Barnmaven

Uterus, redux

The title alone ought to scare you off.

A couple of years ago I treated you all to the mental imagery of the bloodbath that followed the removal of my first Mirena.  I waited a few months before deciding what to do about birth control, and since there wasn't any actual having of The Sex, it wasn't an issue.  Later that year, along came SG and I made the decision to have a new Mirena installed.  Personally, I wish I could forego using any sort of birth control whatsoever.  I don't like interrupting my natural cycle.  With the Mirena I bleed like hell when they put it in and when they take it out and not a drop in between.  No periods.  On first blush, it seems like a great idea -- but the truth is the thought of interrupting my body's natural  uterine function really bothers me.  What else does one do, though, when one is seeing someone who lights her up like a pinball machine and its too soon to talk about serious ongoing relationship issues like do you want any more children and do you want to get married and would you please have a vasectomy even though we're only dating?

Well, we did get married, and no, we don't want any more children, and surprisingly, he's not opposed to being the one responsible for managing our mutual fertility.   We weren't in a hurry to make any decisions about it, though, with another three years of shelf life left on my IUD. 

Until last week.

I woke up in the middle of the night Tuesday with something that seemed like a horrific conflation of the worst IBS attack in the history of the universe and an abrupt return of the most extreme symptoms of endometrisosis I'd ever experienced.  All the pressure of the IBS episode was causing me to feel like someone was slicing up my reproductive system with a machete.  I assumed it would pass, I really did -- but it didn't. I managed with the assistance of a lot of fiber and other handy-dandy gastro-intestinal remedies to solve the pressure problem, but the pelvic pain just wasn't going away.  I couldn't even sit down and pee without having such bad pain I couldn't catch my breath.  It even hurt to walk. 

By the end of the second day I figured it was time for a medical intervention.  Dr. A was pretty concerned.  He ordered labs, started me on antibiotics and a buttload of pain control medication.  And I do mean buttload.  Hellooooooo Valium, Hydrocodone and Donnatal, my new best friends. Within 24 hours I could manage walking upright, but it was clear things weren't really quite right down there.

Dr. A made a followup with me for a few days later and requested I also make an appointment with my gynecologist as soon as possible.  Except I don't actually HAVE a gynecolist at the moment.   He gave me a referral to a local guy and so I called their office to see when I could get in.  "As soon as possible" when you're calling a gynecologist's office you've never seen before turns out to be something like a month from now, unless, like me, you're willing to turn on the waterworks over the phone in which case it turns into that afternoon. 

We didn't actually get to see the guy we were referred to , we got one of his associates, but that was fine.  He checked the labs my doctor had ordered and agreed there was infection.  Then he put instruments of torture up my vagina and did something so horribly painful to my cervix that I practically leaped out of the stirrups and through one of the ceiling tiles while my head did a 360 degree rotation on the top of my shoulders. 

Once I could again breathe normally, I asked him what might be causing said painful infection.  He rattled off a number of potential reasons, but mostly he thought it was the IUD.  I asked him if leaving it in would make it harder to get rid of the infection and he said that he believed yes, it would.  Et voila.  Out with you, then.

He then gave me prescriptions for more antibiotics and requested I come back in two weeks, with orders for absolutely no sex in the meantime. 

No.

Sex.

As if that weren't bad enough, it turns out the one of the antibiotics reacts badly with caffeine and the other reacts badly with alcohol.

Two weeks. 

No sex.

No coffee.

No booze.

 

And just like the last time I got my IUD removed, the river of blood has commenced, which has done absolutely nothing to improve my mood.

But you know, I'm a generous girl.  I believe in sharing my pain.  I've asked SG to find a urologist in our insurance network with the first available appointment and go ahead with getting neutered a vasectomy.  Misery, as they say, loves company. 

He loves me, that man.  Its a damn good thing.

 

 

 

Lessons Learned Chapter 28

Just because your husband leaves you a voicemail that says he's heading home shortly and by your most generous calculations he will be home by dinner doesn't mean he actually will be. 

If no one else will eat the tomato pie, you probably shouldn't either.  You might end having it come out of you in the form of hot lava for the better part of the following morning.

Just because you've had the same crappy Blackberry with the cracked clitoris (isn't that what those buttons are, really?) for three years don't assume you're going to be on the replacement schedule sooner than the guy who's only had his for a year plus two months. You haven't been cultivating the IT department like you should.

