Tag Archives: lap surgery

Tomorrow…. We Wear Pants! (and other musings about what’s next)

8 Aug

Well, I’m going a bit stir crazy. On one hand, I really feel like getting up and doing things. On the other, I just want to sleep. I’m not in much pain anymore. Mostly the tic-tac-toe game on my abdomen itches like crazy, and I get a periodic stabby-type pain every once in a while. But since I’m used to stabby pains, it’s not really a big deal.

I haven’t worn pants since leaving the hospital on Friday morning. That’s right people! No pants! I’ve also seen every single stupid reality TV show on the planet, played way too much Angry Birds, and watched some pretty good movies (Source Code – thumbs up!), along with a couple of absolutely horrible ones (note to everyone: the Red Riding Hood revamp is a piece of crap).

But with all the stir-craziness, I can’t seem to bring myself to function. There’s a lot of real world stuff that needs to be done, but I’m not ready for it yet. I think I’ll give myself one more day. I think that’s ok.

Here’s the thing: The last couple of days a certain unease has set in. I get that Lefty was non-functional, and I’m glad he’s gone. But I have spent the last 6 months CONVINCED that something is up with my right side. The doc who performed the lap observed that one part of the tube is “slightly thickened” and removed a couple of adhesions around it, but that’s basically it.

And I’m not appeased. I’m not calm. I still have a sinking feeling that something is wrong and I’ll have another ectopic.

This is the sucky thing about all of this: I know exactly what happens next. We go back to Twofer, and he tells us to try again. That’s it. Try again and cross our fingers.

And when we are ready to try again – I’m afraid this whole cycle of fear will start all over again. I honestly kind of wish they had taken Righty too and we could have gone straight to IVF. I know that’s kind of a crazy thought, but considering that IVF is virtually free here, I would much rather just bypass the tubes altogether. Just get a good looking embryo in my uterus, even if it comes with the price of injections, more general anesthesia, and hormonal hell. I’ll take that over another loss any day of the week and twice on Sundays.

But I know we would never get approved for such a thing. For now, I’m 100% sure we’ll just be told to “try again.”

And I’m not happy about that. I’m not ready to deal with that.

But tomorrow, I’ll start by putting on a pair of pants.

A Tale of Two Tubies

7 Aug

It was the best of tubes, it was the worst of tubes. It was a day of anxiety, it was a night of drug induced craziness…

Chapter One: An Afternoon of Peeing

I arrive at the hospital with Shmerson and my mom at 4pm as scheduled. I’m freaking out. My mom’s freaking out. Shmerson is freaking out but hiding it using stupid jokes.

I get checked in, and the nurse checking me in notes that the anesthesiologist, with whom I had met a couple of days earlier, had put in my chart that I should get some happy pills pre-op. In a moment of jest, I ask that he carve a smiley face in the Valium. He was not amused. Too bad those darn male nurses don’t have much of a sense of humor.

In the pre-pre-op room, I down the Valium, and go to pee for what is most likely the 20th time that day. Apparently I am a nervous pee-er. Since I hadn’t had any water for the last 5 hours I was surprised that there was liquid coming out of my bladder at all.

The operating doc came in. Let’s just call him the Russian. Cause that’s cool and gangsta, and he was Russian. The night before in a fit of panic, I had called him and asked him to talk me through the procedure. So when he came in I was all set. Just waiting for the happy pills to start kicking in because really – this was getting ridiculous and I needed me some drugs. The Russian asked if I had any more questions. My mom and Shmerson looked at me expectantly. After all, I am the annoying know-it-all patient. They were sure I had a bunch. I did, but they were taken care of the night before.

It was a pretty anti-climactic conversation. It basically went something like this: I don’t care what you find, you’re not taking out my ovaries. Oh – and please press extra hard on my stomach after you’re done so that most of the air comes out.

For some reason, the Russian was not amused either. Something about this hospital keeps people from being amused. He gave me this look that said “I’ve done this a million times, I’ll squeeze the freaking air out.”

I smiled and said: “Forgive me, I’m a blogger.” I think the Valium had started to kick in, because I’m sure this made sense to no one except myself, and perhaps Shmerson.

From the pre-pre-op room I got wheeled into the pre-op room. That’s when the real fun began. First, I grilled every nurse in the room: “Tell me this has been done a million times and I’ll be fine.” They all looked at me kind of strangely. Nodded. Nothing more. Yeah, no humor whatsoever. After another nervous pee or five, the mood became elevated. It was time for pictures!

I believe this was me attempting to dramatize my anxiety for the sake of you, dear readers. Apparently I'm not such a good actress when I'm stoned.

