This is written just for the people who read my blog because they hate me. :) It proves that I have no shame, and that I have the incredible ability to laugh at myself. I consider it one of my greatest strengths.
I had surgery two days ago (Wednesday) for the nasty endometriosis. I prepped for it and worried about it, attended pre-op appointments with the boyfriend, and was so nervous that I didn't want to eat for two days prior to the event. Finally, Wednesday morning rolled around and my parents took me to the hospital where I would be sliced and diced. I don't really remember much of anything about it except waking up in the recovery room. I also remember trying to get dressed an hour or so later in the bathroom and feeling like I was going to pass out; the only thing I could think of was that I had to at least get my panties on so they wouldn't find me in a naked heap on the floor. And the kicker? There was no endometriosis. Zilch. What a bummer.
I'm back to square one.
I came home the same afternoon, only to be whisked back to the ER a few hours later because I had the sudden inability to go pee, which is apparently an important thing. After waiting in the ER with my mom for hours, laughing and crying at equal intervals because my bladder felt like it was going to explode, I was given a sexy little catheter and then a foley bag. In case you are unfamiliar, the foley bag is basically a little bag that you get to strap to your leg that catches your pee pee. It is the epitome of hotness. It took me a few minutes of sobbing hysterically to adjust to the fact that this bad boy was coming home with me. By the time I left the hospital, I told the three nurses that were finishing up with my vitals and labwork that I was going to go home and put on the shortest pair of shorts that I could find and prance around Wal-Mart so that I could show it off. Judging from their horrified laughter, I'm not sure that they knew what to think of that.
Yesterday (the day after surgery), my mom took me back to my doctor's office to have them check out the status of the pee bag. There was the possibility that I would have to wear it for 3-7 days, including over the Labor Day holiday, and if there were further complications, it meant a 3-7 hour wait at the ER to get someone to help me. The doctor that I saw yesterday took the bag and the catheter out, but she told me that I could not leave the office until I went pee. Sounds easy, right? Except that I couldn't pee. She told me that surgery is hell on your bladder, and it will flat out resist doing its job, especially if you are worrying about the fact that you can't go. She advised me to think about waterfalls and rushing rivers so that it would happen more easily. Nothing worked. I sucked down glass after glass of water, but all it did was make me nauseous. I was dehydrated, so it was going to take one of those rushing rivers to make me pee. My mom drove to Bojangles and brought me a large Sierra Mist. For two hours, I sat in the waiting room and chugged soda, randomly hiding out in the bathroom, pleading with my internal organs to stop holding me hostage in the gynecologists' office that was ironically decorated with lilies. (Clearly, the decor was chosen by a man.) Each time I failed to potty, I burst into tears, convinced that the foley bag was going home with me again, or that I would never be allowed to leave the confines of that bathroom.
It was during one of my stints in the bathroom, as I imagined trickling streams (of water) and pleaded with God to let me go (figuratively and literally), that I noticed the poster in the bathroom for a disorder called Interstitial Cystitis. I think it was pure luck that it happened to be in the bathroom that I was frequenting. As soon as I saw it and started reading the symptoms, I knew I had stumbled upon something important. After I managed to piddle in the potty (to which my doctor and nurse cheered with joy and hugged me...who else gets their own cheering section for tinkling?), I proceeded to google IC when I got home. Holy cow. I'm all about some webMD self-diagnosis, but I'm the first to admit that I'm usually wrong. This time, however, I think I hit the jackpot. Every symptom fit, and the most crazy thing is that IC is known as "endometriosis' evil twin." Their symptoms are that similar. Further investigation horrified me to no extreme, as I found out that persons with IC have to follow a crazy limited diet, including cutting out staples of my everyday diet. Among other things, no more chocolate, coffee, yogurt, soy, or tofu. As a vegetarian, I live on soy and tofu. And chocolate? OMG. I'm taking my findings to my post-op visit to get my doctor's opinion. But deep down, I feel like it was fate that I ended up in that bathroom with the IC poster. I've spent three years wondering what was wrong with me, and now I may have an answer.
On the down side, I feel like I got hit by a bus, followed by a tractor trailer and a herd of zebras. On the up side, I have two weeks off work to recuperate and get my wits about me. And I have some time to research vegetarian substitutes for tofu.
I'm open to suggestions on that one.