*Warning: Much talk of girly parts ahead.*
Friday, tomorrow, is the big day.
I’m getting my tubes tied.
It’s taken many months to get to this point. I told my nurse, whom I adore, at my annual exam in April that Dave & I don’t want kids and wanted to ensure that we stay DINKs. Soon after, I met with my doctor about the Essure procedure and got it scheduled for May.
No one hassled me, no one questioned me. It seemed too easy. I should have known something would happen.
That something was a perforated uterus and a quick exit by the doctor and (surprise) intern. I wasn’t totally sure what had even happened, except that I had no Essure coils in my tubes.
A few days later, I scheduled another attempt in June. Even more days later, the office called to reschedule because my doctor was not there anymore. (!) They wouldn’t tell me why he was gone, but assured me that he was a good surgeon so I shouldn’t worry. We rescheduled for July (on my birthday) with a new doctor.
Happy birthday to me — I got bumped for a woman who’d gone into labor. Do you want to wait? “No.” How about tomorrow? “No, it had to be today or next month.” How about Thursday? “No, it had to be today or next month.”
A few days later, I tried to reschedule for August, but they said I had to have a consultation with the doctor about the Essure. “But I already know about it. I talked to (other doctor) the first time. I have no questions.” No, you have to meet with new doctor, too. “OK, fine.” Consultation set. I also left a message with the office manager to schedule the Essure.
Consultation rescheduled — doctor has surgery on original day.
What I won’t go into are all the messages left for various people every time something needed scheduled, and how long it took to get a call back.
I finally have a sit-down with the new doctor. She’s nice, and I know this mess isn’t her fault, but I’m pretty pissed about everything at this point. I’d figured out all the dates of phone calls/messages left, perforations, ruined birthdays, and told her I was pretty unhappy about the whole thing. I mean, three weeks later I was still waiting to hear from that office manager.
She didn’t have any idea about all the crap that had gone on, and I felt bad taking it out on her, but damn! She did tell me, though, that old doctor was basically an asshole and that’s why he was gone. (that’s not what she said, exactly, but I knew what she meant, you know?)
So, Essure scheduled for September.
Uteran perforation #2 in September. Yes, again, even though my doctor was extra careful.
It seems that having never had a kid, my uterus is small, which apparently makes it difficult to get around in there. Who knew?
I lost it. Lost. It. I laid there and bawled my eyes out from sheer frustration. After everyone scurried out to let me get dressed, I curled up on the bench and bawled some more. Eventually my doctor came back in, and we talked a little about where to go from there, and she said she’d e-mail me some information.
I didn’t make a move until last month, because I was just way too upset about everything to even think about how to next mutilate my insides. We (Dave & I, but mostly me) decided to go with bipolar electrocoagulation. I figure, the ways things have gone, any clips or clamps put on my tubes are bound to fall off and float around in my abdomen.
So here we are, surgery eve. I had my blood drawn and peed in a cup on Tuesday for pre-surgery tests, and thought I was going to puke from worrying about that needle. Today I think I’m going to puke from worrying about the IV.
I’m nervous, to say the least, despite how much I want this done. Aside from that IV, I’ve got pain in my future. From the incisions, from the procedure, and from the air that’ll be pumped into my stomach. The nurse I talked to on Monday told me that I’ll have shoulder pain like I won’t believe from that air, but if Dave rubs my shoulder it will go away, and that I should try to burp and fart a lot. Well, that last part isn’t a problem, but shoulder pain like I won’t believe? I’m a pansy, and that doesn’t sound good.
BUT — winding up pregnant sounds worse. So there you go.
If you need me, I’ll be on the couch for the next week.