Ahh, dear Lefty, this is the last we ever saw of thee.

Did I mention I was stoned out of my gourd?

I don’t know who’s idea they were. But I’m assuming mine. Now they’re up here for posterity. Not sure that’s so much with the wise either. Ahh well.

Chapter Two: An Evening of Drugging

After too long a wait I got wheeled into the operating theater where the Russian was hanging out, waiting for me. I was hauled up onto stirrups, and the anesthesiologist walked in. He was wearing one of those head covering scrub-thingies doctors wear, only it was covered in pot leaves and the jamaican flag. At least one guy in this place has a sense of humor.

I started feeling heavy. I asked rasta-dude if he’d already started the drugs. He said yes. My intelligent answer: Well, that explains that. Then I looked at the Russian again and asked “It’ll be ok right?” He smiled and said good night. I think. I was pretty much knocked out at this stage.

About an hour and a half later I get woken up with an oxygen mask on my face and a burning in my cooch. Not ideal, but hey – I’m still here. So that’s all good. I ask a nurse what time it was. And I asked when I can see my husband. I also think I told one of the nurses about a dream I had when I was under. But that part is kind of a blur. Nice to know you can dream during these things though. Too bad the nurse didn’t write it down. Silly nurses.

They wheel me into the room where I’d be staying for the night, shared with two other  women (one with a husband with a penchant for snoring – more on that later). Shmerson and my mom come in. I kiss Shmerson and tell him he’s the love of my life. I remember saying it once. He has since informed me that I said it 4 or 5 times and after the 5th, when he kissed me, he decided that my mouth tasted like a dentist’s office. I don’t know if that’s a good thing. Oh, the romance of it all!

At 9:30pm the visiting hours police came around, and I told Shmerson and mom to go in peace. I was a-ok and drugged out of my mind.

So much so – that I actually outed myself on facebook by accident. This was a good one. At 10pm my FB status read thusly: “Drugs are good, mmmkay? Especially the post-general-anesthesia variety.”

At the time I thought this was witty. But lo and behold, it actually brought my situation to the attention of several FB buddies who had no idea that I was a crazy infertile with a tendency to lose babies in the first trimester. After a concerned comment, I had no choice but to answer: “Had lap surgery to take care of a blocked tube. Stupid infertility. Ahh well.” This was all good in the end because a swarm of my friends who knew about my situation finally felt free enough to comment about sperm swimming inside my uterus and other such fun things. I guess my lady parts have finally crossed into the final social media frontier. Maybe now I can post some bitter infertile statuses. That would be nice.

I think I also may have skyped with Elphaba at one point. And I’m pretty sure a couple of friends called me. But most of that was a blur. I was also starting to get hungry. But the nurse suggested I wait, to avoid puking. So I did. But I drank. A lot. This would complicate things later.

Chapter Three: A Night of Awkward Flatulence

So all of the visitors are gone, the lights are out, and I can’t sleep. Not because of the pain, but because all of the leftover air in my abdomen has decided to begin it’s graceful exit out of my back end. Now, generally speaking, this wouldn’t have been a problem. Except that in the bed next to me was a scared looking woman who’s husband had snuck back in to spend the night. She was scared so I didn’t want to tattle. But really, farting in front of a completely strange man put me in quite the uncomfortable position.

So I snuck them out quietly for the first couple of hours. One little bit at a time, grateful that they were of the silent-but-not-deadly variety. Then, I was ready to pee.

Now mind you, I was still in a buttocks-exposing hospital gown, no underwear, and covered with iodine. And there was a a rather large man napping next to my bed. I was stoned, gassy, stitched up, and connected to an IV.

I won’t go into the gory details, but making it to pee took some serious maneuvering. Oh, and it hurt  like a mo-fo. Apparently, they put a catheter in you while they do this stuff. Now I truly know the meaning of “it burns when I pee.” Yet another fun experience to add to my infertility checklist. Oh! I should totally make a checklist! Maybe in the next post.

So back to bed I awkwardly go. Now I’m pretty much ready to sleep. But loyal hubby next door apparently likes to snore. Loudly. I am not a happy camper. So in retaliation I let one rip in the hopes of waking him up and making the snoring stop. No dice. Ahh well, at least more air was expelled.

Chapter Four: A Morning of Impatience

I get woken up at 5am to get my vitals checked and my IV removed. I’ve only been asleep for an hour thanks to Snorey McSnoreson in the next bed. Then a disgusting breakfast is served. It’s been 24 hours since I last ate so I down the roll on the tray hungrily, and am grateful to Shmerson when he shows up an hour later sporting a large pineapple-mango smoothie. But before all this, I have a very big decision to make: Snorey is in the room, I’m half naked and covered in iodine, I’ve got three X’s of stiching on various points of my stomach, and I need to get dressed.

