I wrote in my paper-copy diary about how God keeps trying to kill me. I wrote about how that PAP test I was worried about from back in December came back with severe abnormalities, and when I went to the clinic for further investigation, they informed me that I was very lucky indeed. Because if I had waited any longer they wouldn't be talking to me about severe abnormal whatever you call it, they would be talking to me about cervical cancer. "There is a line between (blablabla) and cancer, and you are on that line," the doctor told me. That is some scary stuff to be hearing at 28 years old.

I struggled with it for a few weeks. I didn't tell many people, but I made sure to tell some people, to avoid internalising it and dealing with the pressure of having no release. For a good week or two after receiving the news, I said fuck this healthy lifestyle, fuck my diet, fuck exercise. What the fuck is the point when you do everything you can to be the perfect picture of health, only for God to smite you with the threat of cancer, something totally out of your control. Do you think I enjoyed drinking my spinach and kale smoothies every morning for breakfast for the last 4 years? I was pissed. I had felt betrayed by the universe. I considered this another low blow dealt to me by fate, after having suffered from so many already.

I mean seriously. Read my history.

They needed to do a loop biopsy. It was a procedure commonly done right there in the examination room. What choice did I have? I consented. I allowed a male doctor to invade the most personal part of my body and spray a burning solution onto my cervix to show the affected cells. It lit up like Christmas. After a few moments of poking around (literally...) he was concerned. He didn't feel comfortable doing the procedure as it was, because apparently my pelvis is crooked, and he couldn't get a good vision of the area without fiddling. As if I wasn't uncomfortable enough, he knew. He offered me the more favourable of option of doing the procedure under general anesthesia, in the "theater" as they call it in Great Britain.. that would be the Operating Room, I assume. I said yes, yes please do that. He hadn't even begun the procedure and I'd had enough already. "Please knock me out," I told him. Save me from more of this trauma. I thought.

The day surgery was scheduled for this last Tuesday. I tried to suppress my anxiety by trying to see it as a new adventure, being put to sleep for the first time. But I was so anxious, about every little detail. I barely slept the nights before. A few bumps in the road the day of threatened to have the procedure cancelled and rescheduled for another day, and I thought how can I go through all of this emotional torture again? I recalled words of wisdom from the yogic philosophy, the power of intent. I focused all of my heart and energy on the intention that this procedure was going to happen that day, they it would all work out, it WAS going to happen. And it did. Was it a coincidence, was it the odds, or was it the power of the word? I'm going to stick this one to faith because if anything it makes me feel... stronger.

So I got through the ordeal. I nervously and squeamishly allowed them to insert an IV into the back of my hand, a feeling that still haunts me nearly a week later. I can't even look at it. It's like the veins on my hand can still feel it. When I woke up I made sure to follow all instructions so I could just get the fucking thing out of my hand and get the hell out of there and go home. I took the next day off work, and really should have taken the second day off as well, but instead perservered throughout the last Thursday and Friday before half-term break. I dealt with the pain that felt like I was-- and still am-- in a constant PMS cramps phase, and the nausea that accompanied it. I am still tired, something I hear is to be expected after going under GA in some people, and my body aches.

I try not to think about the emotional implications of such a procedure. It's hard to accept that while you are in your most vulnerable state, unconscious and unable to do anything, you are lying on a table spread eagle, completely exposed, while one or two people are literally digging inside of you. Part of me thinks no one should be up there other than your lover; the sensible part of me knows that doctors are the exception to this rule and it is for the better. They say it is normal to feel this emotional state. I feel as if I have been violated, but with my consent. It is what it is though, isn't it?

I just hope that's the end of it. I hope that my biopsy comes back with positive news, that I am in the clear and have nothing to worry about. I am really getting sick of this, this constant threat of ill health hanging over me. First Lyme disease and the effects that still plague me, and now this. It would be nice to get a little break.

At the same time, when I feel like this I need to stop and count my blessings. I never forget to reflect on all the things I am grateful for. I am very lucky to have everything I have, the life that I have. I am lucky that despite all I have gone through, I am still alive and kicking. A warrior. I don't give up that easy.