Womanly Woes

I friggin' hate being a woman. And quite frankly, the anatomy that comes with this side of the chromosomes doesn't seem to care for me either. Earlier this week I started noticing the telltale pains in my lower abdomen that a cyst was once again upon me, and went ahead and made the doctor appointment to get it checked. The pain had started to get rather irritating by the time I got to see said doc on Wednesday, so I was pretty relieved to have gotten in there in such a timely fashion. Although I've heard nothing but poor reviews of Stevens Hospital, I didn't think there would be anything too bad with a doc in one of their side branches. And the guy seemed ok, honestly. His nurses were nice and pleasant, noted all of my concerns, and seemed genuinely interested in helping my situation. He came in and discussed with me the different cystic problems I've had, as well as expressed the concern with my previous bout of Dysplasia. He was about as informative as the other multitude of doctors I've seen on the subject (in other words, he knew squat). Although he did explain to me that staying on the Loestrin is specifically to keep me from having these damn things. Must get better about taking pills! It all comes down to me being a little too full of estrogen, thus ovulating more than an average gal (insert I'm too much girl! joke here).
The thing that always irritates me is the exam, though. I'm spread eagle on a damn table, cold, with a fucking giant metal Jaws of Life looking thing shoved inside me, and his hand pressing on an extremely tender swollen ovary, and he's asking if I have any discomfort. Well, let's see Einstein, how would you feel in a reversal of roles here? Shall I strap your balls in a vice grip, shove three fingers in your ass, and ask you the same question? He said he felt a mass on the left (duh, genius, that's where the pain is), the right seemed fine, and there was a bit of fluid in my uterus. BTW, for those not in the know, blood is actually not supposed to just be floating around your body. When it touches an organ, it causes pain. This is why we gals seem pretty fierce when one of these erupts, because it means there's loose blood on our uterus, and it's not supposed to be there.
So, he gave me the usual "we'll watch and wait" shpiel I've heard a dozen times, which makes me uneasy. This means that I will have to possibly endure a rupture. A blinding pain, laying on the floor, cursing my existence rupture. FUUUUUUUUUUUUUN.
Well, I was feeling OKAY on Thursday and Friday morning. Rick went off to a doctor appointment for himself, and I put the wee one down for a nap. I sat down with my cup of coffee at the comp and chatted with my pal Tony, who had just gotten back from an extended holiday. Folks, never ever EVER let me use the phrase "So happy I could burst" again. About ten minutes into the convo the pain started up, so I excused myself from Gaim. Right as I logged off it hit. I fell to teh floor, gasping, and pretty much thinking "Oh, FUCK". Folks, I'd love to be a better descriptive writer, and actually give an accurate portrayal of what I go through with these things, but there's really no words. Basically, it feels like you've been stabbed. With a rusty spork. Repeatedly. but in just one spot.
A few minutes into it, as I was trying to concentrate on getting out of the fetal position, it intensified, and I realized Mama was now beat, and I had to call 911. Those of you who know me know I don't like calling in help. But this one was BAD, and I was freaked because the pain seemed to be eminating from the right, where supposedly there wasn't a cyst. I was in too much pain to do the proper check for an appendix rupture (which, by the way, here's a tip, if there's pain down there, press on it. If it hurts worse when you let up, you may be looking at said issue), but it wasn't far from my mind. So, I called 911, and now we enter the hell that is the emergency care that my lovely neck of the woods provides...
First off, the 911 operator apparently had a bad day. See, she was very irritated that I was crying while trying to explain why I needed an ambulance. Heaven forbid I be in pain while trying to express this need. I mean, if I was in a calm enough state to explain in an adult voice why I needed help, do you think I'd really need said help? She finally said help was on it's way and then hung up on me. Correct me if I'm wrong, but aren't they supposed to stay on the line with you?!
Luckily, I live about a nanosecond from a hospital, and the ambulance pulled up shortly after I confusedly hit end on my phone. So, they knock on the door...meanwhile, I'm laying in the kitchen, trying to call to them to please just enter. As I weakly crawl to the door, someone finally gets the bright idea to actually OPEN the door, and they go "Oh, there she is."
