I was becoming pretty skilled at waiting for life changing letters by now. Two days after my initial consultation with Gorgeous George a letter dropped on my doormat inviting me to my hysteroscopy in two days time. This was nowhere near enough time to overthink the situation which was just peachy by me.
They sent a full little instruction manual of what to do before the procedure. Nil by mouth after 2am. No water. No gum. No smoking (Jesus wept) But I managed it. Before I knew it I was meeting with Gorgeous George to discuss the procedure. This was also the first time he met Mother Dearest. A single tear escaped and ran down her cheek and I rolled my eyes out of my head and gestured at why I had attended alone. My dramatics amused him but earned me a slap on the arm from Mother Dearest. I was asked to sign a disclaimer as there was a one in five hundred chance that my uterus may be perforated. I asked what the issue was if he was going to be whipping it out anyway. He laughed and sighed deeply. My mother trusted him immediately and was greatly relieved.
I met my anaesthetist, who was lovely. The ward nurse was not my cup of tea at all, but she was leaving the ward in a few weeks and was clearly not having the best day. I was made to take off my nail polish and asked to get into my gown and sexy surgical stockings. So sat on a bed without a cover I waited to be called down. A girl several years younger than me was rushed by ambulance crew due to bleeding during pregnancy. It is the strangest ward to be on. Time stands still. But three hours later the orderly was sent for me. She asked for me to get into the bed and she would take me down to the theatre. I refused on the grounds I was not sick and offered to help her push the bed. She was mortified but amused and I flashed by lovely backside the whole walk down.
The theatre staff were lovely. And I was blissfully unaware of what was happening in no time at all. The next thing I knew was I was waking up in the recovery room. The thing they don’t tell you about recovery rooms is they are mixed. And they are filled with women who silently come to consciousness and men who cry and shout and whine. I had a lovely chat with the nurse who was sat by my side and was taken back up to the ward very quickly.
I was still pretty furious about not being allowed to walk back up to the ward but was quite happy chatting away to the nurses. The sooner I got back, the sooner I would be able to use the toilet. Hell would freeze over before I’d use a bed pan when I wasn’t sick. As we turned the corner to the room my bed had come from, I saw my mother who was clearly crying and doing a spectacularly bad job of trying to hide it from me. I suppose this is the point at which it became very real for her. But she was delighted to see how quickly I had recovered from the anaesthetic.
I’d say it was a full five minutes before I decided I was ready to leave. Still with my arse out and cannula (a needle and tube that can be inserted into the body for the delivery or removal of fluid) in. Mother Dearest was having none of this. So she explained I would have to eat a picnic before I was allowed to leave. An outrageous lie, but I was in no position to question it. She went to gather this picnic and I went to the toilet and got dressed. She presented he most beautiful picnic and fresh coffee. It was wonderful. And I wolfed it down as quickly as I could fully hoping they would then let me leave.
Just as I had finished Gorgeous George came to visit me with another Macmillan nurse. He explained that I have the uterus of a seventy year, old morbidly obese, diabetic lady. Fellas – form an orderly queue. Mother Dearest is ever the beacon of hope and positivity asked if this was treatable and if there was any chance this wasn’t cancer. He just shook his head. A hysterectomy was now definitely on the cards.
Still very aware of my age and childlessness he discussed trying to save my ovaries. He even suggested my mother being a surrogate. Now this is not something I would ever consider on three very separate grounds. The first being that having biological children is not something that is especially important to me. The second is that its kind of fucking weird and I’d rather my life wasn’t a tale from a woman’s weekly magazine. The third and most important reason being that my mother would never give the child back to me.
It was explained that I would be sent for a MRI, would be invited back for the results of the MRI and the biopsies before any major surgery was planned.
He told me I would be ready to be discharged once I had my medication to stop the bleeding. The ward nurse returned and had clearly softened due to overhearing the conversation. After the procedure I was in fucking agony, but denied this totally so I could be released and again returned to awaiting a letter to seal my fate.