Some days I feel too young to have a bag—especially one I know I can't ever get rid of. I thought I could get a reversal, but innumerable polyps throughout my colon, rectum, and anal canal kept the doctors from doing it. Almost three weeks out of surgery and I feel okay most of the time. I still can't run and really shouldn't work, but I have to have some form of money. So in a week, I'm going back to one of my jobs in a small tea shop.
I wasn't supposed to be moving right after surgery, but the complex dragged their feet with my paperwork. I had to stay a week at my dad's house before moving in with my new roomie—who I creep out sometimes, so at least I can laugh at that. So in the same two weeks, I had major surgery and was moved from my dad's house—this is also the first time I've ever moved out—into an apartment in the projects. At least my roomie is okay with Steve's needs. Oh, right. I named my stoma. Helps keep the mood light when I have to deal with him... It... Something.
I guess the thing that bothers me is that this isn't the first major medical catastrophe in my life. My mother had Gardner's and got colon cancer when I was nine. She died a few weeks after my eleventh birthday. She also had a heart condition and polycystic kidneys. As it turns out, I have all three. Until I was seventeen, I only thought I had the heart condition. At school one morning, I went into supraventricular tachycardia and my brain went without oxygen for over six minutes. I woke up a week later in the hospital wondering what had happened. I fell out of the bed sometime during that week I can't remember and hit my head on the floor. The doctors took me in for a CT scan and saw the osteomas on my skull and jaw. A nurse recognized them as a symptom of Gardner's and I was tested. The test came back positive. On a hunch, my dad requested I get my kidneys looked at. They were covered in large cysts.
Gardner's is hereditary. My mother passed it down to me, and possibly my two siblings. In a way, I'm glad I have ovarian cysts, as well, since that lowers your ability to reproduce. Maybe, if they get bad enough, a doctor will give me a hysterectomy, too. I don't want my kids to go through what I have. I don't want kids. I know myself well enough that if they aren't of my own blood, I won't love them as deeply as if I carried them myself. I wouldn't care for them right.
.....Looking up at this choppily written post, I feel like it's more of a "Why me?" thing than I intended it to be. Oh well. I'll talk more later. Have a nice day.
Sven

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