It dawned on me that my last post was kind of crappy and maybe I should update the 2 or 3 readers I do have. When last we met I was going for an MRI to assess what exactly was going on in my coochie. My first MRI. I was cocky as hell when they asked me, several different times, if I was claustrophobic. "No, not at all," I said with swagger. So off I went with my friend AS in tow for moral support. To say everything leading up to the MRI was a debacle would be an understatement. I was sent to the wrong area of the hospital. I had the wrong body part to MRI listed on my order. Everywhere we went there was no actual employee of the hospital, just volunteers who are minimal help. And when we finally get to the MRI location, the volunteer there is a dead ringer for Fred Gwynne!
After a brief wait, Herman Munster informs me that they are ready for me and a technician comes out to get me. We go back, I put on some ginormous scrub pants because I foolishly wore jeans not thinking that the zipper can't go into the machine. I'm lead to the the scary ass looking MRI machine, lay down and get some earphones. I ask them to put on 91.3 the Summit because it doesn't have commercials and I would most likely hear something good.
OK... I'm ready, the table starts moving and suddenly my swagger is GONE!!! My palms start to sweat, my head gets dizzy and I want to put my arms up and stop the table from moving into the big freaking iron lung looking thing. OMG! I had no idea I'd be so terrified by it. But I was. I really really was. After a little reassurance from the techs, the table started moving again and I started to freak out, but then they said, "that's as far as we're going." Phew! My head was still out of the machine and I could see the ceiling. I felt so relieved, still nervous and stuff, but relieved that I could see out. That is until the radio came on and I heard these words, "And now John Fogarty in concert!" Oh shit, are you telling me I have to listen to John Fogarty live for the next 40 minutes!? What have I done! I couldn't change it now, they started. Well luckily it was only one song and after that I actually heard some great stuff that helped calm me tremendously (Siouxie, Iggy, Echo and the Bunnymen, Bowie). It is true that music can sooth the savage beast. And after one little snafu, I was done in about 50 minutes. My friend AS was getting worried and I think she ended up asking Herman Munster if I was ok. He didn't know, of course.
My doctor called on Monday (since the MRI was a Friday) and indicated some worry. It turns out that there was still no definitive answer as to what was lodged in my cooter, but she was certain it had to be removed and soon. She also was sure this would be an OR situation because the size was even more significant than they expected. I opted to have this done immediately, much to my doctors relief. She told me later that she was thinking that this was something very very bad because the location was unusual and the tests were inconclusive. Surgery was scheduled for the following Wednesday and I would be out of work for at least 2 weeks (I work Jan-Apr).
While all this was going on, Mom's dog was undergoing his own trauma. Turns out he had been munching on his blankie on and off for who knows how long, weeks, possibly months. So much so that he was no longer able to pass the wool that accumulated in his little belly (he's a toy poodle). This little guy was very very sick. He ended up having surgery the day before I did. Mom was supposed to come to the hospital with me, but now her other baby was sick and he was unable to do so. Instead I decided I'd go visit her the night before my surgery and maybe we could calm each other down. I was scared and worried. The lingering idea that I might have cancer was still there. At this point I was no longer getting much reassurance from my doctor.
When I got to mom's she informed me that we had to go pick up the little guy from the vet and take him to the animal clinic so he could be monitored overnight and her vet didn't offer that service. This might be the last thing I want to do the night before surgery but I do. And it's insane. The little guy had a huge ball of wool removed and a third of his intestines. He's still pretty doped up but we take him and go to the clinic to drop him off. This was not a quick and easy undertaking and it ended up taking, all totaled, about 4 hours. At this point it is too late for me to eat so I never got dinner that night and I never got to express my own fears. When I left my mom's at almost 10 pm, I cried the whole way home. I was scared, upset and had gotten no reassurance or comfort because the pooch needed it more. I'm not saying this because I'm bitter or blame my mom. It's just how I felt at that time... scared, nervous. I had to be at the hospital at 5:30 am. I was a mess of emotions, and yes worried about the pooch too.
The morning of surgery I took some anti-anxiety meds that I have since they told me I could and it helped tremendously. After checking it, it all becomes a blur as drugs are administered and things get underway. The last thing I remember is moving myself from the gurney to the OR table, looking up at the lights and then being woken up in the recovery room and having to pee like mad! A nurse came and walked me to the bathroom, and this ended up being the first of several hobbly wobbly journeys to the restroom in recovery.
Luckily I was able to go home that afternoon and didn't have to stay overnight. But to say my recovery was horrible would probably be an understatement. In fact, now, 3 months later, I'm still not completely recovered. I was unable to sit without leaning to the side for 2 weeks. I had to use icepacks and take pain medications. I said often that the irony of the situation is that I spent 50 years not having kids only to end up dealing with the aftermath of childbirth! Just my luck.
Happily the baseball that was removed from my lady bits was nothing terrible. In fact, the doctors don't even really know how/why I got it or what it actually was. Oh they analyzed it and were able to determine that it was comprised of fatty tissue, fibrous tissue and hematoma, but there is no name for it other than vulvar mass and it was completely benign. I'm extremely lucky and I know it and am so grateful for it.
The ordeal is behind me, but I can't help but have a small worry in the back of my mind that it will reappear. I try not to, but it's difficult to ignore. It showed up out of nowhere, with no explanation so who's to say it won't happen again? And I do still have lingering sensation in the area. In fact, sometimes I feel like a dude... constantly aware of my genitals. But I'm good. :)