Let’s just take a step back for a moment or two and consider the pause of the menses persuasion. Let’s, at least, consider my own experience in the past year (or two, or three, or however long it’s been going on for).
I got my first period in October or November of 1988, when I was 12 years old. I was pissed. All I could see were decades ahead of pain, discomfort, stickiness, messiness, inconvenience etc. I couldn’t wait for menopause. End this misery!
Are we up to speed? Great. Now, let’s jump ahead 29 or 30 years and backtrack a couple more, to when the real fun started. (Warning: Some people might consider the details that I am about to put forth, to be “TMI.” Those people would be wrong. I am offering the exact amount of “I” required. Swallow it.)
It was late September or early October of 2015 when my lady parts began to feel a bit wonky. (Just jump right in, the water’s fine.) Now, I’ve had my share of yeast infections over the years. What woman hasn’t? (If you just raised your hand, please give yourself a good-natured slap across the face, then turn and face the corner.) Monistat-1 will always knock it out. Okay…maybe we got an expired batch. Let’s try the Monistat-3. I was on maybe day 5 of Monistat-7, when I thought it might be time for medical attention.
Because I had yet to find a gynecologist to call my own (a tale for another time), I decided to consult the good people at Womankind (Key West’s half-assed watered-down version of Planned Parenthood). Why the heck not? It was only a yeast infection and I was due for a pelvic/pap anyway.
Womankind has a single gynecologist on staff and he’s only in the office one or two days per week, so I was quite fortunate to get an appointment on such short notice. After listening to me ramble off a list of symptoms, the good doctor examined me (in a decidedly ungentle way) and determined that I had a yeast infection. Yes, doctor, that is correct; that is why we took the afternoon off work to come in here in the first place. Well, we’re going to run some more tests, a full STI panel, no less, just for funsies (and about $70). In the meantime, here’s a script for Diflucan. We’ll have the results of these mysterious tests in a week.
A week goes by and, although I was no longer fixing to bake bread in my vagina, I was in no less agony when the front office called to give me my results. I got a lot of weird info from this particular phone call. There were two infections present: gardnerella vaginalis (gotta love an infection that inspires me to sing an altered chorus of “Electric Barbarella”) and urea plasma. I was told that Barbarella was caused by an imbalance in the vagina’s natural flora. Not to worry, a prescription had already been called into my pharmacy. The urea plasma was a different story. Like Barbarella, it could be caused by an imbalance in the vagina’s natural flora. However, it also could be caused by sex. Because it could be caused by sex, it is considered to be an STI. Because it is considered to be an STI, the doctor refused to simply call in a prescription. Instead, he insisted on speaking to me in person.
I received this startling news about fifteen minutes before the office closed. The only reason why I didn’t receive it earlier in the day was because the assistant forgot (my favorite catch-all excuse). Lucky me, if I left at that exact moment, I wouldn’t have to wait a whole week and take another afternoon off work for the assuredly uncomfortable sit-down. This was probably the longest ten-minute drive of my life, even with all the traffic lights being on my side.
I’d like to take a step back and explain why I was so upset, as opposed to merely annoyed by the inconvenience I was being put through. This happened in a year during which Dave and I hit a particularly rough patch in our marriage. I can’t remember if the foundation was money, or work, or dinner; doesn’t matter. The point is that there was some thick tension in the home of two people who have a tendency towards irrational paranoia, when they’re in a bad way. (If you can’t see where I’m going with this explanation, try re-reading it; it’ll come to you.)
I already didn’t like Dr. Forest. I feel like male gynecologists have an extra special responsibility to show compassion and professionalism, if only because they will never experience what’s it’s like to be on that examination table. In twenty-five years of regular (and irregular) gynecological care, I have seen four male doctors. All four were dicks in their own special way. So, after this particular experience…never again. But, I digress.
Dr. Forest sat in front of me with a grave look on his face and reiterated what was said to me over the phone. I got it, I got it, I got it, yes. It can occur spontaneously, or be sexually transmitted. I know I didn’t cheat and I would be thoroughly shocked if Dave ever even thought about cheating, so I’m obviously in the former category. Forest wasn’t buying it. Yes, it could happen spontaneously, but probably not.
