Most of my wardrobe consists of
1. Work clothes - obviously out of the question and only for use Monday to Friday when at work
2. Skinny jeans - ouch!
3. Children's t-shirts - way too tight
4. Leggings - not with that bandage and scar
5. Mini skirts - not with those unsexy surgical stockings
On Monday evening (23rd of January), I moved to Anna's and asked if I could go to my flat to pick up some things. I love clothes and my unique style plus wanted some normality and familiarity in an abnormal and unfamiliar situation.
Zoe accompanied me in a taxi and yes taxi rides and lifts are still quite traumatic. I saw my post fumigation flat and then scrabbled around for clothes.
Luckily, I planned and bought some drawstring trousers..cheap from Asda and there were some t-shirts over age 10. A limited choice but still that was something.
It all fades into insignificance when I've got to wear surgical stockings. Fugly is not the word. At least I'm hardly out on the pull right now and am only available for trusted and close friends.
Monday 31 January 2011
Sunday 30 January 2011
The worry list
Organisation is not my strong point and worrying is something I do as a matter of a course. Why not marry the two and make a list?
Without my 'to-do' list at work, I'm lost. With no to-do list to write and also nothing to do, I have time to worry and think far too many 'what ifs' which I always find time to do during busier times.
After a sleepless night and uncontrollable tears, (part of the post hysterectomy course) Andrew emerged and saw me looking quite distressed. 'All right, our Lil?'. No, of course I wasn't. This is where he suggested the 'Worry List'. It's simple.
1. Write down the worry
2. Share it with a friend
3. Think of how to manage it
Why didn't I think of this before? Probably, because the sharing bit freaks me out.
Worry List - 24th of January
1. Being a burden to others. An imposition and a pain. I suspect one friend has fucked off quite quickly. Who's next?
2. BUPA - something's not clear about the payments...did they? do I? who does? how do we find out?
3. IMSS - they need something and I don't know how to get it and who can get it
4. Anxiety and Insomnia - is it slowing down or hampering my recovery
5. Don't like this being ill lark
Andrew and I went for a walk and a successful one this time for a coffee. Time to share and talk though the list. Oh shite..
Actually, this helped a lot. Anna was straight on the case with the IMSS thing. No one's pissed off with me and in fact Andrew commented that my recovery has brought people together. Lets hope that at least something good has come out of it all (apart from my new and improved health and no periods)
Filled with new energy, I tackled the BUPA thing. I got some vague answers with impressive customer service so all seems OK. Then, I discussed things with my manager. Big mistake.
Understandably, she's under pressure. But also, I've had major surgery and as much as I hate milking things, there are ways of talking to people.
She was harsh..and made me cry. All that hard work unravelled and I was back to where I started. She accused me of being demanding, and making demands on others. Exactly what was at the crux of my worry list. Wow..she really does have the knack of detecting someone's low point.
I'm emotional at the best of times.. Post op..it's gone mad. Like, last night we're about to have dinner and then we all clink glasses to 'Liz's health', I start sobbing.
Anyway, by the end of the afternoon, all is resolved. IMSS and BUPA were the big ones. In fact the hospital sorted out. No apology from manager but an acknowledgement that my priority is to recover.
It wasn't a day of downfalls but a few achievements too. I had my first real poos on that day. Hurrah!
Without my 'to-do' list at work, I'm lost. With no to-do list to write and also nothing to do, I have time to worry and think far too many 'what ifs' which I always find time to do during busier times.
After a sleepless night and uncontrollable tears, (part of the post hysterectomy course) Andrew emerged and saw me looking quite distressed. 'All right, our Lil?'. No, of course I wasn't. This is where he suggested the 'Worry List'. It's simple.
1. Write down the worry
2. Share it with a friend
3. Think of how to manage it
Why didn't I think of this before? Probably, because the sharing bit freaks me out.
Worry List - 24th of January
1. Being a burden to others. An imposition and a pain. I suspect one friend has fucked off quite quickly. Who's next?
2. BUPA - something's not clear about the payments...did they? do I? who does? how do we find out?
3. IMSS - they need something and I don't know how to get it and who can get it
4. Anxiety and Insomnia - is it slowing down or hampering my recovery
5. Don't like this being ill lark
Andrew and I went for a walk and a successful one this time for a coffee. Time to share and talk though the list. Oh shite..
Actually, this helped a lot. Anna was straight on the case with the IMSS thing. No one's pissed off with me and in fact Andrew commented that my recovery has brought people together. Lets hope that at least something good has come out of it all (apart from my new and improved health and no periods)
Filled with new energy, I tackled the BUPA thing. I got some vague answers with impressive customer service so all seems OK. Then, I discussed things with my manager. Big mistake.
Understandably, she's under pressure. But also, I've had major surgery and as much as I hate milking things, there are ways of talking to people.
She was harsh..and made me cry. All that hard work unravelled and I was back to where I started. She accused me of being demanding, and making demands on others. Exactly what was at the crux of my worry list. Wow..she really does have the knack of detecting someone's low point.
I'm emotional at the best of times.. Post op..it's gone mad. Like, last night we're about to have dinner and then we all clink glasses to 'Liz's health', I start sobbing.
Anyway, by the end of the afternoon, all is resolved. IMSS and BUPA were the big ones. In fact the hospital sorted out. No apology from manager but an acknowledgement that my priority is to recover.
It wasn't a day of downfalls but a few achievements too. I had my first real poos on that day. Hurrah!
Friday 28 January 2011
An adventure outside...
Time for a Sunday afternoon stroll to blow away the cobwebs. Not that there were any of my usual cobwebs to blow away caused by the aftermath of Saturday night frolics and tomfoolery. More that I wanted to try and push myself.
Not a great idea and seems to go against all hysterectomy advice..but anyway, I always do things differently.
Debbie needed to go to the market and run a couple of errands and I came with her. Walking down the stairs was really tough and perhaps I should've turned back then. But no..I'm a determined, little bugger if I want to be.
I've always compared Mexico to life on a mild acid trip. With the pain, the sun and the fact I'd been (trying and failing) to be sedentary for a few days, I was assaulted by a full hit of colours and noise. Usually, I love all of this and I get the sense and feeling that I am indeed in Mexico. That Sunday...it was way too much.
Then coupled with the wobbly pavements and more to the point, feeling really self conscious about my rather slow and clumsy walking, I couldn't wait to escape back to the comfortable sanctuary of their flat and hide. I couldn't stand the slowness..I usually pace at lightening speed but now I was only getting frustrated.
The market was frightening. Again, going against something I usually love (though the noise can be jarring with a hangover). Right next to the chicken stall, my temperature rose and it all went spinning. Or could it be that I'm vegan and was getting slightly repulsed.
Zoe phoned and she was near. I dropped the strong brave act and mumbled, 'I can't do it. Can we rest on the pavement?'
So there it was. My first attempt. Looks like things are going to move very slowly...
Not a great idea and seems to go against all hysterectomy advice..but anyway, I always do things differently.
Debbie needed to go to the market and run a couple of errands and I came with her. Walking down the stairs was really tough and perhaps I should've turned back then. But no..I'm a determined, little bugger if I want to be.
I've always compared Mexico to life on a mild acid trip. With the pain, the sun and the fact I'd been (trying and failing) to be sedentary for a few days, I was assaulted by a full hit of colours and noise. Usually, I love all of this and I get the sense and feeling that I am indeed in Mexico. That Sunday...it was way too much.
Then coupled with the wobbly pavements and more to the point, feeling really self conscious about my rather slow and clumsy walking, I couldn't wait to escape back to the comfortable sanctuary of their flat and hide. I couldn't stand the slowness..I usually pace at lightening speed but now I was only getting frustrated.
The market was frightening. Again, going against something I usually love (though the noise can be jarring with a hangover). Right next to the chicken stall, my temperature rose and it all went spinning. Or could it be that I'm vegan and was getting slightly repulsed.
Zoe phoned and she was near. I dropped the strong brave act and mumbled, 'I can't do it. Can we rest on the pavement?'
So there it was. My first attempt. Looks like things are going to move very slowly...
Thursday 27 January 2011
Saturday night = Party time
A post about a party does seem a trifle incongruous on a blog about recovering from a hysterectomy. However, that's what happened on the night I came out of hospital. That's what I usually do on a Saturday afternoon and why break a habit of a lifetime?
I began to indulge early on by allowing myself the first cigarette in three days. Yes, I know the arguments but can I have just one vice for the next month or so? I'm vegan and eat all the right things. I doubt very much I'll drink alcohol and sex is clearly out of the question. Slight headrush but I was happy to be reunited with my old friend.
