Sunday, October 11, 2009
Monday, October 5, 2009
I Think I'll Sell My Tampons On Craigslist
I’m not gonna lie, I slept through General Conference. But if I told you the whole truth and nothing but the truth so help me Elder Packer, I should also explain that I slept through General Conference ON A GURNEY. So I’m kinda thinking I get a free pass.
Last Thursday morning started out normally. I got the kids off to school, checked my email, played a word in my facebook Scrabble game, checked my stats to see if Hugh Jackman had found my blog yet…when before I knew it I was in the fetal position, sobbing on the phone to my husband that I thought I needed to go to the Emergency Room. (Such a drastic transition going from happy thoughts of Hugh, frolicking on the internet to find me, and then *BAM* “Holy Crap, I think my abdomen was a client of Bernie Madoff’s because it’s TICKED.”) So I called my friend Ganelle, still sobbing and she said, “Don’t move, I’ll be right there.”
Thirty minutes later we stood in the ER entrance and I began peeing in cups and describing my pain on a scale of 1 to 10. Hmm…. “With ONE being I’m disappointed that my mom never bought me hostess cupcakes for school lunches, and TEN being the Holocaust, I’m somewhere between never going to Homecoming and Columbine.” A little later, before the CT scan but after the incident where Ganelle pulled my gown over my legs in opposition to our “friendship knows no boundaries” clause, (turns out there ARE boundaries, and they stop short of the upper thigh being exposed through a light blue tent that one is given to wear when vacationing in the ER) Ganelle was also found holding my hair while I threw up into a pink, plastic bin. It was glorious, I tell you.
When my doctor finally showed up and took my information, he announced that we would be conducting a CT scan. I did not anticipate this kind of action, and I have to admit, it scared me a little bit. Okay, a lot bit. So they whisked me away where I was introduced to Jack, the CT Scan guy. “Hi Jack,” I gestured. “Don’t say that on an airplane!” he laughed. Something tells me Jack only knows one joke. But he was nice, especially when he said, “We’ll be injecting your body with dye – you’ll feel warm and fuzzy inside, and then you will most likely feel like you’re wetting your pants.” I was all, “Dude, I just threw up on my best friend, what’s a little bed wetting incident with a guy who can’t do airports?” It was quick and painless, and even though I DID feel like I was wetting myself, I wasn’t. Yet.
A while later the results were in and my doctor returned to deliver the news. The next few minutes are a bit of a blur, so I was grateful that my husband and friend were there to take notes and ask questions. Bottom line: I had a mass on my ovary. The other one. Cancerous? We didn’t know. It was about the size of an orange, had damaged the only ovary I had left beyond repair, and needed to come out immediately. I was admitted that night, had surgery on Friday, and came home from the hospital last night. At the end of the day, I do NOT have cancer (phew) but they ended up taking out all my lady parts and I have eighteen (I counted) staples in my abdomen to prove it. Do you know what this means boys and girls? This means I will be going through menopause now. I know, right? YOU just hit the jackpot! VERN. IN MENOPAUSE. Not even Hollywood could make this stuff up. At any rate, my mom and dad have driven out from California to my rescue – my mom has already gone shopping and my dad has already whipped up a fresh batch of guacamole. I have been swarmed with loving phone calls, random goodie deliveries, and offers to help for which I am humbled and profoundly grateful. I don’t think I could feel more supported if I was standing in a warehouse of jock straps. So THANK YOU everybody. Thanks for loving me and my family and for making me feel so cared about. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a cupboard full of tampons that I no longer need. I think I’ll list them on ebay to see if they can help with the medical bills.
Last Thursday morning started out normally. I got the kids off to school, checked my email, played a word in my facebook Scrabble game, checked my stats to see if Hugh Jackman had found my blog yet…when before I knew it I was in the fetal position, sobbing on the phone to my husband that I thought I needed to go to the Emergency Room. (Such a drastic transition going from happy thoughts of Hugh, frolicking on the internet to find me, and then *BAM* “Holy Crap, I think my abdomen was a client of Bernie Madoff’s because it’s TICKED.”) So I called my friend Ganelle, still sobbing and she said, “Don’t move, I’ll be right there.”
Thirty minutes later we stood in the ER entrance and I began peeing in cups and describing my pain on a scale of 1 to 10. Hmm…. “With ONE being I’m disappointed that my mom never bought me hostess cupcakes for school lunches, and TEN being the Holocaust, I’m somewhere between never going to Homecoming and Columbine.” A little later, before the CT scan but after the incident where Ganelle pulled my gown over my legs in opposition to our “friendship knows no boundaries” clause, (turns out there ARE boundaries, and they stop short of the upper thigh being exposed through a light blue tent that one is given to wear when vacationing in the ER) Ganelle was also found holding my hair while I threw up into a pink, plastic bin. It was glorious, I tell you.
When my doctor finally showed up and took my information, he announced that we would be conducting a CT scan. I did not anticipate this kind of action, and I have to admit, it scared me a little bit. Okay, a lot bit. So they whisked me away where I was introduced to Jack, the CT Scan guy. “Hi Jack,” I gestured. “Don’t say that on an airplane!” he laughed. Something tells me Jack only knows one joke. But he was nice, especially when he said, “We’ll be injecting your body with dye – you’ll feel warm and fuzzy inside, and then you will most likely feel like you’re wetting your pants.” I was all, “Dude, I just threw up on my best friend, what’s a little bed wetting incident with a guy who can’t do airports?” It was quick and painless, and even though I DID feel like I was wetting myself, I wasn’t. Yet.
A while later the results were in and my doctor returned to deliver the news. The next few minutes are a bit of a blur, so I was grateful that my husband and friend were there to take notes and ask questions. Bottom line: I had a mass on my ovary. The other one. Cancerous? We didn’t know. It was about the size of an orange, had damaged the only ovary I had left beyond repair, and needed to come out immediately. I was admitted that night, had surgery on Friday, and came home from the hospital last night. At the end of the day, I do NOT have cancer (phew) but they ended up taking out all my lady parts and I have eighteen (I counted) staples in my abdomen to prove it. Do you know what this means boys and girls? This means I will be going through menopause now. I know, right? YOU just hit the jackpot! VERN. IN MENOPAUSE. Not even Hollywood could make this stuff up. At any rate, my mom and dad have driven out from California to my rescue – my mom has already gone shopping and my dad has already whipped up a fresh batch of guacamole. I have been swarmed with loving phone calls, random goodie deliveries, and offers to help for which I am humbled and profoundly grateful. I don’t think I could feel more supported if I was standing in a warehouse of jock straps. So THANK YOU everybody. Thanks for loving me and my family and for making me feel so cared about. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a cupboard full of tampons that I no longer need. I think I’ll list them on ebay to see if they can help with the medical bills.
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