Beautiful on the INSIDE

Well, I made it through surgery and lived to tell about it.

This isn’t REALLY a picture of my uterus, because I guess the doctor has to make a stop at the Wal-Mart one-hour photo kiosk to get mine developed.  Trust me, though, it’s going on the Christmas card.

I had this neat little laparoscopic procedure which sends a camera into my gut and everyone can scope out the inside of my business and all the accoutrements.  In fact, I think it was televised on one of the major networks and viewers were given call-in numbers to vote for their favorite organ, muscle, or connective tissue.

At last count, left ovary was trailing closely behind small intestine.  The votes will be tallied and the winner will be announced on a televised benefit concert featuring the Jonas Brothers, Taylor Swift, Radiohead, and Meatloaf.  I believe it’s going to be called “A Fallopian Christmas.”

I kind of also expected Geraldo Rivera to be there searching for Al Capone’s secret underground lair.

I hate waiting.  That is what constituted the bulk of my surgery.  I was scheduled for surgery at 1:30pm, and was instructed to be there by 11:30am.  I arrived, got checked-in, saw an old supervisor of mine who was a complete bitch to me (we didn’t speak, I just saw her), and then began to wait.  It wasn’t going to be terribly long.  I was next.

Tick.  Tock.  Tick.  Tock. Tick… oh, you get the idea…

At ALMOST 1:00pm, they come get me and take me back.  Laura was my nurse, and she was exceedingly cool.  I was freaking out and almost walked out several times.  The thought of general anesthesia thrills me about as much as breech birth on a cruise ship, but I stuck it out.  I also learned that I have incredibly thick skin.

Literally.

I watched her try to stick me with one of those enormous IV needles and I saw the needle BEND as it refused to penetrate the vein.  That gave me the heeby jeebies.  I mean, I knew I was tough, but I didn’t know that I was an old Coach bag.  Maybe I really AM a goddess?

I have already changed into the lovely hospital gown, the hospital issue slippers with tread on the tops AND bottoms (in case you don’t skid as you are taking a nose dive, I guess), and those lovely, inflatable DVT leg warmers they make you wear to keep from getting an embolis.  I also have my little bag of lactated ringers that I have to carry with me to the bathroom when I pee, which I had to do NUMEROUS times before I got to see the anesthesiologist.  Once I actually GOT the anti-anxiety stuff, it was great… they could have just given it to me about three hours prior, but OH WELL.

Once they finally show up to get me, I am still kind of freaking out.  I was concerned about the exact moment that I nod off… will I wake back up?  Will it even work right on me?  What if I start counting backwards from 100 and am still counting when they start cutting?  I scooched onto the surgery table and almost instantly feel these weird waves of warmth (nice alliteration, if I do say so myself) pulsing through my arms and I said, “Hey, did you just give me something in my IV?”

Then I was laying in the recovery room, blinking my eyes and wondering who the fuck kicked my ass and if Billy Mays himself was the one that covered me with Gorilla Glue (they glued me rather than stitched me).

Within ten minutes I was dressed and being wheeled out to my handsome prince who was waiting to carry me away in the horsedrawn crystal carriage (I told him I thought it was sweet but that the car might be more comfortable, so he went and got that instead).

This better be the last trouble my reproductive system gives me because if it’s NOT, I’m growing a dick, I swear to GOD.  I mean, how many times do doctors have to shove cameras inside a guy’s dick-hole?  Seriously?  Every single time they go to the doctor, even if it’s for an earache, do they have to answer a question akin to, “when was the last time anything dripped out of your wang?”  Oh, lemme think, I’m thinking it was somewhere between the 11th of “none of your goddamn business” or the 14th of “go fuck yourself.”

And what motivates a MAN to be in the gynecological field except for a desire to touch boobies and vaginas, coupled with the need to exert power and force over women?  Let’s take the example of doctor Wangchung who works at a lovely “women’s center” of a the local radiology monopoly.  The long and short of this test was to fill up a balloon inside of my piche to see if I had any alien pods growing inside the mothership.  Should have only taken a few minutes.  But THIS motherfucker couldn’t get it to stay inside of me because I guess my uterus really IS like an old, worn out pillowcase…at one point he even POPPED THE FUCKING BALLOON INSIDE OF ME.  It wasn’t until I was sobbing like the girl that I am did he decide to stop trying, but he also managed to butcher me in the process.  I won’t even go any further than that.  He also had exactly ZERO bedside manner.  I should have kicked him in the face.

I suppose all’s well that ends well.  Especially when it ends with a bottle full of Vicodin JUST FOR YOU!