In about twelve hours, I'll be in surgery. Having only one major melt down before now, I think I've done considerably well for someone who's about to have all but one bit of an entire bodily system removed.
I still have doubts, but I guess that's to be expected. My fears are far more psychological than physical. Am I doing the right thing at the right time in my life? Am I ready to swap one set of symptoms for another? Will I still be as much me as I am now without most of my female parts? My answer to all three is, "God, I hope so."
I'm more afraid of this surgery than I have been for any of several that I've had. I suppose because this is the first time that it's been 100% my decision. The previous had all been decided by my parents, at the urging of my orthopedic doctors. Even my tonsils were, "have them out, or end up in the hospital". I needed all the others at those particular times. Either because I was sick, or my vertebrae had shifted to just the right percent, or my bones risked growing in odd ways if they'd waited. But this... I could put this off, if I needed to. I could continue the current regimen of shots...but to what end? The fact that I'm "choosing" to make this radical leap scares the hell out of me. I know, millions upon millions of women have been in my shoes, but not a one has been in my head.
I keep alternating between feeling this detached unrealness of it, and being scared breathless. It stems from the simple truth that should something go wrong, either a week from now, or a year from now, and I'm worse off than I was, I have only my self to blame. There's no shortage of family members waiting in line to say "I Told You So".
The thing is, too. It's not just me anymore. For as long as Brad will keep me, the decisions affect him as well. I'm just praying this will quell some of my messier mood swings, and I can get on with the business of life.
And then there's the silly thoughts, like "I won't be a whole set of parts anymore." Thing is, I was never a whole set of parts to begin with. I was born with two less vertebrae, and one less rib....or is it two less ribs and one less...nevertheless, I was never a factory sealed package, so one more bit of abnormality shouldn't bother me. One more scar shouldn't scare me. That bit just makes me sad. There's very little real estate on my skin that isn't under, or near a scar of some kind. The though of adding to the collection just makes me tired. Depending on how things go, months down the road, when everything's healed up nicely, I'll be adding a tattoo on top of this new addition. Don't know what yet. I'll leave that to future me to decide.
Well, I'll be off to finish the loveliness of my bowel prep, and hopefully be cuddled up in bed with my boy and my bunny, watching Babylon 5 until sleep comes for me. Wish me luck. Say a prayer. I'll need them both.
Monday, November 26, 2007
Sunday, November 11, 2007
The good, the bad, and the royally stupid
The good news is, I'm another day closer to getting this over with. The bad news is my body is trying (but not yet succeeding) to force me to have one last miserable period before it gets the knife. The good news to that is it's reminding me just why I'm doing this.
Bad news again, riding past the hospital last night freaked me out. Most of the time, I'm calm enough about it, and then out of know where I'll get that fear knot in my chest. It doesn't feel real yet. I don't think it actually will until I'm doing all the lovely "prep" stuff the night before, and packing what I want to bring. That "am I doing the right thing" mantra pops in my head...okay there's the knot again...but when the pain starts up again the knot will go away again...and the wheels on the bus go round and round.
And here's the royally stupid. My mother went to a psychic who told "they would operate, but it wouldn't be what they thought it would be". Why tell me? It's probably nonsense, I know, but it just adds to my worry that taking everything out won't stop the pain. And that's not even the worst part of it. My mother has been telling me every single time I talk to her that I A) should be having the surgery back up in Cleveland (Yeah, like I'm going to get any rest in a house full of people whose hobby is yelling), or B) that I should put off the surgery another month so she can be here. I appreciate that she's worried, and I'm grateful. But if I could have had this done last month, hell, last year, I would have. I can't miss any more work, or any more of my life, than I already have. If they're going to come down, I'd rather it be once I'm home, so I can actually spend time with them, instead of being half stoned. If I was having brain surgery, or some kind of organ transplant, I may say fine, but it's basic removal of things that don't work. Wait, that's not the worst part, either...
