My consult with the surgeon was frightening but informative. She answered a lot of questions that have been rattling around in my head for a while, and while I’m still nervous…I feel a little more confident that I’ll be okay after the surgery.

My surgery is scheduled for December 17th. I’ll be home and off work until January 5th. She said I could go back sooner if I wanted, or stay home for a full six weeks if I wanted…that it’s completely up to me and how I feel. We talked about the surgery itself and how she has done it as a day procedure before, but that in my case she would prefer to keep me in the hospital at least two days.

She put me on birth control pills that I am to take continuously until surgery, because she is concerned about my anemia and said she would prefer to not have to do a transfusion during or after surgery. She also doubled my dose of iron, which, if you’ve ever taken iron…you know…I’m not very happy about it.

She also informed me that she is fairly certain that I’m not ovulating at all, which explains my slight weight gain, and pimples that have popped up on my face like a girl going through puberty. She said the birth control pills will make that stop. Someday…someone is going to figure out how estrogen, progesterone, and testosterone REALLY work…and we’re all going to be thin and beautiful with perfect skin. In the meantime…I’ll just have to deal with my fat ass and acne.

Finally, we discussed pregnancy. She broke it down into the simplest terms. If I plan to have any more children…I’ve got a window of about 5-6 years. Since I had my tubes tied, she said that I can expect to require in-vitro fertilization, because it’s simpler than trying to repair the fallopian tubes. I can reasonably expect to successfully carry twins to term, but more than two babies and my chances for uterine rupture increase from 10% to more than 30%. After three c-sections, and the upcoming surgery, any future pregnancy would end in yet another c-section, and likely no further pregnancies. So, ultimately, if I want to have any more babies…it’s a one-shot deal.

She did make a couple of suggestions “off the record.” She said if I traveled to another country that has socialized medicine, that I could have in-vitro done for far less than the $10-12,000 it costs here. The same goes for a sperm donor…if it comes to that. So yeah, I’m gonna go to Brazil and have myself a Brazilian baby….in a few years or so. haha

Anyway, now that she’s put me on birth control…the smoking issue is more important than ever. The risk of stroke or heart attack is super high if I smoke while on the pill, so…I’m done. Tomorrow.

I’ve got a little over six weeks to get myself physically and emotionally ready for this surgery. I can’t change my mind about it, because the problems that I’ve been having have reached a point where I can’t put off surgery any longer. After surgery, I’ll still have to deal with the anovulation, and the possibility of having to take birth control pills for an extended period of time until my body agrees to cooperate.

Now that the surgery is scheduled, I’d like to put it out of my mind for a while, but I seem to have an issue with putting anything out of my mind lately. I have, however, found that if I help others around me deal with their problems, I tend to forget about my own for a while. So, I’ve been focusing my attention on a friend with a broken heart…and it keeps me from thinking about mine. Avoidance. *sighs*

I’ve recently come to the conclusion that my need to love is greater than my need to be loved. I don’t know if it’s a woman thing, the ‘caretaker’ mentality, or if it’s just another way that I’m not quite right. Anyway, basically what it means is that I continue to love people even when they don’t love me. I can look back over the last fifteen years or so and see the pattern repeated over and over. I have continued to love each one of my exes far past the end of the relationship. (With one or two exceptions.)

I’m sure I had something else I wanted to write about, but it has escaped me, so I’ll have to edit later, or just write about it tomorrow. Tomorrow…Friday. Thank God.

Wow, I was a raging bitch all day today. At least three people made comments about it, and everyone was avoiding me as if I might be carrying a weapon in my handbag. I need no weapon, I’ve got a mouth. I had no tolerance for sarcasm, lowbrow humor, or any of the other antics that I deal with on a daily basis. By about three in the afternoon my mood had lightened a bit, but then I started fretting about the damn doctors appointment.

