What I Learned From My 9-Millimeter Endometrial Lining

When it comes to your endometrium, you don’t want to be impressive.

I am tired because I had an early morning appointment with the gynecologist because my endometrial lining is 9 millimeters.

I had to get up early, down a mug of coffee, throw on some facial moisturizer SPF 30, get dressed, scribble through five pages of patient papers — yes I’m married, no I don’t have heart problems, yes I had a mammogram last year, no my mother didn’t have colon cancer, yes I will pay my bill, no I don’t have a home phone, sign sign sign and dash out the door to get to the doctor by 9.

The doctor’s building was in the Cancer Center. I had an idea that if I walked quickly and signed in exactly at 9 AM then maybe I wouldn’t have to wait a half hour. But, no, the idea didn’t work because even though I was there on time with my printed-out-and-signed patient papers, I still had to wait 45 minutes. Oh well. I went into the office and got my blood pressure taken and got weighed and talked with the nurse practitioner and talked with the nurse and then the doctor. The doctor told me my 9-millimeter endometrial lining was not a concern to him.

“I don’t want to put you through an endometrial biopsy if you don’t need it,” he said.

“I will do it if I have to,” I told him, “I already took two Alleve.”

“In a menstruating woman, 9 millimeters isn’t impressive, “ he said. “A biopsy isn’t necessary.”

Yahoo! When it comes to your endometrium, you don’t want to be impressive.

I was so glad that the doctor did not think I had cancer or pre-cancer or some other cancer-adjacent problem. I was glad I could get out of my cotton robe that didn’t really tie in the front or the back and go home and walk my dog. I had to bolt out the door with my patient papers so early that I didn’t get to take Shiloh on his morning walk, and he missed wagging his tail at Ollie and Dylan and Scout and Snuffy and his other neighborhood friends — all because of my 9-millimeter endometrial lining, which, as it turns out, was not impressive :)

I went to the OB/GYN because my primary care doctor told me to. And my husband told me I better do what my primary care doctor told me to do — or else. I could argue with my doctor, but I didn’t want to argue with my husband, so I went. (Full disclosure: I am not the world’s most compliant patient, which both my doctor and my husband are aware of).

My husband is so good to me. I hope he knows how much I love him. I think he does. We’ve been married for twenty-five years and have three kids, the youngest of whom is seventeen.

We’ve been through ER visits for bee sting anaphylaxis (youngest — in an ambulance); fever of unknown origin and weeks-long hospital stay, including liver biopsy, spinal tap, and daily blood work (middle); Sever’s disease (which is really nothing — oldest); removal of tonsils (oldest), typhus (middle), ADHD (middle and youngest); trip to ER for cut fingertip (youngest — who by the way kept telling me “It’s falling off “as we drove and I kept shouting “Hold it on” as I raced down the freeway), trip to ER for fall with baby teeth knocked out (youngest); getting caught with vape pen in backpack at school (middle); having 15 tardies senior year (oldest). The list goes on and on. That’s just a brief selection.

My husband and I have been together through births, deaths, 9–11, and my 9-millimeter endometrial lining, I’m pretty sure he knows I love him. But my dog doesn’t care. He just wants his walk.