My aunt called today with an angry message I only half played. Now, I love her, and would normally listen to everything, but it hurt, and pissed me off, and hurt some more. She kept going on about how I NEED to wait for my family to be here, that I don't have family here, and I should wait for them to come. About six seconds after that I deleted the message. What the hell?! Brad loves me (crazy man), and his family likes me, and his mother is planning on taking a week off in December in case I need her. The people I work with are so dear and wonderful that I even consider them part of my (albeit extended, since there's so many) family. Bless all the gods there ever were that my dad understands. He worries, of course, but he understands that I live here now, and that I'm going to be looked after. The next time either my mother or aunt call, if the conversation turns to the surgery, I'm going to have to ask to either change the subject, or I'll need to hang up. I'm stressed as it is, and instead of support from them, I'm getting more stress. GRRR ARG!!
Bad news again, riding past the hospital last night freaked me out. Most of the time, I'm calm enough about it, and then out of know where I'll get that fear knot in my chest. It doesn't feel real yet. I don't think it actually will until I'm doing all the lovely "prep" stuff the night before, and packing what I want to bring. That "am I doing the right thing" mantra pops in my head...okay there's the knot again...but when the pain starts up again the knot will go away again...and the wheels on the bus go round and round.
And here's the royally stupid. My mother went to a psychic who told "they would operate, but it wouldn't be what they thought it would be". Why tell me? It's probably nonsense, I know, but it just adds to my worry that taking everything out won't stop the pain. And that's not even the worst part of it. My mother has been telling me every single time I talk to her that I A) should be having the surgery back up in Cleveland (Yeah, like I'm going to get any rest in a house full of people whose hobby is yelling), or B) that I should put off the surgery another month so she can be here. I appreciate that she's worried, and I'm grateful. But if I could have had this done last month, hell, last year, I would have. I can't miss any more work, or any more of my life, than I already have. If they're going to come down, I'd rather it be once I'm home, so I can actually spend time with them, instead of being half stoned. If I was having brain surgery, or some kind of organ transplant, I may say fine, but it's basic removal of things that don't work. Wait, that's not the worst part, either...
My aunt called today with an angry message I only half played. Now, I love her, and would normally listen to everything, but it hurt, and pissed me off, and hurt some more. She kept going on about how I NEED to wait for my family to be here, that I don't have family here, and I should wait for them to come. About six seconds after that I deleted the message. What the hell?! Brad loves me (crazy man), and his family likes me, and his mother is planning on taking a week off in December in case I need her. The people I work with are so dear and wonderful that I even consider them part of my (albeit extended, since there's so many) family. Bless all the gods there ever were that my dad understands. He worries, of course, but he understands that I live here now, and that I'm going to be looked after. The next time either my mother or aunt call, if the conversation turns to the surgery, I'm going to have to ask to either change the subject, or I'll need to hang up. I'm stressed as it is, and instead of support from them, I'm getting more stress. GRRR ARG!!
Wednesday, November 7, 2007
Off we go, then....
In less than three weeks, on November 27th, I'll be having just about everything internal that makes me a female removed. Total abdominal hysterectomy, with my appendix taken out for good measure. I've been spending scads of time on my new favorite website, HysterSisters.com, which makes me think that chronicling the close of one chapter in my life, and the opening of another may be worthwhile. There may be someone else out there facing the same thing, and maybe, like me, reading others' experiences helps. Or maybe I'm just crazy.
If you're reading this after listening to PodCulture, the podcast I share with my dear boyfriend Brad, and his best friend, Glenn, then you already know me. Get ready to know me better. Maybe better than a weak stomach would like, but I'll try never to get too graphic. I can't promise that, though, since I've spent my life comfortable with the less pretty parts of a human. We are squishy, gross, exquisitely complex creatures, and it's beautiful. If you're reading this because you're a woman in the same boat, welcome to the Titanic. We'll be going down together.
The story so far....
I had ridiculous amounts of pain with my cycles when I was young, and after laparoscopic exploratory surgery, was diagnosed with stage IV edometriosis. I was sixteen. The doctor himself was amazed that someone so young had it so bad. Since then, I've tried lupron shots, depo shots, laparoscopic removal of deposits (twice), five different birth control pills, and four doctors. Up until the doctor I have now, no one wanted to do a hysterectomy. It was never even an option. Everyone threw around things like, "too young" and "she'll want kids". No one ever took into account the fact that I was missing four or five days of school (and eventually, work) a month because I couldn't get out of bed. When I wasn't laid up completely, I was a hormonal nightmare. I can't remember a time when I didn't have some kind of heavy pain killer in my medicine cabinet.