I swear I’m going to look the doctor straight in her face and lie to her that I’ve completely quit smoking. So I still smoke two or three cigarettes a day…that’s almost quit. Besides, by the time I have surgery, I’ll be completely quit and it will be a non issue. For the record, and I can be questioned about this later, I’m never going to smoke again. It’s a disgusting, unhealthy, and expensive habit…and I should have never picked it back up. (Following the quitters guide, I threw away all my ash trays and lighters today, and I’m not going to buy any more cigarettes. When the few I have left are gone…I’m done. I swear. I mean it. Honestly. REALLY.)

My tantrum from yesterday carried over to today. I just keep wanting to stomp my feet and say, in my most petulant voice, “But I don’t ask about him!!!” It’s not fair that he can ask about me and know things about me, when I’ve respected his decision and left him completely alone. I have things I want to know about him, but I don’t ask. I don’t poke around with people, asking questions, and nobody talks about him to me. Ugh, I’m obviously still being a baby.

And on the subject of exes, Joshua got the raw end of my shitty attitude today. He was just being himself (a horny bastard, aren’t they all?) … but I wasn’t in the mood to ignore or ‘lol’ his comments, and so I ripped into him, and I’m pretty sure he won’t ever speak to me again. I don’t know why he has been trying so hard to get back together with me after we had such a prolonged and strange breakup…but I’m pretty sure that he’s done trying now. I would apologize to him for being such a bitch, but he might take it as an invitation to continue his pursuit, and I just don’t want to deal with it.

In fifteen hours I’ll be sitting with the surgeon, discussing plans, and hoping she doesn’t want to do my surgery until December…2013 or so. Okay, so I’m being a big baby about a lot of things lately. What I really want is for everyone to pretend with me that I’m not going to have surgery, but instead everyone keeps asking me when the surgery is, and how I’m feeling, and if I’m scared. No, I’m not scared. She’s just going to cut my guts open and pull out a thing that’s growing where it shouldn’t, and then she’s going to stuff everything back in where it belongs and hope that it still works properly, and then put me back together and then shove me off into a hospital bed for three days. No big deal.

Maybe I can talk her into giving me bigger boobs while I’m under anesthesia.

This morning I got a reminder call about my appointment with the surgeon that’s coming up this Thursday. Not like I can forget. I know it’s just a consult, and that I’m not actually going to have surgery yet…but this is when we’ll make the plans and set dates and…when there’s no going back.

If I’m going to be honest…I’ll admit that I’m scared to death. It’s going to be like having a c-section, without the benefit of bringing home a baby. I’ll get to bring home a belly full of staples instead! Strangely, I keep thinking about the surgery itself.

Is it terrible of me to think that if I died on the table…that it wouldn’t be a bad thing? I mentioned this to a couple of people, and one of them said “That’s crazy talk.” and the other said “That’s depression.”

Fuckall, I’m not fucking depressed! I’m right fucking peachy. Life is grand.

Seriously though, I think I’ve had all the life experiences that people are supposed to have. I went to school, I got married, I had a family. I’ve loved and lost and lived and laughed and overall I think I’ve had a decent life. I mean, it’s not like I’m going to go into surgery and will my spirit out of my body (is that even possible?) …but… if something happens and I don’t make it…I’m totally fine with that.

Does that make me a coward? A wuss? A quitter?

I don’t think I’ll discuss these things with the surgeon though, I’ve got a feeling she might try to postpone my surgery until I get my head out of my ass. Honestly, I’m not in the middle of a depression right now. These are legitimate thoughts…of a medicated and happy Stephanie.

When I was at the hospital earlier this month having my blood transfusion, I was asked to fill out some forms. Part of it was a Living Will. I signed a DNR and a form confirming that I’d donate my organs. So, if something happens and I flatline on the table, they can’t touch me. They have to let nature take it’s course…and then give the bits of me that aren’t rotten to people that can use them.

Considering I’ve got scar tissue on my lungs, a heart defect, and tumors in my uterus…I’m not sure what that leaves. My liver? Kidneys? Hmm, I guess that’s it. Then, the rest of it they can put in the incinerator until I’m ashes…and send half to my mom and half to my dad. They’ve fought over me all my life, I’ll make it easy for them after I’m gone.

