It has been a little over a week since
I had a complete #hysterectomy (look away now if the sight of Lady Gaga in her meat skirt, made you lurch) with a little more tissue around my gall bladder,
I think it was (I was whacked out on morphine when they told me) taken out for
posterity. I have a sideways smile down my middle, now relieved of it’s metal
parts that appears to have been sewn with bone and gut - but I'm not gutted in that sense - who cares about the cosmetic when your health is at stake?
The pain. That's what I was unprepared
for. Having prided myself on being able to give birth without drugs, I went into
this rather blithely. Having come round as it were, from surgery, I was handed
a clicker thing to press every time I needed pain relief. Well, I was like a
kid in a sweetshop. They prised it out of my white knuckled hand the next
morning, swapping it for Nurse Ratched who kept telling me to try Paracetamol
and Nurofen first. Were they suffering under the illusion that I had a
headache? I soon became one. I’d suffer through the required 40 minutes torture
time before they would give me 5ml of ‘oramorph’ or if I was really realllly
good: Tramadol – love, it’s good for the soul when you’ve had your insides out
and sent for testing even as your pain levels are.
Now I’m back with some white support
tights, and orders to inject myself with Clexane each night, so I am making
patterns by varying my injection sites. You've got to make art where you can. I had my staples taken out by a nurse
that had also had a hysterectomy. I'll spare you the gross notes, but she told me things I hadn’t even thought of. Glad I went in there ignorant. We both agreed on one thing, lady, I would have high fived if I could have done so without busting a gut: #Hysterectomy pain is up there man. Never mind
labour without drugs. Getting through this is the new badge of honour. Cheers.
