The good new is that it's Stage 1. The bad news is that it's cancer. The really interesting thing is that it should have been discovered last year when I had health insurance but it wasn't. It had to found by accident while using government run healthcare courtesy of the VA. I knew something was up when the doctor came out to greet me himself.
Depending on whether the only gynecological oncologist in town will treat me at the VA determines whether or not I have to go to San Francisco. The minimum amount of time that I will be hospitalized is 2 -3 days for a laparoscopic surgery or a week for full abdominal surgery. I haven't a clue as to what to do with Mom. I haven't told her because there is no point in getting her upset over something she can't do anything about, but I really can't leaver her alone for days worrying about me and if I'm coming back. If I have to put mom in respite care, I still have to worry about the dogs.
I'm more resigned than scared, it just follows the pattern of my life. I find circumstances I'm happy with and something unexpected smacks me upside the head. As Baz Luhrmann so helpfully pointed out, worrying is about as useful as trying to solve algebra problems by chewing bubblegum. The things you worry about never happen and then you get blindsided by something that never crossed your mind.
The survival rate for uterine cancer is 84.4 percent. Unless you're black, in which case it's 61.8 percent. You have no idea how much I'm hoping I get my health from my mom.