I haven't really felt much like writing over the past few days. Call it apathy, call it indifference brought on by Vicodin.
So, Wednesday morning came and went. I showed up at the hospital right on time. I marched right on up to the surgical wing of the hospital with determination. However, my strength of resolve seemed to fail when I was stripped, shaved, and poked. Shortly after my IV was placed, they began sending wondrous, magical drugs down the pipe. My sense of resolve and fortitude crumbled. As I was laid down on the operating table, I began rambling incoherently. I started crying for reasons I still can't explain. The last thing I remember is one of the nurses calling my anesthesiologist "Doogie." As in Doogie Howser, M.D. I took her at her word and looked nervously at the doors of the operating room, expecting a fourteen-year old boy to waltz through, scalpel in hand. I would have picked other names to call the doctor, as my expectant eyes landed on a dwarf when when the doors swung open. At least I think he was a dwarf. He hopped up on a step ladder and proceeded to send me off into my coma.
I awoke, in tears, yet again. Thank you estrogen. Next to me was a man who had his leg splinted, and being held in the air by some sort of contraption attached to his hospital bed. He wanted to talk. A lot. I don't remember what he was saying to me, but he would not shut up. If any of you have ever had surgery, coming out of anesthesia is horrible. You're confused, you hurt, and your throat stings. And, the last thing you want to do is converse with the guy next to you about the weather. So, I hit the nurse's call button and requested a change of venue. She looked surprised, until Motor Mouth started hitting on her. He was taken away shortly after that. I withdrew into unconsciousness again.
I remember my doctor coming up to me in the recovery room. Apparently, as Mini-Me was administering my coma cocktail, I began telling everyone who would listen about infertility. I made everyone in the operating room promise to take good care of my ovaries. I have no recollection of this. Apparently, my issues with fertility have permeated even to my deepest levels of consciousness. He told me this, as I looked up at him with nervous and expectant eyes, waiting for him to get to the results. At least that's the look I tried to convey. In reality, I was probably looking at him like he was some sort of sea creature.
So, the good news is that there's nothing structurally prohibiting me from conceiving. They cleaned me out, cleared up the cysts and the endometriosis. Incidentally, the doctors also decided to do a D&C, which means I'm starting "fresh" again. This should be good news. It is good news. However, we're not out of the woods yet. My cysts can come back, as can the endometriosis. In fact, it will. But hopefully, this will spur good changes in my body. I'll start ovulating, and I'll get pregnant. Before my thirtieth birthday. At least this is what I'm telling myself. My own internal, daily pep-talk.
Do you know what one of the worse feelings in the world is? Waking up after drinking way too much the night before, only to be tasked with cleaning up the remnants of the party. Something about the smell of liquor in the morning just makes my stomach churn. When I was in college, my girlfriends and I used to fill water bottles with vodka (Karkov, blech) and bring those to parties, instead of drinking keg beer. We were hardcore. But occasionally, in a blind attempt to hydrate the next morning, you'd reach for the vodka-filled water bottle and take a swig, which instantly produced retching. The old "hair of the dog" adage never held true those mornings. But right now, that's how I feel. And I don't think it's because of the operation.
I hate waiting. When I want something, I want it that moment. Yet, days and weeks go by and nothing changes. I'm still not pregnant. And currently, I can't do anything about that. I've been told to be "patient" and that "good things come to those who wait." I would like to tell people to shove it. I'm sick of waiting. I've stopped reading celebrity gossip because all these movie stars keep talking about "what a gift" children are, and how "amazing and life changing" pregnancy can be. They're acting like they're the first people to ever give birth. So, Giselle Bundchen, Angelina Jolie, and Jessica Alba can all shove it too. Their partners can take a walk off a cliff too. Do you know there's a whole section on the People Magazine website devoted just to celebrity babies?
Of course, I'm just jealous. I know this. I want my turn. I love presents, so why doesn't God give me a child? I want that life-changing experience. I want my husband to laugh over my cravings. I want to marvel at him holding the life we've created. Is that so wrong?
