Oh, And Did I Mention?
.
Because they opened my cervix and passed large burny tools through it, not to mention lavage tools to keep it all washed and to prevent the smoke from building up in there (which causes me to imagine vaginal smoke rings) ... A moratorium has been placed on my sex life.
.
.
.
I'm not allowed to have intercourse for 2 months after the procedure.
"Oh, two months, that's not too bad" you say. Uh huh. I can hear you out there, thinking you understand. Yeah.
The last time I had any was November 14th.
For a while that wasn't a problem, because any time I got horizontal, I fell asleep. But now I have energy again.
But I won't risk infection or maybe damaging my stuff down there. And in those moments where I'm more than willing to take the chance; my hubby shows remarkable restraint and won't let me.
Thus, we have learned to be more creative.
Monday, January 28, 2008
Thursday, January 24, 2008
Sickness, Surgery and ... Popcorn (part 2)
.
So the hubby-man left work and drove me to the ER, while I arranged for my mom to pick up my son after school.
Emergency waiting rooms are places of weirdness, I assure you. You would think that someone capable of entering the building on their own two feet would be way down on the list of people being treated; while people being carried in would be higher on the list. Human beings are natural con artists, and triage nurses have seen all kinds of tricks.
So I walked in (on my own two feet) and cheerfully told the nurse at the front desk that my doctor was upset with me and said I needed to go to the ER and get a blood transfusion. I offered him the note my doctor wrote for me, which he declined to accept. He asked me to sit in one of the 4 "waiting for triage" seats next to his desk. I sat next to a skinny gentleman who offered to make room for my husband to sit too. He was not bleeding or holding a limb on with duct tape or vomiting into his hat. The triage nurse called him to the little triage room that can check out 3 people at a time. A nurse took his vitals, asked him quiet questions and whisked him off into the bowels of the hospital, never to be seen again. I guess he needed attention right away. I watched people come and go while I waited for a chance to give someone my little piece of paper saying I had a blood count of 7, and that might be a bad thing. There were at least 80 people in the waiting rooms. I knew I'd be there a while. Another person was triaged while a large and somewhat belligerent man tottered into the hospital. Yes, I know how that sounds. But he was large and somewhat belligerent, and he did totter in like someone with barely enough strength to stand. He loudly proclaimed that he couldn't breathe. That he was having chest pains, and that his arm was numb. Then he focused on looking sickly. He glared at me when the triage nurse called me before him. Even though there was less than a minute between each of us being checked out.
My triage consisted of having my temperature taken, having my blood pressure checked, and having the nurse refuse to look at the note from my doctor. Then I went back to the waiting room.
The hubby-man and I looked for a reasonably uncrowded place to sit. I've never seen Saint Anthony's so busy. We decided to sit near a pair of senior citizens. They seemed nice and quiet. We spent the next hour listening to one of them bitch about not being seen right away.
... He may have broken his wrist in a fall. I'm certain he was in a lot of pain. And the ER takes patients according to 1. need and 2. doctor availability. Maybe the broken wrist doctors were all busy.
Nevertheless, I heard him complain about every single person who was seen before he was. (sigh) The hubby-man was biting his tongue to keep from saying something. I think the only reason he kept quiet was because of me. I do love him so.
They finally took the guy off to get an x-ray and about 40 minutes later called me.
The place really was busy. Usually, you get put in a room with a tv and everything. This time I was put on a stretcher/bed in a room full of stretcher/beds, separated by curtains, with nothing to look at except busy nurses.
Fortunately, I wasn't there very long.
A nurse came and stuck an I.V. in a very uncomfortable part of my arm while expressing surprise that my doctor hadn't called ahead and gotten me a room. I suddenly realized that I would not be going home tonight. I was *not* a happy camper. But I didn't have much time to dwell on that because a phlebotamist showed up and took a bunch of blood from me. I worried over every drop. I know, I know. They needed to test my blood for all kinds of things before they could give me blood; and I felt the best place for my blood was in my own body, thank you very much.
I thought about offering her my doctor's note.
It had become a running joke in my head.
Shortly after all that, with standard IV fluid running into my arm; I was taken to the 8th floor. "Women's Surgery"
I did not like the look of this. I wanted blood and a shot and my own damned bed. Dammit.