If my dad read this, he would be absolutely crushed. I swear, I’m not feeling nearly as morbid as this entry might seem…but I’m just being honest. I don’t necessarily want to die, but if I do…it won’t be the end of the world. Unfortunately…fortunately…whatever…I’m pretty sure I’ll be fine, and I’ll end up at home in bed for a couple weeks, moaning and bitching about how much I hate Lortab, and asking myself why I didn’t just have a hysterectomy after I had my daughter.

On a happier note…

When I got in my truck to come home from work today, the first thing I heard on the radio was “The first five callers will win tickets…” so I started dialing, not having any idea what I was trying to win tickets for. I was caller #5…and I won two tickets to the 98.9 KISS FM Singles Mingle. It’s in November at the Skky Bar in Bricktown. I asked the producer why I would need two tickets to a “singles mingle” and he said that the other one is for my Wing Man. So this is the plan…I’m going to take a single friend, and then help her find a man I approve of, and then I’m going to leave. Yes, I suck, but I have no use for men right now.

It’s cold, and I think I’m cranky. Hormones are a bitch.

I read this article on CNN.com the other day about a possible link between bipolar disorder and creativity. While I’ve never been diagnosed “bipolar”…the psychologist said my moods don’t swing high and low enough…I think it could be pretty damn close. I mention this because I started a hardback journal a couple of months ago to keep notes on my private thoughts, ruminations, and dreams. I’m starting to see a pattern emerging.

Apparently when I’m “up”…I have brilliant dreams that are crisp, clear, and fantastic. These dreams are detailed to the point that when I wake up, I can still recall what color shoes I was wearing in the dream, or what flavor coffee I was drinking. Also, when I’m up, I feel compelled to create. I write bits of poetry on scraps of paper, begin writing short stories that never get finished, and draw my thoughts and ideas on paper and digitally. I can’t find enough outlets for all my energy…and I find myself crossing thresholds I previously said I wouldn’t. I feel bright and electrified, full of life and energy, and as if I can conquer the world.

Inevitably…after the high comes the low. During my “down” times, I can’t sleep enough. I sleep a dark and dreamless sleep that never seems to quench my desire for more sleep. My head seems muddy and my thoughts are sluggish, and I find myself pulling away from everything and everyone. (Or maybe I push them away, I’m not sure which it is.) When I am down, I can think of nothing but all the yesterdays that I wasted, every heartbreak and disappointment, lost love, missed opportunity, and all the reasons why my place in this world is so insignificant.

I suppose what sets me apart from the typical bipolar is that my highs and lows last for weeks, not days. I’ve heard of bipolars who cycle from highs to lows in a matter of hours. The transition from high to low is devastating enough when you feel yourself sliding into the pit over a period of days…I cannot imagine the terror one might feel while rapidly sliding from the highest high to the lowest low.

I see the pattern in this blog, as well. I’m dark and ruminative during the lows, and cheerful and thoughtful during the highs. Admittedly, it’s not an exact science…because sometimes even when I’m on a high I can become rather brooding, and when I’m low I can still find something to laugh about.

Presently, I’m feeling rather floaty. I’m happy, alive, free, and there is so much life out there just waiting for me to live it. I pulled the Ace out of my sleeve, and I can’t stop smiling! I want to go, do, and BE. The only problem is that there is a vulture flying overhead, and I think he’s just waiting for me to fall. I think he smells my joy and instead of celebrating life with me, he would rather bring me down. I guess I could be wrong, but it’s just my interpretation of his behavior. He text messaged me all day. He was doom and gloom, and I was Little Miss Sunshine. I did try to cheer him up, but instead I only found myself frustrated.

Anyway, I’m sure I had a point to all of this, but my thoughts are racing ahead of me and I can’t seem to keep up.

I got the call from the gyno’s office today. I’ve got a consult on the 28th. It’s starting to look like I’ll have surgery sooner rather than later. Maybe I should be happy that I’ll get it over with before the new year begins. Then…I can start 2009 in good health, without worries about what might be taking over my organs. (You know, that just doesn’t sound right. It totally made me think of that scene in Alien where the little baby alien pops out of the guys chest. Gross.)

