The hopefully final chapter in my whole Fallopian tube (take a shot!) mess happened a few weeks ago. My appointment was at 12:45 in the afternoon; I showed up wringing my hands, bracing myself for news of possible surgery in my future. We had left it a few weeks previous with the doctor saying my pregnancy hormone levels weren’t dropping quickly enough, meaning the pregnancy itself wasn’t dissolving fast enough, and we might want to consider removing the whole thing just to be safe. I was armed with a ton of research and an impassioned speech, ready to fight for it to stay, even if it is hopelessly damaged. I won’t even let my dentist take out my wisdom teeth.
At 2:30 I finally saw a doctor; not the one who had discussed surgery, another one; cute, bubbly, and, she noted while looking at my chart, the exact same age as me. I liked her immediately.
“So… surgery? What do you think?” I asked, heart pounding, feeling as brave as one can while naked and draped in a paper sheet, lying on an exam table.
“Surgery? No. You’re done! This is over.”
“This,” she said, snapping my chart closed and grinning, “is over. I don’t even need to examine you. You get to move on. And no more blood tests, either. I’m excited to be the one that gets to tell you!”
Say what? I had braced myself for nothing.
Needless to say, I’m on the hunt for a new OB practice, as much as I liked this current doctor that bounded into my exam room that day from nowhere, blond ponytail swishing, a beacon of light in an endless black sea of grumpy doctors, sour receptionists and horrible circumstance. It was good to end on a high note after so much awfulness.
But you guys! I’m done! It’s over. The zombie placenta is dead, dead fetus is gone, and I’m back. I’m OK. I survived.
I went about happy for a few weeks, then hit a really rough patch, and honestly, if you’re a dude, especially if you’re a dude and a personal friend of mine, you want to stop reading right about here if you ever want to grab an un-awkward beer with me ever again.
You know the feeling of finding out all of your friends are hanging out without you, and you know that other feeling of waiting for the boy you to call you, and he won’t, even though he totally said he would? It was that, times ten, for no good reason. Plus, my normally flawless skin broke out, and I bloated to the point that only sweatpants were comfy. It was like all the worst parts of being 15 all over again.
The only activity that sounded good was flopping on the couch eating brownies. And salt. Rob would want to have sex, and my response was something along the lines of “WHY DON’T YOU GO STICK YOUR DICK IN A LAWNMOWER INSTEAD?”
I walked around like a miserable rain cloud for a few days before it hit me that I had really horrible PMS, something I’ve never had before, even slightly. And, of course, you know what comes next. For the first time since… June? Shit. Yeah. June. Do you know how bad it is when it’s the first time since June? Really horrible. There had been occasional, mild, hormone-induced bleeding as a result of the miscarriage, but this was the real deal. I took twice the indicated amount of Advil and wished for death.
As bad as that was, I hadn’t been this relieved to get my period since the Broken Condom Incident of 2003. It was a benchmark I had drawn a line around in my head: once I got through that first period afterward, I’d be back to normal. It’s a line crossed, and now I feel officially done.
I’m looking forward to moving on, starting with an overdue Brazilian and I don’t mean on my head.
Oh yeah. I’m back.
First, though, I have to go apologize to Rob, who is hiding under the bed.