You take the good, you take the bad…

Published January 2, 2018 by Malia

When we driving home from my in-laws on Christmas Eve I had this thought enter my brain, “Next year, there might be three of us.”  And for the next 48 hours I was in a pretty happy, pretty hopeful place.

No, I’m not pregnant.  I didn’t think I was.  But, there was this smidgen (and boy ,do I mean smidgen) of a chance, that in the next year I might be.

So here’s the deal, last Wednesday, I was supposed to have a surgery.  My doctor was going to shrink my stupid giant ovaries down to normal size by cutting wedges out of them.  There was no guarantee, but there was this chance that it’d undo a lot of my PCOS mess.  There was a chance that I’d actually be able to make some progress on the weight loss front.  There was even a chance that it’d make me a little less insulin resistant.  There was a chance it’d make the mystery pain go away, and that it would lessen my mood swings.  And…there was this chance that I could get pregnant and stay pregnant.  I was so excited.  I was weirdly calm.  I think I was so desperate for just one of those many things to be a little bit better that it outweighed the anxiety and fear I was also experiencing.

And then I went to my pre-op last Tuesday…

Picture it…9 a.m. the day after Christmas.  I got to my appointment, and things promptly went downhill.  My first warning sign came when I was going through my paperwork, verifying that they had my info correct, and noticed that they had down the doctor from my work’s employee health clinic down as my primary doctor (she’s nice and I have seen her in the last year, but she’s not my primary doctor, or even my ob-gyn).  I pointed this out, and the receptionist told me that she wasn’t able to change that, and that someone in the surgery center would need to fix it on the day of my surgery.  I remember feeling confused as to why she’d asked me to check to make sure everything was correct if she couldn’t actually change any of it.

I then got taken into the exam room.  Both the nurse and the anesthesiologist were either really annoyed they had to work the day after Christmas, or were super hungover, or both.  I just know that they were both in bad moods, and every time I tried to be even a little funny I got death glares from both parties.  First, the anesthesiologist was upset with me because of my diabetes and my difficulty keeping my blood sugars down.  Then, she was annoyed that I’m overweight.  To make it a trifecta, I frustrated her because I snore so I must have sleep apnea and I really need to be getting that treated.  I should probably be undergoing a sleep study (at least, according to her).  If I hadn’t been stressed and anxious before, I was at that point.  A great way to feel the day before surgery.  More than once the anesthesiologist informed me that I was ONLY having an elective procedure and I really wasn’t in any condition to have any elective procedure.  I kept thinking, “I’m not here for bigger boobs.  You know those things that you’re really frustrated and annoyed with me about?  This is a procedure that could actually make those things better.”

They drew my blood.  The anesthesiologist gave me many print outs (all about the health problems that she had concerns about), gave me another lecture about how I really shouldn’t be having an elective procedure, and I went home, my calm now tinged with a small amount of dread.

That evening, I was about to go flush out my system (yeah, that’s as nasty as it sounds), and I got a phone call.  From my doctor.  And it started with her saying, “I’m so sorry, I was so sad when I heard about tomorrow.  I was really looking forward to seeing you.”  (I should mention here that my doctor is a beautiful, kind, sweet woman who genuinely gives a crap and actually listens to me and I kind of love her.)

To which I replied, “What about tomorrow?”  Dread amount was no longer in the small category.

“Didn’t the hospital call you?  They said they called you.”

“No, they didn’t call me.”

Turns out that blood draw (the one that a week later I still have a bruise from), sent a result back that the anesthesiologist didn’t like.  And just like that, my surgery was cancelled.  The hospital called my doctor  while she was performing someone else’s surgery, and left her a message regarding the cancellation.  They gave me no chance to redo the tests, or to fight to stay on the schedule.

I felt like I’d been kicked in the gut.  The sliver of hope that maybe, just maybe something was finally going to get fixed in my body, was gone, at least for now.  I cried all that night.  I cried the better part of surgery day.  And then, I think my body just ran out of tears.  It’s now been a week, and I’m still hanging in there.  I’m disappointed that I have to shelve the surgery for now.  However, it’s not like it’ll never happen, and even if it doesn’t, it’s not the end of the world.  I have an amazing husband, adorable pets, precious nephews and a niece, and a collection of graphic novels that should keep me entertained for the next two years (possibly more, it’s amazing how cheap you can get them on Ebay.  The boy need not know how much I’m adding to our already large collection…).

And for now, I’m going to refuse to give up hoping that someday, in the future, I’m going to be a better, healthier me.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

w

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: