Things To Ask

I got so carried away with the I Love You post that I failed to post the very thing I was supposed to post, which are the questions that I plan to ask my doctor tomorrow.  I think I've covered everything.

This is the part where having an audience would be helpful, so that people can chime in with things I might have missed.  Oh well.  I'm working in a vacuum, but at least I'll be able to revisit these.

To Ask Doctor – Pre-Op Visit

• ð        What is my surgical preparation?
• ð        Do I have to remove my nail polish?  Can I wear clear polish?
• ð        What kind of anesthesia will I have?
• ð        Should I harvest blood in case I need a transfusion?
• ð        How long will I be on bed rest?  How often should I get up?
• ð        Will I be able to go up and down the stairs at home?
• ð        Do I have to have a vertical incision?  Why can’t I have a horizontal incision?
• ð        Will I have a catheter?  When does it get removed?
• ð        When can I take a shower?  Take a bath?  Use my hot tub?
• ð        Will I have special stockings to prevent clots in my legs post surgery?
• ð        Will I need a tummy binder?
• ð        How long will I have my IV?
• ð        Will I need anything post-op for gas or constipation?
• ð        Are there any foods that I should definitely consume, or definitely avoid?
• ð        I would absolutely not like to have my ovaries removed.  Is there a chance for them to fail after surgery?
• ð        Will I be in the hospital for one or two days?  What would be the factors that could potentially keep me longer?
• ð        Are there any warning signs that I should watch out for when I go home?
• ð        When can I start working again if I work from home in a sedentary job?  Is two weeks enough time to be off?
• ð        When can I work out?
• ð        How soon before spin class?
• ð        Will I need a tummy tuck?

Tomorrow is Pre-Op, and I Love You

Tomorrow is my pre-op visit with the doctor, where I get to ask all of the questions that I want to know about my surgery, and also where I beg him to give me a horizontal incision rather than vertical.  Not sure if that's going to fly, but I've decided that the idea of having a vertical incision and having the equivalent of two butts (one in the front and the other in the back), makes me want to shoot myself.

(

My dirty little secret is that I always think I'm going to die whenever I have surgery. Normally I know that it's a ridiculous prospect, given that most of ,my surgeries have either been knee surgeries, or relatively minor quick fixes -- usually in extremities.  My last surgery was a few years ago, and it was on my hand.  Very stupid.  Very minor.  But surgery, nonetheless, so I thought I was going to die.  

It was for that reason that I decided to tell my boyfriend of five months that I loved him.  It was the first time either of us had ever uttered those words to one another.  My plan wasn't to tell him until he told me.  I was having surgery on his birthday, so on the night before the surgery (before my cut-off time to eat or drink), I came upstairs wearing the backpack that I got him for his birthday, carrying a tray with a special dessert and champagne.  I leaned over and whispered it in his ear -- as though I didn't want to hear myself say it -- and leaned in close enough so that I didn't have to see his reaction.  I wasn't sure if he'd reciprocate.

But he said that he felt the same way, but he was waiting for me to say it first.  This annoyed me for some reason.  

Years later, we're not really "I love you" people.  We tried it on for size for a while, and then the occasions for which we expressed our love dwindled.  We had an argument one day, and we each accused each other of not meaning it.  Since then, that phrase has meant very little to me.  I don't initiate; I reciprocate.  When we say it, it's because one of us is getting on a flight or traveling.  Or having surgery.  Basically, situations where if the other of us should die, we would feel guilty if our last conversation didn't include an expression of love.  

Essentially, we're right back to the origin of why we began saying it in the first place.  

It's not because he has an aversion to uttering those three words.  He says it every single time he speaks with the women of signficance in his life.  I, on the other hand, say it very rarely.  To anyone, really.  I haven't told my father that I love him in several years, and I can't recall whether or not I managed to make sure my mother knew I loved her before she died.  These are things that make me a horrible person. But really?  I'd rather show them.  And to my credit, it isn't as though my parents were big on the "I love you" statements with me.  Unless they were delivering tough messages, like "Now, you know your father and I love you . . "   It's almost like we felt weird saying it to each other.  Not that we didn't show it, but sometimes gestures aren't accurate representations of how we feel.  