Wow, is it really almost 2009? I keep thinking something cataclysmic will happen before the end of the year, and so far no serious tragedy has befallen me or my loved ones. I shouldn’t say such things, I know, but I can’t help the directions that my mind wanders.

Happy humpday.

Yesterday after work I decided I would finally visit the new library in downtown Oklahoma City. I suppose it’s not technically new anymore, but it’s still new to me. The building is really nice to look at; modern and curvy and all glass and metal.  I’m not sure if it was a lack of planning, or an act of brilliant planning…but they put the library in an area with no real parking. Parking meters have sprung up like wildflowers, and I think the city might be bringing in a hefty profit from those little moneygobblers.

I went to browse, and to fill my nose with the smell of paper and ink and glue. I really hadn’t thought it through, because my library fantasies didn’t include greasy homeless people, obnoxious men with their ogling eyes, and smacking, loudmouth children. My friends, the days of the “Shhhhh!” librarian are long gone.

I hunted for a copy of Anna Karenina, but found it was checked out. I settled on Madame Bovary which was proudly sitting atop a display of books that had at one time been banned from the library. (Also featured on this display was Gone With the Wind, which I recently purchased, but have yet to read.)

I fondled books of every variety, skipped the section of the library with “books on tape”, and marveled at the wonder that is the elevator. It’s mirrored; You can see yourself like….5 billion times! Maybe if it was lit a little better…you could see yourself to infinity! I rode the elevator at least six times, and each time was drawn into the reflections of my reflections. Maybe I shouldn’t have watched Mirrors over the weekend. (If you haven’t seen it…wow.) Anyway, the reflections of my reflections told me that I have poor posture and I look like a woman on the run. Maybe it’s just that I was half expecting one of those reflections to reach out and grab me, or maybe I should really try and work on getting rid of the “haunted” expression that I seem to have developed lately.

I let time get away from me, and when I finally realized that it was almost 8:00, it was well past dark…and my truck was still parked out by one of those deserted parking meters. It was also raining. So I decided I would just casually stroll to my truck as if I wasn’t worried about being mugged by some awful person. I was about twenty feet away from the door when I heard footsteps behind me, and immediately felt my heart start to pound. Then I berated myself for watching too many scary movies and episodes of CSI. Then I heard Oprah telling me to trust my gut instinct. Too bad I haven’t watched many Kung Fu movies, because I was really in the mood to kick some ass about the time the guy tapped me on the shoulder.

I left my sweater in the library. Some sweet little deaf guy saw it and followed me out. I really wished that I knew sign language so I could scold him for scaring the shit out of me, but instead I just signed ‘thank you’ and then fingerspelled ’s-c-a-r-e-d-m-e’ , and he made some fascinating sound from deep within his throat that I will assume was a laugh. I really would have felt bad if I had busted a Jackie Chan on some deaf guy, but being deaf doesn’t mean he can get away with being all quiet while he’s walking up behind a woman who has recently watched scary movies!

I’m literally cracking up as I write this because I’m trying to imagine what he could have done to alert me that he was behind me. I mean, if he had so much as coughed, I might have pissed my pants. If he had cracked his knuckles, I’d have been convinced he was cocking a gun and probably would have passed smooth out on the dirty sidewalk. I’m so tough, ya’ll!

The worst part of the whole library story is that in thirteen days I have to go back to return my books! Yes, I know they aren’t my books…but once I’ve had them in my possession for two weeks, I’m totally going to feel as if they belong to me, and I won’t want to give them back. Hmmm, that probably explains why they print out the cost of the book right next to the date that the book is due to be returned.

I visited the dentist this morning. I had two tiny cavities that had to be filled, and I left the dentists office with half my face numb, a bottle of water, and instructions not to eat or drink anything for two hours. So maybe somebody could tell me why the hell they gave me the bottle of water? Sadists! It was torture!

