Last week, I had a 10 cm dermoid cyst removed from my ovary. For those of you not as well-versed in the metric system, allow me to put this into a more relatable image: a grapefruit.

I had a grapefruit-sized TOTALLY BENIGN (thank heavens) dermoid cyst removed. Also, they removed the ovary on which the dermoid was perched.

Yes, it’s weird that was a citrus-sized intruder hanging around my reproductive organs without my knowledge, and might, I add, permission.

I am very glad it’s gone.

If you Google “ovarian dermoid cyst,” I’d advise you do it on an empty stomach, because dermoids are gross, gnarly even. They often contain…are you ready?

Hair. Gobs of it.

Also, sometimes teeth.

How did I manufacture this?

No one knows.

In an effort to keep my sense of humor about this situation, I shared the news of my “grapefruit baby” or “my lost twin” with friends and family.

My brother’s response: “You always wanted a little brother or sister!”

My friend Will named the dermoid Citrine: a nod to its citrus size, but more European in style. Will surmised that Citrine wore a bowler hat and held a cigar stump between her teeth.

Yes, teeth.

I added that she had a Madonna-style British accent and always showed up uninvited. I wish I had a sketch to share with you.

My friend Anne thought Citrine looked more like the Mad Balls that were so wildly and grossly popular during my 1980s childhood.

An ex was convinced the dermoid was a manifestation of a baby I’ve yet to have, and rather than stress about the thousands of dollars in surgical costs, I should consider the delusion that Citrine is actually a freshman at Brown University, major undecided. And I am footing the bill.

Days after the surgery, I lamented the loss of my ovary. Thankfully, my friend Heather brought me back to reality.

When you lose an ovary, the other does the same job as two, so rather than grieving the lost ovary, you should be proud of your super-ovary! She’s doing two important jobs for very little recognition. We should call her Hillary Clinton.

So, while I hate to be the bearer of bad news, I must inform you that since Hillary is very busy being my super ovary, she will be unable to run in the 2016 election. She has very important eggs to make – scrambled, hardboiled, I can’t know. She’s Hillary Clinton.

Sorry, America.