I was moving to Andrew and Debbie's for a couple of days as I'm not quite ready to live by myself as yet. A pity but I know my limitations.
I arrive and straight away make a beeline for my new home - the sofa bed. I need to lie down. Meltdowns, discharged, one flat, another flat, stairs, drives - it's all been far too hectic for one day. Then we realise I left soya milk and margarine so cheap that it doesn't contain dairy at my friend's flat. Having milk is not an option for me. Also, dairy is not recommended for a post hysterectomy diet. Great! One to silence the vegan sceptics.
The wine and conversation was flowing freely. I was slightly out of it. Not because I need alcohol to have a good time though it certainly helps, but my mind was full of operations and besides I was way too tired to talk. It felt like the scene in The L Word - season 3 where Dana (after a mastectomy) has a party in her honour yet she is way too tired and ill to be the life and soul despite being the centre of attention. Nobody minded and more to the point, everyone understood. It was lovely to see everyone too.
We watched a highly dodgy pirate copy of 'Burlesque' (not my choice of film..) and couldn't really join in the debate anyway. Not that I would if I was completely well.
I began to indulge early on by allowing myself the first cigarette in three days. Yes, I know the arguments but can I have just one vice for the next month or so? I'm vegan and eat all the right things. I doubt very much I'll drink alcohol and sex is clearly out of the question. Slight headrush but I was happy to be reunited with my old friend.
I was moving to Andrew and Debbie's for a couple of days as I'm not quite ready to live by myself as yet. A pity but I know my limitations.
I arrive and straight away make a beeline for my new home - the sofa bed. I need to lie down. Meltdowns, discharged, one flat, another flat, stairs, drives - it's all been far too hectic for one day. Then we realise I left soya milk and margarine so cheap that it doesn't contain dairy at my friend's flat. Having milk is not an option for me. Also, dairy is not recommended for a post hysterectomy diet. Great! One to silence the vegan sceptics.
The wine and conversation was flowing freely. I was slightly out of it. Not because I need alcohol to have a good time though it certainly helps, but my mind was full of operations and besides I was way too tired to talk. It felt like the scene in The L Word - season 3 where Dana (after a mastectomy) has a party in her honour yet she is way too tired and ill to be the life and soul despite being the centre of attention. Nobody minded and more to the point, everyone understood. It was lovely to see everyone too.
We watched a highly dodgy pirate copy of 'Burlesque' (not my choice of film..) and couldn't really join in the debate anyway. Not that I would if I was completely well.
Shudda, wudda, cudda..
The perennial question designed to torture someone after a decision especially one which could've had a different outcome. As a slightly neurotic type, one which I ask on an alarmingly frequent basis.
This resounding mantra has been jarring on my brain since I was diagnosed with an out of control tumour; the size of an orange and worryingly, had been there for over 2 years. So, I'm going to recount a few incidents where I could've been diagnosed, should've sought medical help and then there wouldn't have been the operation and the reasons why I didn't.
Madrid - July 2006
I spent two months in Madrid working hard on my Cambridge DELTA, a qualification essential to my career in ELT and one which I couldn't afford to screw up. The course itself is quite gruelling in terms of volume of work but all in all worth it. The weekend before an important assessed lesson, I got the severe cramps. Blinding ones. I tried everything - hot water bottle, hot bath, painkillers. The lot. I even vomited. Begona who I rented the room from caught me curled up in the bath, crying my eyes out and moaning in pain. She cancelled her weekend with her family and tried to persuade me to go to the hospital. I refused. It would pass and I had an assignment to write and a lesson to prepare. Maybe at that point, the doctors would've found the tumour and perhaps could've treated it there and then. But on the downside, it would've meant 'Bye, bye DELTA' and the opportunity to gain a career boosting qualification.
Damascus - February 2007
Tuesday evening with my Advanced group. I'm just setting up the activity and wham! A juggernaut smack in the womb with a medicine ball. Luckily, the toilets were right next to the classroom so I fled quickly and retched with the pain. Two learners came after me. One randomly said, 'you should stop smoking'.' It's my womb, you silly cow!' I almost snapped back but I managed to retain professionalism.
Somehow, I got upstairs to the staffroom and lay on the floor. One of the girls kindly brought up a cup of tea only to be rebuked by one of the teachers. We got the only available first aider, one of the security staff, who wrapped me up in a prayer mat before hoisting me to the hospital. The issue was that I was in a majority Moslem and conservative society where the P word is not discussed between man and wife and certainly not between colleagues. I was surrounded by Syrian men and trying to tell them that my periods are killing me may not have got through. Thankfully, I was given something strong to relieve the pain and I could leave. I am highly dubious if they even knew it was my period. I later heard that the security guard told everyone 'Liz ate bad food.'
Oaxaca - July 2010
The worst time to come on has to be the first day of a month long backpacking trip through Mexico and then around Guatamala. It has been commented that my menstrual cycle often works in tandem with travel plans. I'm in Oaxaca and staying with a friend for a couple of days. I was wandering around in the pissing rain and then 'splat!!!'. An unexpected bout of severe pains. In an internet cafe of all places. I tried to buy pills only to be met by pharmacists mocking my rather broken Spanish. It got worse and worse so I phoned my friend and asked for her address so I could take a taxi back, dose on pills and be miserable for a while. Now, this friend is a little special. The practicalities of knowing an address escape her. I struggled to retrace my steps with blurred vision and then I found her house. I stumbled in and waited for it to pass. My friend returned and gave me some of her super powerful muscle relaxant period pain killers, waited for it to pass and then we went out to eat and have a couple of drinks a few hours later. Although, I love this friend a lot, practicalities escape her. If she forgot her address then I doubt very much she could assist with a nearby doctor. The pain passed too. And also, for a few hours of extreme pain, I got to complete my summer plan and it would be a pity to throw that away.
Of course, I have researched benign fibroid uterine tumours and have found that there are alternative treatments. Ultimately, most women still need a hysterectomy after a while. They have a nasty habit of recurring and the treatment can damage the uterus walls. So even if I got treatment early on which would have disrupted my life events, it looks like I would face a few years of time consuming and most probably expensive treatments in contexts which may not even have it available.
As the old adage goes, 'better out than in.'
This resounding mantra has been jarring on my brain since I was diagnosed with an out of control tumour; the size of an orange and worryingly, had been there for over 2 years. So, I'm going to recount a few incidents where I could've been diagnosed, should've sought medical help and then there wouldn't have been the operation and the reasons why I didn't.
Madrid - July 2006
I spent two months in Madrid working hard on my Cambridge DELTA, a qualification essential to my career in ELT and one which I couldn't afford to screw up. The course itself is quite gruelling in terms of volume of work but all in all worth it. The weekend before an important assessed lesson, I got the severe cramps. Blinding ones. I tried everything - hot water bottle, hot bath, painkillers. The lot. I even vomited. Begona who I rented the room from caught me curled up in the bath, crying my eyes out and moaning in pain. She cancelled her weekend with her family and tried to persuade me to go to the hospital. I refused. It would pass and I had an assignment to write and a lesson to prepare. Maybe at that point, the doctors would've found the tumour and perhaps could've treated it there and then. But on the downside, it would've meant 'Bye, bye DELTA' and the opportunity to gain a career boosting qualification.
Damascus - February 2007
Tuesday evening with my Advanced group. I'm just setting up the activity and wham! A juggernaut smack in the womb with a medicine ball. Luckily, the toilets were right next to the classroom so I fled quickly and retched with the pain. Two learners came after me. One randomly said, 'you should stop smoking'.' It's my womb, you silly cow!' I almost snapped back but I managed to retain professionalism.
Somehow, I got upstairs to the staffroom and lay on the floor. One of the girls kindly brought up a cup of tea only to be rebuked by one of the teachers. We got the only available first aider, one of the security staff, who wrapped me up in a prayer mat before hoisting me to the hospital. The issue was that I was in a majority Moslem and conservative society where the P word is not discussed between man and wife and certainly not between colleagues. I was surrounded by Syrian men and trying to tell them that my periods are killing me may not have got through. Thankfully, I was given something strong to relieve the pain and I could leave. I am highly dubious if they even knew it was my period. I later heard that the security guard told everyone 'Liz ate bad food.'
