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...
Well, the bubble burst a little. Surprise! But those few hours of contentment were nice. So, you know how thrilled I've been about finally being on the right medications and hormones and all of that, and feeling pretty much myself again? It's been great. Right up this evening, when I started cramping and spotting. And... uhhh... not to get too technical here, but that area is no longer connected to anything, supposedly; so I for one am kind of puzzled as to where that blood might be coming from, ya know? Plus... cramping? From what? Phantom cramps? Or maybe my uterus grew back? (This is when...
(Or, Have! some! more! caffeine!) So impressed was I by the effects of last night's Pepsi, even though I woke up headache-free (a small victory in itself) I decided! to have! some tea! immediately! It is possible that my caffeine tolerance has changed a bit since all this mucking about with my hormones. I mean, if you need someone to churn some butter with the spasmodic unconscious shaking and flailing of the arms, I'm your girl. I should probably not be your first pick if you need someone to carry something breakable, at this point, however. Or if you're...
I have been having a very goodie-ful week, for which I am very grateful. At this moment I feel exceedingly warm and fuzzy... though that could be a hot flash or maybe the drugs. No matter! First I demonstrated my prowess at blogger foot identification, earning me the label of part-time foot fetishist, and... a book! Next I wrote about food as love, earning me the Blogging for Books crown and... a book! Then I hit the doctor's office, whimpered about my week-long migraine, and earned a plain brown paper bag containing... a book! Wait, no. That's...
... whether or not this migraine is now a permament part of my life. ... whether my doctor was surprised when she called me back and I burst into tears when she asked me to tell her how I was feeling. ... whether I will repeat my embarrassing tearfulness at my appointment with her tomorrow or merely rip her head from her neck, screeching "You did this to meeeeeeeeee!" ... whether I will have the presence of mind to haiku, later, after the kidlets are in bed. ... whether I should not write semi-serious stuff in my blog, as I actually heard the crickets chirping...
I know that I have been concealing my post-hysterectomy hormone issues so well that you are all shocked and amazed to learn that estrogen--or the lack thereof--is a major issue on what is left of my rapidly-failing, hormone-deprived brain. Nonetheless, for those readers who are female, I have some important information to share. (For those readers who are male, either skip this entry or read ahead and then feel superior as you bask in testosterone. I don't mind. Someday your prostate will be as big as my deformed ovary was, and then I will have sweet revenge.) Women need estrogen. It does...
My doctor called me as soon as she was out of surgery. I described my symptoms and she said (wait for it...): "Well that sounds awful. You shouldn't use that patch!" Thanks, Sherlock. So I am now wearing a new, progestin-free, estrogen-only patch on my hiney. It is not the Vivelle Dot, so it is approximately the diameter of a softball, but fortunately 1) my buttocks are quite ample enough to accommodate and 2) no one sees it but me (right now; probably for the forseeable future; okay I have to stop thinking about this now before I cry). Should this patch give the desired result, when I go...
I used to go to the dentist every six months like clockwork. I was never afraid of going; I enjoyed the feeling of squeaky-clean teeth and never had a cavity and found the whole process rather soothing. (I had years of orthodonture, you know. You never escape one of those visits without something being twisted, tightened, or otherwise painful. Bi-yearly cleanings are a cakewalk.) Then in grad school I started falling off the dental hygiene bandwagon... no time, no money, my teeth look fine, I brush twice a day.... Then at some point the ex more or less got up one morning declaring that we...
My conscience phoned me this evening. My conscience is, of course, a dear friend who knows me too well. It was early suppertime, and my father was being Super Grandpa and making french toast for the kidlets, and I was merely taking bacon out of the package and spreading it on a paper-toweled plate in readiness for the microwave. Then the phone rang. "Are you taking it easy?" she demanded. There I stood in my kitchen, phone in one hand, plate of bacon in the other, trying to open the microwave with my elbow. "Yes, of course. We're just making dinner for the kids." "We? I bet you anything your...
