I Missed You, Too. Now Stop Crying

At the beginning of September I had surgery for endometriosis, and it was pretty intense. It took me a good two weeks to even be able to act like my normal self, and to be honest, I'm still not back to my baseline-wackadooness. I've had two of these surgeries before, and neither of them were as remotely as invasive and ass-kicking. After talking to my surgeon, I realized this was because those previous surgeries? The ones that were supposed to help me feel like I could get out of bed and live a life? The back alley surgeons I had went in there and didn't do shit!

A little background. Endometriosis is a disease wherein the lining of your uterus grows on the outside, creating implants of tissue that attach to your other organs, your ligaments, muscles, basically anything in the way. The surgery to correct this involves a surgeon going into your pelvis/abdomen with some robot arms and burning the implants off of any place they have decided to roost. I was diagnosed with endo when I was 19, had my first surgery later that year, and just under two years later needed to have the procedure done again. Usually the effects of the surgery last for 10-15 years, but of course this is me we're talking about, so I back to invalid status just a few months after each of the first two surgeries.

My second surgeon was a madwoman, who was convinced she was going to save me and put me through all kinds of weird treatments before agreeing to do surgery. She was also an abortionist, which was what I saved her number under in my phone. She still comes up first in my contacts.

At one point she was having a nurse inject lidocaine into my bladder once a week. I still don't really know why. There was also a time, while I was waiting for the nurse to give me my anesthesia catheter, I asked her a fairly simple question (so simple that I can't even remember what the question was) and she left to go "check" or look it up on Wikipedia or whatever nurses do when they leave you in a drafty office, in stirrups, for 10 minutes. Then the surgeon in question comes in and is, frankly, pissed at me. She asks for my question curtly and then informs me that she currently has a patient knocked out, ON HER OPERATING TABLE (probably waiting for a 'bortion) and that she doesn't have time for my nonsense.

This woman also had some weird security rules, because she's one of the only abortion providers in the area and, let's face it, even in my liberal pocket of the world, there are crazies everywhere. Once I was sitting in the waiting room, and the UPS guy came in the front door with a dolly full of tiny baby coffins (Yes, I'm terrible) and the receptionist completely lost her shit. She was all, "YOU HAVE TO USE THE BACK ENTRANCE! NO DELIVERIES TO THE FRONT ENTRANCE!" As if he had announced that he was there to bomb the clinic, and then thrown a grenade at her face. At this point the UPS guy was probably thanking his employers for instituting brown uniforms, because he most likely shit his pants.

The waiting room was probably the most fucked up part of the clinic. It was very nice and classy looking, with magazines about pregnancy, but also french cooking and quilting. The only problem was that there was no music, no fan, nothing to keep people in the waiting room from hearing EVERYTHING going on behind the reception desk. Remember, this is where anyone looking for an abortion in the area comes for the procedure. Here's what I heard ALL THE TIME while waiting for my appointmets:

"Hello, Vagina Doctor" (I'm trying to protect the innocent, here)
...
"Mmmmhmmm, and where do you live?"
...
"So you're from Town X?"
...
"Mmmmhmmm, and when was the date of your last period?"
...
"That will be six hundred dollars."


They never said anyone's name or their exact address, but it was enough to make me really uncomfortable and concerned. After she finally sliced and diced me, I never went back.

That's only the tip of the iceberg that is my medical experience over the last five years. But what I wanted to discuss was my recent surgery, and how my new favorite person, my surgeon, revealed the truth about my previous knucklehead surgeons. As I said before, this recovery was MAJOR. After my second surgery I went to see Twilight the next day. After this surgery I couldn't position myself in my bed without my mom literally picking up the top half of my body and moving me herself. FOR TWO WEEKS.

Turns out when they're in there burning off implants, it's sometimes necessary to move around the organs, or torch a tough spot like the bladder or important muscle. My new surgeon is a fucking ninja assassin, so he went for it and took it all off, no matter how risky or difficult. The other surgeons wouldn't touch those spots, if they even looked at them at all. Some of the implants were so deep, Surgeon said, that they could only have been growing there for five years. No wonder after surgery I couldn't pee right for three days.

So, to sum up, THAT'S why I haven't written about January Jones for a few weeks.