A Day at the Gyno - Adelle Will NEVER Understand

Today is another installment of "Putting Cassondra Back Together in 2018."

This week has been super fun.  I was given a cortizone shot in my left shoulder on Monday.  The doctor said, "Based on your history with this shoulder, if this shot doesn't help within two weeks, call me and I'll order an MRI and then schedule you with a surgeon."  What?  I don't want my shoulder operated on.  That sounds like it hurts.  That sounds like a long recovery.  That sounds like something I purposely have been putting off, thusly why I haven't been in to see you in years.  Shit.

Tuesday, the fun continued with a visit to the doctor to have an endoscopy.  Our hope was to discover if I had any shenanigans going on in my stomach which would explain all the pain.  After spending way too much time in the waiting room with a loud belching person, they finally took me back to the admitting area where they prepped me up for the procedure. As luck would have it, I was an instant celebrity as I got to wear the new gowns that the hospital just got in.  It might not sound like a big deal, but I'm telling you, it was the prettiest shade of blue and the shoulders unbuttoned.  Glam-or-ous! Once word got out that I had the new gown on, there was a bit of a scuttle about where those gowns were and who was hiding them and why no one else had been able to find them.  Then, people started coming by to check me out in this new hospital fashion trend.  I was kind of a big deal. 

After that, I spent some time arguing about the fact that I was not, in fact, pregnant and that it was highly unlikely that I had been chosen as the vessel for divine intervention that would subsequently lead to baby Jesus Jr. being put in my belly.  I told the nurse I was positive God would not do that to me, or humankind.  I can't be responsible for baby Jesus Jr. in on the computer on Facebook, Plenty of Fish or on the Twitter tweeting, "Parted my soup like the Red Sea at Panera Bread today. #BadAssSavior."  When the world falls apart for reals, I don't want to get blamed for that.  I mean, unless the place floods again and everybody dies...or is it supposed to burn up?  I'm not up on Revelations, but I'm pretty sure I probably wouldn't be around after that, so maybe it isn't a big deal if it was my fault.  Unless God had me live.  And then everyone is going to be all like, "We used to have cell phones and be able to text each other and could stream Game of Thrones and now we are smashing two rocks together to make fire and have to talk to each other instead of texting, THANKS A LOT CASSONDRA!!!!"  Then, no one lets me reproduce anymore, which, actually, I'm fine with and then I have to carry water from the well all the time because I'm the idiot that let baby Jesus Jr. get cat-fished on Plenty of Fish and ruined everything.

Like I said, I don't want to be the vessel for our savior.  Too much responsibility.

Anyway, that whole deal ended up going fine.  My throat is still sore, but I'll live, I think.  The doctor said I should probably see the GI surgeon dude and talk to them about taking out my gall bladder if the problems continue as that is likely the root of all my abdominal pain.  Oh, okay, I'll just have another surgery. No problem.

Disclaimer: You are now entering the part of the blog where I talk about girl parts.  If that makes you squeamish, this is where you want to stop.

Today, was the big mamma-jamma appointment.  I don't really know what mamma-jamma means, but it is some epic shit, I'll tell you that.  Last week I had an appointment with the tech person running the love-wand and had a pelvic ultrasound that revealed I've got some things going on that are not ideal.  (No, they didn't see baby Jesus Jr. in there during the ultrasound, FYI.)  I could have told them I was a hot mess without the love wand.  I'm the one harboring the angry uterus.  Anyway, so today I had to have the doctor go all Jacques Cousteau again and go up in there, get a piece of my uterine wall and have that sent out for a biopsy.  I know, I know, this is A LOT of information about girl parts, but hey, I had to go through it and I know a lot of others have, so it isn't a big deal.  Except it was a BIG MOTHER TRUCKING DEAL!!!!!  It hurt so freaking bad! 

I should have known it was going to be a big deal because this is the course of events.  The doctor's assistant came in and checked me in. She started by taking my blood pressure, which was way higher than normal. We chalked that up to stress, but she said she would take it again before I left. She goes on to say, "I'll be here in the room during the procedure with the doctor, just so you know.  I'll play some music and by the time the song is over, it will be all done."  Okay, whatever, distractions during the violation, I get it.  I think the pictures they have on the ceiling aren't really great for distraction, so maybe the music will do the trick. (Note: if there are any medical professionals reading this, hey, put some naked Channing Tatum on the ceiling instead of that ugly fucking cartoon cat and the puppies in the paint can.)

The assistant then starts small talk with me about doctors and their specialties.  Did you know there is a doctor that specializes in just your rectum?  Yep, not inside of it, just the rectum itself.  I'm like, okay, well, I guess someone had to be an expert on assholes, but what lead to that person saying to themselves, "I've studied all these years and I'm going to be an asshole specialist!"  Did that doctor fail the test to be a brain surgeon?  I don't want to belittle the butt-hole because it's a pretty big deal, but of all the specialties, why that?  Is medical school like in Harry Potter where you hold the hat and it tells you what specialty you get to pursue?  Weird.

