Although not totally unscathed. A hero, I'm not. Brave, I'm not, either. In fact, I'm just a big ol' wimp.
The procedure was called an "endometrial ablation." Nope, I didn't have endometriosis, but I might as well have since I've been having some trouble each month... for about, oh, ten years? Long enough that I finally grew SICK of it!
In short, two days a month, I would be reluctant to leave my house. It might not be pretty. But I would, since I have to work. I would head to work on those two days armed with a bag full of female products that would hopefully hold me through the day. They usually didn't though. The deluge I would experience has cost me MANY embarrassing moments.
I'll let you use your imagination.
Anyway, back to the surgery... the procedure was not a hysterectomy. More of a partial hysterectomy in that they removed the lining of my uterus. This, hopefully, will end my monthly woes. It doesn't throw me into menopause, but it does take away the lining that is usually shed each month... in fact, I will still continue to have "periods" without the mess.
Sort of. I hope. Maybe. I pray.
Because I could never schedule my pre-op (the nurse and I could just never get a good time picked) I had my pre-op an hour before my surgery! And I do not recommend this, ever. The nurses and doctors are so rushed... they talk in shorthand and a mile a millisecond and then have the nerve to ask if you have any questions. Like I even heard a single word they just said. Never mind the nerves. They might as well have been speaking Swahili. In fact, I think they were.
So, they finally finish and leave me to contemplate all that's about to happen. And right then and there, I decide that I am not cut out for surgery, will never, ever have it again and start looking for my clothes so that I can go home.
I regain my composure though and stay, still swearing that I won't ever have surgery again. Ever. Rick, who was by my side for the pre-op, tells me that I will though, when I get older. Not sure what he was referring to... other than old folks tend to break hips and need lots of surgeries.
I'm not gonna do that, though. I'm done.
Getting ready for the surgery, I was a jittery, antsy mess. I couldn't get comfortable. But finally, the anesthesiologist appeared and loaded my IV with the stuff to make you sleep. By this point I was ready to rest. I was a wreck leading up to it, so I took the stuff willingly.
Then I was wheeled out and down the hall. I never made it to the operating room.
Okay, I did. I guess. But I never saw it. Someone must've removed my memory. I can't remember ever arriving there.
Now here's the funny part. I do not do anesthesia well. I guess I fight it... and for EVERY surgery I've EVER had, I've woken up in the middle. Even when I was four and having a tonsillectomy. I woke up then, too! I remember every detail of the nurse yelling at me to go back to sleep. (I hated her.)
BUT, I did not wake up for this one. One moment I was being wheeled to the operating room and then next, I was back in the recovery room chatting with the doctor.
Even funnier? A nurse came in and brought me a diet coke and 2 packages of cookies. I thanked her and asked if my husband had ordered these for me.
"No, you did. You said you had a headache and needed Diet Coke quickly."
Oh the things that come out of my mouth when I'm under anesthesia.
"Did I ask for cookies, too?"
"Yes, and you specified that they had to be Lorna Doone." Whaa??? I haven't had a Lorna Doone cookie in years. Now where did that come from?
Then I asked the nurse how long she thought I'd be down for. Two days, three days?
She said, "TWO DAYS!"
"Why are you yelling at me?"
"I always yell when someone asks me THE SAME QUESTION ONE HUNDRED TIMES!"
See, no more surgery for me. People are just not nice when I'm under anesthesia.
I'm home now and for all my special pray-ers.... THANK YOU!
Your prayers mean't so much to me!
Not sure what I'm smiling at. I've got on no make up and my hair is straight out of the shower. Not my best look...
I forgot to mention... some of my post op instructions are "pelvic rest for three weeks." You can read between the lines there. I think Rick is reading between the lines here, too ... looking for a loophole.
He's really studying it thoroughly!
P.S. Please note my birthdate above. I'll be looking for some presents around that time...