That would be my uterus. That keeps giving me crap. From beyond the grave. Or, I guess, the Biohazard Disposal. Oh God, where is my uterus, now? Is it angry that it was dissected and disposed of? Is this why it continues to talk to me? (What, your uterus doesn’t talk to you?)
Today was my 6-week post-op check-up. I think those three hyphenated things in a row looks weird, but that’s what it was.
Anyway. I headed in feeling great, because I am a moron and am excellent at forgetting that if I feel good, it’s only temporary. But first there was surgery week… and wishing for death. Then there was nausea week… and wishing for death. Next came fatigue week… during which I wished mostly for more hours in the day to sleep… which was an improvement. But that was followed by migraine week… and more wishing for death. It’s been a long haul. I’m finally starting to feel myself again.
I still want to marry Target and have its babies, but I also plan to continue my torrid affair with the Vivelle Dot, because it makes me feel pretty and keeps my bones from disintegrating. The part where I can remember words and stuff is very nice, too. The last week or two has been lovely, what with the Dot giving me back the energy I needed to really rededicate myself to Target. The best of both worlds, if you will.
So there I was, sitting in the exam table in my fashionable paper gown, feeling good. And my uterus–or at least its voice–piped up from the great beyond. “It’s not over yet!” There was also a small cackle. Nasty little thing, my uterus.
“So, how are you feeling?” asked my doctor.
“I feel really great!” I gushed. “Much better than I have in a long time. My energy’s coming back, the pain is down, the hormones are great, oh my gosh you really just don’t know how much you depend on your estrogen until it’s gone, huh?” And it was all going along friendly like that, and she had me lie down so she could inspect my scar.
“Hmmmmm,” she said, while palpating the angry red ridge I now sport. “Hmmm.”
“Hmmm?” I asked.
“See how this is all raised?” she asked me.
“That’s called keloiding, and it won’t go away on its own. It’s a sign there’s too much pressure on the incision site… you may need to slow down a little. You can buy a box of ‘scar sheets’ over the counter and use them until the ridge subsides.”
“Uhhhh, okay.” Scar sheets?
“Of course, you’ll have to shave your pubic hair off for a while to use them.”
“Oh, great! Cuz I’d really been missing that wannabe porn-star look you gave me for the surgery!” There was one of those pauses, then. You know the kind. In that pause, the doctor is deciding whether I’m funny or just possibly a little psycho. She laughed, and I exhaled.
She directed me to the stirrups while explaining that scar sheets are like big rubbery bandaids, and if I wear them for a few weeks they should help minimize the appearance of my scar. Alrighty then. On the off chance that someday someone else besides me or a coroner will see beneath my panties, I agreed that it sounded like a good idea. Besides, a big scar sheet plastered to my mons might balance the patch on my ass and realign my chi or something.
While in the elegant stirrups position with the doctor parked between my knees, I mentioned that I’d had some spotting, but had figured that was just some internal stitches dissolving or something. Here is where she lapsed into med-speak. For ease of reading, I will translate what followed.
She said: “Let’s just take a look in here.”
That meant: “After I insert the speculum, which is a joy in and of itself, I am going to use this large Q-tip looking thing and do my best impression of Roto-Rooter.”
She said: “Is this what you’ve been seeing?” while holding up said Q-tip thing with some gunk on the end.
That meant: “You are foul and disgusting. I decided on this speciality because I like to deliver babies, and now I am extracting the vaginal equivalent of snot from you and you should be ashamed.”
I admitted that yes, I had been having some discharge.
She said: “Well, you do have some granulation tissue in here. That’s sort of overzealous healing.”
That meant: “Granulation? Is exactly as gross as it sounds. That stuff I just removed from you is pus.”
She said: “I’m just going to apply a little bit of silver nitrate with this swab to the areas of granulation to take care of it.”
That meant: “I will now spend half an hour jabbing around and painting your entire vaginal canal with stuff that looks like the silver paint pens you once used to write ‘I love Bryan Adams’ on your spiral notebooks.”
She said: “You may have some greyish discharge now from that treatment.”
She meant: “I bet that hurt like a mofo.”
After what felt like about six hours, I was allowed to sit up again. We then had a brief discussion about my “treatment plan” from here on out. My uterus cackled from the beyond, again, as my doctor told me she wasn’t surprised that I was healing a little slowly. She said that’s common in perimenopausal women. I laughed and reminded her that I’m only 32. She told me that according to my lab results, I was perimenopausal. Which explains so much. Like the migraines (hormone fluctuations). And frequent periods (ovaries trying to pop out the last few good eggs). And oh yeah, being a raving lunatic bitch most of the time.
So I guess the saga of All My Broken Girl Parts isn’t quite over, yet. Though I do think the end is in sight. And my most fervent hope at this point is the same as what any one of you would be focused on in my place: Lord, please don’t let me be in a car accident and have to be taken unconscious to the hospital where my clothes are cut off to reveal a half-shaved pubic coiffure topped with a scar sheet. Amen.