My uterus has served me well. 4 pregnancies, 1 miscarriage, 3 healthy babies.
All of my deliveries were relatively uncomplicated, I recovered quickly, and my uterus went right back to business. She did her job dutifully and predictably. I respected her for her hard work. We were partners.
But somewhere along the line, between the miscarriage and having my last two children very close together, my uterus and I stopped getting along. You know what it’s like to be stuck with a cranky bitch who makes everything miserable? That’s what it was like hanging out with my uterus.
After almost 2 years of issues, my husband begged me to go see what could be done about her. I sheepishly made my postpartum follow-up appointment … two years late.
“Your uterus is irritable,” the doctor said.
“Just like her owner,” I replied.
My uterus didn’t like that one bit.
My doctor ruled out every possible cause and finally said that my uterus was “unremarkable” (in addition to being irritable — she was really pissed off now) and I am otherwise perfectly healthy. He recommended an endometrial ablation. In layman’s terms: they go in there and laser off the uterine lining so there is nothing to slough off. No more periods.
This isn’t a method of birth control, but it doesn’t matter because Robbie had a vasectomy as part of our agreement during The Great Negotiation For Our Third Child. The nurse who was in charge of me yesterday couldn’t BELIEVE that my doctor would trust me not to get a side piece of man meat.
“Your tubes aren’t tied?!” she gasped. “You know … if you … you know (looking at my husband to see if he was paying attention) with someone else, you could still get pregnant and you would have a bad outcome. Your doctor must trust you a lot.”
“Of course he trusts me,” I said. “I’m a writer.”
I gave her a business card.
With all of my kids squirreled away, and under the effects of some amazing drugs, I had a really good time in the hospital. I’ve never been under any kind of sedation and have never seen the inside of an operating room, so it was a whole new experience. I was sad because they made me take my contacts out, and then remove my glasses before they wheeled me back, so I couldn’t see anything in the O.R. and I knew there was a lot to see.
I had a lot of questions.
I think they knocked me out early just so I would shut up.
Robbie reports as they were wheeling me back into my room the following conversation happened between me and a group of nurses:
Me: “I have a question. Do I have to wear pads after this?”
Nurses: “Yes, you will need to wear them.”
Me: (yelling) “I don’t have any pads! FUCK THAT! I burned them all after my third child!”
Nurses: “Well, Mrs. Hobbs … that’s why they sell them in stores.”
I have no recollection of this.
While Robbie did not manage to get that exchange on video, he did get manage to capture a really weird conversation which ended with me trying — and failing — to open a pack of crackers. And yes, the “spaceships” were actually the big lights in the operating room.