I'm not exactly camping in the happy tent right now, for three closely related reasons:

1. I had surgery this morning.
2. Looks like I'm going to need further surgery.
3. And I've still got the @&*#$& cyst.

Fergodsakes, endometriosis, Gladys? At your age? For shame.

Yeah, I know. It could be worse. It could be worse. It could be worse. Makes a good mantra right now. Endo isn't something that kills you. It's not cancer. It's not permanently disabling. It's treatable and often curable. Mine, though it's much more extensive than we'd previously suspected, isn't even all that painful. And there are lots of women around who are good self-help resources. (I personally know at least three of them.)

I'm still pissed off, though. I didn't expect to come home with the cyst still in my possession. At least not unless it was in a jar of formalin that I could occasionally cuss out and clobber with a stick, just to show it who was boss.