The doctor comes in and we finally get down to business.  My ass is almost hanging off the table, I got my feet in the stirrups, the assistant hits the ipod and Adelle comes on singing her heart out.  I'm staring at cartoon cats, naked babies in flowers and puppies in paint cans on the ceiling when all the sudden, shit got real.  Holy Mother of all that is painful in this world!  I hear phrases like, "oh, I'm going to have to dilate her, the cervix opening is small..." (No shit, I've never spawned a baby through that hole!) "Oh, looks like things are at an angle, this isn't going to go in straight."  I'm clawing the table and the nurse assistant gal is holding my shoulder and petting me like a scared wild animal that was just pulled out of a burning house.  I started to cry.  The cramping is un-freaking-believable.  I said, "THIS BODY AIN'T MADE FOR BIRTHIN' NO BABIES!!!" By this time, Adelle is done singing and some other random Barney was on there singing.  By the time it was over, I don't know how many songs I had heard, but I knew how many expletives I had suppressed.

Finally it was over and I laid on the table as if I had just given birth to a really sharp pencil.  The doctor says I just needed a blood draw and to do a urine sample and then I could go.  This day just keeps getting better.

The blood draw was no biggie, but then the urine sample.  Men have no idea how lucky they are when it comes to this task.  Seriously.  First of all, I don't have Stretch Armstrong arms and I don't have a back-up camera or eyes on my vagina.  I'm squatting, hovering over the toilet, holding a small cup that may as well be a thimble and praying my stream of urine goes in it.  My pants are around my ankles, I'm in position, much like an Olympic skier and next thing I know, there is pee everywhere.  Mother. Trucker.  I re-negotiate my stance and fill the cup while also completely covering my hand in urine.  This is AWESOME.

I get it cleaned up and then go to pull up my underwear and pants.  Oh yeah, I totally got piss on the side of my underwear and all over the back of the leg of my jeans when I was skiing the freestyle in the downhill race.  Pretty sure this was a GOLD medal performance. This is fucking awesome.  I'm sure no one will notice.  I'm just standing there thinking, "this is awesome, my cooter hurts, I've got a band-aid on my arm from the blood draw and now I look like I was standing next to a group of guys pissing in the wind. 

Nonetheless, I pulled myself together to leave.  As soon as I walked out of the bathroom, I see the nurse.  Shit, she was supposed to take my blood pressure again.  I don't want her to get in trouble, so I say, "Hey, aren't you supposed to take my blood pressure again?"  She says, "OH YEAH!  Thank you for reminding me!"  We take it and it is 148/102, which is higher than it was when I first got there.  I told the nurse, "You just sucked a sample out of my uterus, took blood and now I've pissed myself, what did you think it was going to be?"  While amused, she was not allowed to let me leave, so she goes to get the doctor.  After much discussion of sending me to the walk-in clinic, or stopping by the Fire Station to have them check later (um hello, Firemen?  That's not going to help it go down), or having me come back later, we finally decided that I could leave, but that I needed to follow up with my regular doctor to address this high blood pressure.  We were assuming it was just pain and stress related, but need to be sure.  The doctor says, "You're not going back to work, right?"  I said, "Well, I was planning on it."  She says, "I need you to go home and CHILL OUT and not be stressed.  I do not want you at work right now."  Finally, an order I'm happy to follow.

So, I came home, chilled out and called my friend, Pal-o-mino.  I told her about the horror of the day.  She says, "yeah, I thought about telling you about that test and how bad it hurts, but I didn't want to stress you out about it.  You basically now know what labor feels like."  I can't imagine what my blood pressure would have been had she told me before hand.  

At any rate, I lived to tell the story and to over-share as only I can do on the regular.  I do have some suggestions for those of you that have not yet spawned a child via your loins and need an endometrial biopsy. 

• Get stoned before you go to the doctor.
• Get drunk before you go to the doctor.
• Do heroin before you go to the doctor.
• Stretch that shit out. Toys, vegetables, appliances, a submarine, whatever it takes.
• Don't think for one second that Adelle understands, because she doesn't.

This test is not for the faint of heart. I'm sorry I had to be the one to tell you.

Also, if you are currently in medical school and considering your options, remember the rectum.  It's special and, you don't have a lot of competition for clients.

As always, my friends, I'm leaving you with more information than you asked for.

You. Are. Welcome.

Super Cellulite Girl

I thought I would take some time today and update everyone on the progress in my life since the last blog where I had just seen the Girlie Doctor and been held hostage by Dr. Nature.

As luck would have it, the nutrient IV/hostage situation that caused me to have to lay in an uncomfortable position on my bad shoulder for hours has caused my shoulder to flare up.  I have been babying this shoulder for close to 9 years after the last cortisone shot that seemed to stabilize it. Well, now it is PISSED OFF.  So, if you add that on all my other maladies, I'm a bigger hot mess than before.  On a side note, for those of you that wanted to know how the nutrient IV went after the fact, it did make me feel better and sleep better and wake up refreshed for about a week.  So, there's that.

