Yesterday I went to the doctor to check on the ovary that tried to kill me because it’s still being an asshole. I asked the doctor (who was very sweet and quite awesome) if she thought it was cancer, and she smiled and calmly reassured me that “it’s not necessarily cancer.” Which seemed very comforting until I was out the door and started analyzing exactly what the hell that meant.
For my own mental health, I’m telling myself that “It’s not necessarily cancer” is the same thing as “It’s not cancer,” but I don’t really believe me because I have anxiety disorder and I suspect I’m just lying to myself to protect me. From myself. I don’t know if that sentence even makes sense, but if it doesn’t I blame the cancer which I may or may not have.
Honestly, I’m not even sure why I paid for that diagnosis. I already knew that I didn’t necessarily have cancer. Who gets a necessary cancer?
“So you have cancer?” “Yes, but it was necessary.” “Oh, good. There’s nothing worse than a frivolous cancer.”
I have to go back this week for more scans. Scans which probably cause cancer. And then the doctor will be like, “Well, the bad news is that all of these x-rays caused you to get cancer, but the good news is that we found the cancer by doing all these x-rays. Yay for us! And it’s a darn good thing that we did all these scans because they were totally necessary to find the cancer that was caused by them.” And I think I just accidentally defined necessary cancer.
Touche, medical science.
You win this round.
PS. Don’t worry. I don’t necessarily have cancer.
PPS. This post is more depressing than I would like it to be so I’m ending it with a picture of myself photo-bombing a picture my friend Chookooloonks took. For those of you who are new here, I’m the one inside the wolf.