At approximately 11:35 a.m., Tuesday, June 21, the first day of summer 2011, I was diagnosed with endometrial cancer. Punchline: I am spectacularly healthy otherwise. It is the most common women's cancer and has a very high cure rate, and mine seems to have been caught early. What seems to be causing the long faces on my gynecologists is that my cancer cells are what they call Grade 3--very aggressive aberrations that can show up anywhere. Ironic, considering that my own aggression level generally hovers between stoned (Willie Nelson) and comatose (the late Terry Schiavo, buon'anima).
After the diagnosis, I exchanged a phone car charger at Staples, phoned around frantically for a consultation with gynecological oncologist and went to my monthly poker game in Manhattan. Won 25 cents.
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