I wonder if my life would have been different if someone had been there to tell me, every day, that they loved me.  I wonder if my relationship would be different if those words naturally rolled off of our tongues every day.  Guess I'll never know.

What I do know is that I have a laundry list of things to discuss with the doctor to prepare for my surgery, and that on my checklist of things to do that day will be to tell my boyfriend that I love him.  

Another thing

This whole not-having-an-audience thing?  I could totally get used to it.  My writing became more and more fucked up as I had to write for people.  But that's not the point of this posting.

I'd like to go on record -- so that this is documented and I can look back on this and understand just how I felt --and say that I'm angry.  To post-surgical Queen, I have no idea of how you feel, months later.  But right now -- one month away from surgery -- please know that I'm downright shitty.  I don't understand how I got here, at this age, and I don't know how it's going to get better.

But I sit today without any sort of job security (which is a lifestyle that I chose), in a house that I don't love (which is a home that I purchased), with a health issue-- the depth of which I don't know (something that I chose to ignore), with a body that I've never really been enamored with - or even liked a little bit (which I guess I could have changed if I really tried) in a life that's never been 'normal' and doesn't stand a chance for normalcy (not that a normal life would have ever been good for me, but sometimes I think it would have been SO much easier), with hair that's a fucked up hot mess that never looks good (ever), and feeling amazingly unsexy and unsexual (which I NEVER thought would happen).

What I'm saying is that where I am is a direct reflection of choices that I made.

So, what I wish for my post-surgical self is that you wait for the pain to subside and deal with these issues systematically, from start to finish, when you have energy.  Make better choices.

You have a lot of work to do.

Help

I hate asking for help.  Truth be told, what I really hate is NEEDING help.  I wasn't raised to need help, ask for things, expect things.  I was raised to make sure that I can handle everything.  Anything I couldn't handle, my parents could help with.  Nobody outside of the three of us.  That's how we operated.

Well, my mother is gone and my father is nearly 90.  It's just me -- the last viable member of the invincible three.  And I guess that's okay, but for the first time in a long time, I'm actually going to need something.  I made it through the other surgeries just fine because I wasn't completely impaired.  The last knee surgery, my father's only responsibility was to drive me to and from the hospital.  I handled the rest.  I learned to walk the stairs the first day out of the hospital -- even with a numb leg -- and I got myself to work and home for the next few weeks before I was cleared to drive.  I was good.  All good.

This time the surgery involves a large incision in my core.  I have no idea what to expect.  I hear it's an entirely different animal.  I've known people who've had the surgery -- people who are in worse shape and have less of a dedication to healing.  In my mind, I'm a strong girl, and I can heal it at least 1/2 the time as a mere mortal ( :-) ).  My friends tell me different.  They say that I should forget about being fully capable for at least a month, which is an amount of time that I can't even fathom.  If they are right -- which I hope they're not -- I will need help.

The dynamic of my relationships with my father and BF is that I'm the helper, the fixer.  They are used to calling me and everything will be better.  Because this is what I do.  Right or wrong, our relationships are not reciprocated.  I'm not surprised at this.  This is the dynamic that I created.  They don't take care of me because they've never needed to.  They don't even really know how.  Bless their hearts.

I get accused of being a control freak, and refusing to allow others to help.  I try to be better about it, but it seems that whenever I give someone a chance they don't live up to my expectations -- which is as much my fault as it is theirs.  Oddly, the dad and the BF have strikingly similar personalities (I'm sure that Freud would have a lot to say about that), and the two of them have given up trying to make me happy because I'm so particular.

All of this is the backstory.  As I look ahead to this surgery, I'm just trying to find ways to keep myself alive, comfortable and able to get back to work within 3 weeks -- if I have a job to do.

