Over five years ago I wrote a post about my uterus and the discovery of my fibroid tumors. I had two small tumors embedded in my uterine wall and one small pedunuculated tumor on the outside of my uterus. The peduculated fibroid grows from a stalk on the outside of the uterus . . . and because it’s just hanging there the tumor takes every opportunity it can to be as kinky as possible – twisting and turning and pinching and causing me all kinds of problems. They were small but still troublesome and the doctor tried this and that and this until we found something that worked and surgery was avoided and other than the occasion gerbil with sharp teeth invading my uterus, life was good again.
A few years ago I slowly started feeling really tired. All. The. Freaking. Time. I blamed it on fighting gas, getting old and gaining weight. The only logical thing to do, right?
Logical until one day not long ago I found myself in so much pain that I walked into the doctor’s office saying I’m not leaving until you find out what’s wrong with me. So, once again, I was in stirrups, staring at the ceiling and being felt up by instruments. Only this time I find out that Mr. Kinky is the size of a cantaloupe (9.8 cm) and the two embedded tumors are now baseballs and have brought few other rookies to play along.
Then with another “wham, bam thank you ma’am” I found myself in a baby blue hospital gown being rolled down a hallway by unicorns into the dark caves of Candy Mountain where I would have a hysterectomy. That was Tuesday.
And today, I remember it exactly as it happened. Aren’t drugs wonderful?
I know exactly what you are thinking? RS, you did take a camera into surgery didn’t you? Well, duh! Doesn’t everyone. And the surgeon was kind enough to oblige my need to see the multiple ginormous hunks-o-tumor I was growing.
So let’s get down to business and shun those non-believers.
They say everything is bigger in Texas. I reckon that makes everything in Gasland mega-make-believe-sized. I’d show you my stitches, but then you might tag me as porn. During the gutting process they discovered that Mr. Kinky Cantaloupe was more like Siamese grapefruit twins, the baseballs were more like racquetballs (inside the red thing know known as RS’s Former Uterus) and they discovered a surprise litter of pedunulated gerbils. What is life without surprises?
So now it’s Friday and I’m sitting here in Gasland doped up on Vicodin wondering if anything I’m typing is spelled correctly or coherent. I honestly doubt it because the meds give me double-vision. I have a real excuse this time so be nice.
For the next six weeks my running shoes will be on the shelf. Waiting. I hope when I recover fully, I start to feel better. Because right now I feel like poop. Feeling like poop doesn’t make good for anything except more poop. It seems only fair that if I can grow giant tumors, I should be able to grow some super-hero running legs. I’ll let you know how that is going in six weeks.
Alrighty then, I’m going to drift back to sleep with the soothing white noise sounds of compressors and fracking.
Oh, and in case you are wondering – having your gut ripped open and your innards pulled out – is a lot easier than fighting gas bastards.
*I reckon there needs some clarification – It’s not really a kidney. Just ask Charlie.