I realized something yesterday. If I am sick I want a big deal made out of me. I want to be showered with “poor baby”s. I should just embrace it. Sometimes I try to be a hero. I say that I don’t want to inconvenience other people or make them drop everything to fawn over me. And that’s true. It makes me feel guilty. But I still want it. So sue me.
I took a sick day yesterday to recover from a shockingly painful procedure at the OB/GYN. I will leave it at that.
No, I won’t. Let me go into great detail.
If you don’t like reading about my hoohah you should probably just stop reading now.
Seriously. I’m about to start writing about my nether regions. If it’s too much for you, I’m telling you, close this window. Save yourself the discomfort.
Okay. So I got an IUD put in yesterday. It’s this tiny doodad that is placed in the uterus and acts as really good birth control. It lasts up to 7 years and the kind that I got, Mirena, lightens periods or makes them go away completely. Which sounds awesome to me. And after however many years if you want to get pregnant they just take it out and off you go. So, sweet, right? No pills, no rings, no patches, no condoms. Good deal.
EXCEPT of course, for me the insertion procedure was horribly painful and bad. It isn’t bad for everybody but I have very low pain tolerance and I’m a baby and I know it’s not cancer or anything but holy shit that hurt a lot. And now, a day later, I am still having really sharp, horrid cramps.
Let me regale you with the story of my IUD insertion. I shall spin a yarn for you. It is a story of adventure on the high seas. And by high seas I mean my uterus.
My nurse practitioner is this awesome lady who yells a lot and is really funny and warm. At my consultation a couple weeks ago she said I wasn’t allowed to have sex for ten days before the appointment and when I moaned about it she yelled “What?! How old are you, twenty four? I’m fifty. Let me tell you something. You can use your hands, you can use your mouth, quit complaining! You’ll survive!” Brilliant. Anyway, I go in for my appointment yesterday and there is this young, handsome man there. He’s smiling at me a lot (I imagine trying to make me feel comfortable), wearing a lab jacket. Okay, fine, probably an assistant or something. Turns out he’s a third year med student and he’s going to observe the procedure. I agree to it, figuring what they hey, as long as my hoohah is hanging out what’s one more set of eyes on it? So they start up the procedure, putting the scary metal thing in there, swabbing the area, getting some heavy duty dilating stuff for the cervix (since I’ve never had a baby that shit needs to be dilated like crazy). There was some talk of an anesthesia gel or something. So we’re going along la di da and the nurse practitioner says “there’s going to be a pinch now” and then there is and I start screaming. Lord Almighty that was quite a pinch. The nurse practitioner says to the med student “She’s never had a baby so this is one small cervix.” I start breathing really hard and she says “Breathe slower, I don’t want you to hyperventilate. Try wiggling your toes, that can actually help relax your pelvis.” So I wiggle those toes like a woman possessed and start breathing like I’m giving birth. Then, I start to relax a little. I get really psyched about my relaxing abilities and good slow breathing skills and I think to myself, well that wasn’t so horrible, I’m alive, hooray for me! Then she says “Now there’s going to be a big pinch” and off it goes, ten times worse than the first one. I start sobbing and holding my face. I stop wiggling my toes and just tense every muscle in my body. Probably not helpful but I wasn’t in my right mind. She warns me of another pinch and I actually say “NO!” but the pinch happens anyway. It’s all I can do to not kick those two fools in the head and run for the hills. By the final pinch the nurse standing next to me gives me her hand to squeeze and I decide that I should try talking out loud to distract myself so I say, mid-sob “My mother had two natural child births and she always said they were the most beautiful experiences of her life. So I always thought I’d have a natural child birth too. NOT ANYMORE.” And the very sweet nurse looks at me and says “I’ve had three natural child births.” She is a saint. By the end I was pale and sweaty and shaking all over. They go in to cut the strings and I go “God no…” and the poor, freaked out med student says “She’s just cutting the strings!” and the subtext was “Please don’t cry anymore!” All I could muster was a whimper anyway.
After that whole mess the nurse practitioner gave me a hot pack for my tummy and a cold pack for behind my neck and she got me some ginger ale and saltines to stave off the nausea. I apologized for crying so much and explained it was because I had been a theatre student in college. She responded by saying “Oh please, you were fine. Some people vomit. I’ve had people pass out and pee on me. You’re nowhere near that.” We shot the shit while I waited for the tremors to go away. I started making small talk with the med student, asking him what specialty he’s interested in. Then after a few minutes I said “How old are you?” He’s twenty four. My age. Good Lord. Thank God I have a boyfriend or I would probably have had terrible thoughts about dating the poor med student who had already seen into my uterus and watched me sob about it. Not sexy.
After a little while I felt good enough to drive home and I stayed in bed for the rest of the day, fighting off waves of piercing uterus pain. Billy had been planning to come home a little early to take care of me but I told him to stay at work if he needed to, expecting him to easily see through my thinly veiled martyr act. But he always thinks I’m saying what I mean, so he didn’t get home till 10:30pm and I realized then that I will be turning over a new leaf. I will, from henceforth, say what I mean to my boyfriend. If I had said what I meant I would have said “Come home now! I want a backrub and I want a hot water bottle and I want hugs and kisses and also I want you to vacuum the floor and scoop the cat litter.”