I am not ready to talk about my surgery yet, but this is pretty spot on for me, so far
I am packing now for the hotel. Tomorrow is surgery. I’m dragging my feet.
I am scared to death.
Tomorrow will be a solar eclipse in Cancer, incidentally, my 12th house.
Also, an ode to the Da Vinci robot that will be eviscerating me:
Not only am I creepily naked and sobbing in the above photos, I am also disgustingly smearing my lipstick, so that it symbolizes the last period I will ever have in my life.
A lot of women hate their periods. I really didn’t until the periods became unbearable. Going into the crone phase, even if it is partial, scares the shit out of me.
Pretty emo for someone of a half-century, I will admit. It’s my crotch party and I’ll cry if I want to…
While my first inclination, as always, is to make snarky jokes about the robots coming for my lady parts tomorrow- I can’t stop crying.
Words fail me.
The fact that I’m having essential organs- parts that are meaningless and useless now- that somehow DEFINED THIS MEAT SUIT for me- removed permanently really is messing with my brain right now.
If I leaned more towards the esoteric, I could just say this is all illusory… this body, this gender, this glove we wear.
I can’t fucking do it. I am grieving, mourning- an anxiety ridden mess.
All the worst case scenarios run through my head:
What if I die on the table? What if I am that small percentage that has cancer and it causes it to spread?
Luckily, now very few hospitals combine DaVinci robotic surgery with morcellation:
The entire thing is usually pulled out of the vagina, presumably after the robotic bits sever the organs from their places.
Still, fucking scary.
My friends and family who have gone through this say it’s a piece of cake- I will no longer be in constant pain, I will love it, etc.
As a consolation prize, they will take my fallopian tubes and keep my ovaries- as long as I agree to ultrasounds every 6 months to monitor the cysts. This means I can go into eventual natural menopause and not instant menopause, as I have Factor V Leiden and can never use hormone replacement.
Also, what makes us female? Is it biological, is it physical, is it a dangly bit of spongy flesh in our innards- is it a hardwiring of of hypothalamus? Is it a spiritual choice made prior to incarnating?
WTF IS it?! Do I become some gender fluid, non-pronoun using being after this?
I don’t know why I am so hysterical right now- I just know that I am.
I know I won’t cease to be ME, who or whatever that may be (unless I die, of course).
I surely didn’t freak out like this when they took my gallbladder almost 2 decades ago.
I’m just scared, I guess. Scared shitless.
My stomach is fat, like a woman 4-5 months pregnant- the adenomyosis has me swollen like a tick on a dog.
I feel miserable. This procedure is supposed to make it all better.
I hope it does.
Losing pieces of ourselves, I wonder if zombies feel the same way, if they were real and could think.
“Oh, shit, my whole crotch just fell out… need more brains…”
Yeah, I need more brains.
Megan, the social worker, called back not even an hour later with a reply!!
1. they used to let you take your body parts home with you, if you signed a waiver of some sort- but now you are no longer allowed to do so due to health and hygiene laws.
2. Megan and I then wondered what the hospital would rule (I like this chick) if, say, someone from an Asian religion had this surgery and needed the part back due to their belief in progressing in their Afterlife.
That was some interesting banter. I really like this office.
I speculated that it would probably be a state’s law and hospital policy call.
For example, in the state of Michigan, you are allowed to opt out of vaccinations due to religious reasons.
Megan agreed. I mean, you could possible do someone irreversible harm by incinerating their spleen or what-have-you and not allowing them to sew it up in an embroidered cloth, simply because they’d believe they were not going to the Hereafter because they didn’t have all their bits.
That could mean a lawsuit.
I then absolutely assured her that they could have my troublesome uterus, as I didn’t want the damned thing, and that this conversation in no way reflected my personal beliefs.
She laughed and told me I needed to go to law school and come work at her hospital.
Took 25 mg of Benedryl after the initial sting today- and it helped a ton, though I had very little energy.
So, I somehow got almost 2 hours of cardio (to date), mostly while I slept. I also had super low blood pressure at the same time- so weird.
Thinking this was PROBABLY not a good thing, I texted my doctor.
Since the site where I was stung (paper wasp inexplicably on my Windex bottle- I reached with my right hand, it stung my middle finger- how apropos!) didn’t swell and I could still breathe, she said to take TWO Benedryl pills (50 mg). I was not to take my usual blood pressure meds (Lisinopril, damn my horrible genetics) until the morning, if my blood pressure goes up by morning, that is.
She called in an Epipen to the pharmacy for future snafus.
So, for now, still alive. Maybe not kicking. Pissed off it put a dent in my day.
I am a freaking health nut so I stay alive. I will be damned if a little Windex fetish’d insect will fell me like a log.
Since the advent of DNA genealogical testing, the world is getting odder and odder- and old family mysteries- some, we didn’t even know existed- are getting churned up.
I’ve discovered this in my own family research, via 23andme.com, as well. My grandmother’s father wasn’t her biological father at all- it was another man, whom I tracked down via mathematics, ancestry research, and the odd stranger popping up in my group of close relatives out of the blue.
More on my family’s journey at another time- but for now, this is an interesting article.
I should be blogging about my female issues, part 2, but at the moment my innards are weeping the bloodiest of tears. I’ve slept so much this week since the endometrial biopsy- and it jump started my period early. I had no idea that simple uterine biopsies could take so much out of a person. The pain is better, the fatigue is not.
My hysterectomy is scheduled for 12 July.
My endometrial biopsy (the first) should be back early this week, the oncologist says.
My son graduated from high school last weekend, I still need to add this to the blog. I am so proud of him.
Maisie has her 2nd ballet/tap recital of her life tomorrow. I will be herding cats/taking care of the tots back stage, like I did last year. Someone has to do it and I’m evolving into a stage mother at this point.
The other crazy things happening in the periphery are dying down, for now. I’ve had my say and will continue to work through this, as a reminder to myself and others- don’t let people walk all over you. There are some seriously chronically messed up opportunists out there- and yeah, while addiction can account for a lot, that still is not an excuse for what was done to us.
I think about Bourdain and his fragility- and the fragility of those around us. This world will eat you up and spit you out if you don’t stand up for yourself and for what is right. Tony Bourdain stood up against the tides, championed his girlfriend’s #metoo cause against Weinstein- and it still wasn’t enough.
I saw a chilling post Bourdain put up on his Twitter on 22 May. It called out some guy re being found hung (I’m paraphrasing) in a lavatory from auto-erotic asphyxiation. It kind of gave me chills. While I don’t know the circumstances surrounding his death any more than the rest of us (a bathrobe belt, found tied to a door)- suicide or accident- neither is preferable.
He had his child at 50. That alone would make it impossible for me to take my own life, but I don’t live in anyone’s skin but my own.
It’s sad, sad, sad in this mad world.
Death comes to all of us, sooner or later. I think about my own mortality a lot right now. I’d fight tooth and nail against it, just like I fight tooth and nail against any other injustice levied against others and myself.
But life goes on, children grow up and graduate and do their recitals and play with their toys. We grow older. We die.
Over and over, in different bodies and different lives, it is all the same. We all share this common thread- even though we believe we’re unique.
We’re not unique. That is the beauty of it. The sameness, the threads that bind us- that’s the wonderment.