25 January 2016

Utes Has Left the Building

There are times when I want so badly to share something with my mom, like the fact that all this time, my lady parts have had a spread cape.  It's only now, that I've had a hysterectomy, that I knew that.  She would have found that hysterical, as do I {pun intended}.

Last week, I had my uterus, cervix, and Fallopian tubes removed.  We left my ovaries, like so many cannoli and took the guns of the matter.  I'm fine, walking within an hour of surgery, admittedly with assistance.

I have vague memories of me insisting on using the toilet and NOT the bedpan {at 275 pounds, can you blame me?  I find balancing challenging enough, let alone when I'm under the influence of anesthesia.  Besides, once I broke myself of the habit of voiding supine as an infant, I never could do so again}.  So last Monday, I remember having tremendous relief upon the toilet, in the company of two nurses and being absolutely delighted with myself.  I crowed, "yes!  Best Poop Ever!" to which the nurses said, "hang on there, loopy; let's get ya cleaned up before you return to bed".

Back to the womanly cape thing.  The reason I did not realize this until this past week is because very few illustrations are accurate, and the only reason I did realize this when I did was because I watched several laparoscopic hysterectomies on youtube.  I saw all the connective tissue and thought, "wow, I never realized that was there."  I mean, it totally makes sense, else how would all your parts stay in relative place?

That and the fact that when I asked if my ovaries would be movable, migrating nuggets that I could play with and chase around my body, repositioning them as huge nipples; my doc replied, "no" after a round of laughing that surprised her as much as it did me, "no, they are attached in a fashion".  I knew better than to ask if I could have my uterus, cervix, and tubes upon removal; because they like, my wisdom teeth, thyroid, and kidney stones, are considered hazardous waste and the hospital must dispose of them appropriately.  This means that not only do I not get to see them myself, but I also don't get to terrorize and disgust future generations as my grandmother did when she would whip out her jar of gallstones and rattle them around while describing to my ten year old self that these were inside her, in a small pouch that was only as big as her hand {which she would then demonstrate by emptying the jar's contents of gravel~like lumps into her cupped palm}.

And you ask why it is that I can speak of such things in a fairly public format as my hysterectomy?  pft.  I learnt that nothing is too sacred to discuss when I was yet at the knee of grammy.  Just wait til I start whipping up my shirt to point out surgical scars, cuz that ought to be exciting for you and me both.

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