I am currently at a coffee shop, wearing my (prescription) black-rimmed glasses, writing in my blog. I have never felt so fucking hipster in my whole entire life. Anyway!
Hello users of this weird thing called internet. I hope you are all well and happy and enjoying the fact that it is no longer cold as balls outside.
I have not written for a while because my life has gotten continually more and more overwhelming. The biggest thing I am dealing with is the very slight chance of possibly, maaaybe having my partial laproscopic hysterectomy here in California before I move to Missouri this summer. I mentioned in my post Ellie Vs. Pain, Pain, and More Pain, Period that after ten years of suffering excruciating pain from my periods, I have decided to have a partial hysterectomy to have my uterus removed. Due to my age, despite being two months away from 25 years old, I am still considered far too young to have such a surgery by most doctors. My regular Ob/gyn is completely supportive of it, but because of my age she is not allowed to do the surgery herself. It has to be an academic hospital instead, and around here, that would be Stanford.
Last Wednesday I went to Stanford to plead my case. The doctor I saw came in, introduced herself, and before she even let me say one word on the subject, denied me on the grounds that to her, I had not done everything I could, and the fact that I am far too young. I put on my best adult face and adult voice, trying to explain the situation to her, but I could tell that a meteor hitting her in the face wouldn’t even change her mind (I’m not sure what that has to do with surgery..but just go with it, okay). So, I sat in the room and gave up on trying to be a big girl, and instead burst into tears and cried for a half hour. Then I got my belongings, walked to my car, screamed to Green Day while driving to my favorite Gluten-Free bakery, and ate my weight in sweets.
This doctor recommended me to another surgeon I could talk to, but who she assured me would tell me the same thing. I really did not want to go back. I felt like I had been dumped, and didn’t care to relive that sensation. However, the nurse who called told me this doctor made special time for me in her otherwise swamped schedule, and if I changed my mind, I would not have another chance to see her again. So, on Friday, I reluctantly drove once again to Stanford, this time with my best stone cold bitch face, ready for battle…and defeat.
The second doctor came into the room, and believe it or not, sat down and began to ask me questions. I told her my situation, as well as my history. She asked me what my ideal timeline would be, what I wanted to happen, and if I had a good support group for recovery. I was honest with her and told her that my mother and brother, who I live with, did not support me, though my friends, sister and boyfriend did. The doctor was worried about my recovery, and said that I would have to talk to a social worker to make sure that I could recover properly. I’m not sure why, but that part kind of gave me the creeps…but I told her that because I was tired of suffering for a decade, I would do what I could to make sure this could happen.
Then, came the exam part. The doctor laid me out on the table, and began to poke around my body. She was trying to recreate the pain I get on my periods, because she wanted to make sure that a hysterectomy would actually help, which I understood. She poked this spot and that spot and inside and outside, and I had no pain at all. Then, all at once, my back buckled, my legs gave out, my abdomen filled with agony, and I was overwhelmed with nausea from the pain. The same kind of pain, in fact, that I feel every single month (sometimes, more often then that!) Success! I think.
After the exam I got dressed again, and we sat down to talk. She told me that what caused the pain to surge was, you guessed it, her just touching my uterus. That being said, the hysterectomy could certainly help. Dear readers, you and your eyeballs cannot possibly imagine how ecstatic I was to hear this. However, it wasn’t as easy as just giving me the surgery. There were two catches.
Catch 1: Because of my age, while she approves of the surgery, she still would have to get approval from the entire Ob/gyn board at Stanford because it is apparently an “ethical conflict” to give someone as young as I a hysterectomy. If even one doctor strongly disagrees, I will be rejected.
Catch 2: Both the insurance company and the board of doctors want to be absolutely positive that I really have done everything possible to help myself. The doctor recommended I take one of two drugs to run as a diagnostic to prove that I need the surgery. One is called Lupron, which would, in short, send me into a full blown menopause for about a month. The other, Depo-Provera, is a shot of progestin, which is in most birth controls, but it’s a much larger dose. If this drug were to work on me, it would mean that my ovaries are the problem, not my uterus.
The biggest problem for me is these drugs. I have a long history of anaphylactic shock, as well as a long history of reacting terribly to anything other than anesthesia or pain killer. All other drugs have made my health worse rather than better. The doctor told me I didn’t have to take them, but they would greatly improve my chances. She told me to take the weekend to think about it, and get back to her on Monday.
Sunday morning I had some free time before my day started, so I decided to do some research. It may sound weird, but as I was thinking about them and reading about the negatives and positives of both, that little voice in my head, my Jiminy Cricket, if you will, was literally screaming at the top of its lungs, telling me not to take them. It was such a strong feeling, and that rarely happens to me, but in my past, when I didn’t listen to Jiminy, I found out in the hardest way possible that I definitely should have listened. Though most of the side effects are rare, I am usually the one person that actually gets them. Not only was I worried about what they would do to me, but I was also worried that they’d make me so sick I would have to change my entire plan, which has happened to me before as well. That being said, I wrote my doctor to tell her that while I understood the purpose of testing me with the drugs, I hoped she would already have enough proof, and that I would be accepted by the board. I sounded very professional and serious, guys. I didn’t even say “fuck” or “balls” once. I hope you are all quite proud of me!
While I am hoping that my life will, for once, work out super perfectly and I will be able to have the surgery, recover wonderfully, and then move, in reality, I fear I may have sealed my fate by deciding to not take the drugs prior to the surgery. I will obviously be terribly disappointed and saddened if I am rejected. But at the same time, I feel that if I had agreed to take the drugs, I would have betrayed myself, and I just could not bring myself to do so. I have never been very good at following instructions, really. Though this time I truly believe I am being sound of reason. I have done the research, I have done everything I can, and I have been painfully patient.
Now, we wait for the response. I don’t know when that will come, but I am anxiously waiting.
While I wait I am also dealing with the rest of my regular health issues, which despite being annoying are pretty much the same as always. My moving date is also only two months away now, and I am nervous about that. Finding a place isn’t exactly hard, but contacting the people that own the places is. I call and I e-mail and I get nothing in return. I am realizing lately how impatient my anxiety makes me, and I am trying to calm it and keep it under control, but normally, I’m just internally screaming while I refresh my e-mail inbox every two seconds. I’m…I’m sure it will all come together. Optimism!
There are still a bunch of other things I want to write about, but I admit, if you were to x-ray my brain, it would probably resemble scrambled eggs at the moment. I’m scattered, jumbled, and my favorite synonym, discombobulated. I’m told I am really dealing with a lot, especially a lot mainly on my own, but I have to wonder how much my sleeplessness, anxiety, and impatience effects me and how worse all those things make everything feel because of it. If only I could just program my brain to chill the fuck out a little…but sadly, I am not a robot. I’m just a human girl, who is a little more emotionally squishy on the inside than most, and who has an extremely exhausting life.
For anyone who thought the title of this blog meant THOSE doctors, sorry to disappoint. But I still think you’re…FANTASTIC (See what I did there? The reference..to…the Doctor? I…okay).
A world is waiting for me, a road that I rarely use
I start to feel my feet, they kick down walls as they move.