The bottom line is that I'm not comfortable with the vulnerability.  I don't want to need help.  And I will find ways not to.

Options are everything. And I have none.

I'm in a moment where I have absolutely no options.  And I fucking hate it.  I have no choice but to have this surgery.  I mean, I guess I could not have it,at the expense of my internal organs, which are suffering by the day.  I'm extremely sick of my house but I can't move -- especially now that my dad lives so close and he's not getting any younger.  And even if I were able to move, I couldn't buy a house with the BF because of his finances, and situation with his trashy baby mama.  I also could never marry the BF because I will not have my finances exposed to or usurped by his situation, nor do I want his monthly amount increased based on my income.  The baby mama will always be considered a family member of sorts, and I never will.

I'm at a point where I do things because I have to -- my choices have very little to do with anything.  And nothing infuriates me more than being whipped around by a situation, and having no options.

If I had my preference?  I would have an amazing job that pays extremely well and doesn't feel like work.  I would already live in my dream home, which has all of the things that I want -- a gourmet kitchen with a large double fridge, a smaller fridge just for condiments, a walk-in master closet, an upstairs laundry room.  It would be spacious and contemporary with a beautiful home gym and sleek minimalist home office.  The media room would feature a large flat screen TV with all of the components and wires hidden.  There would be a gorgeous granite wet bar and a wine fridge.  The backyard would have a pool, or a nice spa -- perfectly landscaped -- with an expansive deck.  There would not be neighbors so close that they're breathing on me, and I could ideally have at least a 3 car garage -- perfectly organized.  

If that isn't a description of love, I don't know what is.

Also?  I would eliminate these fibroids altogether so that I wouldn't have to have this surgery -- let alone one so invasive that I'll have to have a disgusting scar and a body that's forever ugly.  Or uglier, if we're being honest.

Then?  I would go back about 16 years and prevent the BF from hooking up with his ho-ass baby mama.  Not that we would have dated if I'd known him then-- because I'm pretty sure that we wouldn't have been even remotely attracted to each other (or good for each other), but I would have befriended him and forcefully changed his mind and opened his eyes to the multitudes of reasons why he should never have dated her.  I would have taught him that he should aim higher because he deserved better.  Maybe I would have changed his taste in women (which isn't really the best), and he could have eliminated some of those horrid slamhounds.  Even if we never got together, we could have been in each others' lives as great strictly platonic friends and I could have simplified his life for a nice deserving woman (whose idea of an occupation doesn't include a pole) with whom he could have had a solid relationship, a few children and a altogether better life experience.  Because, really?  As it stands now, I don't need to get married, nor do we really NEED to buy a house together (although the logistics of our living situation seem ridiculous, oddly non-committal and never-ending), but there's something really shitty about not having the option should I want it.

And while we're at it?  I would have restarted my career years earlier so that I wouldn't be in the predicament that I'm in right now.

The one thing I wouldn't change is my dad's health.  The ONLY thing I would do is eliminate his emphysema, but at his age he does very well, and I'm grateful for that on a daily basis.

I don't think I'll feel this way forever -- at least I hope I don't -- but right now I feel like my Roomba when it get stuck on something, churns until its battery drains and is unable to return to its charging station.  Part of this situation will go away after my surgery in a month or so, but I can't help thinking that I'll be on a slippery slope in the opposite direction and that I'll start looking older and gaining weight.  I feel like I'm on a countdown, and I'm desperately trying to hold on to each day until 10/28, as though my happiness will end by the end of that day.

Sounds dramatic, right?  Yes, but it is.  The situation is tragic and dramatic, and just so wrong on so many levels.  And I have no options.

Roomba and the cleanliness issue

I've been trying to figure out ways to keep my house clean while I'll be incapacitated after surgery.  My boyfriend is not reliable, as he is the King of "I'll do it."  Even though he has no intention of doing it.  Or if he has intention, I have a different idea of the timeframe in which the task should be done.  So . . . to keep myself partially sane, and have some knowledge that at least one floor of my house will remain filth free, I went out and bought a Roomba!

