When Veronica was still just an hourling, the Womb of Doom struck again. It had been but a few hours since I'd had a c-section and been tidily stitched up (according to the bragging doctor about his GLORIOUS stitchjob), when I hemorrhaged like a fiend. A combination of postnatal neglect and stubborn steel-trap cervix caused trouble. Intense agony. I had a team of five doctors, and a multitude of nurses, the machine that goes PING! and a very nice lady with an ever-present needle of something always to my left listening to me swear like a sailor who was being murdered by an acid-drooling alien. I thought I was going to die that night.
...But let's back up a smidge.
I was 8 months pregnant with Veronica. She asked about my postnatal birth control. My brain split into atoms, reconvened in a laser-like focus on her face, thunder and lightning about my head, "THE GODS DEMAND A HYSTERECTOMY AT THE C-SECTION!"
The Gods were denied. Apparently, doctors don't like to grant wishes at c-sections. Chickens.
So I agreed to a meager compromise, a tubal ligation. Not what I wanted, but at least there wouldn't be anymore miscarriages to trifle over.
So fast forward to NOW. I have increasingly horrible displays of menstrual disaster, combined with hormonal roller coastering for the last year. The pain has been beyond control, the bleeding... Moses knocked on my door asking if he could lend some assistance.
I found myself in the doctor's office with the wand monkeys, having a BIG FAT DUH ultrasound, "...unexplained thickened endometrium layer...."
"...Endometrial biopsy. It's a simple procedure, in-and-out, no big whoop, take an ibuprofen ahead of it..." and then I freaked out on her. There may or may not have been some hyperventilation, blackouts, drunken bar brawl verbiage. I've had two endo biopsies before. One involved vomit. The other involved Valium that may just as well been a Gummy Bear without the delicious sugar goo. An hour later, I regained my senses. In that time, I think my doctor may have had a drink or two. But she agreed to just refer me to the surgeon, since I "seem to be pretty ok with the more radical approach." I'm getting that tattooed somewhere.
The old ute and I have a contentious relationship. I won't cry too hard when she goes to live in a glass jar.
4 comments:
THRILLED to have you back!!!
Love that you are blogging again and I shall live vicariously through you as you move on to life after ute.
I want to get rid of mine, too, even though it hasn't caused me nearly the same amount of misery (I swear, I'm not trying to rub salt). Because WTF am I suppose to do with it now at 46??
What "reasoning" did your doc try to give to keep yours? A place for your ovaries to hang their hats on?
They wouldn't do the hyst during the c-section for fear of uncontrolled bleeding. Utes are super full of vascular nonsense at a jillion months pregnant, so it skeered them.
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