Oaxaca - July 2010
The worst time to come on has to be the first day of a month long backpacking trip through Mexico and then around Guatamala. It has been commented that my menstrual cycle often works in tandem with travel plans. I'm in Oaxaca and staying with a friend for a couple of days. I was wandering around in the pissing rain and then 'splat!!!'. An unexpected bout of severe pains. In an internet cafe of all places. I tried to buy pills only to be met by pharmacists mocking my rather broken Spanish. It got worse and worse so I phoned my friend and asked for her address so I could take a taxi back, dose on pills and be miserable for a while. Now, this friend is a little special. The practicalities of knowing an address escape her. I struggled to retrace my steps with blurred vision and then I found her house. I stumbled in and waited for it to pass. My friend returned and gave me some of her super powerful muscle relaxant period pain killers, waited for it to pass and then we went out to eat and have a couple of drinks a few hours later. Although, I love this friend a lot, practicalities escape her. If she forgot her address then I doubt very much she could assist with a nearby doctor. The pain passed too. And also, for a few hours of extreme pain, I got to complete my summer plan and it would be a pity to throw that away.
Of course, I have researched benign fibroid uterine tumours and have found that there are alternative treatments. Ultimately, most women still need a hysterectomy after a while. They have a nasty habit of recurring and the treatment can damage the uterus walls. So even if I got treatment early on which would have disrupted my life events, it looks like I would face a few years of time consuming and most probably expensive treatments in contexts which may not even have it available.
As the old adage goes, 'better out than in.'
To breed or not...
One of the most annoying questions implied or not was about the kids issue. This assumed that I wanted them which really I never did. Of course, I did occasionally think that I've lost that option but if it was an option that I never took, then was it really an option. If I really wanted a child (partnered, married or not), I have enough biological knowledge to create one. No, I didn't.
I like the implicit way people expressed concern about my tumours and at the time, pending hysterectomy. 'You are so young!' some would exclaim meaning that I haven't gone through menopause so can still reproduce or at least have that potential. What happens if I never wanted that potential in the first place? What would be my other options? Magic the tumour away until menopause. Find a doctor who has some amazing new treatment which will somehow kill the tumour and resurrect my rather fucked womb. Or suffer, suffer, suffer until I'm in my mid to late 40's and hold on for some non invasive treatment which doesn't involve removing an organ and the ability to procreate.
As far as I can see, there were no options for a problem which could progressively get really serious along with some dangerous implications for my health and wellbeing.
Some have asked about adoption. Maybe in the future, this could be an option and it's always good to have one. I am adopted myself and know that this has many positive sides.
But..the bottom line is that I love my life child free. Before I knew I was infertile, I often described myself as 'childfree by choice' and will continue to do so post hysterectomy life. I don't even like children so why fulfil a role and an expectation to be a mother for something I'm not going to even enjoy.
For those of you who still pity me for not ever having children, believe me, there are far more worthier causes in the world.
I like the implicit way people expressed concern about my tumours and at the time, pending hysterectomy. 'You are so young!' some would exclaim meaning that I haven't gone through menopause so can still reproduce or at least have that potential. What happens if I never wanted that potential in the first place? What would be my other options? Magic the tumour away until menopause. Find a doctor who has some amazing new treatment which will somehow kill the tumour and resurrect my rather fucked womb. Or suffer, suffer, suffer until I'm in my mid to late 40's and hold on for some non invasive treatment which doesn't involve removing an organ and the ability to procreate.
As far as I can see, there were no options for a problem which could progressively get really serious along with some dangerous implications for my health and wellbeing.
Some have asked about adoption. Maybe in the future, this could be an option and it's always good to have one. I am adopted myself and know that this has many positive sides.
But..the bottom line is that I love my life child free. Before I knew I was infertile, I often described myself as 'childfree by choice' and will continue to do so post hysterectomy life. I don't even like children so why fulfil a role and an expectation to be a mother for something I'm not going to even enjoy.
For those of you who still pity me for not ever having children, believe me, there are far more worthier causes in the world.
Wednesday 26 January 2011
Patientzilla
It''s day three and Friday and I haven't had a meltdown as yet. Looks like there's one due.
I began to get stroppy with the constant stream of interruptions for tests which are essential and it's the medical staff's job but found it intrusive. After eating, I wanted to piss around on facebook but couldn't move the tray. More stress. Yes, it was about time I left the hospital.
Oh yes, the nurses removed all the tubes and the catheter by Friday morning. Thank god. I tried to get out of bed and faced a huge head rush so it looked my plan to sneak out for a fag was probably not the best. Still, I showered by myself and wore my specially purchased post hysterectomy pyjamas emblazoned with 'Moody Cow'. God bless Primark.
Meltdown number one was over that I really needed to dump. Yes, I know that's not pretty but hysterectomies cause the most terrible constipation and for one who is usually quite regular, this was driving me a bit mad. As I was in the process of meltdown behaviour, two nurses came to check my blood pressure. They wondered why I was crying, then began to speak (quite quickly) in Spanish. If it's simple, I'm able to keep up. At full speed, I get frustrated at the best of times. In pain and panicking why I couldn't shit, I was getting more and more blocked (literally). To make it worse, they summoned two more nurses and all I wanted to do was to tell someone, 'I want a poo and please give me some surgical strength laxatives'. Really, their presence was superfluous and I was getting claustrophobic. Eventually, they found someone who could speak English and then I explain my needs in a calm manner. Simply, I'd forgotten how to say 'poo' in Spanish.
Meltdown number two had a more eclectic cause. It all began when I realised that I was on my own here. Of course, I've got a lot of friends and very good friends at that, but I have a huge hang up about being needy and asking for help. I hate it. I facebooked a few friends and couldn't stop crying about it. Then after sleeping, reread the email and cried more and more. Denise phoned over something about blood and bloodbanks and really I was confused. The meltdown intensified to scale number 8. I kept on sobbing, 'I'm in imposition!'. To make it worse, the threeway conversation brought up something about payment and medical bills. More tears and also the last thing I wanted was to drag my boss down here, see her disapproving looks and create more of a meltdown. Doctor Quiroz y Ferrari put it down to lack of Spanish and was reluctant to discharge me in such an emotional statement. I just wanted to leave.
In both cases, they asked 'Donde es su amigo?' Roberto had shown a lot of kindness, patience (x 10,000) and was there to calm me down. I couldn't ask any more of him. Besides he had his own plans this weekend and the poor guy was getting a bit of an identity crisis in the hospital - translator? husband? relative?. Simply, he was just a friend who wanted to help.
Thai friend turned up to collect me and we muddled on in our A1 Spanish. She got me a wheelchair, somehow the payment thing would be solved later and then it was off to rest in her lovely flat in Condessa for a few hours.
I left the hospital in a wheelchair wearing sunglasses. A true Amy Winehouse touch
I began to get stroppy with the constant stream of interruptions for tests which are essential and it's the medical staff's job but found it intrusive. After eating, I wanted to piss around on facebook but couldn't move the tray. More stress. Yes, it was about time I left the hospital.
Oh yes, the nurses removed all the tubes and the catheter by Friday morning. Thank god. I tried to get out of bed and faced a huge head rush so it looked my plan to sneak out for a fag was probably not the best. Still, I showered by myself and wore my specially purchased post hysterectomy pyjamas emblazoned with 'Moody Cow'. God bless Primark.
Meltdown number one was over that I really needed to dump. Yes, I know that's not pretty but hysterectomies cause the most terrible constipation and for one who is usually quite regular, this was driving me a bit mad. As I was in the process of meltdown behaviour, two nurses came to check my blood pressure. They wondered why I was crying, then began to speak (quite quickly) in Spanish. If it's simple, I'm able to keep up. At full speed, I get frustrated at the best of times. In pain and panicking why I couldn't shit, I was getting more and more blocked (literally). To make it worse, they summoned two more nurses and all I wanted to do was to tell someone, 'I want a poo and please give me some surgical strength laxatives'. Really, their presence was superfluous and I was getting claustrophobic. Eventually, they found someone who could speak English and then I explain my needs in a calm manner. Simply, I'd forgotten how to say 'poo' in Spanish.
Meltdown number two had a more eclectic cause. It all began when I realised that I was on my own here. Of course, I've got a lot of friends and very good friends at that, but I have a huge hang up about being needy and asking for help. I hate it. I facebooked a few friends and couldn't stop crying about it. Then after sleeping, reread the email and cried more and more. Denise phoned over something about blood and bloodbanks and really I was confused. The meltdown intensified to scale number 8. I kept on sobbing, 'I'm in imposition!'. To make it worse, the threeway conversation brought up something about payment and medical bills. More tears and also the last thing I wanted was to drag my boss down here, see her disapproving looks and create more of a meltdown. Doctor Quiroz y Ferrari put it down to lack of Spanish and was reluctant to discharge me in such an emotional statement. I just wanted to leave.