He shoved a pamphlet about safe sex into my hands (mind you, I was 39 at the time) and told me that Dave had to come in for testing, as well. I was a dirty, dirty girl and if Dave didn’t take the exact same antibiotic that I was about to be prescribed, at the exact same time and for the exact same duration, we would just keep passing the infection back and forth between the two of us. That’ll be $50, please. See ya, wouldn’t want to be ya. I prayed for a fatal heart attack the entire way home.
If I remember correctly, Dave had mixed feelings when I told him what was going on. I think it was part “great, we finally know what it is,” part “are you sure you didn’t do anything?” I was glad when he opted to skip over Dr. Dudeyourwifegetsaround and go directly to our primary care physician, because our primary care physician just happens to be an infectious disease specialist.
Needless to say, Dr. Jackson set Dave straight. The man understands the importance of gathering as much information on his patients as possible. Basically, what happened was such: Dave and I went from at least a couple of months of no sex, to lots and lots and lots of sex, every night over the course of about a week or so. Evidently, it was enough for the natural flora in my vagina to say “da fuck do you think you guys are up to?”
Dave ended up not taking the antibiotics. I did. The whole course. Back to Womankind a week later, when things still hadn’t gotten better. Look, ma! An exact replica of the first appointment, administered by a doctor who apparently doesn’t take notes! Followed a week later by an exact replica of the second appointment, complete with lecture and pamphlet.
A week after that, when I still wasn’t feeling better, I decided it might be best if I just went to Dr. Jackson. I’m just smart like that. Hearty laughter from Dr. J. Apparently, the antibiotics I had been prescribed were so weak, they might as well have been M&M’s. There’s something about hearing one doctor call another doctor “moron” that just gives me the giggles.
So we’re good here. We’re good, yeah? Six weeks of hell, but we’re good. Let’s move on. Let’s move on about eleven months later, after I turned 40.
That September, I started getting that now-familiar feeling. Skipped Womankind and went straight for the nurse practitioner at Dr. Jackson’s office. I told him the entire story of what had happened the previous year and asked for the same script that knocked it out. Don’t bother testing me. I already know what it is, just write the script.
Things were great for about a week. Back to the office. The nurse wasn’t looking to drag things out. He had zero answers and insisted I find someone more qualified.
Back to Womankind.
This time, I was paired up with their nurse practitioner. Finally, a woman! I explained to her, in detail, exactly what I was experiencing. Might as well explain it here, now.
All the ladies in the house…
Imagine that your vagina is slightly itchy and bone-dry. Imagine jamming a super plus absorbency tampon into your slightly itchy bone-dry vagina, and giving it a little tug. Imagine, then, putting on a damp low-rise thong and pulling it up, up, up, until the waistband is sitting right around your lower ribs. Imagine having to pee in this condition and not being allowed to. Forget about pants, you don’t even want to wear underwear. All you want to do is take a Xanax and lie down under a ceiling fan, with your legs splayed open. This is where we were. ‘Kay? ‘Kay.
Nurse Sam was very sympathetic. This wasn’t simply about discomfort anymore, this was about frustration. I told her about my experience with Dr. Forest the previous year, about how he insisted that I had contracted an STI. She kind of snorted, rolled her eyes and said “yeah, he would.” (I don’t know if she meant to say that out loud. I wouldn’t have said that out loud.)
She looked through my chart and asked when my last pap smear was. Remember that time when I kinda joked that Dr. Forest didn’t take notes? That turned out to not be a joke. Sure, let’s do another pap smear. Let’s also run another full STI panel. I was starting to get a complex. I was also starting to get used to the results.
More antibiotics. What a relief! A few days of respite before I foolishly decided that sex would be a good idea. More antibiotics. A few days of respite. No sex! It’s back! Wait, no, it’s gone. Wait, no, it’s back. Is it back, or can I just no longer remember what “normal” feels like? Dunno. Might want to try having sex. Nope. Bad idea. More antibiotics. Still there. More antibiotics.
