May 16

 

 

Hah, that photo is sort of funny what with my eyes all looking in different directions and my hair all big and scary and green. Whatev. It's how I'm looking these days.

 

This is going to be a long one! To make up for lost time!

 

The last time we spoke, I was planning a potentially ill advised trek to Canada to see Lionel Richie with Nicole. Before that, I'd had some minor crotch action and I honestly can't remember whether I wrote about this on here or just sent something out to my notify, but I was in the hospital for a very brief procedure. Now, if you're familiar with the wonderful "Flowers in the Attic" series, you'll know just what I'm talking about when I explain what happened and what's going on now. Be wary, from this point forward, this entry is about VAGINAL things and, as such, is not for the faint of heart or squeamish of stomach. (I'll preface gross fluids talk with some !!!!!s, so you can skip ahead, if you're so inclined)

A few years ago, my gynecologist diagnosed me with uterine fibroids. They're not a big deal usually. Many women have them and aren't ever aware they're even there. Anyhoo, I went on for the few years having weirdo symptoms. !!!!! Starting about 8 months ago, I started getting my period, which is normal. The fact that it WOULD NEVER GO AWAY was not so normal. I had my period for the ENTIRE MONTH OF SEPTEMBER from start to finish. Sometimes heavy! Sometimes light! But always a little something, right when I didn't expect it.!!!!!!!

I also noticed some fullness in my lower stomach which was entirely freaky since I know the difference between plain old fat and whatever was happening in there. It got worse and worse and worse until March, when I decided I ought to go back to the gyno and have someone take a look. (Yes, I know. 8 months of symptoms. I am none too swift). I went to the appointment, had a !!!!!!! full bladder TRANS VAGINAL sonogram!!!!!! and they saw what appeared to be three fibroids, one of them about the size of a softball. Which is not a small thing, oh no no! Additionally, because of the growth happening in my uterus (for a really foul looking artist's rendering of what my insides look like right now, please go here. But be warned, it's very !!!!!!!) I was told that my uterus was the size of a woman who was SIX MONTHS PREGNANT. After a brief conversation with her (her being my gyno, in case this story is as disjointed as I think it might be), she arranged for me to have a test. As an outpatient in the hospital. Here is my best approximation of the conversation (and this is where the Flowers in the Attic business comes into focus):

Dr. Reese: So, before we make any decisions on how to treat the fibroids, I'd like you to have a D&C. It'll rule out cancer or pre-cancer.

Dana: (aloud) A D&C? Okay, sure.

Dana: (to self) A D&C IS WHAT I GET BECAUSE I'M A SLUTTY BALLERINA WHO IS SLEEPING WITH MY BROTHER!!!!!!!THIS IS ALL BECAUSE I TURNED MY BACK ON JULIAN, WHO ONLY NEEDED ME TO TEACH HIM HOW TO LOVE, LIKE CHRISTOPHER, MY HANDSOME DOCTOR BROTHER!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! EVERYONE WILL TELL ME I'M ABORTING MY TWO HEADED MONSTER BABY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Dr. Reese: It's a very quick procedure, it'll take about 40 minutes, you'll be fully asleep and we'll send you home with some painkillers, but you really shouldn't have any pain, other than some cramping. Go sit in the scheduling office, and someone will help you out!

 

Right. So a week later, I'm at the hospital (Griffin, for those stalking from home), I'm all gowned up, my mom and Nick are in the outpatient OR runway and a woman wanders in and offers us MASSAGE. Yeah, seriously. Griffin hospital employs a full time masseuse for patients and families of patients. Someone else comes in and jams an IV in my arm, and finally I'm wheeled off. In the operating room, the anesthesiologist flips out because the IV isn't actually in, they give me a new one, everyone walks in and looks at me, they tell me I'm going to be fine, the last thing I say to them is "PLEASE SEDATE ME ENOUGH THAT THIS WON'T BE COMPLETELY EMBARRASSING". They did.

Waking up after a long surgery is a weird process. You're very cold and chattery. Disoriented. Waking up after a quick "procedure" is totally different, because I woke up thinking about Nelson from the Simpsons. Is Nelson my soul mate? Perhaps. It was Nelson on my sedated mind.