And then there was the "children issue". I love my brother, Eric (who'll be fifteen next month), and my sister, Miranda (who's eleven), but never have I wanted my own children. It was never an urge. When my friends were playing "house", I was playing "novelist in Europe". Kids are fine...over there...behind soundproof glass...heavily sedated. Okay, so I'm kidding...sort of. I'll be brutally honest. I don't actually like them. I know that sounds terrible. I got (and still get) flack from a lot of people for that. People look at you like you've got three heads when you tell them that there's nothing wrong with choosing not to procreate. From my own family I get the "someday you'll wish you hadn't had surgery". Where is it stamped in stone that you've got to have five-point-seven children (or whatever the number actually is) by the time you hit the big three-oh? It's a wise and self-aware thing to know where you stand. There are a hell of a lot of women out there who really "shouldn't" have kids, and they do. Likewise, there are plenty of women who are great mothers. I respect that, and more power to them. Me, I shall endeavor to live a happy, pain-free life, and leave keeping the species alive to them.
My the grace of God alone I managed to find a good man who understands my distaste for the little ones, and agrees. Should we ever change our minds (is it the apocalypse already?), there is a beautiful thing called adoption.
So here I am, filled with anticipation, fear, excitement, anxiety, hope, and everything else that I'm sure will come between now and then. With luck, my days of pain and exhaustion are numbered...
Until next time,
Cheers!
If you're reading this after listening to PodCulture, the podcast I share with my dear boyfriend Brad, and his best friend, Glenn, then you already know me. Get ready to know me better. Maybe better than a weak stomach would like, but I'll try never to get too graphic. I can't promise that, though, since I've spent my life comfortable with the less pretty parts of a human. We are squishy, gross, exquisitely complex creatures, and it's beautiful. If you're reading this because you're a woman in the same boat, welcome to the Titanic. We'll be going down together.
The story so far....
I had ridiculous amounts of pain with my cycles when I was young, and after laparoscopic exploratory surgery, was diagnosed with stage IV edometriosis. I was sixteen. The doctor himself was amazed that someone so young had it so bad. Since then, I've tried lupron shots, depo shots, laparoscopic removal of deposits (twice), five different birth control pills, and four doctors. Up until the doctor I have now, no one wanted to do a hysterectomy. It was never even an option. Everyone threw around things like, "too young" and "she'll want kids". No one ever took into account the fact that I was missing four or five days of school (and eventually, work) a month because I couldn't get out of bed. When I wasn't laid up completely, I was a hormonal nightmare. I can't remember a time when I didn't have some kind of heavy pain killer in my medicine cabinet.
And then there was the "children issue". I love my brother, Eric (who'll be fifteen next month), and my sister, Miranda (who's eleven), but never have I wanted my own children. It was never an urge. When my friends were playing "house", I was playing "novelist in Europe". Kids are fine...over there...behind soundproof glass...heavily sedated. Okay, so I'm kidding...sort of. I'll be brutally honest. I don't actually like them. I know that sounds terrible. I got (and still get) flack from a lot of people for that. People look at you like you've got three heads when you tell them that there's nothing wrong with choosing not to procreate. From my own family I get the "someday you'll wish you hadn't had surgery". Where is it stamped in stone that you've got to have five-point-seven children (or whatever the number actually is) by the time you hit the big three-oh? It's a wise and self-aware thing to know where you stand. There are a hell of a lot of women out there who really "shouldn't" have kids, and they do. Likewise, there are plenty of women who are great mothers. I respect that, and more power to them. Me, I shall endeavor to live a happy, pain-free life, and leave keeping the species alive to them.
My the grace of God alone I managed to find a good man who understands my distaste for the little ones, and agrees. Should we ever change our minds (is it the apocalypse already?), there is a beautiful thing called adoption.
So here I am, filled with anticipation, fear, excitement, anxiety, hope, and everything else that I'm sure will come between now and then. With luck, my days of pain and exhaustion are numbered...
Until next time,
Cheers!
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