Cease and de-cyst

So, for the last decade or so I've had this lump in the back of my right thigh. Okay, it's a cyst... but I hate the word cyst with the white hot passion of a thousand burning suns, and I feel like when people hear "cyst" they will automatically think I have the cooties. Let's be honest, having a cyst is not exactly good game. But saying you have a lump sounds slightly less disgusting, and it implies that whatever it is might be cancerous, which doesn't gross people out as much as it makes them feel bad for you. I know, I know... I'm diabolical.

Anyway, this thing had been growing slowly and ominously for the last several years, and finally my doctor decided they should take it out, just in case.

So on Wednesday, my mom (she DEMANDED to come) drove me to my doctor's office so I could have the surgery. What you have to understand is that my health insurance blows. BLOWS. BUHLOOOWAHS. I am only authorized to see doctors who set up shop in the grungiest, most germ-infested offices: offices that smell of 3-day-old soiled diapers, with carpets that have not been vacuumed EVER, framed (probably forged) licenses askew on the walls, magazines from 1989, and a minimum of 23 screaming, wild children who take turns thrusting their sticky hands into my purse, pulling out items, and handing them to me while their parents nap in nearby chairs.

When they called me into the operating room (after an hour and a half of sitting with the demon-spawn), the nurse said, "Ok, so just undress from the waist up and put this on," indicating a paper half-gown thingy. I stared at her for a full minute before I said, "Sooo... from the waist UP?" She stared back. "Aren't you having something done with your... to your..." and then, very quietly, "breast?" That bitch was gearing up to slice and dice one of my perfectly good hoots! Now it was clear why they had me sign the paper that said: "No matter how badly we fuck you up, you promise not to sue us." These people could not tell their asshole from their elbow.

Finally everyone sorted themselves out, and the surgery seemed to go okay, despite the doctor not giving me enough anesthetic at first. I had to say, "UM, THAT HURTS." Which further deteriorated my wavering confidence in this dude. After several minutes of him digging around back there and me repeating "don't puke" over and over in my head, he triumphantly held up the cyst for me to see. GROSS. It was about the size of those little rubber bouncy balls you had as a kid, and I will spare you the details of what it looked like.

He stitched me up, had me get dressed, and gave me some instructions. AND THEN, in a little plastic jar, inside of a sandwich baggie marked "BIOHAZARD," he gave me back my cyst. What. The. Hell. Apparently, my insurance company, in all of its blow-iness, was too cheap to pay for the doctor to transport my cyst to a lab for testing. So I had to take it to the lab myself. On the way home, I kept picking up my BIOHAZARD, examining it, and then putting it back down in disgust.

My mom said, "Call your dad and tell him that we're on our way. And that we're bringing dinner."

INAPPROPRIATE.