So, I do not have breast cancer.
Joyous, wonderful and downright fantastic news.
I couldn’t be happier about that, truly.
To recap what I completely skipped over, I went to Sally Jobe on Monday and got an ultrasound of my right breast. The doctor had found two little beads of doom and she wanted to have them checked. That’s well and good, but she kept my birth control, because, as I learned, estrogen, found in most birth controls, can accelerate the growth rate of breast cancer.
So, I lost my mind over the weekend, thinking I was probably going to die, and then went into Sally Jobe on Monday. My mom went with me, in case it was bad news, but it was not. They couldn’t even find what the doctor thought she had felt. It was totally just a bad scare.
That brings me to today.
I’ve been off birth control for three weeks now. Week one was expected, because it was Shark Week (shark brains are curiously shaped like female reproductive organs). Week two was after I found out that my script for the Nuvaring was out of refills, and that I needed to see the doctor. Week three has been this week, which has been me trying to get my god damn birth control called in.
All I’ve wanted to do for three mother fucking weeks is eat, fuck, and scream. That’s me without birth control. I was placed on birth control when I was fourteen, because I have a cystic ovary and an enlarged ovary. When I’m not on hormone regulating birth control, I am a god damn loon.
This right here. Perfect illustration of me for three weeks.
I managed, thankfully, to get my pills today. That means, that in TWO WEEKS I will be back to normal. Why does it take a week for hormone weirdness to kick in, but two damn weeks for it to cut the fuck out? Ugh… I hate everything… but I have no cancer… and that’s good.
Now… if only I had a cigarette…