Uncommon Julia

Progesterone-Induced Retail Therapy (a.k.a. Oops!)

I ran out of makeup over the past few days and after resorting to scooping my foundation out of its bottle with a cotton swab this morning I decided it was time to purchase some more. So while I was out running other errands, I ran into my local Saks, thinking they would carry my line of makeup and I wouldn't have to go into a mall.

I saunter in and stroll through the various counters, but don't see my line. Finally I decide to ask the nearest sixty-something sales woman, who looked like a much older version of Karen Walker from Will & Grace, if Saks didn't carry Perscriptives.

You would have thought I asked if they had a crack flophouse in the back for the look she gave me. "Um, no, I don't believe we do."

On the way out I passed an obviously super-rich Prada yuppie in her size-2 jeans carrying a latte in one hand and her fabulous purse in the other. I glowered for an instant until I realized that her fly was wide open.

Renewed, I headed to the nearest mall. "Only foundation. Only foundation," I chant to myself. At the Perscriptives counter I proceed to purchase my foundation... plus two new eye shadows (for the spring season, of course), dual lip gloss, and a blush brush. Nice. I dropped $100 more than I intended there.

Personable Saleslady says, "Hey, did you know they're running a great sale? - %30 off anything that's already on sale." Oh, reeeaaally.

Even more upbeat, I headed to the shoe section. Hey, it was on my way out. Suffice it to say, I just spent ten minutes squirreling away three pairs of beautiful new shoes in places my husband will never notice. All dressy, all heels, all fabulous, all name brands, and all three for $90. Nice.

Needless to say, my inner shoe addict is still rolling on her high, though I am feeling a teensy bit guilty. But hey, my husband lied to me about how much he lost in Vegas, so this can't be worse than that! If it ever comes up, I'm going to blame it on the hormones I'm popping like chickletts.

And by the way, thank you, yuppie chic, for really making my day!

Oh, the Vanity!

Okay. I'm vain. Not over-the-top, free of neurosis, damn-I-look-good vain, but a much more modest version in which I focus on (read: obsess) the parts of me that I like most and overlook the few that I don't. Or that's the plan, at least.

Anyhoo, one of my favorite body parts is my bellybutton. It's cute. Really. It has a little mole right next door, and I used to wear low-rise jeans and short shirts all the time to attract the male counterpart of the species (well, in college, I did). Plus, I used to be an athlete. A spriter and pole vaulter, to be more specific. I had abs of steel before that was even a phrase. I worked hard on my tummy and in the past few years - especially with all this pregnancy crap interrupting - I've just coasted on the good foundation I had built, crumbling as it is.

To illustrate my point, I've actually posted a picture of my own bellybutton. Told you I'm vain.

So I'm a wee bit distraught that my upcoming laproscopy is going to leave a scar in my pretty little bellybutton. Mind you, my husband expresses no interest in my bellybutton at all whatsoever. But I like it for me. And for the thought that on the rare ocassions I actually don a swimsuit, some stranger may actually think, gee, what a cute bellybutton.

Now, several women have assured me that my lap scar will be nearly invisible. I'm putting my faith in their words. But if they are wrong, we'll all have to bow our heads in a moment of silence to honor the bellybutton that is no more. Afterall, we're looking at the big picture here!

Uterine Digest (step one on the road from Yucky Ute to Cute Ute)

Ahhhh. That's so much better.

I'm pleased to announce that I'm tickled pink with my new RE. We had a great consultation/pre-op appointment this morning. I think I'm going to call him Dr. Smooth from now on - because that's what he is. Calm and smooth. None of the alarmist tendencies of my previous doctor.

I had to go sans husband because he had a business trip that couldn't be detoured. So I took my long lists of questions and a tape recorder and asked away. He answered every one of them without making me feel rushed, judged, or silly and his answers were measured and right on target. He even attempted to communicate via drawings! (see pic) He's no arteest, but I appreciate the effort!