I've had a robotic vacuum in the past, but it was a gift from my ex who bought an off-brand that I had never seen before, and have never seen since.  Of course it was the thought that counted, but it was FAR from the Roomba, and I've since pitched it in the trash . . . largely because I could never find replacement parts for it.   I don't even think there was a website for the brand.  Whatever . . .

Anyway, I'm loving the Roomba so far.  It goes under the bed, the dressers, and even moves things out of the way . . . which was kind of disconcerting the first time I saw one one of my lamps shoved across the floor.

So, that's one less thing to worry about.

The things I buy . . .

One of my biggest fears after having surgery is that my house will look like the aftermath of the next World War, with my pending inability to clean or lift anything.  My boyfriend isn't really used to cleaning -- or doing anything else around the house -- and if I'm unable to tidy up on a daily basis, the health department will be knocking on my door in no time.

So what am I doing about it?  That's right, I'm throwing some money at the problem.  While I do planning on increasing the frequency of the cleaning ladies, I'm also investing in something that I've wanted for a long time -- a Roomba!  There are few things more exciting than the concept of a robot vacuuming daily -- on a schedule!

I might just avoid that ant infestation.  Even if I'll need a hazmat suit to enter the bathroom.

The Best Policy

I could completely get used to having a totally anonymous blog.

The funny thing about blogging is that it's supposed to be a quasi diary, but the trouble is that everyone wants readers.  And the trouble with readers is that once your friends and family begins to read your blog, you have to censor yourself, because the people who annoy you most, to the point where you want to write about them, are generally either a friend or a family member.  I know this because I have other blogs and I'm forced to be sensitive and politically correct otherwise I get a nasty-gram from someone who isn't pleased about being featured, or who is mortified by my opinion.

I like this ability to be nameless and faceless person.  The only person who knows of the existence of this blog is my boyfriend, and he lacks the intellectual curiosity to find and read it.  A man that asks absolutely no questions is definitely not going to spend any time investigating the location of my blog.

And since I'm being honest, why not jump in and be honest about people's reaction to my news that I'm having a hysterectomy.

First, most people get really sad looks on their faces, as though I've announced that I'm having a frontal lobotomy.

Then, they essentially call me stupid.  They don't come out and directly call me an idiot, but their followup questions indicate that they believe I'm a moron who doesn't advocate for my own health.  I've heard some of the craziest questions:

1.  "Do you have a good doctor?"  Naah.  He's actually homeless, but he's what I can afford

2.  "Did you get a second opinion?"  Absolutely not! Even though I conduct major research on every minor gadget that I purchase.  Why in the world would I conduct the same, if not higher, level of research when my uterus is in question?

3.  "Why don't you get one of those minimally invasive surgeries?"  Why?  Because I have a MAJORLY invasive womb -- large enough to scoff at anyone who would try to remove it with a mere laser.  If my doctor doesn't have to use a machete to get this bitch out, I would be totally surprised

4.  "Have you tried homeopathic treatment?"  While homeopathic medicine is fantastic when you're trying to stave off a problem, it's not so great when you've already got something that's massively out of control.  Trust me when I tell you that I've consulted an herbalist, and if I COULD drink some herbs and get rid of this shit, I would have done so long ago.

5.  "Is there an alternative?"  Sure.  I can dig into my own abdomen with a spoon and try to solve the problem, but I don't trust my own surgical skills.

I realize they mean well, but . . .

The Road to Old and Ugly

To finish catching us up to present, I went to another specialist -- one that has good bedside manner, unlike Dr. Beeyotch -- and he told me that my options are limited.  Well . . . really there's only one option.  An abdominal hysterectomy.  And not just the kind with the potentially cute horizontal scar.  Nope.  I get the pleasure of having the enormous vertical scar.

