Endometrial cancer.

There’s nothing like the dreaded C-word to make you sit up and take notice. Suddenly there’s a finish line somewhere up ahead, and you can’t help realizing that you won’t be going around the track forever.

Consulting Dr. Google is a universally bad idea. Mortality rates are always absurdly high in the Worst Case Scenario ward, and the bedside manner is grisly at best. Still, the banner ads are right on target: what a great time to worry about my belly fat and the one weird tip that can make me lose two pounds of it a day! I think I’ll pass on the Aricept, though… this is something I’d really rather forget.

Thinking comparatively is helpful. You can go here to find out whom you’ve outlived:

It’s macabre but interesting: I’ve already passed Judy Garland by 146 days. And if I can lay off the Kool-Aid for just one more month, I’ll be older than Jim Jones. I’d hate to be the chicken salad filling in a Drunken Chanteuse/Egomaniacal Nutjob sandwich. (BTW, I’ve got JFK beat by nearly a year, and Nat King Cole by almost two.)

Of course, there’s nothing about a cancer diagnosis that says I’m going to die anytime soon. Except Dr. Google, and his license is in question. I’m heading up to the Mayo Clinic on Thursday for consultation and more tests. It will be a hysterectomy for sure, but x-ray and CT scans will determine what’s on the dessert cart.

Up until now, the M-word I found most distasteful was “moist.” Now I’m thinking “metastasis” is in the running.


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