now he's got that, and he's doing his exercises as best he can. He says he's feeling better, I'm noticing a bit less weight on him, and his legs are looking better- the discolored patches are still there, but they're pink instead of purple, and the bubbly flesh is firming up and shrinking a bit. It's all still *there*- and I don't hold out hope for an instantaneous cure that will solve all our problems and free me to have my own life anytime soon- but it's *better*. And anything that's better than what it was, you know, I'll take it.
There is so much bullet-dodging in this house. There's unfortunately a few catches too, and occasional wings, but- ye gods, we're just a lightning rod for the weird.
So yeah. Because my insurance ran out (I aged out of my mother's coverage), I got everything I could done at the last second, things I had been putting off for years because copays on the household budget I was given were laughable (and yet people would nag me to do things for myself at the same time I was having to beat my head against the wall to make food and medicine for my elders stretch to next payday). In looking for PCOS and to ensure the IUD I wanted was a good idea, we found the two giant cysts. In hemming and hawing over 'is it *really* necessary' and 'we won't *know* anything until we go in and take a look', I decided to hell with it and took the risk of surgery and a few days' vacation from my 24/7 household job and ohmygodtheyFOUNDsomething. So yeah. Worth it. Scary, but worth the whole reluctant 'I don't want to raise a damn fuss, but it's not supposed to be that bad, I might as *well*...' decision to take the surgery on the teeth and get it over with. Because if I didn't, of course something bad was going to happen and I wouldn't know until it killed me.
And it would have. The difference between 'abnormal' and 'cancer' is speed of growth- and this stuff was slow-growing, but it had the structure of aggressive ovarian cancer, pappilari serrous (sp?), two main tumors and some loose cells in the abdominal wash- and I had no fucking idea. I would not have known a thing about it until it had spread all over the place, switched over to malignant speed, and went off like a bomb.
I'm babbling. Can you really blame me?
Also, Daddy is taking testosterone. His levels were apparently comparable with my Vitamin D levels, that is, where there's normally a range of 200 to 500 he was in the thirties. Low testosterone is apparently also linked with diabetes. So now he's got that, and he's doing his exercises as best he can. He says he's feeling better, I'm noticing a bit less weight on him, and his legs are looking better- the discolored patches are still there, but they're pink instead of purple, and the bubbly flesh is firming up and shrinking a bit. It's all still *there*- and I don't hold out hope for an instantaneous cure that will solve all our problems and free me to have my own life anytime soon- but it's *better*. And anything that's better than what it was, you know, I'll take it.