The "c" word

Yesterday I held a piece of paper in my hand. On it were my name and the word "cancer".

I have a cyst on my left ovary. Because my doctor would rather give it time to go away by itself than rush me into surgery, she ordered a few blood tests to make sure it is in fact as benign as the sonogram tech seems to think it is. The tech has not wavered in her opinion of what she saw and she's seen it twice now. My doctor has not been in a hurry to get back to me with her thoughts on the sonogram results. There is no reason to think the worst.

But isn't that how the stories always start? Somebody goes to the hospital for appendicitis and finds out they have a tumor. Or bone cancer. I've always been a little morbid; I'm the one who goes right to the archives of a blog whose author has been diagnosed with something terminal (more immediately terminal than just being alive, that is) to get the story from the beginning. Am I looking for something? Some clue from the entries that were just everyday life that portends the fatal blow to come?

It isn't just illness; I analyze the blogs of anyone who dies (I draw the line at MySpace pages - too sparkly and loud). How is it possible that there's no warning - no anvil falling from the sky announcing the next plot twist? How can you wake up one day and just not know that it's the last time you will? But time after time, it's the same going from one day to the next with witty observations or thoughtful meditations until BLAM! Brick wall of diagnosis; sudden high fever; no posts following this post.

I was 36 before my first grandparent died; three years later, I've still never lost anyone who is part of my daily routine (this may have more to do with my not letting anyone get that close than any cosmic protective shield around my beloveds). I have groups of friends I've known for ten and twenty years - that's a long time for everyone to walk around charmed.

I don't like to say it out loud very often, but I figured that was a sign that I would be the one to go first. Like I said, I'm morbid. I remember being convinced when I got my braces put on that I wouldn't live to see them come off. I've always been reluctant to project myself too far into the future (is that why I've never seriously considered parenting?).

And now there's a piece of paper with my name and the word "cancer" on it. Just a precaution, but still it makes me feel - unsure, for the few minutes at a time I let myself ruminate on it.

(Just in case you are someone combing through my archives looking for the sign that everything was about to change.)