Somehow I decide to wait until we get home to shower. Somehow I maneuver the curtain enough so that Snorey doesn’t get any glimpses of my currently brown-tinged lady parts. Somehow, with no assistance I actually manage to dress myself just in time for Shmerson, the smoothie, and the Russian coming in to give me the post-op.

Still not clear on the details. I think that’s for another post. But basically, he only made 3 incisions because Ole’ Righty was just fine, but we kissed Ole’ Lefty goodbye because she was dysfunctional. So now I’m asymmetrical. That’s very infertility-chic, don’t you think?

It took them another freaking hour to discharge me. By that time I was grumpy, bloaty, itchy, and smelly. And I was pretty sick of sneaking around with the passing of the gas. But finally I was let go to sweet, blessed, farting-friendly freedom.

Chapter 5: A Day of Abhorrent Caloric Intake

I come home to a care package courtesy of Squish and Me0Me containing chocolate, and lots of it. Later in the day, my mother brought over yummy food. And – gasp! – baked goods with white flour and sugar in them. If you knew my mother you would understand that this is a first. I take the blessed shower, check out the weird tic-tac-toe game I’ve got going on on my abdomen, and sleep. And sleep. And sleep some more. Oh – and eat. A lot. So much so that I actually resorted once again to Dr. Google. Apparently excessive hunger is a side effect of invasive surgical procedures. Who knew! Yet another fun factoid for my little list.

Finally, the farting stops and the shoulder pain starts. Ahh well. I knew it was too good to be true. At least I have a heart shaped heating pad and plenty of advil to get me through it. But really, I think I preferred the farting. Not so much with the lady-like, but far less painful. I’ll make sure to let my body know that if I have to go through this again, to please release all air and gasses through pre-made orifices. That’s what they’re there for. Maybe it’ll cooperate. But who knows, my body is kind of weird, and I’m sure rather upset at me for this whole cutting it open thing I just made it go through. We’ll see in the coming days what amount of revenge it decides to partake in. For now, well, we’ve got a heart shaped pillow! Bonus.

Epilogue: An Ode to Ole’ Lefty

Lefty, oh lefty, I thought you were good

I thought you would survive when they looked under the hood

I thought that your sister Ole’ Righty was the bad one 

But apparently it was you who was troubled and barren

Lefty, you left me,  now I’m out of the stirrup

I hope Ole’ Righty is ready to knock me up

If Righty is right then we should be okay

And I should be a preggo keeping ectopics at bay

Lefty, oh Lefty, I can’t say I’ll miss you

I’m sure you caused more trouble than good

Lefty, oh Lefty, you were such a bother

So I’m glad that you left when they looked under the hood

And now, I leave you with a song, a tribute, a goodbye to my left tube. Good riddance.

Plot Twist!

5 Aug

Hey all,

I’m still kind of loopy but I promised I would update as soon as I was partially coherent so here we go:

Ole’ Righty seems to be fine. Lefty was removed.

Weird, right? But there you go. And it wasn’t a mistake either. There was a cyst there, and some other stuff, which I have all written out in Hebrew but still not coherent enough to find the English equivalent.

The doc who operated said that there were some adhesions around Ole’ Righty, and he took care of them. I have to admit, I’m not 100% confident that this will take care of my worry, but at least now someone has had a look at my lady parts from the inside and there’s no more need for guess work.

I’m still kind of conked out and in pain. Still processing it all. Thank you everyone for being amazing. I’ll update again soon.

Oh – and apparently my uterus is perfect.

This is the Part Where I Get Angry

3 Aug

I think everything kind of crashed down on me today. Anticipating tomorrow, and whatever prognosis it will bring, I’ve had a swelling of anxiety, but today at my shrink’s we got to the heart of the matter.

I’m pissed. I’m pissed because just over a year ago today, I had a botched D&C, and I know that’s what started all of this. One doctor, which I trusted, which came highly recommended, who didn’t think to prescribe antibiotics, or make sure that my uterus was left unscarred, caused all of this mess. A 5 minute procedure that has irrevocably altered my life.

I can’t sue him. There’s no way to prove that this was the cause. But I know it is. I know that I had a healthy uterus before this. Healthy enough to hold on to a sac for 8 weeks. An empty sac, but a sac nonetheless.

So I’m scarred. I’m scarred not only physically from those 5 minutes a year ago. I’m scarred mentally, emotionally. This was a doctor I trusted. He came “highly recommended”. He was “the best” in the area.

