The New Normal

“Overall, your health is excellent,” my internist says.

I puff my chest like a peacock on parade.

“There’s just one little area next to the ovaries I’d like to check. It’s probably a scar left by a cyst, but let’s just be sure. Let’s schedule an ultrasound.”

My doctor ordered an abdominal CT scan last week to check my aging bladder. The report tells me about all the many things I don’t have. Lymph nodes - normal. Adrenals (not sure what they are) - normal. My liver - normal.

My spleen is normal. I don’t have an aortic aneurysm (whew!). My bladder is well distended and normal.

If I were a peacock, my tail feathers would dazzle and shine. I should get a prize for my outstanding health. Walking to my car, I do a little happy dance.

I strut into the ultrasound the following week. The nice tech rubs cool gel on my tummy and slides what looks like a microphone across it.

She presses harder. “Hmmm,” she says.

She pushes as if she’s trying to move something aside. “Hmmm,” she says again. “I can’t quite see it.”

“See what?”

“Just trying to get a good view,” she says half to herself.

“Of what?” My voice shakes.

“The ovary,” she says. Lifting the microphone, she rubs the gel off my tummy. “That will have to do.”

Well, that’s it, I think as I pull up my pants. I have ovarian cancer. I just know it.

I shuffle into my doctor’s office the next day to discuss results. She whisks into the room, handing me the report. My hand trembles.

“You’re good,” she says. “No more tests.”

Because I’m going to die.

“It’s fine. We could see enough.”

Enough cancer to kill a horse.

She smiles and nods at the report, pointing to the results.

RIGHT OVARY: The right ovary is obscured by bowel gas.

LEFT OVARY: The left ovary is obscured by bowel gas.

I have to switch doctors.