Don't wait until the betta fish starts swimming sideways to clean the tank.  It is much less traumatic to keep the current fish alive than to live through the waterworks and wailing when you have to replace her.  Apparently it is possible to LOVE a fish.

Even though your enormous rottie mix is completely gentle when playing with your Chihuahua does not mean he will extend the same courtesy to your cat.  Or your chickens.

Never ask your kids what they want for dinner.  Tell them what they're having and then become selectively deaf.  Its louder but it saves you an hour when you don't have to cook three separate meals.

If your dog asks you to go outside at three o'clock in the morning, let him.  Opening the door to let him out and then back in again takes less time than cleaning up the massive pile of vomit he'll leave next to your new pair of shoes.

Your husband has learned nothing from the last thirty times he left the water on and flooded the dry pen. 

You - and your horse - are capable of so much more than you know.  If you're willing to give the relationship time and trust the guidance of a good trainer, you'll find out just what.

Flooded pasture aside, you know the relationship is forever when you'll let your husband have a look at the ingrown hair...well...THERE.  And he actually will without complaining.

Go ahead and drink the really expensive bottle of wine for no particular reason at all.  It will taste better and be more memorable than you think.

Life can be really awesome.  If you let it.

 

 

 

 

 

Lady, you are so fired

There are three things it is nearly impossible to find when you relocate from one town to another: 

• Dentist
• Lady doctor
• Hairdresser

I finally found the right dentist and hairdresser in the last couple of months.  It took damn near five years, but I finally found the right fit.  Personality is a big part of it, but quality of service is important too.  I want care providers I enjoy interacting with and from whom I can expect not just a high quality of care but some personal attention.  I want them to remember who I am, what I've discussed with them in the past, what my kids names are.  I want them to remember that I never shut up about horses and special needs kids and that I hate needles and I also hate having my hair styled like I'm somebody's middle aged mother.  (Yes, I know that's what I am, I just don't need my hairdresser reminding me of it.  I want The Sexy.)

I had found what I thought was a great little practice.  It catered to mothers and children and was run by a Registered Nurse Practicioner.  They had a funky little clinic and even offered sick child care at a reasonable cost for mothers who had a sick child with whom they were unable to stay home that day.  I liked having a female practicioner for my female stuff, and I liked that she could also manage my ADHD meds.  I mostly didn't mind the long waits when I went in.  For one, OB practices are often like that.  A baby arriving might push all the appointments back.  And because she would take time talking to me, I assumed that she gave the same consideration to her other patients.  I liked that. 

Little by little, though, things changed.  And I didn't like it.  First she started offering the HCG diet out of her practice.  I'm one of those people who think that fad diets are dangerous and I wasn't impressed that my doctor was jumping on the fad diet bandwagon.  The waits started getting longer.  I waited an hour for an appointment, and it was pretty clear from the stack of people in her waiting room that she was trying to rotate too many patients.   And then, two visits ago, at the end of my visit, she handed me a business card with my prescription.  It was for a company that sells internet service and cable tv and wireless plans.  "I dont' know if I told you about this company I'm representing.  If you are in need of any data services please give me a call." 

I know doctors don't make a lot of money these days and I realize that its terribly expensive to run an OB practice with the burden of medical malpractice insurance, but really?  I'm a little more compartmentalized than that.  You're the doctor who looks at my vagina.  I really don't want you reviewing my cell phone usage, too.  And if you're trying to take care of too many patients at one time, its a sure bet every single one of us is getting a lower quality of care.

I guessed (correctly) at that point that finances were strained and she was looking to supplement her income in any way possible.  And of course, she has the right to do that.  I might not have jumped ship at that point, because I am human and I do try to be understanding.  But after the last appointment I don't know any other way to proceed.  I made an appointment for a prescription refill.  I hadn't been to her practice for three months.  I pulled up to the door with 10 minutes to spare for my appointment, only to find an empty office.  Empty as in completely devoid of furniture, phones and people.  A sign on the door only said that the office was closed, but didn't indicate if it had moved somewhere else.  I was confused.  I had made the appointment only a few days earlier.   Did they close their doors suddenly?  So I called them, and when the receptionist answered I was even more confounded.  "We moved offices." 