He fucking messed up my body. And here I am, one year and two additional miscarriages later, about to go under the knife of yet another doctor, who is “the best”, who comes “highly recommended.” Who’s to say everything will go as planned? The last time certainly didn’t. How am I supposed to be calm when the last time I was put under sedation my body was permanently damaged, and my life path was altered forever?

I was supposed to have a baby in my arms by now. Instead, by this time tomorrow, I may have no fallopian tubes. I may have internal organs REMOVED because one fucking doctor didn’t do his job properly. How can I trust that this one will? How can I be calm?

People keep telling me it’s a minimally invasive procedure. So is a D&C, and look where that has brought me.

So I’m pissed. I’m pissed and I’m scared. And I can’t be grateful for “the path” or “answers” right now. All I can do is be bitter and angry at the fact that one incompetent doctor screwed up my body forever. And hope that this doctor will fix the damage, as much as it can be fixed, and not do any more.

This fucking sucks. And I’m fucking pissed off.

I want to make sure this one does the job properly. I want to come out of this with at least part of my fertility intact. And I feel helpless to do anything about it.

Dear readers, you have been so amazing and supportive through all of this. I need you to come through for me one more time. I need your comments, your love, and yes, even prayers. Even as a heathen, I know they can’t hurt. And tell me if I’m forgetting anything. If I should insist on anything being done. If there’s anything I should be asking for to at least try to make sure that no more damage is done.

I go in for the lap in 23 hours. I probably won’t post again before it. If I’m conscious enough after I promise I will, and if not, I may just have Shmerson do it for me.

Thanks. Love you all.

Virtual Treasure and Angry Birds

1 Aug

Me: Ahhhhhhh!!!!!

Me: Stop it.

Me: No! I’m freaking out!

Me: Stop it.

Me: Poof! I stopped it.

Me: Good.

Me: Dude, I didn’t really. Come on, you should know better. Can I go back to screaming now?

Me: No. Tell me what’s wrong.

Me: You know very well. We’re going in for surgery on Thursday. SURGERY!

Me: Thousands of people do it every day.

Me: Don’t care.

Me: It’s perfectly safe. You’ll be asleep the entire time.

Me: With a tube stuck down my throat! That’s not sleep. That’s torture!

Me: You won’t even know it’s there!

Me: Ahhhhhh!!!!!

Me: What now?

Me: I won’t even know it’s there! No control! Can we run away? Please?

Me: No. We’ve got to do this.

Me: Why?

Me: You know what we’ve been doing the last few days?

Me: Watching too much reality TV and feeling useless?

Me: Yes, that.

Me: What about it?

Me: We do that when we’re depressed or anxious.

Me: No shit, Sherlock.

Me: Now what has been the primary cause of this depression and anxiety?

Me: You being a pain in my ass?

Me: No. Try again.

Me: Me being a pain in your ass?

Me: That too. But dig deeper.

Me: The baby thing?

Me: Yes. The baby thing.

Me: What does that have to do with us getting cut open and being completely in other people’s control for HOURS? HOURS!!!!

Me: Breathe. Remember last month when we were TTC and sitting at home depressed because we were scared of another ectopic?

Me: Yeah. That sucked. But that How I Met Your Mother marathon was nice.

Me: Yes, that was nice. But you also spent a few too many hours hunting for virtual treasure on FB.

Me: That was fun!

Me: No it’s dumb. It’s a waste of our time and… Well, I would say energy but it mostly involves clicking.

Me: Ok. I’ll give you that.

Me: And the fact that we got three stars on all the levels of Angry Birds Seasons?

Me: It was awesome!

Me: No. It was unsatisfying. It was us being depressed.

Me: But the birds! And the piggies! And the golden eggs!

Me: You’re deluding yourself.

Me: So? What’s your point?

Me: My point is – get through this week. Make it to the lap. Get through it.

Me: But I don’t wanna!

Me: Do you want babies?

Me: Babies?

Me: Yes, babies.

Me: Babies! Babies! Babies! Babies!

Me: See now I’ve got your attention.

Me: Babies! Babies! Babies… huh?

Me: This will help us get the babies.

Me: Are you sure?

Me: No. But it’s a place to start.

Me: You promise we’ll be OK?

Me: I promise.

Me: And can we at least spend some of this week trying to get 3 stars on Angry Birds Rio?

Me: Yes. I’ll even let you hunt for some virtual treasure. But after that – to the lap we go!

Me: Ahhhhhhh!!!!!!!!

Me: This is a lost cause….

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