Goodbye, Uterus
In this long overdue blog post…it’s revealed that my baby making parts were out to get me the whole time. Okay, that’s dramatic…but it was like a final joke from my uterus. If you’ve been following The Pickle Party these 8+ years, you know…if not, click here to read the Adoption Story. After an ER visit a few months ago (I’ll spare you the details), it was revealed that I had a couple golf ball sized fibroids in my uterus. I finally found a gyno and he confirmed…said he could remove them. I laughed, “um…no, that would be the final straw - we clean this sucker out and I get knocked up with some multiples…at 46 years old.”
Bahahaha…NO. So, it was decided that al hysterectomy including fallopian tubes…leaving just the ovaries was in my immediate future. Apparently they leave the ovaries...because you know - hormones and it helps with all the fun things that come with being a woman. After thinking about it...it would explain a lot about how sh*tty I felt over the last couple years. Oh, and since I haven’t given birth, they get to cut my gut open to muck it out. I am so lucky.
The morning of the surgery…5:30am...I wake up to a text from my mom telling me that I can cancel the surgery and to trust my gut if I feel uncomfortable. Did I mention that I haven’t had anything to eat, drink, or chew…as in my nicotine gum in 16 hours. I’m about to lose my marbles. Did I also mention that I’ve never had a surgery before…so in my pre-surgery panic, I've written tear-stained, heart-felt letters to my family. Yeah, this should be fun.
Hospital check-in at 7AM - dude named Daniel wants my money. Bub gave him a look and said he’d pay him after I woke up. Did I mention I was quitting my nicotine gum habit after way too many years (nope, not a smoker…love me some copenhagen). And I haven’t had so much as a sip of water since 5pm the night before…you can imagine my mood. I’m somewhere between Linda Blair and Johnny in The Shining.
They take me to a small room with two beds and hand me the requisite gown. I’m told to go in the bathroom to strip...wipe down my limbs and torso with alcohol wipes and swish with mouthwash. I am directed to my bed...where they jamb the IV line in my hand and install those sexy compression socks. Then add the calf massaging deals...don’t want blood clots. Anesthesiologist comes in and chats - asks me how much I weigh. I’m pretty sure he made a guesstimate after I shot him “that look”. My doc stops by and says he’ll see me soon. Sh*t, I hope so. I think it was all pretty routine? I don’t know…again, I’m hangry/psychotic.
They wheel me to the OR...I commented that they needed bigger hallways, they were veering around carts and random stuff in the hallway. Then we get to the OR...they realize the bed won’t fit through the door and I look up. Then I comment that the OR looks like one of those rooms from Hostel or another movie where they harvest organs, i.e. sterile green 4x4 ceramic tile, silver trays of instruments, silver operating table. The anesthesiologist told me not to say that!
Then I’m directed to get up and walk into the OR. Yup...can’t make this up. I’m shuffling in with my grippy socks and my ass hanging out of the back of the gown. I walk around the table and am told not to touch anything because it’s sterile. WTF?! Then I step up on a stool and sit my bare ass on the operating table. The anesthesiologist puts a spinal block in as I lean on the nurse and try not to flinch. The last thing I remember is them laying me back and telling me to put my arms out straight on this T-shaped operating table. Fairly certain I had another choice comment, but from here on out, it’s pretty rummy.
There’s a male nurse and I can tell that my mom is not a fan...turns out he never puts on gloves when he comes in to check my vitals, etc. My mom asked him to put gloves on and he says, “It’s my understanding that it’s a personal preference.” And then mentions that he has a rash from the gloves…yes, please check my foley* catheter and lower gut incision without gloves…can’t wait to get your “rash”. He then asks Bub if I’m going home with the catheter in? Bub’s face was priceless. Later, my Mom walks into the hallway and hears "said nurse" saying, “no one can f***ing tell me what to do.” Super professional…
My night nurse, Albert, is the sweetest thing ever. Poor guy is sweating from working so hard and he listens to Bub and brings in the machine for vitals. Turns out my O2 levels are too low and he needs to put the oxygen back on. I won't delve into Albert...but he provided excellent care. And I will tell you that there should be more nurses like him in the world...funny, happy, and honest. We'll leave it at that. I did sing his praises on a survey the hospital sent me...I'm not sure they'll like the rest of this story, but I included my "satire" version with the survey. I hope the hospital administrator enjoys it.
My parents held me hostage in their house for three weeks...and by hostage I mean - they had coffee for me in the AM, fed me all the meals, did all my laundry, and all of those things that I probably only experienced for the first 23 months of my life - before my little brother arrived. It was delightful, but not conducive to real life as a wife and mother. :) My sister came to town for my recovery and took such great care of my little Pickle. And poor Bub stayed home whilst working and golfing...I think he shared custody with my sister. I'm not really sure because I was in bed eating bon-bons and reading all the books.
P.S. I've been told by 100% of the ladies that have had this procedure that it's worth it! I'll report on that next time.
*All I can think of is Axel Foley and I love me some Beverly Hills Cop
It's All Relative - How We Got There...
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