By the time Sam suggested an ultrasound (she admittedly had no other ideas), I had gone through six courses of antibiotics over a period of about four months. I never went to medical school, but I’m fairly certain that that’s a bit excessive. Sam agreed, but called in another script anyway. This was when I finally cut ties with Womankind.
How about this, Rach? Maybe it’s hormonal.
I felt a little silly Googling “perimenopause”, because…shouldn’t I already know this stuff, by virtue of the fact that I have a uterus? Guess not. At any rate, I became obsessed. Sleep problems; mood swings; insomnia; irregular periods; heavy periods; forgetfulness; vaginal dryness; vaginal discomfort; painful sex; night sweats; thinning hair/hair loss; depression; lower sex drive; fatigue; joint pain; increased urination/increased urge to urinate; hot flashes. I was only just about to turn 41, but I had already been experiencing all but one of these symptoms for several years. (The hot flashes didn’t start until a couple of months later. Crazy though it may sound, I actually kind of enjoy them.)
Okay, hormonal; we’ll go with that. Let’s go off the pill, wait a few months, then have our hormone levels tested (because that doesn’t sound the least bit misinformed).
The very first thing that happened when I stopped taking the pill felt like a miracle: the gang war that had been taking place in my hooha for oh so very long, had finally dissipated. The second thing that happened when I stopped taking the pill, was a 12-day period. I was literally crying by the end of the seventh day. Still, totally logical. Let’s just let the dust settle.
Three months later, I made an appointment with Dr. Jackson for hormone testing. Why I felt this made sense is anybody’s guess. I told him that I was 99.9% certain that I was going through menopause, and that was okay by me (as if I had a choice). I told him that I understood it was perfectly normal, inevitable and nothing could be done to stop it. I explained all of the symptoms, to which his response was something along the lines of: “sounds about right.” Yeah…but…I kinda sorta wanna know for sure…you know?
He agreed to check my FSH levels because I had asked so nicely. Awesome! So, what happens after that, doc? According to him, I had just offered up all the answers before he even had a chance to say anything. The words “normal” and “inevitable” really resonated. He asked me how bothered I was by the symptoms because “well, some women decide to go on the pill to alleviate symptoms, while others just charge on through.” Huh. Well, I suppose the symptoms aren’t that bad. Maybe I’ll just ‘charge on through.’ So, where’s the needle?
A couple of weeks go by with no word from the office, so I decide to call and ask for my results. I believe the receptionist’s name was “Johnny” (I choose to believe it was “Johnny”). Johnny was notorious for turning patients away, by blatantly lying about availability. (“Acute bronchitis? Let’s see…the next available appointment is…a month from Thursday.”) Johnny is no longer in Dr. Jackson’s employ.
I cringed when Johnny answered the phone because I knew I was about to be given a hard time. I spoke slowly, using only small words, and kept it as brief as possible. “Hi, this is Rachel Beam. I’m calling for my lab results.” Simple, right? I had to repeat this at least twice. Johnny stuttered a bit, then put the phone down. I don’t mean he put me on hold, I mean he put the phone down. I could hear the frantic shuffling of paper. After a few minutes, he picked up and asked to put me on hold. Maybe you should just put Daddy on the phone. Yeah, sure, I’ll hold.
A few more minutes pass and Johnny returns to the phone with: “the doctor said your results are normal.” Huh? “Your tests results, they’re normal. The doctor said everything is normal.” I wasn’t sure what he meant by that, since I wasn’t being tested for abnormalities. Rach, just stay calm and don’t ask him for anything else.
I thanked Johnny and told him to have a nice day. Knowing me, I probably said “tha fuck does that mean?!” as soon as I hung up. Drive safe, Rach. Just let it ride; we’re gonna let it ride. Nothing we can do about it anyway. It’s not Johnny’s fault. He can’t hurt you anymore.
So, that was it. I declared myself to be perimenopausal. We don’t need no stinkin’ blood test. Really, we didn’t. I don’t know why it didn’t occur to me that hormone levels tend to fluctuate, thus a single blood test wasn’t going to yield any results. Whatever.
We were now in month four of being sans menses and I was getting really, really excited. All I needed was eight more months and I’d be on the other side. With each month, I became giddier and giddier. I was planning a “One Year Dry” party in my head, complete with red velvet cupcakes, blood orange mimosas and a bounce house. So what if I only have one friend down here? Cheryl always brings wine!