So, here's the low-down:

My Ute:
I have moderate to severe adhesions, but he says that diagnosis leans more toward moderate than severe. The concerning factor is the locations of the adhesions, less than their degree. They're at the top of my uterus, which is where pregnancies tend to implant. They take up about 50 percent of my uterus, but it is the important half. He can't tell much else about the quality of the adhesions (dense, thin, calcified, etc.) until he's in there looking around.

My Surgery:
Because of the location of the adhesions, Dr. Smooth is going to perform a hysteroscopy AND a laproscopy all at once. Because the hysteroscopy gives him a view from the cervix in, my adhesions will essentially be extending out toward him. The laproscopy (incision through the bellybutton) gives him a view from the other side simultaneously so he won't be nearly as likely to puncture the uterus and has a better feel overall for what he's doing.

This means full-on general anesthesia for me, and a bit longer recovery, but I'm fine with that because it logically seems like the best route. I'm all for an un-punctured ute.

Balloons, anyone?
In order to prevent this lovely scar tissue from re-forming, he'll be using a balloon catheter to separate the walls of my uterus post operatively. There are two different kinds, based on the severity of the surgery, so I won't know what kind he's used until after. Recovery is basically the same, though. The balloon end is inserted through the cervix, inflated, and left in for two weeks.

I'll be on antibiotics that whole time to prevent infection from my new foreign-bodied friend. They'll give me estrogen therapy for that whole time to encourage my lining to grow back over the areas where the scar tissue was. After, I'll have the balloon removed in his office, and I'll go on progesterone to bring on a period. After the first cycle clears out, I'll go back for another HSG to make sure all is clear.

Magic Eight Ball:
Dr. Smooth thinks my odds of a successful pregnancy post-operatively are good. As long as we don't turn up any other problems, he says I should fall on the higher end of the success rate chart. (And yes, I really did just knock on wood while saying that "if".) He also believes that he'll be able to turn my yucky ute into a cute ute in just one surgery. I was thrilled to hear that!

As far as the likelihood of placenta acreta (where the placenta implants too deeply, causing massive bleeding problems at delivery), he said it was difficult to say because doctors don't have a firm grasp on what mechanisms cause that in the first place.

Miscellany:
As opposed to making me feel like a ninny for even considering the possibility, Dr. Smooth wants me to make an appointment with my old Rheumatologist (did I even mention my weird disease called Minocycline-Induced Lupus?) to have me tested for "every antibody he can think of". If you'll recall, my old RE simply said I could just take baby aspirin and be done with it, rather than do the testing.

He also wants me to get my GP to coordinate my high blood pressure information from my old Nephrologist (kidney doc) to advise him about how much estrogen therapy to proceed with. My old RE simply said there wouldn't be any conflict.

In Summary:
I haven't left a doctor's office smiling in quite some time... it's a lovely feeling! And man, I am SO glad to be done with Dr. Meanie.

I'll try and post more fun and/or witty entries in the next few days, so I don't bore you gals with the tedium of my girl parts.

Oh, and Tessa - I think I may have confused things further... are you with Dr. V or Dr. S?

Amen (orrhea)

I always thought it would be liberating to not have periods. I was wrong.

I should have gotten one yesterday (I charted around ovulation time to make sure I scheduled my upcoming surgery accordingly) but so far, nothing. Nada. Not even a spot. My last period, which was the first one post-last-miscarriage, lasted a whole half a day. Apparently, this one's going to be a complete no-show. It's a common symptom of Asherman's syndrome.

So I've called my new RE to see if I'm supposed to begin the Provera even though no period has come in preparation for my surgery. Meanwhile, I've got all of the normal signs of a regular cycle - irritability, cramps, bloating. In fact, the cramps have taken on a life of their own. I've had them all cycle long. They're not crippling, just constant. Unfortunately, their likely due to the Asherman's, as well.

I'm looking for the silver lining here... (isn't that what we're supposed to do?) but I haven't come up with anything yet. I would say it's that I can have a few more nights of sex before surgery, but my libido is nil right now - which is a drastic departure from my usually, um, "wound-up" self. So I'll need to find a different benefit. No ruined undies, perhaps?

