Greetings from The Land of Excruciating Cooters!

Well, not cooter exactly, but certainly close enough. I just really wanted to somehow work the word “cooter” into my opening salutation. So there you have it.

First of all, many heartfelt thanks to everyone who commented, called, wrote, and texted their good wishes! I can honestly say that it has made all the difference, as even a stalwart, peasant class, keep-picking-grapes-and-forging-ahead-despite-a-spear-through-the-side sort of broad like myself can use a cheering from her friends at a terrifying and transitory time like this. I love every single one of you. Yes, even you.

So, after having spent the better part of last week in the hospital, completely whacked on demerol and other various and assorted stultifying narcotics, I am home and awaiting my day of judgment. Thursday afternoon, Gregory and I and my lavish stacks of medical records will be trundling off to one of the world’s most preeminent and highly-esteemed gynecological oncologists, who works out of what is — thanks to the misfortune of one of my greatest heroes, Ms. Gilda Radner, and her determined husband, Gene Wilder — inarguably one of the world’s most preeminent and highly-esteemed medical facilities specifically dealing with cases like mine. It seems that even in my wretchedness, I am blessed. Also, for those who are keeping track, let it not be overlooked that the main reason I married my husband is that he patently reminded me of Mr. Wilder…and who could turn down a lifelong romantic adventure with one Willy Wonka, after all? Not me.

The hospital in which I was ensconced was fine as far as hospitals go — lots of sugarless jello (hurray!) and lots of painful (boo!) yet at the same time pain-relieving (hurray!) shots in the keester. In fact, I got so many shots of demerol in the ass over the course of my stay, that even as I sit here at my very own cozy desk in my very own cozy home, I am completely unable to feel my right buttcheek. I mean, my logical mind knows it’s back there — but I just cannot feel it. It’s rather like having had a root canal on my rectatum dentata…except the dratted anesthetic just won’t wear off. Gregory informs me that it is also rather purplish and bruised in places — sort of like a lovely Sicilian plum.

Well, a Sicilian plum.

Well, a Sicilian.

At any rate, even though I was gratefully sprung from that needle-ridden house of horrors on my own recognizance and am temporarily convalescing here at Toad Hall, I must admit that I am a little fretful regarding what is yet to come — the removal and identification of the ponderous orange that is currently nestled alongside my right ovary, rendering it feckless and not very fun — and, from what I can gather, quite possibly the removal of much more. God knows I am certainly all done having babies, but there is still something mournful about the abrupt and irreversible end to what was inarguably the greatest purpose I shall ever have. I come from a long line of copious breeders who know little else except to fuck, make babies, shoot guns, and eat men like air. As the current situation probably can’t be helped, I suppose I shall simply have to find another vocation.

Regarding a possible diagnosis, there are a few theories floating around as to what it is that ails me, but I will hold off on disclosing or discussing them until after our parley with The Grand Poobah of Toomas when the sun rises upon the field three days from now. Much to my delight, it seems that this guy is pretty well considered the international rock star of such endeavors, seeing that he appears to be the go-to guy for not only celebrities, but royalty, as well. Just think, the same hands that have tickled the girly innards of various dames from the Saudi Royal Family and other members of The Royal Houses of Europe shall be frolicking amongst my very own before too long. It’s all just too exciting to think about!

So, in the end, desperate times call for desperate measures and it looks like it’s time to haul out the hand-mirror, the hedge clippers, the Coast soap, and the refreshingly chilled Jean Nate spritz…for you see, even in the matters gynecological, I aim to impress. Rest assured that when that magic moment arrives and Herr Doktor asks me to put my feet up in the oven-mitt-covered stirrups and to please scoot my butt down to the end of the table, relax, let my legs fall to the sides, and concentrate on the picture of the frolicking kitten taped thoughtfully to the ceiling above me, my cooter shall be golden.

Shantih. Shantih. Shantih.

And amen.