It’s been rather an overwhelming week so far, what with one thing and another. It feels like I’m on day twelve of a seven day week already there has been so much activity. I need to regroup.
I had the appointment with the consultant on Monday evening regarding the evergreen topic of my craptacular menstrual health. You may recall that we paid to see the same consultant I saw a few months ago on the NHS, due to my last NHS clinic appointment being cancelled and rescheduled for some time in the next five years if the wind is in the right direction.
I had been stressing about it, which will come as no surprise. On Monday morning I woke up from a hideous nightmare which, luckily for you I can’t remember a thing about, but which I took to signify a lot of ‘argh’ around the whole appointment. This mainly boiled down to: ‘What if she doesn’t think it has all worked and wants to delay surgery while she tries a whole load of other things because I’m not really bad enough to have surgery even privately?’
I ran through all kinds of scenarios in my head and fined my options down to chaining myself, weeping, to her chair leg and thrusting bundles of fivers at her until she gave in, or stabbing myself with a scalpel to show I really mean it.
Luckily this did not happen. She apologised for the cancellations of her clinics and was upset that we’d had to fork out just to see her. It was jolly nice of her to say so. Anyway, the upshot is that she is as convinced as we are that my hormones are rising up and trying to kill me, and is absolutely fine about ripping all my bits and pieces out and consigning them to hell for eternity. I am booked in for surgery on 30th August, although there is a slight possibility that this date may change, but only within about a two week window.
I was in shock for most of the evening after that, to be honest. It’s quite hard to get my head round the fact that something I have been asking for for a decade is going to happen very soon.
There is a question mark over whether she can do keyhole or whether she has to gut me like a kipper. It’s largely to do with the fact that I have had so many surgeries that my knee bone may be connected to my eye bone in there, and nobody can tell until they’ve opened me up. Sort of like a pass the parcel thing. If she has to do keyhole I am looking at a two week recovery time. Opening me up like an envelope requires six weeks recuperation.
She will leave my uterus alone, because it is relatively well behaved compared to the rest of me, and may also be welded to my bladder thanks to my other surgeries. If she takes the uterus out I may never be able to go on a trampoline again. And nobody wants that. Instead she will remove my ovaries, which procedure goes by the wonderfully named oophorectomy, and what is left of my mangled fallopian tubes. The reason keyhole may not be an option is because my tubes have partially exploded, partially been removed already and then what was left has been tied up in knots, so there will be scar tissue literally up the yin yang.
I think it’s fair to say that I’m a medical marvel. Which is nice, and a bit worrying, except I’m trying not to think too much about the worrying thing. The correct term for the whole procedure is a bilateral salpingo-oophorectomy. I may take this as my stage name when I have a late blooming career as an elderly actress. I will specialise in crone work, husk activity and showing my interesting scars whilst loudly shouting how old I am.
So it’s happening and I am relieved and a bit terrified but largely delighted.