It is at this point that I would like to thank my body for being so in tune with weather patterns. When I did get my period, it ended two days before we evacuated for Irma. Thank you, body. I was stressed out enough. How bad would it have sucked to bleed through an evacuation? To me, it ranks right up there with having diarrhea on a transcontinental flight. I still packed an insane amount of tampons and panty liners, just in case. Gas stations were out of gas, supermarkets were out of water, Home Depot was out of wood. We were in crisis mode.
Where was I…? Oh, yeah, my hopes and dreams had been shattered.
Things were really beginning to suck for me, physically. My periods were heavy and erratic. Moods swinging like a pendulum do. Hot flashes were waking me up multiple times a night; hell, they even woke Dave up (“your body was heating the entire room!”). I just wanted to go back on the pill. I had two months of Ocella calling to me from my medicine cabinet, but Dave persuaded me to seek out an actual gynecologist before I started taking them. Dave has smarts.
Remember that time I said I would never see another male gynecologist again? To my knowledge, there was only one female gynecologist on the entire island. The reason why I wasn’t already a patient of hers was because I had been hearing nothing but negativity about her and her staff for years. People can be quite backwards.
A warm, smiling welcome to Dr. Ward’s patient list, from the moment her receptionist answered the phone. Imagine, if you will, a female gynecologist with an all-female staff; an entire women’s health facility, with nothing but women running the show. What the F??? Welcome to the 21st century, Key West!
Because I was a new patient, I had to be examined by the nurse practitioner before they would schedule an appointment for me with Dr. Ward. I, of course, had heard about this nurse. I had been told that she was…shall we say…not a very nice person. I might be inclined to agree, if I based my judgement of people’s niceness on whether or not they tell me what I want to hear.
I gave the nurse my whole this-is-what’s-happening-I-think-it’s-menopause-and-I’d-like-to-go-back-on-the-pill spiel. She said ‘no.’ I knew why she said ‘no.’ I had expected her to say ‘no.’ I told her that I knew why and had expected her to say ‘no.’ She decided to give me an explanation anyway. Well, here it is: “you’re over 35, you’re a smoker and you have high blood pressure.” There was a bit of a ‘are you a fucking idiot?’ tinge to her voice, but I didn’t take it personally. Yes, I am over 35, I am a smoker and I have high blood pressure; this is a dangerous combination. Just to make sure I understood, she repeated herself a couple of times.
Okay. Fine. I can get my blood pressure under control and I can, theoretically, quit smoking, but I’m fairly certain I’ll never be under the age of 35 again. Fortunately, I don’t actually need birth control. Options, please? Not so fast. New patients with no records to offer get the full work up: pap smear, breast exam, bloodwork…go! I received an order for my first mammogram as a parting gift, made a follow-up appointment with the doctor and was sent on my way. I don’t mind saying that I was feeling pretty good about things.
I really, really, want to say that when Lisa called me with my tests results, she actually said ‘you’re ovaries are drying up.’ I am almost positive that that’s not how she phrased it, but that’s what I remember hearing. In any case…finally! Validation! Now, was that so difficult?
A month or so later, I finally got to meet this mysterious Dr. Ward and I’ll be damned if she didn’t turn out to be the best gynecologist I’ve ever had. Gave me estrogen spray and progesterone pills to help alleviate symptoms. They probably help. I wouldn’t know. I keep forgetting to take them.
Meanwhile, I still hadn’t gone for my first mammogram. The order I got from Ward’s office sat on the kitchen counter where I leave my keys, taunting me. I purposely placed it there so that it would taunt me. It was actually the second mammogram order I had received. The first was from Womankind, more than a year earlier. I tossed it in my glove compartment right after I got it, so that it wouldn’t taunt me. It’s still there, under the receipts for my last two oil changes.
I honestly don’t know why I put it off for as long as I did. Laziness? Probably. When I finally made the call to Lower Keys Medical Center, I chose the first Monday morning appointment available: February 12th, 2018, two days after my 42nd birthday.
