If you're me, the first course of action is to name the tumor intent on ruining your life. The second is to call your mother with this important update.

"I named the tumor Buffy Junior."

"Why?"

Hysterical laughter erupted from both my dad and myself.

Around five minutes later, my dad regained enough control to query, "What did you name your tumor?"

"Uh, I don't remember?"

"Seriously, mom? BUFFY! You even had it printed on a t-shirt!"

"Oh yeah. Residual chemo brain."

Great. Something else to look forward to.

Around the same time, I started visiting every doctor in the known universe. Assuming that the known universe consisted of St. Johns Hospital and its environs. The good news was that I found some very good doctors. The bad news is that I found Dr. DoucheNozzle along the way.

My new-found set of doctors assured me that I would survive this Stage 1 mess. Except for the surgeon Dr. DoucheNozzle, who was too busy with the pole up his ass to show any compassion. Needless to say, I found a different surgeon. But, for those of you interested, here's the story of Dr. DoucheNozzle.

First let me say that Matt has been absolutely amazing, which includes chauffeuring me to any and all doctor appointment. In other words, he was there the entire time and witnessed every one of these atrocities.

The appointment started off normal enough, with the doctor on one side of his desk and Matt and I on the other. He was going through my medical history, asking questions. Then the phone rang. He not only answered it, but started discussing another patient right in front of us. HIPAA anyone? Strike one.

"Who diagnosed you with OCD?" A perfectly valid question. Except his tone of voice was accusatory. I replied that I'd been seeing various psychologists since high school, though I wasn't official diagnosed until college. "Uh huh." Clearly he didn't believe me, despite the prescription medication I indicated on the 8019 page form his secretary had faxed* to me the day before. Strike two.

Examination time! This time I was given the top half of a gown, which is also know as a shirt in the non-medical community. Despite having handed me the "gown" himself, Dr. DoucheNozzle practically tore the thing off of me as soon as he was in the room. Admittedly, I wasn't a big fan of the useless paper thing which would just get in the way of the examination. Ball one?

After jiggling and poking to his heart's content, the doctor asked me to lie down for further jiggling and poking. He may have used more clinical terms. I guess my boobs weren't enough for him, because, without any warning or explanation, he unzipped my pants and continued poking! If Matt wasn't in the room, I probably would have screamed. Strikes three through eighty-seven.

When I explained what happened to the doctors that recommended him, they were very surprised. When I told my dad, he got angry. And you wouldn't like him when he's angry. Problem solved.

* Don't get cancer without a home fax machine. Every doctor has a completely different medical history form that you need to spend hours filling out before your appointment. And not one has heard of email.