So, I have been going to appointments to figure out what is going on in this angry body of mine.  Still a few more to go over the next two weeks, but the one constant appointment I always make time for is my Therapy Thursday sessions with The Rug Doctor.  I visited her on a Tuesday this week, so it was more of a Train Wreck Tuesday.  Regardless of the day, I always bring the correct amount of dysfunction to the session for her to earn the co-pay.

This week I told her that I was pretty much emotionally bankrupt.  Like, all this drama with my body, not knowing what is going on and having all these pains and not sleeping made me feel utterly hopeless and honestly, a little scared.  And knowing, at some level, that so much of it is probably my fault for a lifetime of obesity. Knowing how bad I want to be healthy and just continually struggling.  I told her I am the problem, but we can't fix me, Lord knows she's tried.  I just need to do what I need to do, but I'm apparently in my own way.  She says not to be so hard on myself and that there is a balance between being kind to yourself and holding yourself accountable. And that I'm still working through issues from my childhood. I called bullshit on her, "Being kind hasn't worked.  Kindness likes cookies. I need that accountability bitch in there telling me to get my shit together." She said, "so how's that been working out?"  (Insert disapproving look here directed at therapist ) I told her that nothing I have ever tried, since birth, has ever worked for me to lose weight.  No diet, no plan, no program, not even surgery has helped.  I mean, surgery did for a short time and then all hell broke loose with my work out program and my joints and the weight all came rushing back with a vengeance.

I went on to explain, it's like I can't break through the barriers.  I said to The Rug Doctor, "It's like I'm some sort of cellulite superhero."  She looked at me confused, "A cellulite superhero?  I've never heard of that..."  I said, "Yeah, you know how the Incredible Hulk gets pissed off and he's all green and indestructible? He's a bad-ass an you can't touch him.  I'm like Super Cellulite Girl, go ahead and try and lose weight, can't be done because Super Cellulite Girl (SCG) is there to fend off any sort of healthy behavior.  The cellulite has super powers.  They grab on and multiply like fucking rabbits and I am powerless to stop them.  Cellulite is stronger than any force in the food chain or in the workout world."  She considered this and said, "But that isn't true, you were able to tap into your positive self at the beginning of January and be on track, feel good and make healthy choices."  I countered, "Yeah, because even Super Cellulite Girl has a kryptonite....HOPE.  Cassondra was attacked by hope and was temporarily hi-jacked, but then shit happened that weakened hope and then SCG came in and regained control."  I acted out punching-out hope and puffing myself up like a bad-ass with puffy cheeks.

Super Cellulite Girl. Gnarly looking bitch, isn't she?

God bless the Rug Doctor, she never gives up.  She says, "I think we can access hope again by being kind to yourself and remembering what it was like when you were successful and working out and what that felt like."  I said, "SCG has amnesia.  She doesn't dwell on times she was consumed by hope, she focuses on the daily ability to hold on to power.  She cannot be defeated.  She has a cape."

We went on to discuss how having hope may have let me down in the past and how to access it again. And also about worry and how that plays a role.  I actually said to her, straight-faced, "I don't think I worry that much.  I think maybe I should worry more."  While this is not the first time I have rendered The Rug Doctor speechless, it always gives me a small sense of satisfaction when it does happen.  I like to believe this is the part of our session where she really earned her hourly rate.  It's too much to go into, but she made her point.  I may worry more than I think.

So, at the end of the day, SCG is a reigning power in my life. She's allegedly indestructible.  I know I'm the one giving her power, I just don't always have the strength to fight her.  She will always be inside, always.  She has been there since birth.  Kind of like an X-Men gene, but in my case it is an XXL genetic mutation.  Even in the most basic of action films, there is always a way to destroy the bad guy, but then there is a sequel.  Like, is Freddy Kreuger even dead?  Jason?  They always come back.  Always lurking, waiting for the stupid teens to be unattended, or in my case, a fat girl standing outside Coldstone Creamery...sniffing the smell of waffle cone...and just like that, SCG is back in charge as fast as feeding gremlins after midnight. 

I don't know what the hell I'm going to do, honestly. This constant fight makes me feel like a failure.  It's hard to build on that. And, I know I'm not supposed to compare myself to others, but really frustrated by other people's success with programs and surgeries. SCG has defeated all of them.  And look, I've watched enough positive inspirational videos to know that that I need to say "I can" everyday and I need to change the mindset, but the reality is, my XXL genetic mutation makes it so much harder. 

I have no answers in this blog tonight, no insights, no plan of action.  It's simply where I am today.  I guess I'm going to get through this next two weeks of appointments and see where I am.  Am I getting a hysterectomy, my gall bladder out, my shoulder worked on?  OR...a lobotomy?  Let's spin the wheel and see what happens.