The closer I came to the date, the more nervous I got. I don’t even remember what I did for my birthday. The whole weekend, in fact, has disappeared from my abnormally keen memory. Dave had the day off, so I made him go with me. I was such a baby about the whole thing.
I wish I could remember the tech’s name because she was super nice. She was also a liar. Remember that time I said I was such a baby about the whole mammogram thing? Here we have it: I wanted my husband to be in the room with me because I was nervous. (Yeah, I said it. I’m a wuss. It takes a brave woman to admit she’s a coward.) We were told Dave couldn’t come into the mammo room with me because there was no place for him to sit. It was a little awkward when, a minute or so later, the tech brought me into a sort of anteroom and beckoned me to sit on a loveseat, while she did an intake. I was confused. Why could Dave not sit on the loveseat with me? It’s well out of the way of where the action is going to happen. Look, there are even magazines. And a big bowl of candy!
The tech (I’ll just call her “Babs”) was very kind and soothing and so very apologetic that the room was so cold I could practically blow smokes rings with my breath. She said I was fortunate to have been paired up with her because she had the warmest hands. Okay. I guess I scored in that respect.
Babs kept assuring me that it wasn’t going to hurt. Dude, man, I didn’t think it was going to hurt, I just didn’t want to know the results. We were actually both wrong about that. My breasts are extremely sensitive. The pulling and squeezing hurt a fair amount. I was such a brave little girl, however, that I was allowed to take as much candy as I wanted when it was all over.
Okay, great. Done. I got that first mammogram out of the way and wouldn’t have to think about the second one for a whole year. Right? Not so fast. I received a call with the results the following day. Apparently, there was some sort of abnormality that they wanted to explore a little further. Let’s go ahead and schedule that second mammogram three days after the first.
I went by myself for the second one. Seeing as how this second one wasn’t routine, I was on the verge of an anxiety attack because there was no one to hold my hand while I was waiting to be called back. (Yeah, we’ve established the fact that I’m a big baby. Just let it lie.)
The second tech (let’s call her…oh, I don’t know…”Skippy”) was also very nice. She explained that they were looking at clusters of calcified cells in both breasts. I was in the squeezy machine for longer this time around. When it was all over, she showed me the pictures she had just taken on the monitor and pointed out the clusters in questions. My tits looked huge. I was so distracted by their size, that her explanation of why there was reason for concern went right over my melon head. Well, she wasn’t the one who was concerned and she wanted to make that perfectly clear. She said she could tell me right then and there that nothing was wrong, but she wasn’t allowed to because she’s not a doctor, so what the hell does she know. (And Skippy goes from happy-go-lucky to bitter in 0.5 seconds.)
She told me that if I gave her my phone number, she would call me later that day when the results came in proving she was right. I never got that call. I didn’t get a call the following day, either. By the end of the weekend I was convinced that Skippy either forgot to call me (again, my favorite excuse), or there was bad news and she wasn’t authorized to give out bad news.
I was in a pretty good head space the following day. The weather was beautiful, I was on my way into work early so I could get a pedicure and all was right with the world. After being thoroughly shaken up by a minor accident that I had gotten into a couple of blocks away from the spa (no need to get into that), I was just starting to calm down when I got the call with my results. Well, there weren’t any. They wanted me to schedule a stereotactic biopsy in my left breast (I knew it was going to be the left one!) ASAP. So there went my composure. Back home I go, because a freaked out massage therapist is no good to anyone. (Did I mention that I’m a drama queen?)
I read everything I could find on Google about stereotactic biopsies, which was a bad idea because it only made me more anxious. By the time I went in for the procedure, I was convinced that I was going to die. (Yes. Drama queen.) The fact that it was to be done at Lower Keys Medical Center didn’t make me feel any better, since they’re hardly known for stellar medical care. It took a 15-minute phone conversation with Dr. Ward to convince me to stay local. All I needed to hear was that she routinely sent her patients to Baptist Health on the mainland before this particular radiologist came to town.
Dave took the morning off from work to accompany me. Had I known the procedure was going to be done in the same room as the mammograms, I would have called bullshit when they said there was no place for Dave to sit where he would be out of the way. By the time I got in there, I could scarcely speak.