In both cases, they asked 'Donde es su amigo?' Roberto had shown a lot of kindness, patience (x 10,000) and was there to calm me down. I couldn't ask any more of him. Besides he had his own plans this weekend and the poor guy was getting a bit of an identity crisis in the hospital - translator? husband? relative?. Simply, he was just a friend who wanted to help.
Thai friend turned up to collect me and we muddled on in our A1 Spanish. She got me a wheelchair, somehow the payment thing would be solved later and then it was off to rest in her lovely flat in Condessa for a few hours.
I left the hospital in a wheelchair wearing sunglasses. A true Amy Winehouse touch
The aftermath
Woke up after one of the most traumatic nights ever, feeling surprisingly chilled, even spritely. Then the nurse came in to explain the next procedure - a bath in bed. Usually I would be all queasy with the intrusiveness of such things but I was quite looking forward to it.
I got a morning visitor, Anna, just as the nurses arrived with sponges. Roberto excused himself to go for a coffee (or was he becoming worried that the staff might think he had some medical fetish). Anna has no fear and a pertinent sense of curiosity so I was quite happy for her to stay and chat. Lovely bath as well which in the meantime, Denise arrived to say hello and update me on the one week incapacidad. I got one without even seeing a doctor. God knows how that happened but it did. And after living in several high context cultures, I should know better than to question this any more. It just happens. Denise commented I looked fabulous. For a post hysterectomy patient? If only she had seen me a few hours earlier.
They brought me food and adhered to my vegan request and yes..managed to eat some of it. The wifi worked so could catch up with my mum on Skype. She was obviously anxious for the past day so for once used the webcam so she could see me. Usually, she calls at Sunday lunchtime and webcam is forbidden as I'm still in bed. This time, I had every excuse to be in bed. Oh yes, one work related email....WTF?? which was sent as I was actually under the knife. Told the recipient straight that this was inappropriate and wait until I am ready to receive anything work related. i.e. in one month's time.
The day passed with nurses checking my blood pressure, me not doing much, friends visiting and more nasty pains. Thankfully, the nurse injected me with morphine immediately. I was dubious after seeing my dad in the final stages of cancer totally out of it on morphine. I must have had a lower dose as all I did was sleep and didn't hear Roberto return from his meeting. Well, I was actually not moving for once.
Blood bath
The pain began to surge to 8.5 or a possible 9 on the pain scale. I was aware that there was a lot of blood. This time, it wasn't caused by tumours so what the hell was it? Also, after all the stress and a hysterectomy, I was doomed to suffer in the same way as before the operation. Life really wasn't fair.
I was reluctant to wake Roberto. The man loves his sleep much more than I do. However, he sleeps like a cat and will wake up at the slightest sound so it was a matter of time before I heard, 'What's up, Liz?'
I explained the intense pains and more worryingly the bleeding. He pressed the help button for the nurses to see what was wrong. It seemed like a lifetime and the pain was rapidly becoming worse by the second. He was concerned that I was moving around a lot as always but at this point, nothing could settle me and certainly getting comfortable was out of the question. We needed to get proactive and at least make sure that the bleeding wasn't causing too much discomfort. Bless him, he changed my sanitary towels for me. He offered. I was reluctant for obvious reasons but there was no other option. All this with a tube coming out of my vagina. Now, I hope that he never has to do this again for another woman in his life. Or I have to ask a man or a woman to do that for me ever again though as I'll never have a hysterectomy again, the chances are minimal.
The nurse arrived and the first thing was to change the bed and sheets. I was in agony. Again, the order of the events are scattered and things may not read particularly coherently right now. I do remember one nurse or doctor (her uniform was different) brandishing a syringe which went straight into my arse cheek. Apparently, the painkiller was enough to put a horse to sleep. The best we could was sit and wait for it to take effect. We waited and I still felt worse. More (gentle) telling offs about moving and me too much in pain to protest. Heard that...I couldn't really answer back or protest.
The super strong horse tranquilliser failed to work. I was desperately rubbing my stomach in some attempt to soothe the pain. Roberto asked me 'Are you wanking?' (my fault he knows that word) to which I thought or maybe vocalised that right now, I certainly wasn't feeling horny. The doctor/nurse returned with plastic gloves. I knew this involved fingers. She asked Roberto to leave the room to protect my modesty. The man had just been changing my sanitary towels and there was nothing left to hide anymore. Also, I wanted him there. It was all getting far too 'Doctor House' for my liking.
At some point later, a doctor arrived who could speak English. I was concerned that I had stretched Roberto's translation skills a lot and he needed sleep as he commented, 'it's going to be a long night'. I think at that point, I fell asleep so maybe it had just gone or the cocktail of painkillers had finally kicked in.
The doctor returned, more fingerings but with less blood and pain. Basically, as I lack the ability to sit still, I had abnormal bleeding because the catheter had cut me slightly inside. She commented that I'm hyperactive (so bring on the sedatives then) and needed to rest more.
Now, I've had an interesting array of accidents but being cut by a catheter may have topped the charts. And possibly that of others in my accident prone friends crew.
Where's my uterus?!
After being wheeled into the theatre, it was all a blur...I don't recall seeing Doctor Quiroz y Ferreri (my surgeon) at any time though I think he was there. Or more to the point, obviously he was there. The anaesthetist talking about epidurals and making me sleep and someone being introduced as a my 'right hand man' and me being impressed by the use of English. Then nothing. At least the anaesthetist did his job.
Cloudily, I emerged from some deep deep sleep. All of my body felt weird. Well it would, wouldn't it? I went immediately for my abdomen and yes, one scar and swaddled in a huge bandage. One Total Abdominal Hysterectomy (TAH) done. My legs felt numb due to the epidural and also, I sensed I was wearing something heavy. It was impossible. I was wearing that arse revealing gown but somehow, some thick ugly white stockings had appeared while I was asleep. I would have challenged that for sure if I was conscious. As for my feelings, I couldn't stop smiling. Not sure was I high or the fact that the operation felt successful.
People kept on coming to inspect me. Somehow, I found the ability to mumble coherently in Spanish which is erratic at the best times. Or maybe 'tengo mucho dolor' is a high frequency phrase which is within my CEF A1 Spanish capabilities. They all seemed happy at least which was comforting. No shaking heads and lowered voices as seen on 'Doctor House ' and 'Grey's Anatomy' when there's been complications.
As always, I get bored quickly. I was over the recovery room and the sombreness and feeling tetchy. I had a feeling that it was 5pm and Roberto might be on time. At that point, I might have said 'mi amigo estoy esperando'. A few minutes later, another porter came who looked a bit like my friend. Probably not. He had the same glasses and similar colouring. I wasn't wearing glasses and just had a major operation. I got all excited but logic took over at that point so at least he was spared a hug.
One of the bulkier guys hoisted me on another trolley. What a waste. They could've chosen a weedier one. Then the lift door open and I spied Roberto. I can't remember how we acknowledged each other but we did. He was waiting on floor four. Kissed my forehead and asked the porter if the operation went well (in Spanish). Once more, I was carried to my bed and left to have a post op conversation with a really good friend which was actually about the poor guy had fallen victim to a cloned card. This was followed by some exploration of my room and his for the night. The thing is with men is call it something with a tinge of adventure and they are up for it...camping, a mission, couchsurfing etc..and they get all excited. Neither of us are materialistic (him far less than me) but of course we were both impressed when the DVD rental lady came with her catalogue, wifi and a private bathroom.
Doctor Quiroz came to tell me the operation was a success in Spanglish and then I answered in Spanglish. Also, while he was removing the main culprit, he unearthed more little tumours. Ugh. I asked about weeing to which he explained the catheter..duh and how it will all be in a bag under my bed. Oh yes and the thick white hold up stockings are for circulatory reasons. And yes, like all hold ups they are none small enough to go round my thighs.
More friends arrived....Andrew, his BF and later Zoe. Andrew brought plastic flowers for me. How lovely and took away the business hotel feel to the room. Andrew discovered the white mop cap so naturally was forced to wear it for a photo session. And why not? Women have their photos taken immediately after the birth of a baby. Why not after a hysterectomy?
Later, this became my profile picture on facebook. Poor taste? Well, I did say that I never knew the hysterectomy protocol.
My visitors were flagging as I was though I cannot define exactly what I was feeling. I definitely was a little hyper as always and probably not a great idea for a post hysterectomy patient. It could be that in the morning, I'm battling against the morning commuters and then a few hours later, I'm in a hospital bed tubes out of my arm and my fanny and minus a uterus. Or they promised to give me sedatives after the operation which either they forgot or a case of 'the drugs don't work'.