I wanted no part of any floor called "surgery" anything.
However.
The nurses were all really really nice. I was a person not an object to them. They let me sleep at night. The food was awesome and plentiful. They even tried to move the IV to a more comfortable spot after I'd had my transfusions.
Yes. TransfusionS. I got blood twice.
That made me just barely blood filled enough to have surgery. And it was a night of hell, getting those units of blood. My vein didn't want 'em. So they had to use a pump. And I think the ER nurse stuck the IV needle right through the tendon in my arm. Or through a cluster of nerves or something. Because that thing hurt like the dickens and pumping blood through it hurt even worse. And the blood wasn't exactly warm, either. And it took almost an HOUR per bag.
Mind you, I am eternally grateful to the strangers who donated their time and (lol) life-blood to give me strength. I am eternally grateful for the kind nurses who cared for me and treated me like a real person. Not just a real person; a real person who they might like if they had time to get to know me better. THAT is impressive.
They're really careful about blood, too. Both times I had 2 separate people check and double check that the info on my wrist tag matched the info on the bag of blood. Both of them asked me to confirm who I was. And both people, both times had to sign a piece of paper before a drop of blood was sent to my IV. AND A nurse sat with me for the first 15 minutes of each transfusion, in case I had a reaction.
After I was all pumped full of blood, they tried to move the IV. I got a lovely bruise and was stuck with the IV in the same place. The next day, the IV site went bad and they *had* to move it. Which left me with 2 more bruises and no IV at all. My veins just weren't sturdy enough to take the IV catheter tube. I also had a better understanding of why I'd been admitted to the hospital. I was very sick. I didn't realize just how long I'd been pushing myself along with sheer willpower. I was exhausted. And I'd been exhausted for weeks.
So, I got 2 units of blood overnight. The next morning I had an ultrasound to check out what might be going on. Then I got a visit from an OBGYN. He said that the ultrasound looked good and the transfusions had brought my blood count up to 8. Woo!!! (It should have been at least 12)
Then he asked me if I had planned on bearing any more children. If I didn't plan on it, he wanted to give me an endometrial ablation. I told him that the hubby-man had a vasectomy years ago. We do not plan on having any more children. This thrilled him to no end and surgery was scheduled for later that day. He actually did 3 things and it took less than 10 minutes, total.
They took me to OR and gave me a new IV in the back of my hand. They numbed the site first. It was a breeze as she carefully pushed the tube into my vein. Didn't hurt at all. Then they took me into a bright room and introduced me to the people who would be part of my surgery and care. Every one of them looked me in the eye and smiled. Way cool. I laid down on the incredibly narrow surgery table/bed (it was warm and comfy) and they injected something into my IV. Then they put a mask over my face. That's all I remember.
While I was not remembering stuff, they were busy dilating my cervix and scraping everything out of my uterus. That's a D&C. Also known as an abortion, or that thing they do after you miscarry to make sure everything is out so that any new babies start with a clean slate. It's also what they do if you won't stop bleeding, if you have certain cancers, etc. etc. etc.
After they cleaned me out and sent all the stuff off to pathology where some poor lab worker would have to look through it all for stuff that shouldn't be there, they gave me a hysteroscopy.
That means they put a camera in my uterus and looked all around.
After they cleaned me out and looked in every nook and cranny, they stuck a zappy wand tool in there and burned the endometreum down to around 6 or 7 millimeters thickness. This is why he asked if I planned on having any more children. If I get pregnant, my uterine wall is too thin to support a placenta. Pregnancy could be life-threatening for me now.
It stopped the bleeding and smoothed everything out in there. 30% of women who have this procedure with the technique used on me (there are other techniques) never have another period. The rest have some kind of period, but it's much lighter.
So basically, I get to keep all my hormone making stuff, and all my girly bits, and go through menopause like I normally would have. but I'll never have another heavy period.
After surgery, the doctor was explaining what he'd done. And described the endometrial ablation as "Just like microwaving your endometreum"
And I instantly said, "You should have put a bag of popcorn in there while you were at it."
.
.
.
