You know how after a really kinky sex scene you kind of take stock of your body and think about all the wild stuff you did with a feeling of awe and mild disbelief? And then the next morning you take stock again only to notice that you have weird stuff in your hair and bruises in places you hadn’t noticed? Yep, that’s how I’m feeling this morning, the day after surgery.
Yesterday I had a tubal ligation and had my IUD removed.
I was feeling dubious when we left the house – per instruction: well washed, no conditioner or hair product, no make-up, no contact lenses, no food for many hours, no jewelry. Okay, I fudged on that last one. I removed everything but the nipple piercings and the nose ring. I had a reader educate me on why the jewelry needs to come out (wearing metal jewelry can possibly lead to burns from an electrocautery unit and/or there can be bacteria under or around jewelry), but I still wasn’t willing to have my nipples close up. So, I damped down my panic and we drove to the hospital, even though I was pretty sure I was going to die.
Good thing the hospital knows their stuff. Things went smoothly every step of the way. My fears that I would be treated as a thing rather than a person were unfounded. The staff was very respectful. I was amused that Harold was consistently referred to as my “significant other” until I mentioned that I had 5 children and then he was my husband. I kept saying partner.
My doctor is awesome. She reminds me of Helen Mirren – professional, competent, intelligent, sexy, and with a sense of humor. She is very caring as well (not to be taken for granted in a doctor!). I have been very upfront about my anxieties and where they come from and she has never missed an opportunity to pat my arm in a comforting manner. I am impressed by health care providers who aren’t afraid to make physical contact with their patients. To continue casting my tubal ligation movie, my anesthesiologist would be George Takei. Evidently good drugs cause me to become a director.
This procedure was different from anything I’ve done in the past in that I walked into the surgery room all on my own and helped them get me situated. My doctor waited with a toasty warm blanket. They put cuff-like things on my legs to help the blood circulate while I was under. They put the arm with the IV out to one side. Obviously under the influence of George Takei’s happy juice (yes, he called it that) I thought, “I’m like Jesus.” I stared up at the ceiling dimly aware of all of the bustle around me. As the mouth piece for the gas was coming toward me I was thinking, “This is a really kinky scene for a grrrl with a medical fetish.”
I woke up somewhere else. Everything was fuzzy because I didn’t have my glasses. I actually woke up badly, coming up out of a nightmare and finding myself someplace unexpected. I started shaking hard. A nurse came and put something in my IV for anxiety, put stuff on my lips, and brought more warm blankets. As far as I’m concerned, warm blankets are the single redeeming feature of hospitals. I want an unending supply of warm blankets in my home.
From there I went to final recovery. My throat hurt worse from intubation than my abdomen did from the surgery. They brought me apple sauce and tons of juice, which I devoured, diet be damned. The nurse there was a solid type with a hickey on her neck and she told me that I looked really good, even if I didn’t lose any more weight. I’m flattered. They gave me sexy tear-away boy shorts to wear home, even though I brought my version of granny panties – full bottomed red underwear with a fishnet pattern. I’ll make an awesome granny some day.
And then I was done. They carted me out to Harold waiting with the car. Of course it was rush hour by then, so I convinced him to feed me at a nearby Ethiopian restaurant, which I thought was better than starving while stuck in traffic.
The down side is that I’m 5 pounds heavier this morning. I’m going to blame being pumped full of fluids and gas and assume that it will work itself out. It’s been weird assessing my body for damage and finding random forgotten probes stuck under my breast and such. My belly button is gory looking, all bruised lovely colors and bleeding a bit still.
My discharge paperwork says no sex for 1 week. The nurse crossed it off and said 2 weeks. She seemed to assume that I would be grateful. Like I wouldn’t feel like having sex ever again. I didn’t have the heart to try to explain that I masturbated in the shower just before going to the hospital because it calms me down and makes me feel good. I like sex. I’m going to be having sex a whole lot sooner than 2 weeks from now. And not all sex is penetrative anyway.
Now I’m lying out nude in the sun, relaxing. I’m not very good at it, the relaxing. I’ve some brought stuff to do. The pain meds do help me take it easy. I’m just thankful that everything went so well. I have survived surgery and now have more fuel for my medical fantasies!