When I found out in 2003 that I needed a hysterectomy, I took it pretty much in stride. I had never wanted children, not really. Oh sure, one day I might meet that special man, fall in love, get married, spend a few years traveling the world and then perhaps settle down and have a family. But I was 38 and there was no Prince Charming in sight. In fact, I didn't even hear hoof beats. So, why not? What the hell. Maybe I'd even lose a few pounds in the process.
Once I made the decision, I actually looked forward to it. Sure it's major surgery and I faced the possibility of death, but that sort of thing hardly happens anymore, right? From my perspective, it was all about No More Periods and taking care of my little peeing problem. Not incontinence, as you might suspect, but rather the opposite. If I let my bladder get too full, I simply couldn't "go" until I went through some remarkable toilet seat gymnastics and sometimes had to resort to a warm shower. It would be funny if not for the pain. Imagine you drank a 32-ounce soda an hour ago. You are already feeling the pressure, yet the nearest bathroom is an hour away. When you finally reach it, the pain is unbearable. The relief you expect, however, does not come. Instead, you sit there in pain, wondering how your body could have forgotten how to pee and how the hell you're going to remind it before you go septic and die. In the bathroom. Alone. With your pants down around your ankles.
I asked the advice of my nurse practitioner, who told me I was simply getting older and things don't always work the way they used to. (Wha..?!) I have since referred to her as Malpractice Woman, the caped villain who swoops in and bestows random incorrect diagnoses on unsuspecting patients.
I realize now that I should have asked for a second opinion but I did not. (Yes, at 38 I was still rather naive and trusting.) I did however ask all of my friends over the course of the next year if they had ever heard of this problem. Receiving a resounding NO, I switched to a real doctor for my annual exam and mentioned my peeing problem to her. Much to my relief, she immediately began asking probing questions like “Have you done any strenuous activity that may have caused a shift in your anatomy, such as heavy lifting?” After my exam, she declared the probable source of my problem: my uterus was the size of a 10-12 week pregnancy due to a large fibroid tumor. Since there is only so much room to maneuver in there, it was likely pinching off the plumbing any time my bladder got too full. Although fibroids are common in women and generally non-cancerous, she advised me to think about having a hysterectomy.
I could not have been happier to hear this news. I was not simply getting older and breaking down like some aging appliance. There was a specific cause for my woes and, better yet, a cure. Soon, I would no longer have to resort to sticking my fingers up inside there and pushing around on organs until one moved, causing a gusher of pee to spill out over my hand. (I had discovered this technique the day they sent me for an ultrasound, where I was required to overfill my bladder intentionally and the warm shower method proved unreliable. Isn't it amazing what you can come up with when you're desperate?)
We discussed my options and I did my research, but frankly I was tired of peeing all over my hand every time I made the mistake of taking a cup of tea to a long meeting. I scheduled surgery as soon as possible.
Continued at Part 2