Because that's the kind of person I am. Unfortunately, I was still coming out of anesthesia, and I was blinking when I'd said it. And an anesthesia blink takes like 30 seconds. So I missed seeing his expression. The hubby-man says. His face tripped. Like doing a double take without looking away. Then he laughed long and hard.
My job was done :D
.
So the hubby-man left work and drove me to the ER, while I arranged for my mom to pick up my son after school.
Emergency waiting rooms are places of weirdness, I assure you. You would think that someone capable of entering the building on their own two feet would be way down on the list of people being treated; while people being carried in would be higher on the list. Human beings are natural con artists, and triage nurses have seen all kinds of tricks.
So I walked in (on my own two feet) and cheerfully told the nurse at the front desk that my doctor was upset with me and said I needed to go to the ER and get a blood transfusion. I offered him the note my doctor wrote for me, which he declined to accept. He asked me to sit in one of the 4 "waiting for triage" seats next to his desk. I sat next to a skinny gentleman who offered to make room for my husband to sit too. He was not bleeding or holding a limb on with duct tape or vomiting into his hat. The triage nurse called him to the little triage room that can check out 3 people at a time. A nurse took his vitals, asked him quiet questions and whisked him off into the bowels of the hospital, never to be seen again. I guess he needed attention right away. I watched people come and go while I waited for a chance to give someone my little piece of paper saying I had a blood count of 7, and that might be a bad thing. There were at least 80 people in the waiting rooms. I knew I'd be there a while. Another person was triaged while a large and somewhat belligerent man tottered into the hospital. Yes, I know how that sounds. But he was large and somewhat belligerent, and he did totter in like someone with barely enough strength to stand. He loudly proclaimed that he couldn't breathe. That he was having chest pains, and that his arm was numb. Then he focused on looking sickly. He glared at me when the triage nurse called me before him. Even though there was less than a minute between each of us being checked out.
My triage consisted of having my temperature taken, having my blood pressure checked, and having the nurse refuse to look at the note from my doctor. Then I went back to the waiting room.
The hubby-man and I looked for a reasonably uncrowded place to sit. I've never seen Saint Anthony's so busy. We decided to sit near a pair of senior citizens. They seemed nice and quiet. We spent the next hour listening to one of them bitch about not being seen right away.
... He may have broken his wrist in a fall. I'm certain he was in a lot of pain. And the ER takes patients according to 1. need and 2. doctor availability. Maybe the broken wrist doctors were all busy.
Nevertheless, I heard him complain about every single person who was seen before he was. (sigh) The hubby-man was biting his tongue to keep from saying something. I think the only reason he kept quiet was because of me. I do love him so.
They finally took the guy off to get an x-ray and about 40 minutes later called me.
The place really was busy. Usually, you get put in a room with a tv and everything. This time I was put on a stretcher/bed in a room full of stretcher/beds, separated by curtains, with nothing to look at except busy nurses.
Fortunately, I wasn't there very long.
A nurse came and stuck an I.V. in a very uncomfortable part of my arm while expressing surprise that my doctor hadn't called ahead and gotten me a room. I suddenly realized that I would not be going home tonight. I was *not* a happy camper. But I didn't have much time to dwell on that because a phlebotamist showed up and took a bunch of blood from me. I worried over every drop. I know, I know. They needed to test my blood for all kinds of things before they could give me blood; and I felt the best place for my blood was in my own body, thank you very much.
I thought about offering her my doctor's note.
It had become a running joke in my head.
Shortly after all that, with standard IV fluid running into my arm; I was taken to the 8th floor. "Women's Surgery"
I did not like the look of this. I wanted blood and a shot and my own damned bed. Dammit.
I wanted no part of any floor called "surgery" anything.
However.
The nurses were all really really nice. I was a person not an object to them. They let me sleep at night. The food was awesome and plentiful. They even tried to move the IV to a more comfortable spot after I'd had my transfusions.
Yes. TransfusionS. I got blood twice.
That made me just barely blood filled enough to have surgery. And it was a night of hell, getting those units of blood. My vein didn't want 'em. So they had to use a pump. And I think the ER nurse stuck the IV needle right through the tendon in my arm. Or through a cluster of nerves or something. Because that thing hurt like the dickens and pumping blood through it hurt even worse. And the blood wasn't exactly warm, either. And it took almost an HOUR per bag.