And the thirst...it was getting painful. Nil by mouth for now 24 hours was really grating. They had to Florence Nightingale around dabbing my lips with wet tissues. I didn't dare mention at that point, my nicotine levels were getting dangerously low.
Roberto returned with the films. Thank god, he likes them intellectual and a bit dark too. We watched 'The Orchid Thief' while I flitted in and out of sleep. Then it was time for both of us to turn in. It had been (to put it mildly) a heavy day.
One friend phoned at 11:15pm. She either forgot or didn't have time to call earlier. All I remember saying to her, 'I'm bleeding heavily and I've got intense pains. There's something wrong'
Cloudily, I emerged from some deep deep sleep. All of my body felt weird. Well it would, wouldn't it? I went immediately for my abdomen and yes, one scar and swaddled in a huge bandage. One Total Abdominal Hysterectomy (TAH) done. My legs felt numb due to the epidural and also, I sensed I was wearing something heavy. It was impossible. I was wearing that arse revealing gown but somehow, some thick ugly white stockings had appeared while I was asleep. I would have challenged that for sure if I was conscious. As for my feelings, I couldn't stop smiling. Not sure was I high or the fact that the operation felt successful.
People kept on coming to inspect me. Somehow, I found the ability to mumble coherently in Spanish which is erratic at the best times. Or maybe 'tengo mucho dolor' is a high frequency phrase which is within my CEF A1 Spanish capabilities. They all seemed happy at least which was comforting. No shaking heads and lowered voices as seen on 'Doctor House ' and 'Grey's Anatomy' when there's been complications.
As always, I get bored quickly. I was over the recovery room and the sombreness and feeling tetchy. I had a feeling that it was 5pm and Roberto might be on time. At that point, I might have said 'mi amigo estoy esperando'. A few minutes later, another porter came who looked a bit like my friend. Probably not. He had the same glasses and similar colouring. I wasn't wearing glasses and just had a major operation. I got all excited but logic took over at that point so at least he was spared a hug.
One of the bulkier guys hoisted me on another trolley. What a waste. They could've chosen a weedier one. Then the lift door open and I spied Roberto. I can't remember how we acknowledged each other but we did. He was waiting on floor four. Kissed my forehead and asked the porter if the operation went well (in Spanish). Once more, I was carried to my bed and left to have a post op conversation with a really good friend which was actually about the poor guy had fallen victim to a cloned card. This was followed by some exploration of my room and his for the night. The thing is with men is call it something with a tinge of adventure and they are up for it...camping, a mission, couchsurfing etc..and they get all excited. Neither of us are materialistic (him far less than me) but of course we were both impressed when the DVD rental lady came with her catalogue, wifi and a private bathroom.
Doctor Quiroz came to tell me the operation was a success in Spanglish and then I answered in Spanglish. Also, while he was removing the main culprit, he unearthed more little tumours. Ugh. I asked about weeing to which he explained the catheter..duh and how it will all be in a bag under my bed. Oh yes and the thick white hold up stockings are for circulatory reasons. And yes, like all hold ups they are none small enough to go round my thighs.
More friends arrived....Andrew, his BF and later Zoe. Andrew brought plastic flowers for me. How lovely and took away the business hotel feel to the room. Andrew discovered the white mop cap so naturally was forced to wear it for a photo session. And why not? Women have their photos taken immediately after the birth of a baby. Why not after a hysterectomy?
My visitors were flagging as I was though I cannot define exactly what I was feeling. I definitely was a little hyper as always and probably not a great idea for a post hysterectomy patient. It could be that in the morning, I'm battling against the morning commuters and then a few hours later, I'm in a hospital bed tubes out of my arm and my fanny and minus a uterus. Or they promised to give me sedatives after the operation which either they forgot or a case of 'the drugs don't work'.
And the thirst...it was getting painful. Nil by mouth for now 24 hours was really grating. They had to Florence Nightingale around dabbing my lips with wet tissues. I didn't dare mention at that point, my nicotine levels were getting dangerously low.
Roberto returned with the films. Thank god, he likes them intellectual and a bit dark too. We watched 'The Orchid Thief' while I flitted in and out of sleep. Then it was time for both of us to turn in. It had been (to put it mildly) a heavy day.
One friend phoned at 11:15pm. She either forgot or didn't have time to call earlier. All I remember saying to her, 'I'm bleeding heavily and I've got intense pains. There's something wrong'
Tuesday 25 January 2011
Pre H Day Procedures
Early start and no shower (bloody cold water) but at least I was in a private hospital with my own room and ensuite so could have one there. Strict instructions for 'nil by mouth' until the op but I sneakily cleaned my teeth. Then, I debated was having a cigarette breaking the 'nil by mouth' rule. Then decided against it. I left my flat with an overnight bag and my laptop just like I would for a weekend away. People did tell me to treat it like a few days in a hotel.
I took the crowded metrobus like any other morning, got pissed off with people especially as they wouldn't move to let me get off at the stop for the hospital. Most annoying. A woman spoke to me in English and I complained back loudly. I informed her I was in for an operation today. God knows why. Maybe I needed to vocalise it. Then she pointed me in the opposite direction to which I answered, 'I know exactly where I am going.'
I was so happy that I took public transport. It's hardly ceremonial but I find taxis in DF highly stressful with my lack of Spanish. And it added some normality to an abnormal situation where I wasn't sure how I was supposed to feel or as if there was some pre hysterectomy protocol on how to feel.
Thankfully, Denise took a morning off to make sure I was admitted. This was lovely of her as I tend to fear the worse that some document would be missing or it was the wrong day, nevermind the language barrier.
Again, I hate being at the mercy of someone else and not being in control and there's nothing like a hospital to exacerbate these feelings more. Off we went to room 416..mi nuevo casa for the three days.
The room had touches of a hotel but of course it couldn't be denied it was a hospital bed. How people try and dress things up never ceases to amaze me. Denise began to multi task like no one I've ever seen.. talking to the authorities, translating and convincing me to ask someone to stay for the night.
Now, again being a (stubbornly) independent woman, I was really uncomfortable with this idea. My friends are busy people and I might want some of my time post operation. Again, another sign I was in denial of a huge thing happening in approximately 3 hours. I texted the times of the op to three key friends who I knew were visiting me and more to the point, I'm comfortable with seeing me in any state. Roberto agreed. I was actually relieved and then added the incentive of wifi (it's essential for his work). Then, I texted him the schedule of the day so he could be there after the operation. Yes, you can take the girl out of England but you can't take the England out of the girl but he was putting himself out and I didn't want to waste his time. I hate to be perceived as needy by men but this time, it was my right and I wanted to see someone gentle, calm and more to the point able to calm me down. I simply couldn't predict how I would be.
Then began the procedures...intrusive questions about my life - sex, drugs and everything. Poor Denise felt slightly embarrassed too in her role as official translator. I don't mind that but what I do mind is that rather unfetching gown they made me wear. Way too big with my arse hanging out. Not sexy. It got worse. I was shaved (not such a bad thing..never got round to waxing) and then the enema. I don't know I felt so yucky about it. It could be due to an article I read about medical fetishism in Bizarre Magazine which involved some interesting uses of enemas. And yes...not a comfortable experience at all. Another nurse appeared and put me on the drip. Well..this is it. My prison has begun but then again, it's not an everyday occurence to be pumped full of drugs. In my past, I would've even enjoyed it.
Denise was still trying to sort out IMSS and yes I admire that woman's tenacity. Still no answers or a multitude of answers and may the best option win. And a text from Roberto promising to be there at 5pm. In my anal manner, I thought that I better be out of recovery by that time. I hate people waiting around for me.
The trolley arrived 12:30pm on the dot. The porter was rather cute. No dishy doctors but lets say there were quite a few hotties among the porters. And how I love punctuality. More to the point, how docilely I accepted it all. Perhaps at that point, I had really accepted the inevitable and was no longer being the little lucha I normally am. What I did notice is that the porter was rather cute. No dishy doctors but lets say there were quite a few hotties among In fact, something happened in the recovery room which was quite amazing considering my mental state previously and the operation. I fell asleep.
I took the crowded metrobus like any other morning, got pissed off with people especially as they wouldn't move to let me get off at the stop for the hospital. Most annoying. A woman spoke to me in English and I complained back loudly. I informed her I was in for an operation today. God knows why. Maybe I needed to vocalise it. Then she pointed me in the opposite direction to which I answered, 'I know exactly where I am going.'
I was so happy that I took public transport. It's hardly ceremonial but I find taxis in DF highly stressful with my lack of Spanish. And it added some normality to an abnormal situation where I wasn't sure how I was supposed to feel or as if there was some pre hysterectomy protocol on how to feel.
