Oh, she’s writing again. Goooood for her. Lemme guess? About the goddamn uterus again? Imagine that. How new and different.
If you are having this reaction, I don’t blame you. You are all probably more knowledgeable about my reproductive organs than you care to be. My sincere apologies for being a broken record. But as you all know, it’s so much easier to write about things than to be a normal person and talk about them, so I take to the keyboard once again.
As I mentioned briefly in my previous post, I’m terrified of this surgery. I want it and need it, but that doesn’t mean I’m not scared shitless by it. I’m not very good at not freaking out over things, and this is no exception. Today’s probably unnecessary thought is “Dear Christ, what if this thing growing inside me has defied the odds and it is cancerous?” My brain is a scumbag.
I hesitated telling my dad about my issues and didn’t want to worry him, but I called Friday and told him. I can tell he’s worried because he called me yesterday morning, “just because.” See, the thing about my dad is, we can go several weeks or even months without contact. We are so goddamn similar that we both have the stubborn mentality of “if he/she isn’t going to call, I’m not going to call him/her.” Passive aggression at its finest, folks. Of all the traits of his to adopt, I had to pick that one.
I also had my pre-op physical today with my doctor. The first thing she said to me as she entered the room was, “still want a hysterectomy?”
I’ve been asked many dumb questions in my day, and that is a dumb question. I dunno; does a bear shit in the woods, lady?
Yes, I realize I’m young. Yes, I realize I have no children. Yes, I realize this procedure will prevent me from having children. I get it. I understand your perspective. But take a moment to look at things from my side: I’ve had irregular periods for four years. I get one every fourteen days. They last a week. That’s double hell for me in a month. I’ve been in sometimes nearly unbearable pain for the last three weeks, and bleeding on top of that.
So, this question of asking me if I still want a hysterectomy is equivalent to showing a kid in Africa a plate of food, clean water, clothes, and then being all, “gosh, are you sure you want this? I mean, you’re doing the suffering thing so well…”
Get fucked, lady. And she said she’s going to ask me again Thursday if I want it done. What, when the robot is prepped and I’m seconds away from being cut? Jesus dysmenorrhea Christ!
As you can tell, I’m a bit on edge. I’m anxious. Nervous. Scared. I didn’t really think of this as being a major surgery, but it is a major surgery. I’m not getting my heart splayed out on a table or undergoing a transplant or anything, but a part of me is being removed.
One funny thing was, is she asked if I wanted to see pictures of what they found inside. I’m all, “oh, hell yes!” I want to stare the beast who’s been causing me grief in the eyes! And yes, I’m going to post that shit to any social media sites I can. #hysterectomy #fuckuterus #yolo #swag
T-minus two days. Not that I’m counting or anything.
On behalf of myself, Terry the Asshole Fibroid, and Eugenia the Uterus, as always, thanks for reading.