12 years of holding my breath...and there it goes.

I'm good. All kinds of good.

I met with my Hepatology doctor today at the Mayo Clinic. He's the liver specialist. I also met with surgeon A and surgeon B.

Surgeon A was a liver surgeon. Just your general run of the mill surgeon, who did stuff with the liver and worked under surgeon B.
Surgeon B. He's a whole other story.

I will start by telling you, he should have had trumpets and a red carpet rolled out for him when he entered the room. He's THAT surgeon. "Superstar surgeon extraordinaire". I can't tell you how many times the OTHER doctors told me how surgeon B was "world renowned". That's some serious shit right there.

WORLD RENOWNED! And no joke. Apparently he's THE best in THE world when it comes to liver carcinomas. Whew! I'm glad I didn't get just the run of the mill US renowned surgeon. They're not messing around with me. And wait...back up...what the hell? Liver C-A-R-C-I-N-O-M-A? Who the fuck said anything about cancer now?

Ok....back to the story. So surgeon A comes in. Young. Spry. Serious as shit. And checks over my stuff, looks at the letter about how things are "connected" or "communicating" and says with a grim face, "With the size of the cyst in your liver we'll have to remove the entire right lobe of your liver. It's developed around a major artery." Then on and on about bleeding, bile leakage, drains in for a long time, painful long recovery time....blah blah blah...who the hell heard anything past "entire right lobe of your liver"? I certainly didn't.

Then he left the room to show surgeon B. Fancy-pants-I-love-you-cause-you're-THAT-awesome, surgeon B. Annnnd I proceed to lose my shit completely. I cry. I try to joke about stuff so that I don't LOOK like I'd been crying when the surgeons come back. I say things like..."I'm not worried about the dying part. I'm worried about how much it's gonna hurt when I wake up! And you know that's gonna hurt. But I'm not going to say I feel like I got hit by a truck. Everyone says that, and I'm pretty sure they hadn't been hit by any fucking truck. I'm just gonna say....you know...I feel like SHIT!" Cause for some reason that was funny to me. And Ryan too, cause he laughed his holy-shit-I'm-gonna-lose-it-too laugh.. Poor sweetie.

Then in the door walks surgeon A, surgeon B *toot toot*, transplantation surgeon C (WHAT THE FUCK?!?) and random blonde who writes down EVERYTHING surgeon B says.

Talk about entourage. I said, "Oh! Don't be embarrassed if I start crying. Cause it's gonna happen."

Surgeon B sits down and says to me, "Why would you cry? I'm only going to be here for a second." Weird.

So surgeon B starts in on all this technical jargon. How it's not communicating with the right part of my whatnot to my whozit, and that they aren't going to do surgery and that my chance of getting bile duct cancer is almost nil. Literally 5 minutes after surgeon A told me I was gonna get bile duct cancer bad and fast unless they remove the right side of my liver.

Color me confused. But I stopped listening temporarily after I heard No surgery. No cancer. WOO fucking HOO!!!!! I almost jumped the man. Although I'm pretty sure the blonde was packing the heat.

There was some more mumbo jumbo between doctors. Some discrepancies. Most likely some arguing. But in the end the "world renowned" surgeon B said NOPE, not going to cut this one open anytime soon. To which I said I was very happy to oblige him and not darken his door step in the near.

So off I go. And after 12 years of not knowing what would happen. I have answers. I'm not going to die by the time I'm 40. I'm probably not going to get bile duct cancer. I won't need a huge painful inconvenient surgery. And now I can breath free. All I have to do is go in yearly and have and MRCP and a Heita Scan....which is being injected with some kind of radioactive liquid and then photographing it for hours. Both of them painless. Just takes a lot of time.

I'm sooooo not complaining. So now. I can move on. And not be worried about the "what ifs". I know there aren't any.