DOC #2 - the embolism

So I looked further into alternatives. I went macrobiotic. I embraced shark cartilage, hoping the miracule stories I was reading would be my own. I saw a medical intuitive, who talked alot about Chakra's and damaging ancestral men and the female collective consciousness and victimization and repressed anger and a lack of mentoring females. But I hadn't completely given up on western medicine, and I was no longer interested in wasting any time. The mass was making my daily decisions for me -- if I could work out, if I could work, what I could wear. It wasn't shrinking. My daughter, young, beautiful, impressionable, was watching her mother rithe in pain regularly, because of a problem uniquely female. This was no time to pussy foot around. I was only going to co-habitate with this little friend of mine, telling me all these things I wasn't willing to admit to myself, if she would behave and stop trying to take over.

Enter DOC #2. A really truly nice guy. He was actually a specialist. DOC#1 knew what I was doing, but I was outsourcing my surgical care. I let her know respectfully and thankfully, but she would not be my doctor again. Had those phone calls been different, perhaps this story would be ending differently. But it is ending well. Doc#2 is part of that journey.

Technically he was an Radiologist. The procedure was relatively cutting edge at the time, and there were side effects, but overall, it was the least evasive, least bloody alternative that allowed me to keep myself whole. It would stop the blood supply to my vampirous friend and she would slowly wither and shed or be absorbed into my body. The cramping would end. The blood loss would end. I could have my life and my body back. It would likely make conception difficult, but at least there would be some small chance. I was ready to take the chance. He looked at my slides, had a few other doctors consult on it. I went in for an MRI the week before I was leaving for England for a month. The day after my return I would have the procedure if the MRI looked right to him.

NOW I have to tell this story because, come on, life is too short and so many wonderful things happen in the midst of challenge. My kids came with me to my MRI. My son, who was a bit of an expert on such tests wanted to go -- he said he knew what it was like and he wanted to be there to support me. Pretty lucky mom, you must admit. Little did I know that his real intention, as we drove the hour to the MRI facility (because I had long exhausted the pool of doctors in my home city and was now traveling to a larger city North of home for my fibroid care) my son, bless his comic heart, immitated the sound I was going to hear while receiving my first MRI. NANANANANANANANANANANANANANANAAAAAaaaaa. From the back seat, every couple minutes... brat. It certainly made the test itself less of a surprise, and curiously less exasperating. His sister however, who was in the backseat living through this with us, still rolls her eyes at the memory.

It was agreed. the MRI and slides looked like I was a good candidate for the procedure. They could cut a tiny hole in my groin and insert a cathater into a vein leading to my uterus. Small pellets would be pushed through the tube and into the vein, leading to the fibroid, cutting off its blood flow. I would be cathaterized and IVed and on valium. My hospital stay would be a day or two. I was ready, and relieved, and hopeful.

The trip to England was glorious, as England always is. No meat pies or blood pudding for me of course, but mushy peas and chips with vinegar suited me just fine. Only concern -- I would inevitably bleed and have to endure a period cycle in my time there. I was scared if I passed out and was found, taken to a hospital unconscious that all my hard work would end in a hysterectomy if I wasn't proactive. So, and this seems crazy, but I took a sharpie to my abdomen and wrote my blood type, my diagnosis, and in large letters NO HYSTERECTOMY. I'm not kidding. I cramped and bled through my days, but I wouldn't have missed that trip for the world. I just practiced taking a step forward in faith that everything was happening as it was suppose to.

Jet-lagged and foggy I was at the hospital the day after I got back. The foley cathater was perhaps the most obnoxious thing I have ever had to endure. It took the nurse 6 punctures to find a vein. It was hard to stay hydrated, particularly when travelling. I wanted to watch the whole thing. That didn't happen. I watched it go in, giggled and rambled as I do, but don't remember a conscious moment after saying "hey, look at that". It felt like 15 minutes had lapsed when they wheeled me out.

The nurses who rotated in and out of my recovery room where, well, a bit overwhelmed. This seems a theme. My post-op was not complex, but I had to start writing down what I was being given and asking "wasn't I suppose to get an antibiotic this visit". I thought, good thing I'm conscious or I'd need an advocate. It kind of blew my mind that I couldn't just take for granted that the regiment my doctor had set up would be followed, no doses forgotten or delayed. Telling I think. Perhaps we need to give our nurses fewer patients and more time to keep organized and put out the fires that nurses do, in order to work competently. It happened with almost all the nurses who visited me. It wasn't about any one person's lack of ability. It was a trend, a "situation". Too few nurses, doing too much work. I was happy and hopeful to get home.