So, last Thursday I saw the specialist about my messed up lady bits.
He did a pelvic exam, and prefaced it with a warning that it might be *slightly uncomfortable* because he wanted to thoroughly examine my ovaries and uterus.
Let me tell you something.
I gave birth, naturally, without so much as tylenol in my blood stream – twice. My husband will tell you, I lost my wimp status for good because I never made a damn sound – I had it handled.
I have a high tolerance for pain. I have video to prove it.
But that exam? That was painful. Lift my hips up off the exam table, dig my nails into my palm, grit my teeth until they feel like they will snap in half, kind if painful.
I can’t wear under.wear. I can barely wear pants, and even when I do, they are of the yoga or pajama variety. I’m nauseous and uncomfortable. My shit hurts, and it is an all-encompassing, overall ache of my lady bits punctuated by the stinging hot pain of a torn perineum.
Thank gah for my friend Kim, who introduced me to Hospital Strength Dermoplast Pain Relieving Spray, which, along with a steady stream of motrin, has kept me from being completely miserable for the next week, when my linebacker baby will hopefully be going off to college, and good riddance.
I know I’m complaining about it now, but I know that exam was necessary – and important. I’m glad my doc was so thorough. But it’s my blog and I’ll cry if I want to.
Despite putting me through freaking hell, this former-marine OB/GYN specialist really knows his stuff, and is handling my case in exactly the way I need. In his professional opinion, the masses on my ovary and uterus (did I mention the ER overlooked a few? Which is exactly why we need to be our own advocates, people – everyone makes mistakes, even doctors) do not look like cancer.
*Whew*
However, he is going to treat them as though they could be.
*Whew* again.
Currently?
We are awaiting lab results for some preliminary tests that can be an indicator of the presence cancerous tumors, but that aren’t entirely definitive.
We are waiting for a copy of the genetic screening report that was run by the fertility clinic back in 2002 when I was an ovum donor.
When it arrives, I will go see a geneticist who will take a look at the report and determine if any other, more recently discovered genetic tests can be run. Hopefully, with all this genetics screening, we will know a lot more about whether or not these masses are cancerous – or may become so, in the future.
We are waiting for me to start a new cycle, joy of joys, and then I will go in for an ultrasound to see what, if anything, has changed.
And then… well, then we decide what happens next. Biopsy? Partial lady-bit removal? Total? Time will tell.
I’ve pretty much decided that if any surgical procedures need to be done, I will go to the Mayo Clinic. They really know what they’re doing, and have the latest technology and clinical trials – and they accept my insurance.
That, my friends, is what you might call a win-win situation.
*Oh, and? I can’t tell you how much everyone’s support means to me. I can’t, really – because once you’ve seen an ugly cry like that you’ll never be the same, and I’m going to try and spare you. For now, anyway.*
Category: Life in general
I’ve been thinking about participating in Girl Talk Thursday for awhile. The problem is, I usually don’t think about it until Friday morning. Woops!
But the topic today is something I’ve been thinking about – being a chicken.
I’m a big fat chicken about a lot of things, but there’s one thing in particular that I don’t want to be chicken about.
That one thing is my writing.
I’ve started writing seven novels in the past twelve years. Been passionate about them to the point that I can’t think of anything else, writing and outlining and developing characters at every spare moment.
Inevitably, I come to a point where I want some feedback. But I’m too chicken shit to show my writing to anyone. The blog doesn’t count, of course, because it’s fluid and ever changing, and people who come here to read aren’t expecting works of pure genius.
My real writing, that’s something I hope to have published some day. I want someone to purchase one of my books, spend their precious time reading it, and come away happy that they did so.
That’s a whole lot of pressure.
I realize that what shows up on bookshelves isn’t anyone’s first draft – which is why I need feedback. I can’t be objective when I’m neck deep in the process of developing a scene. But I’ve always been too chicken to show anything I’ve seriously written.
Until now.
Maura is taking a look at the first few chapters of a novel I’d decided to abandon. Something I haven’t looked at in 9 months, but that I know has potential to be something worth reading. Something worth writing.
I’m still a chicken. But at least, for now, I feel capable of laying some eggs.
Categories
More Than a Salad
I snarled at my husband over a wilty, soggy, left over salad. Oh yes, I did.
This morning, as I rushed to prepare Alison’s school lunch, my eyes drifted toward the container of left over salad I was saving for my lunch. As soon as I saw the lid lying askew, exposing the now disgusting looking salad to the air of the fridge, I abandoned my task and stomped over to my unsuspecting husband.
He had apparently been curious about the container from Strings in the fridge last night. I’m sure he was incredibly disappointed to find salad where chicken parmesan should be. That was no excuse, however, for just dropping the cardboard circle haphazardly over the top of the container, rather than sealing it the way he found it.
He tried blaming the salad for looking unappetizing.
So, basically, had the salad looked good to him, he would have gone ahead and eaten it? But since he found it unappealing, he couldn’t be bothered to preserve it for me?
Well, thanks.