Mind you, I am eternally grateful to the strangers who donated their time and (lol) life-blood to give me strength. I am eternally grateful for the kind nurses who cared for me and treated me like a real person. Not just a real person; a real person who they might like if they had time to get to know me better. THAT is impressive.
They're really careful about blood, too. Both times I had 2 separate people check and double check that the info on my wrist tag matched the info on the bag of blood. Both of them asked me to confirm who I was. And both people, both times had to sign a piece of paper before a drop of blood was sent to my IV. AND A nurse sat with me for the first 15 minutes of each transfusion, in case I had a reaction.
After I was all pumped full of blood, they tried to move the IV. I got a lovely bruise and was stuck with the IV in the same place. The next day, the IV site went bad and they *had* to move it. Which left me with 2 more bruises and no IV at all. My veins just weren't sturdy enough to take the IV catheter tube. I also had a better understanding of why I'd been admitted to the hospital. I was very sick. I didn't realize just how long I'd been pushing myself along with sheer willpower. I was exhausted. And I'd been exhausted for weeks.
So, I got 2 units of blood overnight. The next morning I had an ultrasound to check out what might be going on. Then I got a visit from an OBGYN. He said that the ultrasound looked good and the transfusions had brought my blood count up to 8. Woo!!! (It should have been at least 12)
Then he asked me if I had planned on bearing any more children. If I didn't plan on it, he wanted to give me an endometrial ablation. I told him that the hubby-man had a vasectomy years ago. We do not plan on having any more children. This thrilled him to no end and surgery was scheduled for later that day. He actually did 3 things and it took less than 10 minutes, total.
They took me to OR and gave me a new IV in the back of my hand. They numbed the site first. It was a breeze as she carefully pushed the tube into my vein. Didn't hurt at all. Then they took me into a bright room and introduced me to the people who would be part of my surgery and care. Every one of them looked me in the eye and smiled. Way cool. I laid down on the incredibly narrow surgery table/bed (it was warm and comfy) and they injected something into my IV. Then they put a mask over my face. That's all I remember.
While I was not remembering stuff, they were busy dilating my cervix and scraping everything out of my uterus. That's a D&C. Also known as an abortion, or that thing they do after you miscarry to make sure everything is out so that any new babies start with a clean slate. It's also what they do if you won't stop bleeding, if you have certain cancers, etc. etc. etc.
After they cleaned me out and sent all the stuff off to pathology where some poor lab worker would have to look through it all for stuff that shouldn't be there, they gave me a hysteroscopy.
That means they put a camera in my uterus and looked all around.
After they cleaned me out and looked in every nook and cranny, they stuck a zappy wand tool in there and burned the endometreum down to around 6 or 7 millimeters thickness. This is why he asked if I planned on having any more children. If I get pregnant, my uterine wall is too thin to support a placenta. Pregnancy could be life-threatening for me now.
It stopped the bleeding and smoothed everything out in there. 30% of women who have this procedure with the technique used on me (there are other techniques) never have another period. The rest have some kind of period, but it's much lighter.
So basically, I get to keep all my hormone making stuff, and all my girly bits, and go through menopause like I normally would have. but I'll never have another heavy period.
After surgery, the doctor was explaining what he'd done. And described the endometrial ablation as "Just like microwaving your endometreum"
And I instantly said, "You should have put a bag of popcorn in there while you were at it."
.
.
.
Because that's the kind of person I am. Unfortunately, I was still coming out of anesthesia, and I was blinking when I'd said it. And an anesthesia blink takes like 30 seconds. So I missed seeing his expression. The hubby-man says. His face tripped. Like doing a double take without looking away. Then he laughed long and hard.
My job was done :D
Sickness, Surgery and... Popcorn (part 1)
.
Yeah, I know. It's been forever. On to the story of what's happened to me!
*WARNING - THIS PARAGRAPH CONTAINS TMI* (Too much information, over sharing, roughing the reader)
I've been having menstrual problems for a while now. Every time I had a little spotting during ovulation, I'd google around and read that it's totally normal for someone my age. Every time I had a period with lovely clumps of warm red jello sliming their way out of my cervix, I'd google and read that it's totally normal. I'm not one to completely trust even medical sites on the internet. So I'd meditate on my body; focus on my uterus, and find nothing wrong. Just heavy periods every 19-21 days.