The first thing I tell them is that my son is home with me, and is in the other room. I ask them to give him to my neighbor. See, yeah, the neighbor's are weird and all, but they do have three happy, healthy children who all adore Anthony. So while they are definitely socially retarded, they are still decent folks who I knew I could trust with him for a few hours (or whenever the hell Rick got home, which I was hoping would be any minute). They asked me the obligatory Name, Age, what the hell is wrong with you questions, and I managed to grit through my teeth all the necessary info, in as few words as possible. They picked me up in my little ball form and placed me on the stretcher (man, that must've really looked awkward). As they loaded me up, I heard one driver say to another "She's 26 and wearing Hello Kitty Pajamas?"
So, one bumpy ride later and I am wheeled into what shall now be known as Hell Hospital. Sure it's named, Stevens, but I think mine's a more accurate moniker. Or maybe...Where Common Courtsey Goes to Die. I was popped into a room, and well....left there. No "A nurse will be right with you", just plop!
I try to observe my surroundings through my tears, and finally someone enters and starts poking a needle into my arm. I quickly stammer my allergies, and she tells me to relax, she's just taking a blood sample. Um, gee thanks for telling me! So then this other bitch comes in (and I do mean BITCH) and immediately starts trying to get my insurance information. Now, I'm sorry, but do you carry your insurance card in your PJs? Well, she was quite irate that I didn't, and even more irate that I was having trouble spelling my name, address, blah blah through my BLINDING PAIN. For my insolence, I got an IV shoved into the other arm. BADLY. damn, I hate needles. And I hate the people who weild them even more.
Finally, the most civilized person who works there (at least that I encountered) came in the form of a squat looking nurse with a rainbow tattoo. This woman, btw, has furthered my belief that gay people are better than straight people. She calmly explained that she was sorry I was in pain, and she would get me some pain meds right away. Someone was supposed to do a pelvic on me afterwards, and then up to ultrasound to find out what was going on in detail. The usual shpeil, I've done this a dozen times. I thank her for her civility and beg her to hurry with whatever would put me out of my misery. Demoral or a baseball bat, at that point I didn't care which. Knowing that hospital, I'm surprised I didn't get the latter. So, she scampers off to go get some happy juice for my veins, and some little asian man walks in, saying he's the doctor. I told him I hadn't gotten my pain meds, but he says he needs to do the pelvic. Fine, poke me and get it over with. So, he puts on a glove, pokes my tummy once...and...leaves the room. Doesn't tell me he's leaving, just pulls a Houdini! I now despise all who work here. Some tiny little asian girl comes in and says she is taking me to ultrasound...so I croak "Not without pain medication first". I am NOT about to have the wand o' doom pressed deep into my abdomen without being high as a friggin kite.
Finally, my lesbian angel of compassion comes back with the magic needle of pain-go-bye-bye. Apparently, folks, Dilodin is a lovely synthetic drug that is stronger than Morphine, and faster working. Just say no to drugs kids. Unless your doctor is giving them to you, then specifically request this shit. In a milasecond I was calm, cool, and collected. I wasn't feeling fantastic, but I was able to shuffle into the wheel chair to get to ultrasound and end the volley of curses coming out of my mouth.
The ultrasound people proceed to treat me like I am not actually in the room with them as they are prodding me. I HATE that. But I was now drugged to the gills, so gave up asking what was going on on the second attempt. When I got back to my room, the mysterious asian ninja doc returned and completed the aforementioned pelvic. The Dilodin had started to wear off a bit, so it hurt like hell. By this time, Rick has arrived, as had my father.
I was finally released with a note saying that I had ruptured somewhere, but there was still a large on on the right. There was a copius amount of blood in my uterus, so something went boom, but the one on the right seemed to be in tact. I am going to have some serious words with the asswipe doctor that said I was fine. I have to see him next week and figure out what we're going to DO about said cyst that still exists. I mean, I am NOT about to attempt to go through another rupture in a week's time.
I'm in a lot of pain still, and quite frankly, worried about what needs to happen. The only way to get rid of a cyst is an operation called a laparoscopy. They cut a small incision in your belly button, and one in your lower pelvis to basically snip teh little fucker out of there and drain the fluid.
Right now, I am a little ball of hate. See, it's Monday evening now and I've been trying to get ahold of the doctor all day. I was told at 10am I'd get an immediate callback. After calling them several times today, and being PROMISED a phone call, it is now 5 and I highly doubt the doctor has even been notified of what happened. I swear to GOD I HATE DOCTORS.