Well, if I do have to begin the Provera, perhaps I'll get the "boobs in a bottle" side effect. That would be nice - get my Peter-Faulk-eyed nips headed in a unanimous northern direction instead of their usual akimbo stance.

For Every Action There is an Equal and Opposite...

I have found her! The Anti-Asshat. That's right, ladies. In honor of getupgrrl's sidesplitting entry on the mind-boggling freaks out there (she's taken miscarriage hilarity to a new level), I thought I brag about one Anti-Asshat who's ventured across cyberspace to say hi.

To fill you in, someone who frequents a message board I post on had inquired about the death of my first son because it was so far along in my pregnancy (click here for the details), and so I dutifully explained. Anti-Asshat responded with this:

Julia,

I just was lurking on this post and realized what you lost your first son to. I am a Level III NICU nurse and we recently had a baby in our nursery with arthrogryposis. It was heartbreaking to care for him. Although my opinion does not make the least little bit of difference, I want you to know that you did a very kind and merciful thing by sending your son to live perfectly in Heaven. It must have been such a heart-wrenching decision and so hard to make. You are so brave and courageous and continue to be so. Although I don't know you, you are an inspiration in my life.

So all the "Miscarriage Gift"s and "Huge Cock"s of the world - take that! I'd rather get an unsolicited message from Anti-Asshat any day.

Life! 1000-piece Jigsaw Puzzle (Warning: Not Appropriate for Children Under 5)

I've been trying to square myself with the way of the world - attempting to reconcile my admittedly naive former assumptions about the way life worked with the copious amounts of hell-wrath that have rained down upon me like a shit maelstrom, interrupting what would have been a fabulously boring, suburban, soccer-mom existence.

In order to accomplish my task I had to first clear the decks. One must throw out all assumptions when attempting to solve a problem, so that's what I did. I took my world-view frameworks and threw them out the window. This leaves a yawning void, and given my spare time as a freelancer, I've set about trying on new frameworks, like so many pairs of pumps in a shoe store. In my pursuit, I've decided to stick with the time-tested "pick-and-choose" method, whereby the user takes bits of wisdom, concepts, etc. that appeal to her and discards those that turn her stomach or only make sense to the asshats of the world.

Part and parcel to this pursuit is figuring out the many "Why"s. Why did each of my children die? Why is my uterus falling apart? Why does my nurse have to be the shining example of callousness that she is? Why me? You get the idea. I'm sure you have your own set.

Dr. Luz, famed therapist to the stars (okay, maybe not "stars" per se, but I am pretty fantastic) said that she has a friend who's "made friends with not knowing," and I find this notion very tempting. But I still couldn't make it work. My mind wasn't feeling particularly friendly, I suppose. But when reading a book I received for Christmas, I ran across an interesting quote that might just do it for me, and I thought I'd share:

It's from Cold Mountain by Charles Frazier. (By the way, I refuse to see the movie because Rene Zellweger is the only person who doesn't butcher the southern accent beyond all recognition.)

Two men are talking at night on the battle field. The main character, Inman, observes the constellation, Orion, and tells the other that he knows the name of the brightest star, Rigel. The man asks how he came to know this and he replies that he read it somewhere.

- Then that's just the name we give it, the boy said. It ain't God's name.
Inman had thought on the issue for a minute and then said, How would you ever come to know God's name for that star?
- You wouldn't. He holds it close, the boy said. It's a think you'll never know. It's a lesson that sometimes we're meant to settle for ignorance.

For some reason, this makes sense to me. I can wrap my brain around that one. I couldn't begin to tell you why, but I thought it might strike some of you, as well.

I'm going to continue hunting puzzle pieces, and I'll let you know when I find some more. But you know, that last piece is always in the same place - my grandpa's shirt pocket. Some things in this universe are for certain.

Ding-Dong, The Witch is Dead! Now, On to Horshack!

That's right, folks! At last we have some resolution. I have no lofty theories or witty observations to impart in this entry - just a huge sigh of relief.