Wouldn't that be something you might have wanted to tell me when I made the appointment?  Or maybe added on to the "No Longer in Business" sign on your door?  So I threw the kids back in the car and drove to the new location.  I waited forty-five minutes to be seen, though the guy schlepping pharmaceuticals came in after I did and got to go back and have a few minutes of her time before I got to have my appointment.  I had to fill out all new paperwork because apparently my old paperwork didn't move to her new office with her.  And at the end of my ten minute appointment (that I had to wait a half hour for), she once again handed me her new business card with my prescription.  "I don't know if I told you about this company I'm representing."

Yes, yes you have. 

I suppose if I was interested in a dialogue I would let her know personally why I'm leaving her practice.  But the thing is, I never know if someone really cares that you don't want to be their client anymore.  Not if they don't care about telling you they've moved or remembering what they talked to you about the last time you looked at their cervix.  I mean, she'll figure it out when I don't come see her anymore.  I'm sure the request from my new doctor for my medical records will be a clue too.

 

Mommy doesn't do blood

Cuts, scrapes, stubbed toes - these I can handle.  I handle them well, in fact.  I am the Empress of Band-aids.  In my house, Band-Aids are the placebo for everything that goes wrong.  I mop up the blood, apply a little sticky-backed patch of Doctor Mommy Goodness and off they scamper, back outside to bust something else.  This blood is no problem.

All mommies are Superwoman.  And with few exceptions, all mommies have their kryptonite.

Mine?

Needles.

I am squirming in my seat just typing the damn word.  Needles give me heebie-jeebies of EPIC proportions.  But only medical needles.  Not tattoo needles.  Not sewing needles.  Just the kind of needles that the doctor or dentist uses to put UNDER YOUR SKIN or IN YOUR VEINS.  Omigod, I almost just passed out.

It started at a very tender age.  My childhood pediatrician hated me.  Poor Dr. Tucker, if I so much as thoughtI was going to get a shot or have my finger poked for blood, it took five people to hold me down.  By the time I was in my twenties, I had to caution every doctor I had to put me horizontal for bloodwork.  More than one doctor or phlebotomist insisted "Oh, no, its just a little draw, you'll be fine."  They found out the hard way that I was going horizontal, one way or the other.  Involuntarily works just as well, folks, except you risk injuring your patient.  I've fallen off more than one exam table.  Once I tried to donate blood, because my fireman father - who, incidentally has some kind of kooky award from the blood bank for donating something like 1,000 gallons in his lifetime - insisted that I was not a true American or a patriot or even a human being if I didn't donate blood.  So I donated once when the building I worked in was doing a blood drive.  I made it all the way through the procedure, then passed out in the elevator on the way back to my office, scaring the shit out of some poor man who was riding with me.  He thought I'd died.  (Dude, my fingers are going numb right now.  I can't even THINK about that day without my eyesight fading to black)

I thought pregnancy would cure me of my aversion.  Remarkably, for both of my pregnancies, I did OK with the blood draws and the IV's.  Anything for the baby, I supposed.  But the postpartum surgery I had after A was born quickly proved that my pregnancy-induced-tolerance was only a temporary phenomenon.  Remember how I posted a little bit ago about how its not really funny if the doctor gives you too many stitches in your perineal tear?  Yeah.  So I had to have surgery to correct that.  So I could, you know, GET LAID AGAIN SOMETIME IN MY LIFE.  And I went in, got all dressed for the prom in my open-backed butt-hanging-out hospital gown, reclined on the preop bed, and promptly passed out when they put in my IV.   Oh how I miss the days when anesthesia just meant they put a big mask on your face, you breathed in a few times, and you went down for a nice long nap.  No.  Now they want to stick needles in you.  JUST MY LUCK.

So the whole point of this post, the reason I'm telling you all about how big, tough, me is a total weenie when it comes to needles and blood, is that C had to have a blood test.  My secret, shameful parenting fail is that neither of my children has had basic bloodwork done.  EVER.  I can't do it.  I can't take them.  But C needed to have some blood tests done - long story short, it is likely that C has a double-gene mutation that, if he has it, would cause his body not only to not uptake Folic Acid but also not to process it into the end product that the body needs.  This condition also has some indications for people with anxiety disorders.  For those who take meds for their anxiety disorder, it can cause the meds to make them very nauseated, and mostly rendered them ineffective.   My poor little C has pretty bad anxiety disorder - likely genetic.  He's been having a very hard time lately.  Our pediatrician doesn't think he's going to survive kindergarten very well in his current state, and I concur.  So we want to try some low-level medication to see if he has good results.  Except if he has the gene mutation, medication won't really help.  So he needed a blood test to help find out if that's the case.