Thankfully, Denise took a morning off to make sure I was admitted. This was lovely of her as I tend to fear the worse that some document would be missing or it was the wrong day, nevermind the language barrier.
Again, I hate being at the mercy of someone else and not being in control and there's nothing like a hospital to exacerbate these feelings more. Off we went to room 416..mi nuevo casa for the three days.
The room had touches of a hotel but of course it couldn't be denied it was a hospital bed. How people try and dress things up never ceases to amaze me. Denise began to multi task like no one I've ever seen.. talking to the authorities, translating and convincing me to ask someone to stay for the night.
Now, again being a (stubbornly) independent woman, I was really uncomfortable with this idea. My friends are busy people and I might want some of my time post operation. Again, another sign I was in denial of a huge thing happening in approximately 3 hours. I texted the times of the op to three key friends who I knew were visiting me and more to the point, I'm comfortable with seeing me in any state. Roberto agreed. I was actually relieved and then added the incentive of wifi (it's essential for his work). Then, I texted him the schedule of the day so he could be there after the operation. Yes, you can take the girl out of England but you can't take the England out of the girl but he was putting himself out and I didn't want to waste his time. I hate to be perceived as needy by men but this time, it was my right and I wanted to see someone gentle, calm and more to the point able to calm me down. I simply couldn't predict how I would be.
Then began the procedures...intrusive questions about my life - sex, drugs and everything. Poor Denise felt slightly embarrassed too in her role as official translator. I don't mind that but what I do mind is that rather unfetching gown they made me wear. Way too big with my arse hanging out. Not sexy. It got worse. I was shaved (not such a bad thing..never got round to waxing) and then the enema. I don't know I felt so yucky about it. It could be due to an article I read about medical fetishism in Bizarre Magazine which involved some interesting uses of enemas. And yes...not a comfortable experience at all. Another nurse appeared and put me on the drip. Well..this is it. My prison has begun but then again, it's not an everyday occurence to be pumped full of drugs. In my past, I would've even enjoyed it.
Denise was still trying to sort out IMSS and yes I admire that woman's tenacity. Still no answers or a multitude of answers and may the best option win. And a text from Roberto promising to be there at 5pm. In my anal manner, I thought that I better be out of recovery by that time. I hate people waiting around for me.
The trolley arrived 12:30pm on the dot. The porter was rather cute. No dishy doctors but lets say there were quite a few hotties among the porters. And how I love punctuality. More to the point, how docilely I accepted it all. Perhaps at that point, I had really accepted the inevitable and was no longer being the little lucha I normally am. What I did notice is that the porter was rather cute. No dishy doctors but lets say there were quite a few hotties among In fact, something happened in the recovery room which was quite amazing considering my mental state previously and the operation. I fell asleep.
The final countdown..or meltdown?
Work and private life and never the twain will mix is my motto apart from drinking with teaching staff who are also really good friends. The day before H-Day, I failed.
It was just one of those mornings, where I felt it would be a disaster when today was all about handover and relaxing in the evening. The electricity in my flat decided to act up and it took one hour to boil the kettle. Thank god, I was awake really early (6am) due to nerves. And yes, a really busy day topped off with no hot water, no shower and a huge slap in the face about the enormity of what was going to happen.
My to do list just wouldn't come together. I was hyper, numb and jittery at the same time. I had put off the Mexican social security admin stuff until way too late. My manager was being all nasty with me for not being organised which is true but really with doctor's appointments, arranging payments from the UK and lest we forget - a full time job and the first week of term, I simply had no time. I had to keep on telling myself that 'people skills are not her strong point' and is she trying to help in her very special way?
Fortunately, the Finance Assistant accompanied with me to IMSS to get some booklet which I never picked up. Apparently, no one does. We waited for a relatively short time in a musty government building and also try and arrange the 'incapadacidad'. I am no stranger to inflexible bureaucracy and functional buildings so wasn't surprised that I needed some certificate immediately after the operation and a visit a week later. Impossible. I shared with the finance assistant what my treatment was. He looked more uncomfortable than me but at least I left with that all important book.
I was pretty pissed off with my manager's attitude suggesting that I ask someone to hold my hand. Bureaucracy in any situation is stressful. Facing major surgery is even more so and lets not go down the different language route. As I remember when my dad was ill, my mum was responsible for all of this. In English and in a system that they knew better than most people.
There was a glimmer of good news. BA had found my effing bag!! The next stress was the unspecified time of arrival. Was it \Mexico or was it just incompetence and ineptness I have discovered goes along with the BA brand? That was one of the reasons why I stayed at work late. Waiting for a bag. Sad, isn't it? In fact, Zoe and I sloped off for dinner. Well, a watched kettle never boils and indeed it arrived as soon as we settled down to dinner.
Somehow, I got through the day. I was more upset that I visibly looked stressed and allowed the personal to interfere with the professional (contradictory as I always believe in the 'personal is political'). People said it was fine though I am not convinced my manager had the same thoughts or a few unsympathetic comments from peer who referred to my time off as 'leave' and said he'd get back to me tomorrow if there was anything not on my delegated duties list he was unsure of. He'd be bloody lucky.
Anyway, it was a fine example of facing reality and one which was really unpleasant and frightening. Somehow, I began to create neurotic scenarios in my head coupled with the fear that tomorrow is really going to be something huge and I have no idea how it will be afterwards.
I returned home and packed. A strange calmness came over me. In fact, I was more preoccupied in putting away my newly retrieved clothes and selecting post op outfits. Maybe I had accepted the inevitable or was it more that I had found something more pressing to think about?
It was just one of those mornings, where I felt it would be a disaster when today was all about handover and relaxing in the evening. The electricity in my flat decided to act up and it took one hour to boil the kettle. Thank god, I was awake really early (6am) due to nerves. And yes, a really busy day topped off with no hot water, no shower and a huge slap in the face about the enormity of what was going to happen.
My to do list just wouldn't come together. I was hyper, numb and jittery at the same time. I had put off the Mexican social security admin stuff until way too late. My manager was being all nasty with me for not being organised which is true but really with doctor's appointments, arranging payments from the UK and lest we forget - a full time job and the first week of term, I simply had no time. I had to keep on telling myself that 'people skills are not her strong point' and is she trying to help in her very special way?
Fortunately, the Finance Assistant accompanied with me to IMSS to get some booklet which I never picked up. Apparently, no one does. We waited for a relatively short time in a musty government building and also try and arrange the 'incapadacidad'. I am no stranger to inflexible bureaucracy and functional buildings so wasn't surprised that I needed some certificate immediately after the operation and a visit a week later. Impossible. I shared with the finance assistant what my treatment was. He looked more uncomfortable than me but at least I left with that all important book.
I was pretty pissed off with my manager's attitude suggesting that I ask someone to hold my hand. Bureaucracy in any situation is stressful. Facing major surgery is even more so and lets not go down the different language route. As I remember when my dad was ill, my mum was responsible for all of this. In English and in a system that they knew better than most people.
There was a glimmer of good news. BA had found my effing bag!! The next stress was the unspecified time of arrival. Was it \Mexico or was it just incompetence and ineptness I have discovered goes along with the BA brand? That was one of the reasons why I stayed at work late. Waiting for a bag. Sad, isn't it? In fact, Zoe and I sloped off for dinner. Well, a watched kettle never boils and indeed it arrived as soon as we settled down to dinner.
Somehow, I got through the day. I was more upset that I visibly looked stressed and allowed the personal to interfere with the professional (contradictory as I always believe in the 'personal is political'). People said it was fine though I am not convinced my manager had the same thoughts or a few unsympathetic comments from peer who referred to my time off as 'leave' and said he'd get back to me tomorrow if there was anything not on my delegated duties list he was unsure of. He'd be bloody lucky.
Anyway, it was a fine example of facing reality and one which was really unpleasant and frightening. Somehow, I began to create neurotic scenarios in my head coupled with the fear that tomorrow is really going to be something huge and I have no idea how it will be afterwards.
I returned home and packed. A strange calmness came over me. In fact, I was more preoccupied in putting away my newly retrieved clothes and selecting post op outfits. Maybe I had accepted the inevitable or was it more that I had found something more pressing to think about?
The last chance to dance
Faced with a major op, the winter holidays and a one month drinking ban..what's a grrrl going to do?
Party, have fun, fly to the UK for a long catch up with friends, family and shopping (well..need to buy comfy clothes and books for the operation) and defy the drinking ban. Well, doctor number one (who I didn't trust) said a little bit of wine won't hurt and somehow trust can be selective. Afterall, he got the diagnosis right. I just didn't take to his approach. And, of course I quantified 'a bit of wine' quite loosely.