Tears began to spill over my cheeks and I couldn’t let it go. It was my salad. That I went to the trouble of bringing home. Maybe I like my salads to look unappetizing, it was still mine. Had he eaten it, that would be one thing, but now it was ruined and nobody was going to eat it.
He apologized, profusely – he hadn’t meant to be careless, hadn’t meant to ruin my lunch, hadn’t meant to upset me.
Even as I accepted his apology, I felt stupid for making such a big deal about a wilty salad. On any given day, I probably would have been happy about the excuse to eat something delicious, rather than a left over salad that, truthfully, wasn’t all that tasty the first time around.
I knew I was making a mountain out of something far more ridiculous than a molehill – an anthill, maybe. A very tiny anthill, made by miniature ants.
There are mountains all around me – other people’s mountains, ones I want desperately to help them conquer, but I can’t. And while those steep peaks looming in the distance help me to see my molehills for what they truly are, I find my eyes filling with tears and my face flushed with heat.
Life is so freaking unfair sometimes. And it’s not the salad, forget the salad, it’s the injustice of people’s mountains. And looking at that pathetic salad, I’m reminded that there’s nothing in the world I can do about that.
I can try to ease people’s suffering, but how I would love to throw it away like an old, wilty salad.
Replace it with something tasty and warm, paired with a nice bottle of wine and some laughs.
What I wouldn’t give to have that power.
When disaster strikes, the way it has recently in Haiti, people wonder what they can do to help.
Watching footage of people being pulled from rubble from the comfort of our living rooms can make us feel powerless, especially in our current economy, when many people can’t donate much to relief funds.
But there is something most people can do, and it doesn’t cost a dime.
Give Blood.
Give it now, in the midst of major catastrophe, and give it later, when time has brought about complacency. Give it for the heroes, for the needy, for the woman behind you on line at Starbucks.
I am that woman.
This is my family in crisis. My family that would be incomplete, were it not for blood donors.
Here you see a phenomenally strong and able-bodied man, gently cradling his newborn daughter and holding his wife’s hand as medical professionals try to force her uterus to stop bleeding. He is the epitome of strength, and yet he is powerless to save the woman he loves.
My husband, one of the strongest people I have ever known, held my hand. He helped me through the pain, he kept me from fading away.
But it was blood donors (with the help of a fabulous midwife and countless doctors, nurses, and EMTs) who saved my life. I hemorrhaged severely three times after giving birth to Blythe. During the second and third hemorrhages, which occurred in less than 24 hours, I lost seven pints of blood.
My body only holds approximately eight pints of blood.
I am alive today because eight random strangers took the time to give their blood and plasma.
Giving blood saves lives. It saves lives in times of worldwide tragedy, and it saves lives every single day, for people whose stories will never make it onto the 5 o’clock news.
So, give. Give now and give often. Go to www.redcrossblood.org, or www.BloodSource.org to find out where, how, and, if I haven’t yet convinced you, why.
You never know when you will be the one in need.
*you can’t see it very well in this photo, but jeremy just so happens to be wearing his “Don’t Be Chicken: Give Blood!” t-shirt (from bloodsource) in this photo. coincidence? i don’t think so.*
I’ve been off my meds for six whole days now – and while I’ve had a few rough moments, I am happy to report that my real self is shining through. ——- Janice: Well, I guess that’s two out of three… Joey. Hahahahahahahaha.
I smile more. I laugh more. I love more.
That being said, now that my brain isn’t so fuzzy, I’ve been looking back at myself over the past few months and I hate to admit, I feel a little bit like Ross. And not just because Ross is my least favorite Friend.
Have you seen the Friends episode where Ross is going through a tough time after losing his job on account of his RAGE, and then he starts dating JANICE?
And then, at the end, JANICE breaks it off because Ross is too whiney and annoying… for JANICE.
Here’s a transcript of the scene:
Janice: You’re a very sweet person Ross. Um, unfortunately I don’t think I can take another second of you whining!
Ross: Let me make sure I’m hearing this right. You… you’re ending this with me because I’m too whiney? So you’re saying I’ve become so whiney that I annoy you–Janice.
Janice: Well, yeah.
Ross: OH… MY… GOD!
Up there is a clip of the last half of the episode. If you can’t see it, go here.
And can I just say, if my brain is clear enough to figure out how to embed a freaking video? People, I am back. Although, I don’t know how to make it show you just the clip I want. Cut me some slack.
Anyway, my point?
I’ve been self-centered. I’ve been whiney. I’ve been a huge Debbie Downer. And maybe not everyone who reads here or follows me on twitter noticed, but I’m pretty sure the people I whined to noticed.
*coughMeghancoughKimcoughMauracoughKellycough*
So I’m here to say, I’m sorry. I’m sorry for not being the friend I’d like to be. I’m sorry for being whiney and annoying enough to make JANICE break up with me.
Forgive me?
I promise that if you do, the next time I have the opportunity, the first round’s on me.
*wink*
oh, and? the fact that spellcheck wants me to change whiney to whitey makes me laugh. hard.