I just couldn't.  Could. Not. 

All the credit for getting that done goes to his dad.  And when he called me to let me know it had been done, I almost passed out in my chair as he described the event.  (I think he did it on purpose.  There has to be some way to get me back for the Death by a Thousand Paper Cuts that was our marriage). 

I won't be able to look at the band-aid on his arm without my knees going week and my stomach doing a little flip.  That's how bad I am.

My name is Mary and I'm a Weenie.

Where my insides are coming out, or so it seems

Note:  This post is not for the faint of heart.  If you are put off by discussions about ones' lady bits or if you pass out at the mention of blood, childbirth or anything related to women's reproduction, move along.  Shoo.  The rest of you, come along with me.  We have to talk.

I posted last week that I got my Mirena out.  Now let's preface this by coming to an understanding:  I LOVEDmy Mirena.  That little plastic critter was a godsend to someone like me.

 

I used to have horrible, nightmarish periods.   When I was really young, first starting my cycle, I had massively heavy bleeding.  I remember a family trip to Banff, we had a Volkswagen Rabbit then.  I started what was probably my third menstrual period ever, and I honestly thought I was going to bleed to death.  Or die of embarrassment.  I was soaking through Maxi pads like they were kleenex.  I feel sorry for whoever bought that car.  (Dude, those brown stains in the back seat?  NOT JUICE.)  In my late teens and early twenties I started getting cramps that seemed to have originated in the third level of hell.  I was later diagnosed with endometriosis, and had laser surgery to clear it up. It helped for a while, but eventually the stuff came back, and while not every cycle would be bad, about every third cycle I would have a day where I could not get off the floor without the aid of heavy-duty opiates.  Percocet was my BFF. 

Pregnancy and breastfeeding, for me, were better than birthdays, Christmases, getting my driver's license and turning twenty one.  I bid farewell to my periods with nary a regret.  I got pregnant with my daughter on Valentine's Day 2001, and other than a few cycles after she was born, have been mostly blood-free ever since.  Breastfeeding kept my periods light, at least once the Lochia got done frightening the living snot out of me (if anyone had told me that, postpartum, I would pass a blood clot the size of an orange I might have passed on the whole thing.  No fanks!).  In 2005, after my son was born, as soon as my first cycle showed up I went and got the IUD inserted.

I wasn't in love with it at first.  I am one of those people who react to it by bleeding.  A lot.  For a very long time.  I bled for six weeks straight with that muthafucka, and during that time period I hated the thing with unrivaled passion.  Finally, one glorious, blessed day, the bleeding stopped.  And it pretty much stayed stopped until...last Thursday.

While my little progesterone-emitting friend was having a long staycation in my uterus, my monthly cycle was an infrequent and timid little visitor.  Aunt Flo went out of the country for an extended period and her wallflower of a cousin Trickle came to call instead.  Trickle was so uncertain about overstaying her welcome that she could be counted on to depart quickly, usually after a day or so.  She was sometimes so quiet I couldn't even tell she was there. 

Five years.  Every single month a non-event.  Oh yes, I was spoiled.  Rotten.  Paybacks are such a bitch. 

I got my Mirena out on Wednesday.  I have been bleeding like a stuck pig ever since. Now, I expected I would get my cycle back, but my GYN said that it would probably be quite light for a while.  LIAR. I have been bleeding like a stuck pig for the fifth day in a row now, with no sign of letting up. 

Now, before you yell at me to call my doctor, I already talked to Dr. Google, and Dr. Google introduced me to a significant number of women who had their Mirena taken out and bled for as long as several weeks.  So I'm going to give this a little time before I get concerned.  If this is normal, great. 

My dilemma at this point is whether I want to either get another IUD or go back on the pill in order to regulate my cycle, or do I just stick it out and let Mother Nature handle things in Her own way?  I'm more of the mind to let my body sort itself out for a bit, but honestly, I don't know how much more of this shit I can take.  Aunt Flo's on vacation again, but this time she sent Sister River in her place and frankly, she's not such a great conversationalist.