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.