This morning, while I’m still in bed, and George is telling me about his silly dream, a nurse calls to tell me the results of my latest transvaginal ultrasound, a scan I take every six months to screen for ovarian cancer.

“We did see some cysts on your ovaries,” she says.

In an instant, my heart drops. Maybe I have ovarian cancer? At the least, this sounds like it will require surgical follow up. Am I going to die of ovarian cancer? Less than half of women diagnosed with the disease survive.

“They are the type of cysts we expect to see on someone who is ovulating,” she adds. She pauses. It lasts only a second but feels like an eternity.

I have no idea what that means.

“So your scan was normal and there is no cause for concern,” she says.

Talk about burying the lede.

And then I am supposed to go to work, like it is a normal day.

Why Surveillance Sucks: Exhibit 17
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