I’ve never really told you this story before, so I must ask you not to tell anyone. I can trust you, right?

As some of you know, I discovered six years ago that I had a rare and aggressive form of uterine cancer that was supposed to kill me within a year. (Spoiler: It didn’t. I’m not even slightly dead.)

I was sent to a surgeon who seemed bored. He provided almost no information, until I used my finely honed investigative reporter skills to pull it out of him.

Yes, it wasn’t good that I had three cancers all rolled up into one. Yes, it was likely that it would kill me fairly soon. Yes, I needed to have all my lady parts cut out. No, he couldn’t tell me anything else until he’d gone into my innards and seen what was there.

While I was waiting impatiently to get this thing cut out of

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