If I'm being honest, I've never felt uglier in my life.  I've been feeling pretty ugly for a while, and this has done nothing to help the situation.

Again, if I'm being honest, part of it has to do with my boyfriend.  Not really his fault, I guess.  It would just be helpful if he admitted it.  Although my boyfriend has generally dated some pretty unattractive/trashy women, he wasn't initially attracted to me.  He claims he was attracted to me in the beginning (largely because he misremembers most things).  It never even occurred to him to ask me out.  The only reason (and I do mean ONLY) that we even got together the first time for cocktails was because I happened to IM him some weeks later when I was looking for something to do.  Even then it wasn't a date.  My rule is that if I paid for my own drinks, it's not a date.

Now . . . I think he grew to like me as a person, and we make great partners in life matters, but I don't think I actually do it for him physically.  He denies it, but I've heard him say it when he didn't think I was listening (I keep my old Palm Pre in hope that I can one day retrieve that voicemail and have him listen to his own voice vocalize the very thing he denies, but it appears to be gone forever). I've seen him actually attracted to people and never has he looked at me like he does those women.  Never.  I realize that I'm good partner material, but I wish I could be the person that he finds beautiful.  He tries to convince me that he feels otherwise, but I know better.  Part (most) of me thinks he should hold out for someone that he finds attractive, but he sees things differently.

You know what? There's more, but it's a long story, and I don't really need to write it out and remind myself of it -- because I get irritated every time I discuss it -- but let's just say that this relationship hasn't necessarily been good for my self esteem.  Let's suffice it say that I haven't felt attractive in a long time.

And for me?  I'm not even close to being the most beautiful person in the world and I know this (not even close), but it's really important that I feel attractive.  I've made a lot of mistakes with choices that I've made in men, but the common theme in all of them -- aside from the fact that they're all over 6' with nice smiles -- is that all were intensely attracted to me.  I knew it from the beginning, and it was intoxicating and empowering.

Granted many of them couldn't keep their dicks in their pants, but there was something to be said for the fact that I could really FEEL their attraction to me -- like the wind on my face.  They didn't stare at other women when I was with them -- none of that.  They didn't have the best behaviors when I wasn't with them, but when I was, some of them made me feel really good.  When they cheated, it didn't hurt so badly because none of them were great choices and our relationships didn't have sustainability which I knew almost from the moment we began dating.  What hurt more was that I no longer had THAT feeling.

This relationship is very different. But you know what?  This isn't a forum for me to compare men.  And when I think about it even more, men don't really matter.  This is about how me, and how this unattractive feeling I have is only going to be exacerbated by the fact that my stomach is going to be cut in half and the organ that designates me as a woman is going to be removed.  I'm trying to prepare myself for it, but I'm not really sure that there's any amount of preparation that will make this easier.

Men don't really get it.  I'm getting something removed.  So what?  Get over it.  I'll be just fine, and I'm overdramatizing this.  My male friends attempt to be sympathetic, but as sweet as they can be, I know they don't really get it.

And maybe I will be just fine.  I hope so.  I hope I escape this surgery with no side effects, and the best possible scar with no weight gain or emotional issues.  I really do, because then I can read this blog in a few months and think of how ridiculous I was to think that this 4-hour surgical episode would be a life-altering event.  Or maybe there will be a miracle and I won't have to have this surgery.   Or perhaps I make the radical decision NOT to have this surgery, and I take my chances that my fibroids will stop growing altogether.  If I'm lucky, maybe they'll actually shrink and stop damaging my neighboring internal organs.

Those are all lovely thoughts, but really?  Chances are that none of the things mentioned in the previous paragraph will come to pass (although I am close to making the radical decision not to have the surgery).

What is more likely to happen?  Is that I turn into an upset invalid with a nasty scar and weight that I can't get rid of.  Nobody will ever find me attractive again.

All this to say, I'm well on the road to ugly and old.