A week later, I go in for my follow up appointment. I don't have cancer, and she discusses my three options with me:

1.) Hysterectomy. Which is not a huge deal baby wise, since you all know that neither I nor Nick are interested in having any little N'Danas or D'Nicholases running around, but it's a big messy pain in the ass surgery with a really long recovery time (11 weeks, in some cases).

2.) Myectomy. Which is, as far as I remember, them going in and physically trying to cut out the fibroids, which is apparently a very bloody surgery to perform, because they have to patch the uterus back up afterwards. And perhaps fibroids get mad when you cut them and their only defense is to spray blood? I don't know.

3,) Uterine Fibroid Embolization. Which is what I chose, and thus leading up to the past two weeks.

After I told Dr. Reese that I wanted to give the UFE a shot (and I will explain it in a few), she gave me the number of someone she said was the best and sent me on my way. I got an appointment (mind you--it was the end of March)--May 13th. And an appointment for an MRI on the 10th.

April comes and goes, and I'm sent off by the interventional radiologist (the doctor who will do the UFE)--who is still a stranger to me-- for a blood test. Which was a small nightmare and I still have the bruises to prove it. Then, I go for the MRI.

Have you ever had an MRI? Have you ever had one without FLIPPING THE FUCK OUT AND WANTING TO DIE? Because if so, you are a better person than I. It was so utterly and completely horrible (did you have an IV in? Where they injected contrast dye? And you could feel the icy dye rolling through your veins?) It was a sheer horror. The end.

This brings us to last Friday, when I finally get to meet the doctor. He asks me a bunch of questions, tells me bunch of facts (has anyone ever asked you about your !!!!!!!vaginal secretions?!!!!!! Has anyone ever measured your pubic bone? If no, you haven't been truly and utterly embarrassed. He lays out facts and statistics about EFT, which, since I haven't described is goes pretty much like this:

I'm sedated and given an IV. I'm flopped down on a table. A catheter is inserted up into my groin (not into my big V, but into the femoral artery). Some other stuff happens. I'm awake, but sedated which sort of squicks me out, I have to confess. The doctor guides the catheter up to my uterus and shoots out little pellets, which can be plastic or medical grade gelatin. (my choice!!!) The idea being that the plastic (or gelatin) doodads will block the blood flow to the fibroids and they will die (and in the "what happens from a month to 6 months after the surgery, I'll let you all use your imaginations as to where the dead fibroids end up. Because I was told, in vivid detail, but there aren't really enough exclamation points to preface "you will find dead bits of tissue IN YOUR UNDERWEAR" Hah! I'm a dick, I snuck it in). I'm left there for a while, since I'll have a cut on my groin that they don't stitch up. Finally, they sit me up, wheel me off to my room and give me a MORPHINE PUMP for 24 hours. Being the kind of person who tries to look on the bright side of things, I think to myself "hey! morphine! Wacky!!" to try and stave off the "Jesus christ, if they're giving me 24 hours of morphine, I'm going be in fucking agony, and they don't want to hear me bitching and crying!" I'm in the hospital overnight, sent home with narcotics, Cipro (which you all may remember as 2001's favorite pharmaceutical, the Anthrax Drug) and I'm out of work for two weeks.

He leads me off to look at the MRIs, where he points out not THREE fibroids the sonogram (!!!TRANSVAGINAL!!!!) picked up, but FIVE. I am a Fibroid Making Machine. A Fibroid Factory, if you will. I tell him that I want to go ahead with the surgery procedure (it's not surgery, I guess). He tells me to call his office on Monday and we'd all set up something.

Today is Monday. I have sort of a busy May set up at work. We just submitted a MAJOR pain in the ass grant that I'd been working on for the better part of 3 months. We have another grant due June 1st. My surgery procedure date? May 24th. As in next Tuesday. One day before my 9 year wedding anniversary, and only however many days that is before the June 1st grant deadline. Not being the sort of person who really talks about work on my site anymore, let's let it suffice to say that today was not a happy day at work.

On the one hand, it's very soon. I mean, way sooner than I anticipated. I was thinking maybe end of June, maybe July? On the other hand, I'm very much a get it out of the way kind of person. On a third hand, a little morphine never hurt Dana none. On the forth hand, if you want to send me flowers, by all means, please do. I'll be in the hospital on the 24th and home from work for a couple of weeks. Do I know how to celebrate an anniversary or what?

 

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