I didn’t blog yesterday because my obs/gyn appointment was moved again from Tuesday to Thursday, so yesterday found me in Dr F’s waiting room, which is wildly festooned with photos of newborn babies. There are reams of delivery and post-delivery snaps. It’s not often I actually crave those two-dollar-shop prints of Tuscan bridges and farmhouses and trattorias that inexplicably adorn the walls of so many waiting rooms, but I did find myself wondering if it was really necessary to keep rubbing it in. Llew took the day off work to come with me, so we just buried our heads in our dated magazines and tried not to feel like the freaks without babies.
Dr F is a nice guy, I like him, and I liked the way he was so decisive yesterday about the next step. I just wasn’t quite as delighted with his plan of attack, which begins with my having a laparoscopy next Wednesday, during which I am under a general and hopefully none the wiser. It’s keyhole surgery – very sophisticated stuff involving lights, camera, action! – but it’s surgery nonetheless, and frankly a little scary for that. I just didn’t see it coming. I don’t really think of myself as a ‘requiring surgery’ kind of girl. My general health is excellent; it’s only my reproductive health that seems to be letting the side down, and who knew that was going to happen?! Not me. I like surprises, I honestly do, but I must say I prefer the ones that involve presents and cake, not fasting from midnight and being rendered unconscious.
So look, that’s the latest. I am still digesting it conceptually, and practically there’s nothing else to say about it. We should get some answers – they can see everything inside my abdomen and pelvis up in lights. Or up on their really alarmingly grotesque monitor. Looking at the image dominating the monitor view on the little booklet Dr F gave me about the procedure, I am more convinced than ever that I did in fact wake up mid-procedure the first time I went under. The whole thing was so weird and frightening. I remember this yawning terror mingled with deadweight immobility, but I’ve never been certain I wasn’t just dreaming – except I’ve been told you don’t dream under a general, and what I saw on the screen was more vivid than anything I could have imagined. Also when I was in recovery, no one came near me. No one. It was like they thought if they just let me eat my sandwich and suck my lollies and drink my cup of tea I’d forget waking up in the middle of what was happening to me.
I was never able to verify if it really did occur or if I somehow dreamt it, but looking at the monitor image on my brochure, those innards look strangely familiar, and now I know there’s a good reason why we don’t generally get so up close and personal with the things that make us tick.