Vanity Kills

Fast forward several years.

I had an inkling that they fibroids could have been getting larger.  Weird things were beginning to happen.  

I went to visit the allergist, who decided to probe my abdomen (for a reason that I still can't explain).  He pushed on a lumpy spot and asked if I had a full bladder.  I shook my head no, and thought to myself that if I'd had a full bladder, by pushing on it, he was running the risk that I would pee all over his table.  

Speaking of which, I have to pee a lot.  But when I do, I can only produce a trickle.  Also?  At some point, I developed what I can only describe as a "transparent digestive process."  Similar to a boa constrictor that has swallowed a rat, it's visibly evident that food is moving through my intestines. I often put my boyfriend's hand on the lump, just to gross him out.  It works.  

The final moment of clarity came at Herve Leger.  I was trying on a bandage dress -- I love bandage dresses -- and after I'd zipped up, I turned to face the mirror.  I looked at my protruding stomach and said "what the fuck is THAT?"  I had a pooch.  A sizable pooch.  A fashion-decision-altering pooch.  Before that day, I could have honestly said "I got 99 problems, but a gut ain't one."  (Thighs, however, were a different story).

It was time to check back in on the fibroids.

I went to the pre-natal division to get this particular ultrasound, and I was sitting among several pregnant women.  When my name was called, I walked back with the nurse who immediately asked how many weeks I was.  "Umm . . .what?  I'm not pregnant.  At least I hope not.  Please say I'm not!" I said.  She laughed and said "I'm sorry . . .  I wasn't implying that you look pregnant.  We use 'months' to indicate the uterine sizes of fibroid patients."  I had no idea, but I hoped it wasn't something ridiculous, like 20 weeks.

Back on the ultrasound table with a belly covered in KY, the technicians were fascinated.  Actually, I started with one tech, but she was so enthralled with her findings that she called in a colleague.  They began counting the individual tumors that combined to create the festival of fibroids that were growing in my uterus.  They lost count because many of them are large enough to obstruct others.

My results were posted in my online health chart.  See below for the dimensions of the ones they could assess:

Site L(cm) W(cm) D(cm) Location
Right 7.69 6.51 5.53 Intramural
Posterior right 7.42 5.94 5.27 Subserosal
Anterior mid 2.64 2.78 2.48 Intramural
Posterior mid 3.72 2.59 1.66 Subserosal
Anterior mid 2.46 2 2.22 Intramural
Anterior mid 3.29 3.48 2.97 Intramural
Posterior mid 6.72 6.29 5.26 Subserosal
Midline 4.23 3.59 3.94 Intramural
Posterior left 8.1 5.83 5.69 Subserosal
Anterior left 5.66 3.79 3.43 Subserosal
Posterior left 6.36 5.36 5.3 Subserosal
Left lateral 7.58 6.1 7.29 Subserosal
Left lateral 4.99 4.09 4.33 Exophytic

I showed my results to a friend who's an ob-gyne, and all she could say is "damn."  Not so comforting.

I made my appointment with a specialist.  I disliked her instantly.  

She gave me a rough pelvic examination, which made me spot during the days to follow, and after she finished her exam, she happily told me that I had a 22-week uterus (translation: as big as all outdoors), and that I would need a hysterectomy.  WHAT?  I asked about alternative treatments, like something that wouldn't involve removing a major organ.  She mentioned a myomectomy, but she didn't seem extremely excited about it. And because this time I was armed with research, I asked about UAE (uterine artery embolization), and she seemed majorly unexcited about that option -- largely because she doesn't perform those procedures.  

I left Dr. Beeyotch's office with a determination to do even more research, and a drive to find an alternative method of treatment.

Woulda shoulda coulda

When I left my doctor's office, what I SHOULD have done was to start thinking about holistic ways to make sure that my fibroids wouldn't get out of hand.  At minimum, I SHOULD have done my research and figured out that my currently remarkable fibroids could escalate to the site of a small state.  Amazing that I, with my high level of intellectual curiosity and tendencies to research everything in the world, failed to research something as important as foreign beings growing in my body.