I don’t remember much about the two women who tended to me, except for the fact that they insisted on talking to me like I was a little girl. It took forever to get my breast into the machine properly that time. So much pulling that I had to wonder how much more difficult it would be for a small-breasted woman. My breasts aren’t huge, but it still strikes me as odd that they were having so much difficulty.
Once in place, I was told to not move a muscle. The doctor came in and explained what he was about to do, ending with “let me know if I’m hurting you.” Wait a minute…what? I was told over and over again that it wasn’t going to hurt, most recently by the two fire pants women in the room.
So now I was expecting there to be pain and there was. I have a hard time describing what it felt like, but there was definitely pain. If I could compare it to anything, it would be similar to when I had nipple rings and had to rotate them. If there was the slightest bit of crust on the ring that made its way inside my nipple…okay, I can’t really describe that pain either. It was nauseating. This pain was kind of like that pain, only deeper.
They kept telling me not to move a muscle and I didn’t. Even if I wanted to, I was afraid to. I was all too aware that there was a giant needle inside me. I’m sure it didn’t look like my breast was skewered to the machine, but that’s the image I had in my head. It was so cold in that room, that they semi-covered me with a blanket to keep me from shivering uncontrollably, all the while telling me how brave I was, “you’re doing great,” blah, blah, blah. I held that awkward position for 45 minutes. I was fucking freezing, but I didn’t move. My neck hurt like crazy, but I didn’t move. What a trooper I was, by golly, by gosh.
Because I couldn’t turn my head, I had no choice but to focus on the wall in front of me. Strategically placed on that wall, at eye level, was a tiny pink ribbon patch. I love pink. Under different circumstances, I might have enjoyed looking at that particular shade of pink. In this particular case, it was the ugliest color I had ever seen. It actually made me nauseous. I closed my eyes for a bit, but I knew that if I kept them closed for too long, I would eventually doze off and then you could pretty much forget about me staying in place. All I could do was stare straight ahead at that ugly pink ribbon.
I now hate pink ribbons. I hate pink ribbons, red ribbons, yellow ribbons, purple ribbons and any other cause’s color assignation that escapes me at the moment. I hate ribbon symbology. Ribbonology.
I don’t remember if the doctor said anything to me on his way out after it was over, but the two women who were tending to me (I’m just going to start referring to them collectively as “Frick & Frack”) were getting dangerously close to speaking to me in baby talk. They told me I could move. I don’t know if I was stuck out of fear, or because I had been frozen in place for so long, but they basically had to unwind me and sit me up. At this point, Dave was brought into the inner sanctum.
It was now time to bandage and ice me up. Frick & Frack marveled over the fact that I wasn’t bruised. “Wow! You don’t bruise at all!” all blown away and such. I was too afraid to look down at myself, but I knew it was a lie. This klutzy gal bruises quicker and more easily than most. Hell, I get bruised just by seeing someone knock their knee against a coffee table. What exactly was the point of lying to me about that? Silly kiddies. You lose, Frick & Frack!
One of them (I think it was Frack) applied pressure at the puncture site with a gauze pad, taped it and topped it off with the cutest little pink ice pack I ever did see. The sports bra they had me bring held everything in place. I was instructed to wear the sports bra for the rest of the day and swap out the ice packs every four hours, to keep me from bruising and scar tissue from forming (ladies, please stop with the lies and manipulation).
They told me that I shouldn’t go to work that day (obviously), with a “you don’t have to go to school today” delivery. I was also told to not do any lifting for the next 24 hours. Dave was told to give me lots of back rubs. We were both told that I didn’t have to cook or clean or wash dishes or vacuum or do laundry. Oh, really? You mean I can just relax on the couch and watch my stories? What the hell did these women think I do all day? Dave was internally laughing his face off. They didn’t have any ice cream to offer me, but there was still that giant bowl of candy and I could take as much as I wanted because I was so brave. Totally reserved. Decorum coming out of my ass. I guess all those years of charm school finally paid off.