I've been having periods every 19-21 days for a decade. Some times they'd last 4 days, sometimes a week. No biggie. I've never been anemic.
Then came November. I was (again) spotting during ovulation. I decided that no matter how "perfectly normal" this might be, I should get some tests done. That's what medical insurance is for, after all.
But it would have to wait until after my period. Can't do a pap smear during a period. It seemed to take forever to actually start menstruating. At least a week! I was truly thankful on Thanksgiving day when I finally started bleeding like a normal woman.
Except it wasn't normal. I was dropping clots the size of small pancakes. Not one or two, but dozens. And I bled for 15 days.
It was gross.
I smelled like oxidized copper.
Everything tasted metallic, and I was thirsty all the time.
I was so weak that I couldn't stand up in the shower. The steam made me feel sick.
I was reduced to sponge baths and washing my hair in the sink.
It was a miserable two weeks and a day. And yet, my body said it was just fine. No cancer, no weird ectopic magical pregnancy, no crazy hormone shifts. So when it finally stopped, I made a mental note to go see my doctor as soon as I had the strength to take a real shower.
Six days later, I started bleeding again. Made perfect sense. I get my periods every 19-21 days. 15 + 6 = 21. And I felt absolutely horrible. And frustrated! Dammit. I was on my period again. Can't get a pap smear! (Like a pap is the only test that can be done on a woman's reproductive organs. Duh)
Monday night, I was so weak and in so much pain, that I wondered how much dying hurt. And for the first time in my life I was afraid of death. Because the pain I felt combined with my weakness scared the crap out of me. I knew I wasn't dying. And I kind of understood, at last, that death usually involves being physically weak.
Tuesday morning, I called my doctor. I told them I'd take anybody who could see me. I was fine with a Physicians Assistant. I didn't care. I was bleeding, I was sick, and I needed it to be fixed. They could see me almost right away.
Great! I stuffed the last of my maxi pads in my purse and drove to the doctor.
Doctor's offices suck when you're truly unwell. So do emergency rooms. Both have uncomfortable seats and no way to lie down across them. So I sat upright and knitted. I even smiled and chatted with people who boggled at the 5 double point needles I was using to make a whatever it was. Really, I don't know what the hell I was making. Could have been the start of a mohair sock or the sleeve of a child's sweater. I just focused on knitting round and round and not letting my fear take control. I was afraid of more pain. I mean... worst case scenario, they give me a hysterectomy, right? Lots of women have those. I can live with that. It was the PAIN that I didn't want. So I knitted round and round and focused on staying calm.
A nurse called my name, weighed me, took me into a little room, checked my blood pressure and asked me questions. I explained about the 15 day period, the massive clumps of goo, and the funny taste in my mouth. She commented that I looked pale. I replied that I'm a redhead, I'm always pale, however; I was pale even for me. We both stared at my face in the mirror for a moment. Then she stabbed my finger with a little needle and took off with a dot of my blood. I marveled at the wonders of modern medicine - that one drop of blood was going to give them all the information they needed to make me stop bleeding. Sweet!
I'm making it sound like I was totally fine during this adventure. That's not true. I was weak and dizzy and my hands didn't really want to manage all those knitting needles. I felt queazy. I simply didn't see how letting any of those things overwhelm me would speed up the process of getting better. And I was certain that I was going to get better. My mind kept returning to this thought: Worst case scenario, I get a hysterectomy. I'll deal with that when my uterus is gone.
A few minutes later, the doctor came into the room wearing a look on her face that I hope you never see. She was very concerned and slightly frustrated, and a bit surprised, and there was some fear in there too. She had the face of a doctor who has to give bad news and has no idea how the patient will take it. I felt bad for her.
She told me that the drop of blood the nurse had run off with said my blood count was low. I was anemic. "Ah ha!" I thought. "So this is what anemia feels like!" I felt better already. But she still was wearing that face. Ok... it's more than just anemia. Best case, they give me a hormone shot - worst case, they take my innards. Let's see where I stood.
