There, in the marble and gold-laden bathroom, with 6-feet tall models in full makeup just outside the door, my initial shock quickly melted into panic and I broke down and cried. The assistant tried to console me, telling me it wasn't a big deal (for the record, I'd later learn that my results actually were a big deal). As I fell further and further into a panic the assistant couldn't alleviate, she handed the phone off to the nurse, who told me that everything was going to be OK, and that I needed to follow up but to "hope for the best."
I could write a million words about what happened in the days, weeks, and months that followed. About how I Googled my symptoms until I was a sleepless wreck. About how I held my grandmother's hand in the waiting room at the gynecologist's office. And finally, about how I full-on ugly cried to my doctor, sobbing, "I'm so scared of what you're going to find" as he took tissue samples from my cervix for a biopsy.
I can also tell you that that my biopsy came back normal, as did my two ultrasounds and all the numerous pap smears to follow (I've had six in two years) — no matter how terrified I was to get the phone call from my doctor each and every time.
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