As much as he would have loved to blow off work, Dave couldn’t stay home with me. Instead, he bought me a croissant and dropped me off. I had no idea what to do with myself. I assumed yoga was out of the question. There was no breakfast that needed cooking. I couldn’t focus my attention well enough to read. The only thing left was to make it a real sick day, like when I was a child: curl up on the couch and watch classic television.
By the time “I Dream of Jeannie” came on, my left breast was throbbing and the baby ice pack had turned to warm mush. I was too scared to see what was going on down there, but it was time to change the dressing and swap out the ice pack. The first thing I noticed was blood on the inside of my sports bra (I’m still trying to figure out how that happened). The ice pack and dressing fell off in one piece, revealing a vision I was ill-prepared for. No bruising, they said? Liars! My breast was virtually black. It was also misshapen around a huge hard lump of scar tissue that had formed just north of my nipple. Compared to my right breast, the left one looked like a deflated balloon. It looked like it was about to fall off, which was just as well, because it didn’t look like it was part of my body.
Needless to say, I freaked out. What does Rachel do when she freaks out? The same thing any reasonably sane person would do – she calls Dave. (Seriously, if you’re ever in need of being soothed, call my husband; he can calm just about anyone down, eventually.) He reminded me that the healing was going to take some time, but there was nothing to be afraid of. Ice, ice, baby, and take some ibuprofen.
I gave up on the sports bra thing pretty quickly after that. Forcefully pressing a hard ice pack against the area just made it hurt more. Over-the-counter pain medications do absolutely nothing for me so, basically, all I could do was try to distract myself from the pain. This sucked royally, but I had candy and didn’t have to vacuum, so there was at least some sort of balance.
A couple of days later, I received a voicemail from Dr. Ward. She said she was technically on vacation, but just happened to be in her office when the results came in and didn’t want to make me wait a week until she was back to find out what they were, because she knew how crazed that could make a person. Say what? A doctor in the Keys who’s concerned enough about a patient’s mental state, she’ll carve out five minutes of her personal time to call and say “hey, kid, you’re gonna be okay”? Inconceivable!
Obviously, I was thrilled to be out of the woods, but I was now dealing with the unexpected issue of my self-esteem being tested. It had been a long time since I hated my body, but I couldn’t stand to see myself naked anymore. This misshapen thing that resided on my chest just made me want to cry. If I had to look in the mirror, I would focus my gaze on the neck up only. I wouldn’t even look down as I was getting dressed. Everything seemed so foreign.
Most people don’t know this about me, but I am extremely vain. This makes absolutely no sense, considering the fact that I refuse to wear makeup and style my hair. It’s not that I think I’m some great beauty. I’m not in love with myself or my appearance. If you catch me checking out my reflection, it’s not me admiring myself; rather, it’s me attempting to confirm that I am not hideous. Change in complexion challenges this. Thinning hair challenges this. Unwanted hair growth challenges this. Loss of collagen challenges this. Change in fat distribution challenges this. Sagging breasts challenges this. One breast, marred by scar tissue, sagging significantly lower than the other breast definitely challenges this. I don’t recall any of this being in the womanhood handbook.
So, where are we at now? I occasionally have vagina problems. My body is occasionally on fire. It occasionally hurts to urinate. I can’t get more than a few hours of sleep without waking up to pee. My hair is no longer thick and lustrous. I have knee fat. My skin looks marbleized. I have old lady hands. I have dark spots on my face (what my dermatologist refers to as “white people problems”). I have a thick black hair that keeps showing up on the side of my nose, like a spike. I have a silver hair that pops up every once and again, about an inch below my right eye. My nose hair is growing. My eyebrows are growing in grey. My pubic hair is migrating (yeah, I said it). Every morning I wake up and ask my uterus, “is today the day?” I don’t leave the house without tampons and panty-liners, because my uterus has been known to withhold information.
As of this writing, I have nine months to go before it’s safe to rent the bounce house. As of this writing, Dave’s sense of humor remains intact. As of this writing, I do not have breast cancer. As of this writing, I still have a puncture mark in my left breast, as well as a heaping amount of hard scar tissue. As of this writing…I seriously have to pee out these four cups of coffee. Forgive my rudeness for not properly seeing you out. Please help yourself to as much candy as you want.
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