I’m going in for a Hysteroscopy, D & C, polypectomy procedure on Monday. Huh? I know, right? My uterus has been complaining and interrupting my life for years, but I thought all the weirdness was a normal part of getting older. It turns out it’s not.
I’ve got a polyp in there that’s almost as big as the actual baby house itself, and for the past six months, my uterus has made it clear that the party crasher needs to be removed. Now.
My uterus and I have been through a lot together. We noticed each other when I turned 11 and entered the woman club. My mom congratulated me. My sisters explained the logistics. My dad made it very clear that all evidence would be properly stored and disposed of, discretely, in the trash, and that even though he and my brother were out numbered 4 to 2, it was still their bathroom, too.
I always figured bad cramps were normal, and that’s why Advil was invented. In my 20’s I’d take 3 Advil every 2 hours all day long to get through work without falling over. “Oh, just bad cramps,” said the old-man doctor I went to. He did not say stop whining, but I bet he thought it. He also told me I was too pretty to be sick. Creepy, I know. So I just stopped going to doctors for a long time after that.
But then my first baby happily landed in my uterus and did her growing thing, so I went to the doctor and it was all kind of fun and exciting. But there was a complication, and I almost lost the baby, and we found out my uterus is bi-coronate, which means it’s heart shaped! How cool is that?
Turns out not so cool for the baby who was working on growing in there, but I stayed in bed for a while, and the baby did her job and stayed in my uterus, and she was perfect when she was born, 2 weeks late! And now she’s 16. She’s still perfect, of course.
Then my second baby came along, and my uterus was like, Oh hi, nice to meet you, this is not a problem. Same with the third baby. They are both perfect, too. I think my uterus just needed practice, and once it got the hang of what was going on? Piece of cake. I was rather proud of it, actually. It did a really good job with all the babies.
And then at about age 39, my uterus starting getting all weird on me. It wouldn’t take my directions or suggestions of how it was supposed to behave anymore. Like when I’d say “What is with you? Stop waking me up all night! And you know the rules: you’ve got 4.5 days to do your thing, that’s it. Got it? I’ve got a big meeting next week, and there’s no need to drag this on,” but it would anyway. It just ignored me. But we pretended it was normal.
But by the time I was 42, things were getting out of hand. I was at work one day when I all the sudden lost so much blood I almost fainted. My co-workers forced me to call my doctor. I did not realize doctors will come to the phone and talk to you in the middle of a work day if you’re freaked out in the bathroom surrounded by blood.
I liked her and all, but I just saw her once a year. Didn’t she have work to do? She convinced me this was part of her job. And then she told how I’d know if I was hemorrhaging, and if I needed to go to ER. Huh? People go to ER for their period? Blood is blood, she said, your body needs it, and you don’t want to lose too much of it.
So I eventually got talked into going to see a specialist. She did some tests, said things were on the okay side of normal, just extra thick, but there was no cancer. So I pretended to ignore the whole thing for another year or two. Except when I had stay in bed with my feet up for two days a month to avoid fainting and possibly going to ER. For my period. Whatever. I just told people I was sick.
But then last year, it just all got too ridiculous, and my uterus hurt. Like really, really hurt. And it got worse and worse, so finally I had to call my favorite doctor, the one who delivered the babies, who was happy to hear we’d moved back to town etc. etc. and I tried not to whine too much about how my uterus hurt, because she might think I’m a whiner. Maybe I should come in, just for a check up? I said casually. Yeah, she said. Something’s not right, but it’s probably not cancer.
So I went.
After she looked at the ultrasound results, she drew a little picture of my uterus for me on a piece of paper, and then she drew a big blob in the middle of it. And the blog took up all the white space. It’s not good, she said. I’m 99.98 percent sure it’s not cancer, but it doesn’t belong there. That’s why your uterus hurts. It needs to come out.
How? I said. I was not in the mood to birth a blob.
Oh, I just scrape it out, she said easily. I’ll put you under, don’t worry. I’ll even give you some great ideas to dream about as you’re nodding off. And I have a little camera that I thread in there, so I can look around and take a few pictures…but I will not post them on my blog, because I don’t have a blog, and in fact, I’m having trouble loading my vacation pictures to my email, so no need to worry…And then you’ll wake up and go home and you’ll be fine. I’ll send a little piece of the blob to the lab, and they’ll test it and it will come back fine, and then you’re done. It won’t hurt any more.
Oh. I said. Okay. I guess you should do it, then.
And then I signed a form that said I won’t be mad at her if I accidentally die while she’s taking pictures and stuff inside my uterus, but that was just a formality. Probably from her lawyers.
I won’t be mad at you if I die, I said nicely. I’ll know you did your best.
That made her smile a funny little smile because what’s she supposed to say to that? I could see 100 jokes crossing through her mind in 2 seconds flat, but I’m sure she heard lawyerly voices saying “don’t.you.say.a.word.missy!” So she just said “thanks.”
And then we hugged, and I came home. And then I whined all afternoon about how much my uterus hurts. Because it DOES, dammit! But not for long. Because we’re going to fix it. And if the pictures look any good, I might show you one.
image via Sodahead.com