My preop visit was AWESOME! First, the Lupron did the job. My RE was practically jumping up and down with delight at the shrinkage in my fibroids. I was quite anxious that he’d want me to do another month of it and that my surgery would be pushed back. But no, I am GOOD TO GO! In addition, I asked him to recap our game plan going forward, and it turns out my timeline has gotten better, not worse!
I love my doctor, but he is complete shit at communication. Every time I’ve asked him about this timeline, he’s told me something different. First it was surgery, then IVF as soon as I recovered. Then it was surgery, eight weeks of recovery, then six months to a year of what he referred to as regular intimacy (Not sure if that means intimacy regularly, or regular old intimacy as opposed to ART, but either way it cracks me up.), then IVF. That resulted in weeping meltdown. Today it was surgery, three months of recovery, then three months during which we can either engage in some smokin’ hot regular intimacy…OR do IUI! I was like, what the fuuuuuck? But whatever. The important point is that IVF just got three months closer.
So that’s pretty rad. As I sit here (listening to my guts churn guts as my bowel prep does its glorious work) contemplating getting cut open tomorrow, mainly I’m feeling excited. Here’s what it sounds like in my head. It’s going to be fiiiiiiiiine. A few days of grogginess and bad pain in the scary old hospital, a few more days of grogginess and moderate pain at home, a week of mild pain, a week of discomfort, a few weeks of needing to take it easy…no big deal! A blink of the eye in the context of my whole life. And after the worst is over, I’ll be able to revel in the fact that I’m on the road to recovery, counting down the weeks until this old uterus is BACK IN ACTION!
But because I am me, anxiety does keep intruding. Here’s what that sounds like: I’m going to diiiiiiiiiiiiiie! Even if I don’t actually die, I’m going to wake up to be told all my reproductive bits are in some biohazard bag of hospital waste, headed for the incinerator. I can so vividly imagine my RE’s face and manner as he tells me this. Unfortunately, you were bleeding severely, so we had to perform a hysterectomy to save your life. I’m so sorry. Here he pats my knee. Or even if I still have a uterus, he’ll say, I’m afraid it was worse than anticipated. There will be lots of scar tissue. Your prognosis is grim. There are lots of variations on this scenario, all involving him shaking his head gravely.
I suspect that the first version is more likely, but also that it will be less awesome that I am telling myself. In any event, I’m glad it’s here. I think the hospital has wireless, so in a few days you might get a post that goes something like, im rilly fucked up on morphien.