Here's the latest skinny:

After a long and tiresome game of phone tag with my RE's nurse(s) (shocking, I know) I have switched to a new doctor in the same clinic. This one comes highly recommended by two of the "A-List" doctors from the Asherman's Syndrome support group. Already I feel a big, rosy sense of peace settling in.

In order to do this, we've had to adjust schedules. I'll be seeing Horshack in two weeks for my initial consultation and pre-op visit, all rolled into one. Assuming he wants to proceed with surgery (he's seen my HSG films and seems to concur thus far), I'll go in for the hysteroscopy and adhesion repair two days later. This means I won't have to delay the surgery for another full cycle. I will, however, have to take a medication for a week longer to delay any build-up of lining in my uterus.

At this juncture, I feel it necessary to give myself a big pat on the back, and a round of applause to you ladies (oh, and my husband) for giving me the courage to demand what I needed. I was first told by the nurse that the switch was approved, but that I would have to start over from scratch with Horshack, and postpone the surgery for a whole cycle. Did I mention that nurse is a bitch?

I got off the phone, cried. Called my husband, cried. And then called her back. Thank God I spoke with the other, much more reasonable nurse. I demanded that she present our specific situation to Horshack and ask him to make an exception. She did. He did. And now everybody's happy.

The surgery scheduling nurse (I love her, by the way. Turns out she was the receptionist at my old GYN's office when I was a teenager) has already said I have "no worries at all" with Horshack, and that he's a great doctor who'll take good care of me. By the way, I think it's significant that his calendar was much fuller than my old RE's.

Sooo... we can all do a happy dance over the figurative grave of my old RE, and finally begin to plot the demise of my OB who likely missed all this damage in the first place!

The Cheerful Poo Theory

Taking up Jo's theory that talking about poo always cheers one up, I'm going to attempt to expand the theory to include bodily functions and tell a little story.

Once upon a time, in the seventh grade ('cause let's face it, the best bodily function stories originate in junior high), I experienced one of the most thoroughly embarrassing moments of my life.

It was in my English class. We were taking a spelling test. You remember those - the teacher slowly over-annunciating a long list of words in a room so quiet even Job would start to fidget. We were somewhere in the middle of the test when I began to feel the telltale sensations of a sneeze sneaking up on me. I got that burning feeling way in the back of my nose, and my nostril hairs began to feel as if they had a mind of their own. I wrinkled my nose a few times in an effort to squelch it, but to no avail.

Now, my grandfather used to sneeze these horrifying, hurricane-strength sneezes that caused all within a five-mile radius to board their windows and recede into the depths of their houses, canned goods in tow. I hated it. It was scary. So I learned to use all my effort to quiet and minimize my sneezes. And it usually worked. To this day, friends and loved ones tease me about my miniscule, Betty Boop-style sneezes.

But on this day, all that effort and restraint backfired in an unusually cruel way.

I sneezed, alright. But that's not all I did.

I farted.

That's right. I tried so hard to keep that sneeze it that it exited both ends with tremendous force! It was a loud, reverberating, wood-splintering fart in the middle of spelling test quiet.

I was stunned. Completely caught off guard, I had no idea what to do. All heads whipped around and eyes fixed in my direction. As my mind desperately raced to come up with some way to make this all go away, my best friend, who was seated behind me, effectively sealed off the last escape route.

Throwing both hands up in the air, she exclaimed loudly, "It wasn't me!" And then she lowered both index fingers and pointed them directly at my head.

To this day, I can't remember what I did. It likely involved sitting there and trying not to cry. I graduated from that school district in a class of 76 people. Someone reminds me of that day at least once a year.

Thank God I'm so well-adjusted.

But I'm still afraid to sneeze.

Spinning Out

Do you ever just have one of those days - they usually come out of nowhere - when you just get caught off guard and anger and confusion descend like crazed looney toons characters from on high? Well that's me today. I'm feeling beyond vulnerable, pissed off, pissed on, and not at all at peace.

