Sex Nerdist: My Spleen is Bigger Than Yours
By Sandra Daugherty on August 30, 2010
Well, I’ve got the light-hearted buddy movie version of that story, starring me and a giant spleen-cyst named Igor.
This would be the reason I haven’t been on Nerdist for a while spilling my inner most dorky sexual situations. I’ve been too busy terrified I might explode.
Once Upon a Time…
It all started with an ultra sound for my crazy, unrelenting heartburn. The doc thought it was gallstones. I thought it was a waste of time.
So I’m lying there in the darkness as a nice lady lubes me up and silently prods my abdomen. I regret that this experience does not live up to my fantasy. After a while, I notice she is spending a lot of time on a large, dark orb on her screen.
“What’s that?” I ask.
“That’s your spleen,” she says.
“Well, okay. It’s good to know I have one. No one’s ever checked.”
She smiles. Little do I know she is a liar-face. This is not my spleen. That is 18% spleen and 82% mystery meat.
The Next Day
My doctor is at a loss for words. He literally has me read my own chart.
“A cyst in my spleen? You mean ovary, right?”
Nope. Spleen. As in that organ no one thinks about until it’s gestating a baby. This would explain those stabbing pains I’ve been ignoring.
“A large cyst like this in your pancreas would be concerning. In your spleen? Well, that’s VERY concerning.”
I blink blankly. He explains that the spleen is an incredibly vascular, blood-dense zone. Rupture could mean a lot of bleeding. Plus, it’s pushing on important things like my kidney and stomach. Cue sound effect.
Fruit of My Womb
Igor measures 13cm x 11.5cm x 11.3 cm in diameter. In American, that’s 5.1” x 4.5” x 4.4”. It’s like a large grapefruit only less delicious.
My companion insists we need visual aids. I concur. We head to the grocery store.
I search the produce aisle with trepidation. Once spotted, I approach the grapefruit in reverence and horror. I choose a juicy one and cradle it.
Calculations of a Spleen-Baby
Citrus is not enough. I go home to do math. (And by math, I mean use online calculators.) My findings are as follows:
- By volume, it’s 29.3 fluid ounces
- In water weight, it’s 2.3 pounds
- By ounces, that’s almost 2 pints of beer.
- By size, I’m over 4 months pregnant.
- In pounds, I’m 2 months away from motherhood.
I don’t even know who the father is.
My Support Team
In my vulnerable state, I rely on my friends and family for emotional support. My best friend informs me some tumors have hair and teeth. I imagine I had a twin in the womb but I ate him.
My loved ones make countless comparisons to “Alien“. My brother does the best impression of me dying in agony. That’s just what I need; a long lost sibling bursting forth from my peritoneal cavity.
The Rules: Avoid Ninjas
I’ve seen four doctors and two surgeons. While my medical coverage gets sorted out, they all tell me to take it easy. None of them can tell me quite what that means. Below are the activities that doctors have explicitly warned me against:
- Barroom brawls
- Bungee jumping
- Roller derby auditions
- Bear hugs
- Domestic violence.
No one has mentioned sex as a possible risk. I take this as a sign the universe still loves me.
For good measure, I ask a leading spleen expert if I’m in danger.
“Well, no, not really. It would take a direct blow to your left side for that to occur.”
Since then I’ve been imagining a ninja assassin karate chopping my no-fly zone while I’m distracted discussing the finer points of lube. Brutal.
So how’d this happen? Every medical professional I’ve seen insists I must have been in a car accident recently. That’s simply not the case. I haven’t even been body slammed since high school.
The aforementioned spleen expert, Dr. Leon Morgenstern, has only seen 23 cases like mine in his 28-year study. Of my 23 brethren, “in only one patient was there a history of recent trauma.”
Morgenstern’s conclusion is that people like me are born with this anomaly. I’m hoping his findings change mainstream medical opinion. Thanks to him, I have a smart-ass answer every time a doctor double-checks my driving record.
The Bright Side
After weeks of neurosis, I’m finally getting somewhere with my HMO. With the news of my impending surgery, there may be several excellent outcomes.
First, look at this picture above. That giant black circle is one third of my waistline. One third! All this time I thought I was big boned. I smell post-surgical shopping spree!
Second, any gnarly scars mean I’ll finally have a concrete motive for getting my first tattoo. I’m thinking the Nerdist logo right above my belly button.
And lastly, I’ll be cured!!! No more heartburn! That means I can stop using my sex pillow to prop myself up while I sleep and start using it for the pile driver again.