All I want for Christmas.

When your entire life is turned upside down, all your goals are put on hold. As is everything you've worked for. Every laugh and smile doesn't feel right. Every time you answer the question "how are you?" with "fine" is a lie. Any sort of positive, constructive distraction doesn't last - and doesn't work. Looking into the eyes of the people who you love, and who love you, fills you with dread...because you simply don't know what the near future holds for all of you.

This is how being told "you have a 5cm complex, solid cyst on your left ovary" feels. The invasive testing, the weeks and weeks and weeks of waiting for further testing, the pain, the blood, sweat and tears, looking 6 months pregnant even though you're losing weight, having to apply more and more make up each day simply to make yourself look as well as you can because you look that sick. The sleepless nights, the knowledge that your family feel as helpless and scared as you do. The effort it takes to act like everything is OK in a vain attempt to keep everyone around you calm. The uncertainty. Imagine all of that, and then imagine how that feels when you're holding your baby boy in your arms as he smiles up at you, like you're the most important thing in his little world.

There are many things this could be. PCOS, Endometriosis, some sort of benign cyst. Then of course there's the possibility that it's something more serious. Cancer runs rampant in my family. My aunty is currently fighting breast cancer, my own mother beat Cervical Cancer 17 years ago. While I am hoping that I'll be lucky and this cyst will some how magically disappear, I'm also realistic enough to know that these sort of cysts rarely go away on their own and I'll most likely need it removed and then sent for a biopsy. So even after the damn thing is out, there will no doubt still be waiting involved.

Positive thinking helps - to a point. I have learnt over the last few weeks that there is a difference between positive thinking and deluding yourself into a false sort of hope. I've had many ultrasounds in my time, but I'll never forget the last one. I'll never forget the way that technician stopped talking and joking around with me so suddenly when she obviously saw what she saw before giving me that generic, almost practised "nothing to worry about" smile. I'll never forget my GP badmouthing the local hospital and how slow they were at even categorising me, let alone making an appointment for me. I'll never forget the 3 strangers in 1 week who asked me "how long do you have to go?" thinking I was pregnant. I'll never forget the way this feels. It's like walking around in the dark not knowing where the light switch is - and knowing that the light switch has quite a big chance of being broken. There are only so many times I (and others) can tell myself that everything will be OK before it starts sounding more and more unlikely after every bloody doctors visit.

Now, I'm getting this off my chest here because;

1) There may be other women out there who google complex ovarian cysts and this blog post may help them to feel like they're not alone in feeling the way they do.

2) I need to get this out somewhere. It's easier to vent online than it is to anyone in real life.

3) To educate those who find humour in this situation (I won't name names) that this, in fact, really isn't funny. How would you feel if you were sick and scared if someone made fun of you? if someone made jokes about it? How would you feel if someone/s thought your life being in utter limbo and on hold was somehow amusing? How would you feel (being scared as a partner and a parent) if someone made tasteless jokes at your expense during the most frightening time of your life? Think about it.  It's not funny. To think it is, makes you sicker than I am. The person this is directed at probably won't even read this blog entry but if he does, maybe he'll think twice next time. Plus it felt good to finally write that somewhere.

While I'm not allowing myself to be delusionally hopeful, I am optimistic. I do believe in the power of positive thinking. I know my chances of having this thing disappear are not good, but I'm still hopeful it might. I'm even more hopeful that if I do require surgery that I'll hear those magic words "it's benign" soon after the operation. In fact that's all I want for Christmas this year, those two magical, wonderful, happy words which would mean I could have my life back.