I tried to call my RE's office for some more concrete information about my diagnosis today. I'm beginning to hate her more and more. I had the pleasure of dealing only with her nurse who politely informed me that my uterus is half-full of scar tissue.

"But what does that mean? Is that a typical case? A severe case?"

"I think that's pretty rare."

Well, excuse me, nursey-poo but I don't give a flying-rat's-ass what YOU think!!! I care what the doctor thinks! Or I might, if I knew she was qualified.

Which brought me to my next question:

"How many cases of this severity has she treated before? And what were their outcomes?"

"She says she's treated too many to even count. And their outcomes really depended on their specific situations."

It wasn't until I got off the phone and began crying in the shower that I realized she hadn't really given me any information at all. And here's what I don't get. If my case is pretty rare, then how has she treated countless women with the same severity?! Wouldn't that make it common?

AAARRRRGHHHHH!!!!

My surgery is scheduled for a week and one day from now. And I don't really know what to do. My pre-op appointment is for Monday. I have two thoughts:
1. Move up my appointment to tomorrow or Thursday so I'll have more time to mull this over and decide if I want this doc's tools in my hoo-ha.
2. Call the only doctor who's ever treated me like a human (a super-angel who visited me in the hospital after my hemorrhaging episode to tell me that it wasn't just bad luck - something must be wrong) and ask for her advice.

I really, really dislike days like today.

Habituated Trauma Searcher Seeks Hope Addict (A love song for the weary)

"If you like pina coladas, invasive pelvic exams..." (ala Jimmy Buffet)

Dr. Luz - famed therapist and kindred spirit - pointed out something interesting to me in a discussion last week. We were speaking about my sometimes frequent Google-induced freak-outs when she enlightened me about a particular aspect of my personality: I have become habituated to trauma.

Now, I know what you're thinking: "No shit, Sherlock. You're paying her for these tips, are you?"

It does sound simple, but really it's not. (And yes, she's worth every sanity-saving dime.) Dr. Luz says that I've come to expect trauma at every turn (because, let's face it, that's been my life in recent years) and instead of waiting patiently for Trauma (it's a proper noun now) to show up and bitch-slap me when I least expect it, I decide to go out and hunt her down. Thus, the endless queries and scary searches on the internet. Somewhere in my psyche, I figure if I can find out what might happen to me, what might go wrong, and put myself in those shoes first - I've beat her. Well, sort of.

But that's the problem - the "sort of". In the process, I cross some line between "good to know" knowledge and "scare the bejeezus" knowledge. And I force myself to imagine myself in traumas that will likely never occur. (You see, Trauma always shows up on my doorstep wearing a different guise than the ones I've prepared for. Kinda like the weird uncle who shows up for Thanksgiving in drag.)

Now, before I bore you with the ins-and-outs of my innermost self, let me introduce you to another aspect of my personality that I met up with this weekend: The Hope Addict.

That's right. Through it all (and I mean all in the true sense of the word - not in the rock ballad sense) she, too, has been there. She gets overwhelmed at times, and quietly waits in the corner of the room until the other, louder personalities in my head have quieted down and quit shouting. But she's always there.

She waits until the soft moments when I'm alone and pondering things of great consequence, like "Is that bush in my front yard really dead? Or will it come back in the spring?", before she comes out to speak. And when she does, she articulates so clearly and speaks with such authority that I couldn't miss her point if I tried.

Hope Addict came and hung out with me this weekend. She showed up when I got the phone call from my best friend that said her baby is a little girl - a healthy little girl. She went out with me and all our friends this weekend and kept me so calm that I didn't even feel compelled to fill anyone in on "me" and my latest sagas. And she came to church with me this morning, giving me the power to smile at all the babies and appreciate a new-found friend.

So, the Hope Addict has agreed to stick around (she's even tougher and more stubborn than me!) and she's agreed to help me find that line in the sand so we can send the Habituated Trauma Searcher into early retirement. We know she means well, but Hope brings better food to the parties.

I'm quite pleased with the arrangement. It's handy to have all of these characters in one neat little package - handy in a hermaphroditic, self-lovin' kinda way.