I have *no* idea what this means. It meant something to her though. My hemoglobin number was 7. That's very low. Low enough that I would need a blood transfusion.
Um, ok. Worse than a shot, waaaay better than a hysterectomy. And something that had never crossed my mind. A blood transfusion for a period? You've got to be kidding me!
She said I could go to the emergency room and get a transfusion, hormones to stop the bleeding, probably a D&C, and an ultrasound to see what's going on in there.
OR
I could go to the ER and get a blood transfusion and have the rest of the stuff done in a clinic the next day.
I said. "So. Either way, I'm getting a blood transfusion?"
She looked down at the printout of my blood test and said "Well, yes. I don't know what your normal hemoglobin count is, so I can't say for sure. And I do think you should get a transfusion as soon as possible. Preferably today."
My doctor's office is across the street from a hospital. It's a good hospital. My insurance likes the place to. She didn't once suggest I cross the street and go there. Instead, we discussed hospitals 20 miles away. I opted for Saint Anthony's. They're nice people. And competent. And the ER isn't usually crowded.
I thanked my doctor and left. Walking to the truck, I realized I'd left my cell phone at home. I sat in the truck and cried. blood transfusion
Then I wiped my eyes and drove home to call the hubby-man. I could have driven all the way to the hospital, but the hubby man would have been hurt that I didn't call him asap. Besides. I didn't want to go through a blood transfusion alone. I was really really scared.
Transfusions are for war wounds and terrorist victims and major surgeries. Not for an overly long period.
So I cried on an off the whole way home and scared the crap out of my husband when I called him in tears. "They said... (sniffle, hic) that I need (sob sob) a... (hic) a... (sniff,cry) ... blood transfusion! (waaaah!)
He was quiet, as if I had more to add to that "horror".
He thought it was going to be something BAD. Like a hysterectomy. Instead, I get to have a little blood. Isn't that why we all donate blood anyway?
.
Yeah, I know. It's been forever. On to the story of what's happened to me!
*WARNING - THIS PARAGRAPH CONTAINS TMI* (Too much information, over sharing, roughing the reader)
I've been having menstrual problems for a while now. Every time I had a little spotting during ovulation, I'd google around and read that it's totally normal for someone my age. Every time I had a period with lovely clumps of warm red jello sliming their way out of my cervix, I'd google and read that it's totally normal. I'm not one to completely trust even medical sites on the internet. So I'd meditate on my body; focus on my uterus, and find nothing wrong. Just heavy periods every 19-21 days.
I've been having periods every 19-21 days for a decade. Some times they'd last 4 days, sometimes a week. No biggie. I've never been anemic.
Then came November. I was (again) spotting during ovulation. I decided that no matter how "perfectly normal" this might be, I should get some tests done. That's what medical insurance is for, after all.
But it would have to wait until after my period. Can't do a pap smear during a period. It seemed to take forever to actually start menstruating. At least a week! I was truly thankful on Thanksgiving day when I finally started bleeding like a normal woman.
Except it wasn't normal. I was dropping clots the size of small pancakes. Not one or two, but dozens. And I bled for 15 days.
It was gross.
I smelled like oxidized copper.
Everything tasted metallic, and I was thirsty all the time.
I was so weak that I couldn't stand up in the shower. The steam made me feel sick.
I was reduced to sponge baths and washing my hair in the sink.
It was a miserable two weeks and a day. And yet, my body said it was just fine. No cancer, no weird ectopic magical pregnancy, no crazy hormone shifts. So when it finally stopped, I made a mental note to go see my doctor as soon as I had the strength to take a real shower.
Six days later, I started bleeding again. Made perfect sense. I get my periods every 19-21 days. 15 + 6 = 21. And I felt absolutely horrible. And frustrated! Dammit. I was on my period again. Can't get a pap smear! (Like a pap is the only test that can be done on a woman's reproductive organs. Duh)
Monday night, I was so weak and in so much pain, that I wondered how much dying hurt. And for the first time in my life I was afraid of death. Because the pain I felt combined with my weakness scared the crap out of me. I knew I wasn't dying. And I kind of understood, at last, that death usually involves being physically weak.
