Before I even met him, I had a recurring pain. It was around my right ovary, and sometimes spread out and over my right hip. I went to my gyno. No luck. I went to a different one--same. I moved states and ended up at a third--we did exploratory surgery (less than a year after the tumor surgery). Great, the doctor accidently punctures my bladder with the laser so I'm forced to stay home on the sofa for a week. (Goddess knows I needed the rest, we ran a business together and had steadily worked 70 hour weeks for three years.) They thought I had endometriosis but nope, clean as a whistle. Isn't that just ducky? I have a pain that doubles me over randomly and the doctors are stumped. I turn to my GP. He's "middle aged" and an old school sorta guy. Like back when you went to one doctor for everything, not specialist. When I told him my story he shook his head and said he was really sorry. Then said if I'd stick with him, we would discover what it was. He pulled out his medical books and made a list. We started at the top of the page. I was introduced to barium enemas and colonoscopies. I highly recommend you do whatever you can to avoid ever having the pleasure! Anyway, after two years of tests and regular appointments, we were at the bottom of the page and had just crossed off the last item. I was not happy or hopeful at all. And damn it, I still hurt!

That wonderful old guy scratched his head (really!) and said, "Gee, we have tried everything. We've eliminate everything that remotely carries that symptom--I don't know what else to do. If you were a man..." And he stopped. And something in me clicked. I said, "If I were a man, what?" He says, "Well, you aren't so it doesn't matter." Now, I have to tell you, I have four brothers, no sisters and I am in the middle. I hated being teased by my brothers so I was always trying to prove I could do whatever they did. As a result, I'm strong 'for a woman.' So I pressed my dear doctor. "Tell me what you were about to say, If I were a man, what would you think it might be? You know I have four brothers." "I'd check you for a hernia." "Check." "But you're a girl." "So?" "Well women don't usually get them." "Usually. You know me well enough to know I'm not usual. Check." He shrugged, put his hand in my groin and said the classic, "Turn your head and cough." I did and he smiled. A rather confused smile but a smile. Sure enough I had a hernia. (And I can tell you, I think I got it the day I decided to move the entertainment center by myself. The TV was too big for me to lift so I sat down on the floor and used my very strong legs to push the entire thing. Think maybe that's when it happened?!)

All interesting enough but what does this have to do with another feather? Hang in there, it ties in! Doc refers me to a surgeon and two weeks later I'm under the knife. Here's a little bit of data that is helpful to know here. Certain drugs commonly used during surgery can kill me. I stop breathing because my lungs are basically paralyzed. They throw a ventilator on me and if I don't have too much of the drug in my body in about four hours I start breathing on my own again. (How I know this is a WHOLE other story, a good one, I'll remember to tell it to you.) Because of this little drug 'problem' anesthesiologists hate to see me coming. The day of this surgery, the anesthesiologist looks at my chart and refuses to "do" me. (First clue this ain't gonna be a cake walk). Finally, the department head comes down. Well, at least he ought to know what he is doing. I start waking up because I feel a sharp, hard pain. Ouch! I say, with a tube in my mouth. I hear clicking and realize they are stapling the incision shut! I'm still on the table. Shit! So, staple, Ouch, staple, Ouch, staple, Ouch. After the fourth time, they jam a needle into the area and the pain stops and I think they took me back under a bit as well. It could have been worse. I'd rather feel the pain than stop breathing. (Sort of a no-brainer, huh?) Surgery was suppose to be at 3PM but thanks to the delay, I'm wheeled to recovery at 7:30PM. My insurance company, in the infinite wisdom of the accountants who trust statistics with the most uncanny faith, says this is out-patient surgery. By 9:00PM I'm at home on my sofa and feeling quite fine from all the pain meds. (What I have discovered since, is there is a lovely Federal Law that actually protects us with this--you may request to stay 23 hours after surgery. But, you do have to request it. Wow! A law that's actually beneficial, cool!)

So, at this point as a reader you're thinking. Okay, big deal, what's next? Well, next is the next morning. I wake up about 6:15AM. I can tell I hurt before I even stand up but I haven't been to the rest room since about 2PM the previous day! (Remember, I was on pain meds for my groin region when I got home from the hospital--it didn't occur to me to go.) So, I stand up to go pee. My husband is in the shower. The thought crosses my mind, "Gee, this is some serious pain I'm feeling, maybe I ought to take a pain pill first." Of course to do so I have to go into the bathroom to get a glass of water so why not pee first while I'm in there? The last thing I remember is putting my foot forward to step through the bathroom door, literally 3 steps from my bed! The pain was so great I passed out. You want a good laugh? Let me paint the scene for you...

to be continued…