I returned to DF after a great holiday despite a lost suitcase and dealing with the shoddy missing baggage department from BA. I could almost say 'as if I hadn't been through enough'. My friend, Roberto (who was at COP 16) met me at the airport and helped me out with my luggage. Not sure if I milked the post op excuse or did I take a feminist stance about men carrying bags for women. No, I was way too tired and jetlagged to care about gender roles.
I hate whining but he came with more news and not particularly pleasant. He has the spare keys to my flat and during the holidays unearthed bed bugs...ugh! Hysterectomy and bed bugs...a double whammy. Usually, I'd have a complete spaz attack luckily bad news number one made a nest of vile creatures fade into insignificance.
Threw myself back into work. Nothing like a bit of hard work to help me forget but also I'm a control freak and rather crap at delegating. I wanted a few tasks to be near completion or not at some sketchy stage before handing over.
Anyway..let's concentrate on the weekend stuff as I doubt anyone would find my work life that enlightening.
Weekend one
The date of the operation was pending but I decided it was my last one for a while. Or was it that I just like to go out, drink, make an arse of myself and any excuse will do. And what a fun packed schedule I planned which almost got hampered by some rather severe spotting...damn tumour and thankfully disappeared when timetabling the teaching staff. I returned to my freshly fumigated flat, suffered a headache and decided with my Couchsurfer to meet another friend at an event where two Singaporean women shared their experiences of cycling around the world. The night was still young and being one of contrasts, I'd made plans of the rainbow variety to hang out in some seedy gay establishments in El Centro including my favourite place in DF - El Marrakech. A bizarre melange of lime green walls, a baby in a glass case, strippers and Lars Von Trier films projected on a screen. Could it get better? Depends what you're into but the gay salsa bar with a more mature clientèle and real life cowboys came a close second. I drank polomas which was kind of against doctor's orders but a month had long past and also I've found my capacity or desire to consume wasn't as it was. Getting older or having a tumour? The juries out on that one.
The fun hadn't finished yet. Was it pushing boundaries or was I trying to prove I wasn't a prude or even challenging the idea that I'm not so into group activities? I'll never know. Sunday afternoon was spent riding the metro sin pantalones. Usually, I hate all this free hugs nonsense but this appealed to my slightly dirty side No Pants on the Metro 2011. Felt strangely nervous as walking towards the metro and thank god I met another Brit so I could share this apprehension and how this was simply not our culture. And certainly we don't do this sober. We did and I admit it was a rather liberating experience.
Weekend two
I should've known better when GBFF sends me a text message, 'One queer beer?' One with that one never means one. It can only mean carnage and drunken tomfoolery. By this point, I had set the date for the operation. The 19th of January and I knew that I wouldn't be going out for 'one gay beer' on a Friday or a Sunday for a while. There's something about Papi Fun Bar which is conducive to wreckage. Is it the Lady Gaga/Madonna/Kylie on loop? Well, it makes it bearable for me. The bar is a plethora of underage drinkers. I feel old. GBFF loves it. I had to get home. Another CSer and my friend were making me dinner to say thank you. I was late. I messaged in a neurotic British way apologising for my lateness to a Mexican. Don't worry, he's used to it. In fact, he quite liked it that I turned up late and totally hammered while they were cooking dinner. Now who says Mexico is a machismo society. I beg to differ.
After I realised that being met at the airport makes me all warm inside, I decided to give someone else that feeling when a good friend returned from New Zealand. The warm up/pre party began at mine..booze and one of my favourite activities - making vegan food for omnivores. More drinks and an earlyish night (for Saturday) but lets say I didn't sleep a lot. That's another thing that will be off the cards for a while. And my weekend ticks another box.
During that week, lots of appointments with friends coming with me. I claim it's to help with the language. The reality is that I'm secretly scared of doctors. Finding out I've got an overactive thyroid gland..well was wondering why I weigh 44 kgs. People asking me in a concerned way about the operation and a date. Not a romantic one but a hysterectomy one. 19th of January at 1pm.
Party, have fun, fly to the UK for a long catch up with friends, family and shopping (well..need to buy comfy clothes and books for the operation) and defy the drinking ban. Well, doctor number one (who I didn't trust) said a little bit of wine won't hurt and somehow trust can be selective. Afterall, he got the diagnosis right. I just didn't take to his approach. And, of course I quantified 'a bit of wine' quite loosely.
I returned to DF after a great holiday despite a lost suitcase and dealing with the shoddy missing baggage department from BA. I could almost say 'as if I hadn't been through enough'. My friend, Roberto (who was at COP 16) met me at the airport and helped me out with my luggage. Not sure if I milked the post op excuse or did I take a feminist stance about men carrying bags for women. No, I was way too tired and jetlagged to care about gender roles.
I hate whining but he came with more news and not particularly pleasant. He has the spare keys to my flat and during the holidays unearthed bed bugs...ugh! Hysterectomy and bed bugs...a double whammy. Usually, I'd have a complete spaz attack luckily bad news number one made a nest of vile creatures fade into insignificance.
Threw myself back into work. Nothing like a bit of hard work to help me forget but also I'm a control freak and rather crap at delegating. I wanted a few tasks to be near completion or not at some sketchy stage before handing over.
Anyway..let's concentrate on the weekend stuff as I doubt anyone would find my work life that enlightening.
Weekend one
The date of the operation was pending but I decided it was my last one for a while. Or was it that I just like to go out, drink, make an arse of myself and any excuse will do. And what a fun packed schedule I planned which almost got hampered by some rather severe spotting...damn tumour and thankfully disappeared when timetabling the teaching staff. I returned to my freshly fumigated flat, suffered a headache and decided with my Couchsurfer to meet another friend at an event where two Singaporean women shared their experiences of cycling around the world. The night was still young and being one of contrasts, I'd made plans of the rainbow variety to hang out in some seedy gay establishments in El Centro including my favourite place in DF - El Marrakech. A bizarre melange of lime green walls, a baby in a glass case, strippers and Lars Von Trier films projected on a screen. Could it get better? Depends what you're into but the gay salsa bar with a more mature clientèle and real life cowboys came a close second. I drank polomas which was kind of against doctor's orders but a month had long past and also I've found my capacity or desire to consume wasn't as it was. Getting older or having a tumour? The juries out on that one.
The fun hadn't finished yet. Was it pushing boundaries or was I trying to prove I wasn't a prude or even challenging the idea that I'm not so into group activities? I'll never know. Sunday afternoon was spent riding the metro sin pantalones. Usually, I hate all this free hugs nonsense but this appealed to my slightly dirty side No Pants on the Metro 2011. Felt strangely nervous as walking towards the metro and thank god I met another Brit so I could share this apprehension and how this was simply not our culture. And certainly we don't do this sober. We did and I admit it was a rather liberating experience.
Weekend two
I should've known better when GBFF sends me a text message, 'One queer beer?' One with that one never means one. It can only mean carnage and drunken tomfoolery. By this point, I had set the date for the operation. The 19th of January and I knew that I wouldn't be going out for 'one gay beer' on a Friday or a Sunday for a while. There's something about Papi Fun Bar which is conducive to wreckage. Is it the Lady Gaga/Madonna/Kylie on loop? Well, it makes it bearable for me. The bar is a plethora of underage drinkers. I feel old. GBFF loves it. I had to get home. Another CSer and my friend were making me dinner to say thank you. I was late. I messaged in a neurotic British way apologising for my lateness to a Mexican. Don't worry, he's used to it. In fact, he quite liked it that I turned up late and totally hammered while they were cooking dinner. Now who says Mexico is a machismo society. I beg to differ.
After I realised that being met at the airport makes me all warm inside, I decided to give someone else that feeling when a good friend returned from New Zealand. The warm up/pre party began at mine..booze and one of my favourite activities - making vegan food for omnivores. More drinks and an earlyish night (for Saturday) but lets say I didn't sleep a lot. That's another thing that will be off the cards for a while. And my weekend ticks another box.
During that week, lots of appointments with friends coming with me. I claim it's to help with the language. The reality is that I'm secretly scared of doctors. Finding out I've got an overactive thyroid gland..well was wondering why I weigh 44 kgs. People asking me in a concerned way about the operation and a date. Not a romantic one but a hysterectomy one. 19th of January at 1pm.
Pre plan
Huge operations seem to be akin to a project management cycle and right now I was at the planning stage. Of course, I needed consultancy and second opinions. I wasn't convinced that surgeon was really taking some major news seriously and was on the flippant side.
