Just got home from seeing my hair stylist. Ha! Who ever would have believed *I* would have a *stylist*. Granted, my regular one decided to move on to greener pastures, so I’m trying out a new one, but I think this one is a keeper. She didn’t ask me questions that are rude or life probing. She’s actually enjoyable to talk to, and closer to my age. That’s actually an important factor for me.
Actually, I walked into the salon with the very intention to tell her I did not want any chitchat. I had a really rough day, had procedures done at the doctor’s that I wasn’t expecting and it has my heart pounding inside my chest, and I did not want to sit through idle talk for an hour. I wanted to relax with my head massage, someone washing my hair, and feeling the ickiness of my hair being chopped away. Thank God she turned out be a decent woman to speak with, and she actually made me laugh.
I feel like I’m scribbling here. I hurt so badly. The pills my doctor told me to take for any pain this evening are not helping one bit. In fact, I’m overly tired and I still need to head out to a lacrosse practice for more filming. Putting together a recruitment video is no piece of cake, especially when the players don’t understand the concept of speak loudly! I know I’m naturally loud, but it’s not a hard concept to grasp.
I can’t wrap my head around today. Went to the doctor under the impression I was only going to have a higher notched woman’s exam, only to find out I was getting that done, plus a handful of biopsies. Four, to be exact. Let me say one word….OUCH.
I know child-birth is going be 20x worse than what I went through. So, in a nutshell, I may change my mind on the whole having children thing. We’ll see how this all turns out. Results will be in next week…heck, I may not be able to have children after everything is said and done…..Are we feeling awkward yet? I know I’m good at making people fidget at this point.
What’s even worse? Everybody I have told so far wants to know all my symptoms. How have I been feeling? What’s been different? Am I feeling any different right at this very moment? The truth is…a little bit, yes. Not for the reasons they think, though. When you’re told over the phone that the doctors wanted a second look, and then based on what they see there…will determine if they need to do a biopsy. Nope. That didn’t happen. I sat down in the room, and was told the biopsy was happening immediately. Okay…I’m a little thrown off. In fact, I say I need to use the bathroom more for the reason of gathering my wits about me, so I’m not a crying mess on the table when things are getting poked and torn away from my body.
The doctor complimented me on being so tough. Normally, women scream when the first piece of tissue is cut away from their body. Yeah, it hurt. But my mind is on the fact that three different instruments are protruding from the tiniest hole in my body, and you and the nurse are talking about your summer plans. It’s January….and I don’t want these things just hanging out around the nether regions of my body. A resident doctor was at the hospital that day, and had never seen a biopsy like this done before. Would it be okay if he stepped in and observed? Absolutely not. No man I have never met before is going to be looking at my private parts. Even if a man were to deliver my babies, I’m going to have met him several times prior to the big event. This ‘resident doctor’ was not welcome in my hospital room. In fact, he better stay away. I was an emotional bomb just waiting to go off.
They didn’t do just one biopsy…oh no. They did four. Four times I was cut. Four times I wanted to lash out and say “that really hurts, please choose a different method or knock me out.” Then, to stop the bleeding (how it didn’t register in my head I would be bleeding from all this, I’m not too sure), I had to endure the biggest stinging sensation of my life. Not once, but four times.
It amazes me though, how an instrument goes in the same place that provides such pleasure during sex, but yet I wanted to scream the whole time. Oh, I know. When it comes to sex, I’m turned on and want it to happen. And I know pieces of my inner flesh aren’t being cut off my body. It’s still something to think about.
Dolly Parton, the one and only stacked singer, offered words that made me smile today: “I have been asked to pose for Penthouse on my hundredth birthday. Everybody is going to be sorry.”
If that resident doctor had stepped foot anywhere near my room yesterday, he would have been way more sorry. On top of that, I let my ex-boyfriend know what was going on, since we were together when the first test came back abnormal. If he had anything to do with it, I want him to know all the gory details. To be quite honest, he didn’t seem to care then. That should have been clue #1 to dump him. But, after I tell him whats up, he has the nerve to ask if I’ll buy him lunch or dinner.
I may have a life-threatening issue going on here, and all you care about is if I can take you out to eat? When we’re not even dating anymore?
I wanted to put a clamp in his nether regions and see how he felt afterwards.
It’s been a rough one, ladies and gents, and I can only hope that tomorrow, the sun shines a little brighter. It’s time for more waiting….I think that’s the worst part of any illness.