Tuesday morning, I called my doctor. I told them I'd take anybody who could see me. I was fine with a Physicians Assistant. I didn't care. I was bleeding, I was sick, and I needed it to be fixed. They could see me almost right away.
Great! I stuffed the last of my maxi pads in my purse and drove to the doctor.
Doctor's offices suck when you're truly unwell. So do emergency rooms. Both have uncomfortable seats and no way to lie down across them. So I sat upright and knitted. I even smiled and chatted with people who boggled at the 5 double point needles I was using to make a whatever it was. Really, I don't know what the hell I was making. Could have been the start of a mohair sock or the sleeve of a child's sweater. I just focused on knitting round and round and not letting my fear take control. I was afraid of more pain. I mean... worst case scenario, they give me a hysterectomy, right? Lots of women have those. I can live with that. It was the PAIN that I didn't want. So I knitted round and round and focused on staying calm.
A nurse called my name, weighed me, took me into a little room, checked my blood pressure and asked me questions. I explained about the 15 day period, the massive clumps of goo, and the funny taste in my mouth. She commented that I looked pale. I replied that I'm a redhead, I'm always pale, however; I was pale even for me. We both stared at my face in the mirror for a moment. Then she stabbed my finger with a little needle and took off with a dot of my blood. I marveled at the wonders of modern medicine - that one drop of blood was going to give them all the information they needed to make me stop bleeding. Sweet!
I'm making it sound like I was totally fine during this adventure. That's not true. I was weak and dizzy and my hands didn't really want to manage all those knitting needles. I felt queazy. I simply didn't see how letting any of those things overwhelm me would speed up the process of getting better. And I was certain that I was going to get better. My mind kept returning to this thought: Worst case scenario, I get a hysterectomy. I'll deal with that when my uterus is gone.
A few minutes later, the doctor came into the room wearing a look on her face that I hope you never see. She was very concerned and slightly frustrated, and a bit surprised, and there was some fear in there too. She had the face of a doctor who has to give bad news and has no idea how the patient will take it. I felt bad for her.
She told me that the drop of blood the nurse had run off with said my blood count was low. I was anemic. "Ah ha!" I thought. "So this is what anemia feels like!" I felt better already. But she still was wearing that face. Ok... it's more than just anemia. Best case, they give me a hormone shot - worst case, they take my innards. Let's see where I stood.
I have *no* idea what this means. It meant something to her though. My hemoglobin number was 7. That's very low. Low enough that I would need a blood transfusion.
Um, ok. Worse than a shot, waaaay better than a hysterectomy. And something that had never crossed my mind. A blood transfusion for a period? You've got to be kidding me!
She said I could go to the emergency room and get a transfusion, hormones to stop the bleeding, probably a D&C, and an ultrasound to see what's going on in there.
OR
I could go to the ER and get a blood transfusion and have the rest of the stuff done in a clinic the next day.
I said. "So. Either way, I'm getting a blood transfusion?"
She looked down at the printout of my blood test and said "Well, yes. I don't know what your normal hemoglobin count is, so I can't say for sure. And I do think you should get a transfusion as soon as possible. Preferably today."
My doctor's office is across the street from a hospital. It's a good hospital. My insurance likes the place to. She didn't once suggest I cross the street and go there. Instead, we discussed hospitals 20 miles away. I opted for Saint Anthony's. They're nice people. And competent. And the ER isn't usually crowded.
I thanked my doctor and left. Walking to the truck, I realized I'd left my cell phone at home. I sat in the truck and cried. blood transfusion
Then I wiped my eyes and drove home to call the hubby-man. I could have driven all the way to the hospital, but the hubby man would have been hurt that I didn't call him asap. Besides. I didn't want to go through a blood transfusion alone. I was really really scared.
Transfusions are for war wounds and terrorist victims and major surgeries. Not for an overly long period.
So I cried on an off the whole way home and scared the crap out of my husband when I called him in tears. "They said... (sniffle, hic) that I need (sob sob) a... (hic) a... (sniff,cry) ... blood transfusion! (waaaah!)
He was quiet, as if I had more to add to that "horror".
He thought it was going to be something BAD. Like a hysterectomy. Instead, I get to have a little blood. Isn't that why we all donate blood anyway?
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