Back in April, after months of problems with severe anemia, an ultrasound technician finally located an actual medical problem. There was a growth that was not a baby in my uterus. Mind you, this was on April 30.

On April 30, I was still a young girl of 40, naive in the ways of modern American medicine. Now that we'd found the culprit, I assumed, all the medical might of my massive, well-respected medical group would rally around me. Together we would don our armor and evict that foul beast! How long could that take? Ten days? A couple of weeks?

I had the good fortune to already have an appointment scheduled with my primary care physician THAT WEEK. Since it takes at least 30 minutes on hold to get an appointment with my doctor four weeks later, I felt like I had scored in a big way. Silly, ignorant me.

I saw my doctor, and she said I'd get a referral in the mail within two weeks. I left with my heart in my throat and decided to work the system. I called a couple of days later to beg for a quicker referral. No Can Do is what I heard, but a couple of days later, the referral came through. Another victory? You'd think, except when I called the specialty clinic with my still-warm-from-the-printer referral, I was told I had to wait four more weeks for the earliest appointment with a specialist. At this point I am beside myself. But since I am beside myself a lot in this story, I am not going to actually dwell here or it's going to get really boring.

Four weeks go by, and I'm happy to arrive at the specialty clinic. I spend 15 minutes with a doctor who tells me I have to come back for a pre-op appointment and then finally get a surgery. Awesome. I will only have to wait a week for that. And on top of that THEY will call ME. No waiting on hold.

Only, when I call later that week for the appointment, because they never call me, I am told I will have to wait at least three weeks for the pre-op because they are totally stacked up. They can't even THINK about when I can come in yet. I start to cry and excuse myself. Oh woe is me (I know, what a baby).

Magically, they call me a couple of days later to tell me that appointments have appeared! I get a pre-op in three days! And surgery two weeks after! I'm walking on clouds. I go to my pre-op. Things are progressing, and I stop visualizing life with two kids and chemotherapy.

On the day of my surgery, I take a day off of work. So does angryhusband. A babysitter is home with the kids. I'm on the table, IV inserted, staring at the ceiling. For four hours. Staring. Listening. Watching post-operative women being wheeled out in tears. Maybe not so enthusiastic anymore. It is getting kind of late. The room is emptying out. Finally I am alone for a really long time. Then I hear footsteps. It's the doctor coming to tell me that we're out of time and I am being bumped.

BUMPED? Am I on an airplane or naked under a sheet with an IV in the arm?? Bumped. I start to lose it, but then I think of this place down the road that makes great margaritas and the fact that a babysitter is in my home, and I perk up, get dressed, and have a nice dinner. The next day I call to get another appointment for the following week. I can do this. I can wait another week.

The night before the surgery, the doctor calls. Am I going to start my period? Why yes I am! Oh. That's bad. No surgery for you. Agony. Pain. Panic! I'm thinking about the head scarves and my inability to paint on eyebrows but also how weird my lady parts are going to look after the chemo. What if the summer clothes I ordered don't fit anymore??

I call again the next day to reschedule my surgery. The grouchy bitch in charge, the one who always makes me feel like a kid in detention, informs me that I have to wait two weeks and not one because all the slots are filled already. I lose it, again, and have to hang up. I am dying. I know it. This was my death warrant. They have basically killed me with inaction. I am going to die, and AngryHusband is going to raise my children Catholic, and his family is going to teach my kids to love Nascar and hate Barack Obama, and they will get pregnant at 16 and never go to college. OH AND THE BAD FASHION CHOICES THEY WILL MAKE! Please god, don't let me die and leave my children to confederate flag bathing suits and shirts with fringe and rhinestones on them. You can see why I sobbed like a baby for a couple of hours after that phone call.

Finally, the day arrived. Yesterday, I was wheeled into the pre-op area again, where I talked to no less than 8 doctors. My hospital is a teaching hospital, but I am happy--nay, honored--to present my aging baby-maker to many fresh-faced medical students to help further their education. The dude in charge, who looked disturbingly like George Takei, except with no sense of humor whatsoever, looked at me and asked, "So, do you have any other questions?" and I thought about it, but the only question I could think of was, "So, does this job ruin sex for you?" I wisely kept quiet.

Next thing I know I was awake with a mask over my face and a completely manageable pain in my uterus. I never got to speak to the surgeon afterward, but apparently a large polyp was removed from me yesterday. I have a picture of it for my scrapbook, if I had a scrapbook. And you'd never guess, but I only have to wait about four weeks for the results of the biopsies. And they'll call ME.