I was commenting on a friend's post earlier today and briefly wrote about having had ass surgery. Said friend indicated that it might make a lovely blog post and perhaps be quite amusing. Do I dare? I'm about to find out and so are you. Let's hold hands and journey together, shall we?
Picture this:
It's 2004 and we've just moved to KC from New Orleans. Like, as in the day before. We'd been trying unsuccessfully to get pregnant for nearly a year and we'd just learned that I had a problem (and it wasn't just that Kansas didn't have poboys, pralines or pirogues). No, it was far more serious. A frowny, furrow-your-brow and scratch your head kind of serious. Defunct ovaries, you see. Lazy ovaries that don't do their freakin' job. All they have to do is push out one measly egg per month, but NOOOOOO. Mine refuse. They picket. They parade around with signs that say, "We won't work for this jerk! We are thugs who want drugs!"
Because my husband is in the medical field we were able to get in to see one of the most sought- after reproductive endocrinologists (that's a fancy phrase for doctors who stick strange instruments inside of you to knock you up) in town as soon as we got here. We basically drove from NOLA to KC, unloaded our U-Haul, went to bed, woke up the next morning and went to see the baby doctor for a 3-hour consult riddled with labs, pelvic exam, ultrasound, and some uncomfortable other tests.
The doctor immediately prescribed a regimen of Metformin. Now, I don't know what this shiggedy is, but when I say that the side effects set in right away, I mean that within 2-3 hours of my first dose I became bosom buddies with my toilet.
Hubby and I had each enlisted a friend to help us move (my friend Adele, Hubby's friend Nathan), plus my mom had come with us....so it's Monday and I've just started taking this DRUG FROM HELL. We decide to take our friends and my mom out to lunch on the Plaza to thank them for all of their blood, sweat, and tears. I ate a gigantic salad for lunch that was really great. Then we started walking around on the Plaza to see if there were any cool new things for our new home.
When we were in Pottery Barn, it hit me.
The sudden lurching and gurgle that stops you in your tracks. Oh no, please God, not now. NO NO NO, I can't poop at Pottery Barn! And most definitely not with my friend right here, etc. So I scoot to the front of the store, pretending I've got my eye on some fabulous flatware. I quickly walk out the front door and run to the Barnes & Noble which is right next door. I run up the stairs to the restroom. Thankfully it's empty. My salad, which I just forked over $12 for, is now back in the toilet looking up at me. And maybe my breakfast, too. I feel like hell, all clammy and sweaty. I'm convinced something in my salad was bad. The eggs, maybe?
When it's all over, I splash cold water on my face and go out to look around. To my utter dismay, my friend Adele is right there. She's seen me exiting the restroom. Which wouldn't matter that much except that I'm now overcome with the urge to go right back in there. I try to play it off for a few minutes, hiding out in the self-help section, and when I think she's not looking I tiptoe back into the bathroom to lose whatever guts I have left. Only then she's IN the bathroom, calling my name. I weakly respond that yes, I am in there, and I don't know that I've ever been so mortified in my life---oh, but wait, yes I have, and that is still to come.
Long story short (or not so short, as the case may be), I got so sick I went home and left them to shop all afternoon and later go to a Royals baseball game. I was in bed. I was sure I had the stomach flu or food poisoning.
Only it didn't go away. Eventually we figured out it was the medicine making me ill. I called my doctor, who assured me this was normal, but that the symptoms would lessen as my body adjusted to the drug. She also encouraged me to take Metamucil, which confused me. I didn't need any help, that much I was sure of. But she said it would have the opposite effect and stop the runs.
Um, no. Things quickly went from bad to worse, but I was so desperate to have a baby I thought I needed to toughen up and suck it up and just deal with it. This medicine, after all, was supposed to kick my ovaries into gear, whip 'em into shape, and make them spit out those coveted eggs we needed. But all it did was cause me to have chronic, violent diarrhea, nausea, sweats, chills, aches....it was awesome! It was also a great way to start off in a new city where I had no friends and no baby to speak of. "Hi, I'm Erin. I can't leave my house because I can't get off my toilet. Wanna be my friend?"
One day it wasn't just diarrhea. It was bloody diarrhea. And pain, lots of that. I could barely move. I cried. I was embarrassed. I didn't know what to do. So I told Hubby. He told me I needed to see a doctor. Um, NO? I tried not to, I really did. But one day I could hardly get out of bed. So I called Hubby, he called this doctor, and she told me to come in right then.
I went to her office. They took me back right away. I was shaking and crying. I cannot begin to tell you how embarrassed I was. I remember I was wearing (of all things) a Phi Mu Founder's Day t-shirt. I had to drop trou, of course, but the shirt stayed on. Dr. O asked me to curl up in a ball on my side. She was very gentle and barely even touched me. She said, "You're a Phi Mu?" "Yes," I squeaked. "So am I," she said. Great. I've always wanted a sister/fellow alumna to be looking at my asshole. That's a fabulous way to meet someone!
She was done quickly. She snapped off her gloves, looked at me and said, "You have a very deep fissure. That's what is bleeding, that's why you're hurting so much. You've torn internally." Nice. Really, really nice.
Man, I knew someone was shoving knives up my ass, I just knew it! I wanna know who cut my colon and why---what did I do to deserve this shit?
When I told her about the Metformin she told me I had to stop taking it immediately. I got hysterical because I didn't want to ruin our fertility treatments. She was very firm, though. She prescribed some medications to help with the pain. She insisted on calling my baby doctor herself to explain the severity of the situation. My baby doc in turn called me, apologizing profusely and asking why I hadn't told her what was going on. But I had.
The medications alleviated my discomfort, but the fissure was stubborn and wouldn't heal. Long story short, I had to have ass surgery. The first one was a Botox injection. Now, we all want Botox, don't we? Yeah, but not in my ass, thank you very much. You see, the Botox paralyzes the spasm of the sphincter muscle. This allows the fissure to heal.
I was so anxious about this surgery (it's done in the OR, but not under general anesthesia--just twilight) that I remember they had to re-dose me twice with Versed while I was waiting to go back. All I could think about was all these people staring at my exposed ass while I was asleep. Seriously, do I not win some kind of award for going through this? And can you honestly tell me you've been through something similar or worse? LAY IT ON ME!
Just when I thought all my problems were solved, I realized the Botox wasn't going to cut it. I wound up right back where I started. The Botox is the less invasive/non-surgical option. So then it was time to pull out the big guns---the
What was your most embarrassing moment? Can you top this?
All my cards are out on the table. My ass, too. Are you sad I don't have any photos to share (j/k) with this one?
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