My First Surgery
I’m a little fuzzy about the timing, but I know this took place when I was still seeing A. It’s really strange in retrospect what is fuzzy and what is crystal clear.
I do recall that I had finagled being able to bring my youngest cousin home with us after we were all camping together at “the lake.”
I loved that little dude so much.
He did great on the ride out, but the next morning he woke up with a bad case of homesick. I felt so so bad for him. I tried to distract him, I tried to soothe him, I tried to play with him, I tried cookies and goodies.
He really just wanted his mommy.
Grandpa and Mom decided to take him back that night, and they’d sleep there and come back the next day. They also took my sisters with them.
I was super sad to see my little buddy go, but it was really rough seeing him so distraught. I felt like a total tool.
That evening was uneventful, and I did some chores in the morning, then bopped down the street to Grandma’s to hang out. She was gentler when everyone else was gone.
I started feeling less than good. Not like I had a cold or the flu, but extremely unwell. I was lightheaded, and disoriented.
A severe pain started growing in my abdomen on the lower right hand side.
Here’s the thing though; I frequently felt unwell, and had to push through it.
I was constantly told that I wasn’t tough enough, and how I needed too much sympathy for every little thing. I often had searing pains that didn’t mean anything.
In the 6th grade, when our school had it’s turn to go to Outdoor Lab, I woke in the middle of the night with severe chest pains and thought I was going to die before anyone woke up in the morning. But alas, here I am.
The system is built to silence us.
I told Grandma that I had a tummy ache and went up to our house to go take a bath. The walk up the hill was unbearable. Every breath felt like a serrated spear was being twisted in my pelvis.
I got to the bathroom and promptly threw up. Then I just sat, dazed, on the toilet for some time. (We didn’t have cell phones back then. It wasn’t nearly as much fun to just sit on the toilet.)
It was difficult to run the bath, and I didn’t find any clothes or anything I’d need afterward. I immersed myself in the tub with just my face above the surface and I somewhere in that watery haze I fell asleep.
The water alleviated some of the sharpness of the pain, but it was constant.
I woke to Mom banging on the door and yelling. She was mad mad.
She had been yelling for a minute, but my ears were under the water and I didn’t hear her.
She said they’d been home for 25 minutes already, and that even if I just got in I should have been out by now. Other people needed to use the bathroom too, and we had other things to do today. Grandpa needed her to go, and she needed me to watch the girls.
In that moment I wanted to die. It hurt so bad and she was so mad, and I couldn’t even make words. Somehow I managed to squeak out “I’m coming,” and I pulled the plug.
Getting out of the tub was excruciating. Every movement exacerbated the pain. Every breath was a struggle.
I managed to put just my shirt and shorts back on. I couldn’t wrestle with my underwear, and I left them on the floor of the bathroom. Mom came back twice while I was getting dressed to bang on the door and yell at me.
I just kept trying to say “I’m sorry.” I was sorry.
When I emerged from the bathroom it was clear that I was unwell. Mom said my skin tone was green. The interrogation began.
She asked if I’d been drinking. She asked what drugs I was on. She asked if I was pregnant. She asked me what I was keeping from her. She accused me of faking it.
She was so mad.
I was so scared. It hurt so bad, and she couldn’t decide whether to blame me or not believe me.
She reminded me that we didn’t have insurance, and she didn’t have income and asked me where I expected the bill to get paid from just for me to be faking it or hiding things.
I hadn’t been drinking. I was having a lot of sex, but it wasn’t penetration/ejaculation sex, so there wasn’t any real chance of me being pregnant. I was avidly antidrug.
Trying to answer her was so hard, and no matter what I said she didn’t believe me.
She decided to drive me to the clinic and the entire drive she continued to interrogate me, getting madder when I wouldn’t admit to anything.
I got checked in, and they asked me to pee in a cup. I tried and tried and tried. It hurt like having a sharp rock stuck in your pelvis.
Mom was sure I was trying to hide the fact that I was on drugs. They catheterized me to get the sample.
They came in to draw blood, and had to try 7 times before they finally got a sample in the back of my hand. The nurse noted that my arteries were sunken, and it was hard to get a good poke with such low blood volume.
I had my first pelvic exam, with my mom standing over me. The male doctor kept pushing and releasing pressure in different areas and asking, “does it hurt more when I do this, or when I do this.”
My urinalysis said I was neither pregnant nor on drugs. My mom never acknowledged that.
My pelvic exam was consistent with appendicitis, so they sent us to the hospital.
Mom stopped for food, but said she couldn’t feed me because I needed to have a surgery she couldn’t afford. I couldn’t have eaten anyway. It was all I could do to brace myself against the bumps of the drive.
We got to the hospital and it took a long time with us sitting in the waiting room before they took us back. Mom was relieved when they said she couldn’t come any further because she could finally go smoke. I was relieved too.
I remember my anesthesiologist had an Australian accent. Dang. I remember counting backwards to 8.
Then I remember a hazy in between. It sounded like my grandmother was there as well as the girls. Nothing made sense.
When I did wake up Mom was there. She still seemed annoyed and angry, but she wasn’t yelling.
It wasn’t appendicitis. I had an ovarian cyst rupture and release 1.5 units of blood into my body cavity. My appendix was fine, but they took it anyway, since they were in the neighborhood.
I had to stay in the hospital, and Mom had to go home.
It was awesome! I had the remote to myself, and they kept my juice refilled. I really wanted a cigarette but you can’t win them all.
A, C, and L came to visit me in the hospital. We didn’t even do anything. They brought me flowers and a card, and said they were glad I didn’t die.
Mom was so pissed when she found out they had been there.
I had cysts burst regularly after that. I knew what it meant when the arteries in my hands and wrists became indented. I learned that the pain, while searing, could be masked through. I learned to get tougher, because it wasn’t “life threatening,” and they couldn’t do anything about it.
I had them every month until I got pregnant with my oldest some years later, then intermittently after that.
When I went back for my 6 month follow up, I told them I was still having the ruptures monthly, and they told me to learn to live with it. They also told me that my chances of having a child were slim.
Mom said that was probably for the best anyhow.
References
https://www.verywellhealth.com/what-happens-if-i-have-a-ruptured-ovarian-cyst-2616648
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