ACHOO...OW!! ACHOO...OW!!

“SIX POUNDS, SEVEN OUNCES! Congratulations!! It’s a benign uterine fibroid tumor! You must be so proud!”

My last conscious memory on Tuesday morning was getting wheeled down the hallway on a gurney, and reminding my mom to wake me up in time for the season finale of 'GRIMM'. As soon as I turned a corner, that’s all she wrote, folks, as the phrase goes. Lights out. So I didn’t have a clue what was going on around me for the next eight hours. George Clooney could’ve been reprising his E.R. role as Dr. Doug Ross, and I still would’ve been in anesthesia La-La-Land.

I had some groggy moments later; flashes of a room of gurney’d folks...medical staff sporting blue scrubs, with faces lit up by computer screens suggested I’d made it through the procedure.

So, I guess having stayed up til nearly 3 a.m., making out my ‘Last Will & Statements’ was moot. But, ya never know. Better safe than sorry. 

After gaining full consciousness, I was pretty much in the moment: tender in the middle of myself, and not feeling quite as ‘scooped out’ as I thought I would be, but knowing I was. The morphine definitely took the edge off, and I liked it up til the point it made me nauseous, thirteen hours later. (And, boy! Does it come on fast!) Also, one doesn't appreciate that incision pain until you have to sneeze. Talk about "Ouch!" :(

The nurses that looked after me were a great bunch. (Mary, Gayle, Bridget, Tamara, Iris, and Katie) And—I beg you to believe me that I’m not 'tooting-my-own-horn' about this—apparently, I was a dream-patient. I wasn’t one of those ‘Call-button-divas’ they dread. (“Bring me more drugs, dammit! I’m in pain!!” “Where’s my Jell-O?!” “Why haven’t I seen my doctor? She said she’d be here!”)  I can only assume that my caregiver background made for a more empathetic and humored approach regarding the staff. IOW, I was able to ‘talk-the-medico-talk’.

And, when it came to my surgeon’s interns needing to do a wound-check of my incision, I was as courteous as one could be toward one of the opposite sex. I’ve always preferred female physicians; regarding my lady-parts, one of my medical-professional requirements is that one must also have lady-parts. So, I dipped into my Downton Abbey lady-like self, and asked the male intern who showed up if he wouldn’t mind “stepping out with my Mom for a moment so that I could consult with the ladies.” 

He got the message. No hard feelings.

I thought I’d be able to go home the next day, but even the hospital has its requirements before you can say Au revoir…and it involves more than just holding down food. But I’ll spare you the graphic details. So, I wrote, read, and watched T.V. with a Zen-like affirmation that any accidental bun-in-the-ovens were a thing of the past.

Where were my visitors though, you ask? There were none, as I was keeping this procedure on the Q.T.  As I said a couple of entries ago, it’s nobody’s damn business by my own. (And what I choose to share in here, of course) Some of my family members tend to be a little too melodramatic about such experiences. (Code for ‘blabber-mouths’)

The after-care instructions are gonna kill me though; no driving for two weeks! Now, how the hell am I gonna get my Starbucks??

Is that Aqua Net I smell?

I wish a tummy-tuck came with a hysterectomy. Then all I'd have is some booty. (And if Sir Mix-a-lot is to be believed, then my self-confidence just sky-rocketed)

I wonder if I'll feel like a Baskin Robbins ice cream bucket after tomorrow? (IOW, scooped out) Come Wednesday, I'll either be back on my laptop and getting spoiled with great coffee and bakery-goodies, or preparing to be cremated. (I gotta remind my family that I'm an organ donor...and I should clear my laptop's browser history!)

I'm told this procedure is so common, that the only real complication would be I've somehow become allergic to anesthesia, which my five-year-old self once identified as hairspray. And, as I've not been under any 'knife' since a tonsillectomy in 1973, it could go either way. (For those of you that find it impossible to believe, a pediatric-tonsillectomy required an overnight stay in the early 70s. Ice cream, and learning how to ride a skateboard in the children's ward soon followed)

I've also learned that, though the physical issue we ladies endure for the sake of procreation will no longer be the monkey on my back, the emotional symptoms of that joyful 'time-of-the-month' will linger; apparently, I still get to have P.M.S. 

Fun.

On the off-chance I end up in Limbo--and not the good kind--I hope my Grandma will forgive me for misplacing her Girl Scouts bracelet, (made of tin-like material, and over 100 years old) that Uncle Rabbie won't shake his head at me for choosing to write borderline-erotica--rather than 'drunken-Scot' odes to roses, and that Grandpa won't be embarrassed that I once found his original copy of 'Joy Of Sex' in the bottom drawer of his bureau.

Of course, this last paragraph will be edited...should I be allowed to keep on NOT procreating....

I'm gonna love the morphine...

I don’t talk to anyone about it. If I could’ve gotten away with keeping it secret, I’d’ve just said I was going to the coast for a couple days. But I don’t live alone, and a medical transport vehicle outside my home wouldn’t go unnoticed. It’s nobody’s damn business, of course. So why do I share it in a blog? Because it’s a place few of my family members know about. Besides, a hysterectomy is so common, and shared by so many, that hiding it will just turn it into a thing. 

I’ve got a great surgeon who’s done a number of them. So, no biggie. The incredible part is, I wouldn’t have known that I needed to have it done.  A 44 y/o, single-n-childfree woman doesn’t get as hounded about her health, apparently. So yah, I came up with the ‘time-to-go-see-your-Doc’ idea all by myself—for the probing, mashing, squashing, “Do you have any questions?” appointment we ladies all keep.

I thought the mildly blundered Pap smear was because I tensed up. (I’d had a venti mocha Frappuccino earlier that day, and it occurred to me while I was in the stirrups that my bladder may fail me at an inconvenient moment)

But when your Doc expresses concern, you do what she says. So, you go to a referred specialist, where things can be made much clearer. And, there’s no room for mystery when I’m told that I’ve been carrying around a uterine fibroid tumor the size of honeydew melon, and that a sub-total hysterectomy will cure my ills.

So, why don’t I want to tell people who are supposed to know me best? Because, much as I love them, I’ll still roll my eyes when they’ll comment on the one thing they knew I never cared about for the past 20+ years.

“You do know, if you have that done, you won’t be able to have kids, right?” 

If I have it done? As if it’s as elective as a boob-job. And, by the way, medical science has taught us that for every year after the age of 35, a woman’s chances of giving birth to a child with special needs is far greater. The crazy part is, I still hear of women my age having babies.

So, though I’ll sound loony, my opinion of well-meaning peoples comments of my impending barrenness is, if you don’t know what to say, get creative. I’d prefer comedy over condolences. Tell me that having a hysterectomy will up my keyboarding speed. (Then, maybe I’ll have a shot at that office-job)

So far, only one kindred-spirit I’ve told has joked with me about it; she's had the same procedure, so she strongly suggested I ask my surgeon to weigh the tumor, once it’s removed.

“Then you’ll know instantly how much weight you lost. That’s a great recovery attitude.”  She laughed. Apparently, her tumor’s size was similar to how mine is now. She lost 3.7 lbs.

Recovery at home will be fun; I’ve already been promised that no bullshit will cross my path. And I’ve assured the few people who’re in-the-know that my demeanor will be far merrier, should I be plied with bakery-goods and great coffee.