Thanks to a mitzvah from someone whom I've never met, I get an appointment this afternoon with the top gynecological oncologist at the Carol G. Simon Center in Morristown. The Dr. S is refreshingly blunt, saying more or less, despite the clues that this is early stage cancer, these Snooki cells are out to get me. When I ask him what might cause them--hereditary, diet, hormones, reality TV--he said, "Bad luck." My middle name. So I can't blame my parents, Cape Cod potato chips, menopause or "Jersey Shore." Though I'm still going with "Jersey Shore," because, fuck, The Situation and Snooki are a cancer on my home state and they aren't even FROM my home state. Governor Christie, get your mitts out of the arts budget and toss that puttana and cazzone outta there!
Dr. S. says I am taking this surprisingly well. At that moment, all I care about is getting this taken car of without ruining my mother's 80th birthday. Then he says, "From now on, you are a cancer patient. Other people have heartburn, they take an antacid. You come here to see if it's something else."
Daughter, wife, sister, writer, friend poker player, fisherperson, cancer patient. I need new business cards.
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