It's Either Cancer or Nothing; No Biggie

Yesterday, interior, hotter-than-George-Clooney-oncological gyno notices something before he even prods the v-jay-jay.

"What is this on your lymph node?" He points out a bump/mass/cyst on the right side of my neck on the lymph.

"What the fuck? Are you serious?"

I felt it. Squishy, pudgy, moving around, visible to the naked eye and hands. Why hadn't I felt this? Or Chad, who does plenty of work on that area. Or the physical that Schwartz gave me merely six weeks ago? I suppose because it wasn't there six mos ago.

Natch, I freak the fuck out and can't even concentrate on why I'm there—to discuss removal of ovaries. Which—another fabu thing to look forward to—should apparently come out ASAP, since I don't want kids.

"I'm sure it's nothing," Dr. Hottie says compassionately. "You're seeing Schwartz tomorrow so just have him look at it."

"No, dude, you have no idea how I operate," practically jumping off the table naked. "I've got to see Schwartz now. I'll run down the hall to see if he's still there." It's like 5 p.m.+

"Wait, wait, I'll call him."

"Okay."

Tear off the gowns, begin feeling lump obsessively. Run down the hall to Schwartz's before Tangir gets back into the hallway. Tear into the nurses station—they're used to my antics. They're already on the phone talking about me.

I corner one of my lovely nurses:

"Jaunita, feel this, feel it please."

I tear back down the hall, where Tangir is amusedly waiting for me. "I called him. He's on 8 Main. He will wait for you and examine you there."

I arrive on 8 Main—the VIP wing where I had my room after the mastectomy. Head to the nurses station where all the docs are filling out their reports. Hot, youngish doctors—where have they been? I get distracted watching them and wait for Schwartz to finish his reports.

Schwartz calms me down a little. Says it's probably nothing but Mesko needs to do an ultrasound and needle biopsy to make sure. He calls Mesko right away; the nurse calls me back at 7 p.m. last night to tell me to come in tomorrow. I mean, is my team great or what?

Cut to today, int Mesko's office, with Durrett behind the sheet [back in the closet] so as not to see the ladies.

"Well," Doc says while jellying up my neck and doing his thing. "You actually have a lot of lymph node enlargements."

"Meaning?"

"I'm concerned. Someone with your history, yes I'm pretty concerned."

They do the needle biopsy right there, with their Biopsy Gun that feels like a staple shooter going into your neck. Mesko is a very cut-and-dry surgeon. Not an alarmist, but veeerrry hard to read/break down his walls.

So, what? Should I be freaking the fuck out? Bequeathing my jewelry?

"We won't know until Monday and whatever it is we'll take care of it."

"I'm not doing chemo again. I'm not." No fucking way is my Oribe hair going anywhere.

Next, over to Schwartz. "Well, yes, I'm concerned. But it could be a million things. Normal people get these all the time from infections, colds, viruses etc."

"I haven't had a virus, is it possible I have one I don't know about and could just put myself on anti-biotics?"

"Well, yeah, but then you'd have to wait for them to work. This way we'll know Monday afternoon."

Worst-case scenario: Remove lump either radiate the area of take a pill that is the follow-up to Herceptin.

Monday, Monday, Monday—more than 48 hours and how many Klonopins and Seroquels? I'll be texting Melnick to see how many I can take before I become Heath Ledger. So, Monday—either I'm still Cancer free or I'm Cancer-fucked. And natch, yes, I DO think I jinxed myself by boasting of my healthiness, my perfect boobs, my hair.

Fuck you Cancer. Kiss my neck, my ass, my titties, my ovaries and wherever else it is you think you're going. Fuck you. I hate you. You bite.

On the plus, plus, plus side I'm on assignment for ESPN the magazine all-day tomorrow covering this Indy racing/Izod partnership event at the W. So I get to be the girl running around interviewing these famous (hopefully sexy and sweet) fast drivers. I love being out in the field reporting; so much funner than working at home. And ooh, since I'm in need of major retail therapy, I think I just may need a casual chic dress for manana.

So, yes, Bible beaters pray to Jesus for me, my Jews are praying at temple tonight and my spiritualists, send me some good thoughts to India and back.

And I know you guys want to tell me it's nothing, but I freak out about that and think I'll be jinxed, so you can just find a synonym for that word when you comment.

Have you gotten your mammograms yet? Do it before you'll need a needle biopsy, PET scan, Jewish mother driving in to hold your hand and whatever. You know the drill. xoxo