Bar Fights and Duck Lips. In Other Words, My Surgery.
Before I type one more word I want to make it clear that despite all evidence to the contrary, this post will be brought to you by the word/feeling—appreciation.
I appreciate so much the fact that due to the marvels of modern medicine, I stand before you today uterus-free. That is true.
I appreciate general anesthesia and the effect it has on a person. One moment you’re lying there counting to fifty and the next thing you know your entire nether region has been dyed orange with antiseptic, a nurse is harassing you with questions like what is the capital of Nebraska? (Omaha), what is the level of your pain (what pain? We haven’t started yet—silly), and the fact that you can’t for the life of you figure out how much cotton it takes to dry up every ounce of moisture in an entire human being—and who the fuck do you have to pay around this joint to get some ice chips?
I appreciate downtime. That week or so that’s required to get back on your feet and up to speed with life.
Every word of that was bullshit.
Surgery made me lie.
There, I said it.
I can’t explain why or how it’s happened.
I did feel appreciation for like a minute and then I went directly to feeling appalled.
Recovery from surgery is appalling. But I guess everyone knew that but me!
And now here’s the truth:
HOW HAVE I BEEN LUCKY ENOUGH TO HAVE NEVER BEEN CUT OPEN UNTIL NOW?
Sorry for yelling, but seriously? I’m fifty-nine and all I have to draw on surgery wise are just a couple of laparoscopies which are holes punched into you that can be closed with super glue. If you’re lucky they use your belly button. It’s just hanging around, all of its best days in the rearview mirror, so why not? It was made for hole punching. It’s kinda far away from your knee or your hip, so I wouldn’t suggest that they use it for those procedures–but as for my lady part removal— it was a no-brainer.
At least that was the plan. Plan A & B. It wasn’t written in stone, but still, cutting me open was…plan Q.
The bitch put up a fight. Instead of two hours, she fought for five.
Of course, my body parts would fight to remain inside. It’s cozy in there and they are most definitely well fed.
She was a big girl. Bigger than they had expected. And stubborn. Like a bull. She was the Bea Arthur of uteruses.
“We’re gonna need a bigger…hole”, someone said.
So they decided at the last-minute to cut me open, a three-inch c-section did the trick.
It looks spontaneous.
Like the last-ditch effort to remove something that doesn’t want to leave. Like those battering rams that punch giant holes in the doors of deadbeat, crack head squatters. It is not the clean edged, precision cut of a surgical scalpel, no, I look to have been cut open by a shard of glass from a broken bottle of Pabst Blue Ribbon.
My incision has duck-lips. (See photo at the top), and it feels like a red-hot branding iron is searing my flesh every time I even think about moving.
I have questions. Lots. Okay, two.
1. How in the hell do women have an incision three times as large as mine and deal with a small infant? I would throw a crying baby out of the window right now. I kid you not. Ladies, you have my deepest respect. If I could bow to you without passing out—I would.
2. Who do I talk to about this because I’m appalled? This was supposed to be easy! Bea, (my uterus) and I sat down for weeks beforehand with tea and those expensive chocolate biscotti and had chit-chats about how this was going to go down. It was agreed that I had been more than accommodating, that eviction was imminent, and that she would go without so much as a whimper.
No one was expecting a bar fight. Least of all me.
So there you have it. My Sports Illustrated Swimsuit days are over, Bea obviously had her fingers crossed when she swore to me she’d leave without a fight, and mothers with c-sections are fucking superheroes.