But, I did none of that.  I think I shared my news with a few girlfriends, and each of them said some derivation of "Yeah?  I have those too," or "my aunt/sister/mother/co-worker had them too, and she was fine.  A lot of women have them."  For some reason, I figured that having fibroids was about as common as having toenails.

So, I stuck my head directly up my ass and went on with my life.

Over the years I heard more fibroid tales -- usually about some poor woman who had a 35-day period as a symptom of her fibroids.  As time went on, a few of my girlfriends had laparascopic surgeries to remove their fibroids and resume normal menstrual cycles.  The surgeries had long recovery times and left ugly scars.  While I realized that I had fibroids, it never occurred to me that I would have a similar problem.  My periods were fine, and regulated by the bc pills that I took religiously -- whether or not there was a man in my life.  And if my periods were okay, I was okay.  Right?

In the beginning, there was . . . diagnosis

I'm writing this blog largely for myself.  My friends and boyfriend are undoubtedly sick of hearing about this, and I'm toying with the idea of making this blog private because I've promised to be really honest in this space, and everyone can't handle my honesty.  Nor do I need anyone leaving scolding comments on the occasion that I'm being what someone could perceive as awful or selfish (I have a lot of awful, selfish moments).  This is my experience, so you're either along for the ride and supportive, or not here at all.  Not to be rude, but either way is fine with me.

That said, here goes . . .

My doctor is a bit of an alarmist, and I love her for it.  She's always the one who would rather check things out with legitimate testing rather than assume that whatever I'm complaining about will go away.  Most of the time, the ailment isn't such a big deal (because I've been known to misdiagnose on WebMD from time to time).  But sometimes it is.

This was one of the "no big deal" days.  I went in for a routine visit, and she asked the usual question about any complaints or pains that she should be made aware of.  Actually, I remembered, there was something that I meant to ask her about.  I was experiencing intermittent pain in my lower right side.  It wasn't severe, but I admitted my concern that one day it would get bad and someone would realize that I had appendicitis -- after it burst and I was full of infection.  She suggested an ultrasound to get to the bottom of it.

I went for the ultrasound, and the technician squirted my belly with a cold KY-like jelly before beginning to probe me with a wand.  She didn't have a particularly bad reaction, but she did have an interested look on my face.

As an aside, I'm always afraid that I'll go in for some sort of a test, and accidentally find out that I'm 5 months pregnant, and it's too late for me to do anything about it.  So, when the technician has a weird look on her face, I was hoping to God she wouldn't say something like "Congratulations!  You're having a boy."  Because that?  Would make me slip directly into cardiac arrest, and the ultrasound technician isn't equipped with a defibrilator.

Anywho . . . although it was against policy for her to reveal anything official to a patient, she did mention that while my appendix was fine, it looked like I had sizable fibroid tumors, but that my doctor would fill me in on the details.

At that point I knew nothing about fibroids, so I was a little concerned that anything called a tumor automatically meant cancer.  I must have had an alarmed look on my face because, as she wiped the KY from my belly, the tech assured me that they were common and that millions of women live very happily with the presence of fibroids.

During my followup visit with my doctor, she told me that I had a few fibroids and commented that one of them was "remarkably large," but that we were coexisting nicely, since I hadn't been experiencing heavy periods or any real symptoms.

Then she mentioned the bonus benefit -- the presence of these fibroids could make conception difficult.  Winna, winna, chicken dinna!  I responded the way any normal woman in her childbearing prime would -- "well, by all means leave them there!"

I've never wanted to have children, so anything that assisted my birth control pills, which were unreliable, in my opinion, as they were only 99% effective.  The fibroids could potentially make up for that ominous 1%.

She suggested that I do nothing about them for the time being, and I happily left the office and forgot about my fibroids for several years.