"You Need Surgery..."

Last year, I started experiencing unbearable pain on my right side.  It was so disturbing, I couldn't walk without being hunched over.  Never being one for the emergency room, I waited to see my doctor about the pain.  A handful of visits to several other medical offices later, I found out I had a fibroid the size of a lemon implanted in the walls of my uterus.  When she uttered those frightening words to me, "You need surgery," I felt the world close around me.  Like an idiot, I came home and started researching all that could go wrong during a myomectomy.  Yeah, you don't want to do that.  I broke down, I didn't want to be cut open.  December 17, 2008, the morning of my surgery, came before I was ready.  My sister drove me to the hospital.  She'd had a C-Section the year prior and after her baby was born, she couldn't stop talking about how painful it was.  Her words resonated in my head.  I was a nervous wreck.  At the Admissions counter, I had a pillow across my stomach.  I was asked if I was a maternity case.  Nope, just a fibroid that had to come out.   I had already filled out the forms a few days prior, I had blood drawn in case I needed a transfusion, I did all I could do.  Once admitted, I was taken into some sort of a prep room where I was asked to change into the hospital gown and just lie down and wait.  I was there for a while, waiting... dreading.  Then my bed was wheeled to a room where I was given an epidural, and I was left there for a while.  I was told the O.R. was being sanitized from the previous surgery --  and down the hall, a woman screaming was being rolled in her bed.  That didn't help.  Somewhere along the way, I was asked to sign a paper that said that if need be, my uterus would be removed and I wouldn't sue.  33-years old, childless, that wasn't what I wanted to see at that moment, but I signed anyway.  When I'm rolled into the O.R. I looked around.  Black and white shiny, checkerboard patterned floor.  Indeed, it looked very hygienic, and that's the last thing I remembered.   Next thing I know, I hear my name followed by, "Wake up.  It's over."  I open my eyes, and groggily, voice my immediate concern, "Do I still have my uterus?"  The nurse goes to check.  In the meantime I try focus on my body.  Can I feel my legs? (Epidural fears.) Yes.  Can I feel where I was sliced? I do a crunch, and quite honestly, it felt like nothing more than muscle soreness.  I felt so nauseated though.  I pushed the button that dispensed pain number into my spine, I closed my eyes and the answer came, yes, I still had my uterus and my blood wasn't used.  All went well, thankfully.  As consciousness set in further, I realized a catheter was inserted into me, a fact which I hated, but grew accustomed to by the second day in the hospital.  The nausea/vomiting finally went away when I realized the correlation between those symptoms and pushing the epidural button and by the fourth day, I was discharged.  Through it all, as aforementioned, the pain felt like muscle soreness and that was it.  The only times the pain was heightened was either when about to lie down or sit up.  The doctor said it was normal as the pain was where the flesh was held open with tongs or forceps or whatever the tools are called.  The perfect "book case" end to my hospital stay came when I was sitting in the wheelchair in the elevator, heading home.  Another patient in the same type of vehicle noted the pillow I had across my lap and said, "I assume under all that bulk is a baby."  Laughing was not the best reaction to have at that moment because THAT action hurt.  If I may, just a tip: When you hop in the car to go home, make sure the seat isn't reclined far back.  Upright worked for me.  Also, the pillow was a perfect shield between my cut and the seatbelt.   In any case, every woman is different but don't be scared if you have to have a myomectomy.   Unfortunately, first night home, I found out my grandmother had died.  And did I mention I lost my job the day before my surgery?  In the end, it all worked for the best.  My grandmother died as she wanted to -- while she was still mobile, I have a job closer to home with a high profile company, and my pains are gone, the scarring is healing beautifully and if I want to pro-create without miscarriage-risks, the option is there.   Best of all, I no longer have a fear of surgery.  It's honestly not as bad as you imagine it's going to be.