I Got a Hernia Proving I Don't Need a Dude!

So over Mother's Day weekend, I had pretty much decided I'm going to leave. Move home. Leap, net, whatever. Just shake it up and get out of Sacramento. Save yourself before you get too comfortable and the 118 degree weather moves in. But once again--someone upstairs has a really hysterical sense of humor.

For several months now, I've had this pain above my belly button. First I thought I over-twisted in yoga. But it wasn't going away. Did I go to the doctor's however? nope. Figured--could be my appendix? Dad and my sister both had one blow. Then a couple weeks ago--the pain that was just a pin poke every few days--suddenly was constant. So I went in.

That's when I heard the wonderful news I may be marching down my mother's path to middle-age potpourri of health issues--starting with my gallbladder. At least that's what the doctor said. Maybe just gallstones. So I signed up for the ultrasound. Now -- those who know me, may say I'm a bit of a hypochondriac. Who comes from a very long line of proud hypos. But I'm not the type to run to the doctor every time I get a pain. Quite the opposite. I hate doctors. Especially mine. I picked him out of a book when I moved to Sac. His office is decorated with a plethora of drug company paraphernalia--clocks, calendars, a plastic uterus--and my personal fave--the patient table draped in Viagra paper--for your protection.

Meanwhile back at the ultrasound..."Nope. Your Gallbladder looks fine!" Great. Not ready to become my mother! "But wait--hmmm. I'm gonna let the doctor take a look at this." Okay. Those are words  you never want your jolly ultrasound tech to say. "Hmmm." As in "Hmmm...what the F is that?" Just minutes before we were laughing about turning 48 and joking about how hard it is to meet men. (if only they could see my clean innards!) I waited on the table as she went out of the room--laying there draped with my hands crossed on my chest. Somber music playing. Lights dim. And cue the hypochondriac! I caught my overactive noodle and uncrossed my hands-- creeping myself out with the coffin-like repose I just fell into.

She returns. "Well. Looks like you may have a hernia." Wait what? A HERNIA? Don't those happen to overweight men who try to lift too much at the gym? You know--bad groin stretch? HERNIA? How? Now, while it most likely is congenital--as she told me--my mind kept going back to a moment several months ago when I tried to prove I don't need a man-- by moving my big, heavy armoir away from the wall to hook up my new DVD player. I remember I pulled something--but figured it was just a twinge.

Did my stubbornness to show the ex his lame-ass TV wiring job wasn't gonna keep me down cause a hernia? Did my "I don't need you! Take that!" message cause irreparable damage to my guts? HERNIA? The love of my life. Two jobs. State job I hate. AND A HERNIA? (I like saying it, can't you tell?) I mean seriously. Menopause would have been a better choice God. Not now. Now I have to stay put--have another test--maybe surgery. And whether it was from moving furniture or the very Mad Men pregnancy my mother apparently had 48 years ago--Are you serious? I just decided to quit!?? But worst of all--I may have to give up Yoga. The only thing I'm passionate about. The only thing that's kept me sane since I moved to this crap hole.

You really can't make this shit up. I'll let you see my bulging gut if you need proof.