Help came with Denise. One wonderful woman at work. She cheers up the office on grim days and with an excellent gynaecological surgeon, off we went to see him.
More poking, prodding, stirrups and the same result - hysterectomy. By this point, I had come to terms with it. I knew it had to be done and I couldn't face those crippling pains. At first, the kid thing even bothered me. It was never an option but now one was taken away. Now, my thinking was too many options are confusing and if I really wanted a child..surely, I would've had a one night stand at the time of ovulation. I'm not for thermometers and charts and the fact my uterus was a disaster for two years is besides the point. And yes, for those who knew, I was getting rather fed up with the assumption that it's all about children. Major surgery, one month off work, one month off my life, feeling awful and some ghastly scar also don't particularly bode well.
Anyway, I trusted Dr. Quiroz more. Was it instinct (my trust instinct is highly developed)? Was it because I trusted Denise? Or was it more that I was slowly coming to terms with it?
I must admit that on the metrobus home, I felt strangely deflated. I don't believe in miracles. Or perhaps it was a case of hearing the same bad news twice just makes it far more real
Help came with Denise. One wonderful woman at work. She cheers up the office on grim days and with an excellent gynaecological surgeon, off we went to see him.
More poking, prodding, stirrups and the same result - hysterectomy. By this point, I had come to terms with it. I knew it had to be done and I couldn't face those crippling pains. At first, the kid thing even bothered me. It was never an option but now one was taken away. Now, my thinking was too many options are confusing and if I really wanted a child..surely, I would've had a one night stand at the time of ovulation. I'm not for thermometers and charts and the fact my uterus was a disaster for two years is besides the point. And yes, for those who knew, I was getting rather fed up with the assumption that it's all about children. Major surgery, one month off work, one month off my life, feeling awful and some ghastly scar also don't particularly bode well.
Anyway, I trusted Dr. Quiroz more. Was it instinct (my trust instinct is highly developed)? Was it because I trusted Denise? Or was it more that I was slowly coming to terms with it?
I must admit that on the metrobus home, I felt strangely deflated. I don't believe in miracles. Or perhaps it was a case of hearing the same bad news twice just makes it far more real
And on that bombshell....
Operation day! Weird things aren't they? More to the point, they strangely appeal to my sense of the bizarre. Wake up starving, get tampered with and then get trolleyed to a theatre. I fell asleep immediately which is not bad going for a hyperactive person with insomnia. The last thing I said was 'please be careful with the tattoos'. Priorities, priorities.
Blurringly emerged from the anaesthetic fog surrounded by doctors without the masks. The only English speaking one said 'The operation was a success'. Great. Zapped ovarian cysts and no appendix. That was clear as the other doctor shoved my appendix in a jar in my face. 'However..' he continued. Oh shit, a caveat. Now what can that be?
I had laparoscopic surgery and while fiddling around with my parts in an non invasive way, they found a tumour the size of an orange in my uterus. The only option being a hysterectomy and one soon. So all fuddled and tired and then with this to take in, suddenly my perfectly maintained tattoos were not a priority. I mumbled something about babies which is odd as I really don't like them but then again the whole scene was unreal. He answered it's not cancer and I'll resume a full life again.
They left. Got a phone call from a work contact as I never really was officially on the sick. I started crying and left another person to talk to. Not so professional. Cried again and phoned Zoe who was worried. I hadn't called on schedule. Texted GBFF (Andrew) and received a text back 'Trinny and Susannah together forever' (our alter egos) and then asked one friend to pass on the message to a really good friend who was in Cancun at COP 16 and although my ovaries weren't on his mind, he'd be worried.
A long afternoon where sleep did save me for a while..and left with some quite unsettling news. One problem has indeed uncovered another. And what does he mean..hysterectomy?
The next day, I was treated to a viewing of the tumour. The bastard (or would it be bitch?) which has caused some rather excruciating pains, vomiting, disrupted travel plans and eating for over 2 years. It all became real. I quite like the film now though and it's now part of DVD night at Casa de Liz.
Blurringly emerged from the anaesthetic fog surrounded by doctors without the masks. The only English speaking one said 'The operation was a success'. Great. Zapped ovarian cysts and no appendix. That was clear as the other doctor shoved my appendix in a jar in my face. 'However..' he continued. Oh shit, a caveat. Now what can that be?
I had laparoscopic surgery and while fiddling around with my parts in an non invasive way, they found a tumour the size of an orange in my uterus. The only option being a hysterectomy and one soon. So all fuddled and tired and then with this to take in, suddenly my perfectly maintained tattoos were not a priority. I mumbled something about babies which is odd as I really don't like them but then again the whole scene was unreal. He answered it's not cancer and I'll resume a full life again.
They left. Got a phone call from a work contact as I never really was officially on the sick. I started crying and left another person to talk to. Not so professional. Cried again and phoned Zoe who was worried. I hadn't called on schedule. Texted GBFF (Andrew) and received a text back 'Trinny and Susannah together forever' (our alter egos) and then asked one friend to pass on the message to a really good friend who was in Cancun at COP 16 and although my ovaries weren't on his mind, he'd be worried.
A long afternoon where sleep did save me for a while..and left with some quite unsettling news. One problem has indeed uncovered another. And what does he mean..hysterectomy?
The next day, I was treated to a viewing of the tumour. The bastard (or would it be bitch?) which has caused some rather excruciating pains, vomiting, disrupted travel plans and eating for over 2 years. It all became real. I quite like the film now though and it's now part of DVD night at Casa de Liz.
How it all began...end of November 2010
Woke up with a jolt...throbbing pains and thinking that dosing on some period pain pills from Wal-Mart as a preventative measure had failed again. 'Fuck..in for a long night' and dosed up again'. As always on my first day of my period (or sometimes), the pain ricocheted higher on the pain scale from 0 to 9. I wanted it to be 10 = unconsciousness.
Then, it happened. The thing that women dread. I felt a lump. Immediately I knew not to follow the usual plan...overdose on painkillers, go to work half asleep and get through the day. Get help now.
Apologetically texted a friend..I find phoning so obtrusive in the morning. Called in sick. Not much sympathy from male colleague and yes period pains on Monday sounds suspiciously like 'heavy weekend'.
My friend Zoe arrived. Together we went to the doctor's. I was kind of nervous about what would happen and how I would be treated. More to the point, would it just be dismissed as bad period pains and get over it.
Thankfully, the doctor took it seriously and so began a city tour of various places for tests. Taxis here, there and everywhere...downing a litre and half of water pre ultra sound with an impending explosion of pain and no painkillers in a traffic jam. Well..at least it's not boring.
I spent most of the ultrasound trying to look at the screen and search for my answers. Also, I was desperate for a piss. I kept on looking at the technicians and Zoe and got nothing. An abrupt stop and 'banos es ahi' and proceeded to enjoy in the most enjoyable wee in a long while.
Back at the doctor's again...and he gave the diagnosis in the little cafe. We'll question the confidentiality another time. And yes..they found something. Wow! I'm happy. I'm secretly very anal. I like concrete solutions to problems and this news made my day.
Ovarian cysts and a rather ropey appendix. Got an operation scheduled for Thursday. Never had one before in 36 years where I've experienced a lot. Oh well...first time for everything and I do embrace new experiences
Then, it happened. The thing that women dread. I felt a lump. Immediately I knew not to follow the usual plan...overdose on painkillers, go to work half asleep and get through the day. Get help now.
Apologetically texted a friend..I find phoning so obtrusive in the morning. Called in sick. Not much sympathy from male colleague and yes period pains on Monday sounds suspiciously like 'heavy weekend'.
My friend Zoe arrived. Together we went to the doctor's. I was kind of nervous about what would happen and how I would be treated. More to the point, would it just be dismissed as bad period pains and get over it.
Thankfully, the doctor took it seriously and so began a city tour of various places for tests. Taxis here, there and everywhere...downing a litre and half of water pre ultra sound with an impending explosion of pain and no painkillers in a traffic jam. Well..at least it's not boring.
I spent most of the ultrasound trying to look at the screen and search for my answers. Also, I was desperate for a piss. I kept on looking at the technicians and Zoe and got nothing. An abrupt stop and 'banos es ahi' and proceeded to enjoy in the most enjoyable wee in a long while.
Back at the doctor's again...and he gave the diagnosis in the little cafe. We'll question the confidentiality another time. And yes..they found something. Wow! I'm happy. I'm secretly very anal. I like concrete solutions to problems and this news made my day.
Ovarian cysts and a rather ropey appendix. Got an operation scheduled for Thursday. Never had one before in 36 years where I've experienced a lot. Oh well...first time for everything and I do embrace new experiences
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