See, I'm not to blame. It's that damn surgeon. The only time I ever saw my gynecologist smile was pre and post surgery. He was of middle eastern descent, so communication was a challenge. But I do understand the words, "Going under the knife.." No, he didn't say that exactly, but that's what I heard.
I went to see him because I had developed what Dolly Parton once told Johnny Carson, "female problems". I had uterine fibroids. To the extent that I became anemic. I was 42, I think. Anyway, he did a D&C first.
(D and C is a procedure to scrape and collect the tissue (endometrium) from inside the uterus. Dilatation ("D") is a widening of the cervix to allow instruments into the uterus. Curettage ("C") is the scraping of the contents of the uterus. from MedlinePlus)
I said, "Why don't you just yank out the whole works and be done with it?" He said, "They won't let me!" They being the insurance company. Must follow protocols here. Which for me was medication, a D&C, and then the hysterectomy.
The day I had my D & C, I came home, and my sister Geraldine presented me with my cat Roscoe, who is featured in my picture. The gray one. He was about 8 weeks old, and decided to jump from the top of the wardrobe onto my belly, while I screamed, "No! No!" For a while Roscoe had two names. Roscoe and Cedric. My dad called him Cedric, and I called him Roscoe. My father was for all purposes deaf. He could hear out of one ear, if you bent close to it, and talked low and soft. But, anyway, Roscoe-Cedric didn't mind his name switching at all. This was during the time I was privileged to live with my father and help him with his personal care and needs, while he did his best to drive me insane. By which, I mean, he would take his walker, and carry his 90 year old ass out to the apple tree, climb said apple tree with a saw, and decide to prune the tree.
As we, (myself, my sister and brother), who both had homes nearby, lived in constant fear he would hurt himself, we stayed on pins and needles. I will tell you this, it is not an easy thing to talk a 90 year old man out of an apple tree when he doesn't want to come down. Especially when he is your father.
But, I digress. When the D&C did not work, I got to go in for the ultimate surgery. The yank out all the works surgery. I had mixed feelings. I didn't want to lose my body parts, and I figured I would be in pain. My sister was supposed to help me with my father for the 4 weeks following the surgery, where I was not supposed to lift a finger. That lasted a week and a half. What the doctor found was endometriosis, ovarian cysts, "a uterus as big as a football, and scar tissue" from my cancer surgery. It took me a full day to come out of the anesthesia, and I remember my sister's minister leaning over me at one point. It was so kind of her to come and see me after the surgery. I wanted to thank her so much.
I remember looking at her as her face swam into view, a halo around it, almost, and saying, with as much strength as I could muster, "God damn, I hurt so fucking bad!!" I remember that face, jerking back, eyes opened wider, and words drifting down to me, "I don't think the drugs have worn off yet..." But, in all actually, it was the dementia starting already!! When I told the preacher at my father's funeral that he was the spitting image of Jerry Lee Lewis, and my sister gave me that look, it was the dementia!! When I volunteer to babysit it is the dementia!! I didn't take estrogen until I was 50, like the article says you should. Cancer patients are supposed to steer clear of that stuff. I don't consider myself a patient anymore, but oncologists do. So now, I know why I am the way I am. Its dementia. I have proof.
That's probably why I can't remember what happened five minutes ago, but damn, I can remember what happened 20 years ago as clear as a bell.
The one thing that has puzzled me the most about my surgery has to do with my bosoms. Before I had it, my bra size was a 38 A, and I had trouble filling that sucker up. Now, it is a 40 D. I don't get that. I thought estrogen was what made your bozooms grow. Mine should have shrunk. I liked having the 38 A better. You had more arm space or something. That's probably where my extra weight is too. I bet if I could weigh each one of those suckers individually, they would each go at least 20 lbs. easy. The five pounders are a lot nicer. I'm guessing here. Remember, I have....all together now...dementia...
I'm so glad I found this article. It answers so many questions for me. I'm going to print it out and send it to all my bill collectors, with a note, saying, I know I might be late, but I can't help it...its the dementia...!!! And of course, the standard phone call, "You mean you didn't get my check? I know I sent you one last month. I just don't understand this at all."
Of course not! Dementia.
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