I managed to make it through the rest of the morning without biting off half my tongue. I also survived lunch while trying to only eat “soft foods.” I was careful not to bite down too hard, and careful not to grind my teeth. Then, I scalded my tongue on hot coffee. It truly must have been one of Murphy’s Laws or something. Considering I probably wasn’t supposed to be drinking hot coffee anyway, I don’t guess I should complain too much about it.

Still no word from the doctor about when I can come in and discuss surgery with her. In the meantime, I’ve got an appointment to see a chiropractor. Apparently the guy is some sort of reflexology genius, and I’ll float out of his office like a new woman. Maybe I’ll try acupuncture and a macrobiotic diet next….or maybe I’ll just think about it.

I wonder if the police still have to read someone their Miranda Rights if they’re deaf? I mean, they really don’t need to be told they have the right to remain silent…right? Is it a violation of their freedom of speech if you put them in handcuffs? Do deaf people tell each other to SHUT UP when they’re arguing? I seriously was awake until after 2 a.m. thinking about this stuff last night. Not just that, other things too, but it kept coming back to the deaf guy.

if a deaf man and woman are having sex do they…oh nevermind.

So the last entry I wrote before today was on September 23rd. On (Friday) September 26th I went to the doctor to have blood tests. After almost 45 days on my period (yes, 45 days) …I wasn’t feeling very well. I tried to rest and relax over the weekend, but I felt awful. On (Monday) the 29th, I called the doctors office to find out the results of my blood tests, but the nurse was short with me and explained that the doctor hadn’t yet had a chance to review my chart and that he would get back to me as soon as he could.

Finally, that afternoon around 1:00 the doctor called to give me the results. My hemoglobin was extremely low, and he wanted me to go to the emergency room as soon as possible to have a blood transfusion. That had been my fear over the weekend, and I had already resigned myself to the fact that I was probably going to have to have a transfusion, so it wasn’t a terrible shock.

I was at the pharmacy picking up some prescriptions when I got the call, and I decided I wasn’t going to rush. I paid for my scripts, and stopped on the way home to pick up something for lunch. When I got home, all I wanted to do was sleep. The hospital is less than five blocks from my apartment, but I was in no rush to get there. I had things I needed to do around the house, and I wanted to call my family.

I felt a strong urge to call my mother, and at the gentle nudge of a friend, I decided I would. I realize that after everything I’ve been through with my mother, that my calling her seems rather out of character, but I had a few questions I wanted to ask regarding family medical history. I suppose there was also a bit of “what if” playing on my heartstrings as well…and I didn’t want to go to the hospital with unfinished business tickling the back of my brain.

I checked into the emergency room at 5:30, and settled in for a long night. It was a busy Monday night, and I wasn’t actually checked into a room until after 2:00 in the morning. There was quite a bit of paperwork to fill out, consent forms to be signed, and explanations of what I could expect. The first unit of packed red blood cells was hung around 3:00 a.m, I was monitored and kept awake for twenty minutes, and then allowed to sleep.

The next several hours are a bit of a haze because I was utterly exhausted, but I know at some point a second unit of prbc’s was hung, and I was again monitored for reaction. The transfusion was complete, my hemoglobin was checked again and determined to no longer be critical, and I was discharged at noon. I came home, showered, and fell into bed where I slept until the late afternoon.

I missed several hours of work on Wednesday morning, and again on Thursday afternoon, but managed to make it through Friday without incident. I still feel a bit like I’m walking in the clouds, and I don’t have the energy to do much more than be.

The fact that the problem that started this whole issue hasn’t been remedied yet is still of great concern to me. The anemia has been addressed, but there is a surgery looming large on my horizon, and so much uncertainty.

Talking to my mother was rather surreal, but two very good things did come of it. First, she strengthened my resolve to not have a hysterectomy. I’ve been feeling a bit of pressure to just go ahead and get it over with. So many people have said “Just have the hysterectomy, you’ll feel much better!” My mother reminded me of the issues she’s suffered for the last ten years (since her hysterectomy), and of our family history of breast cancer which precludes hormone replacement therapy. I have enough on my plate without having a surgery that will possibly turn me into a hormonal, raging bitch.

The other thing that came of my conversation with my mother is that I was able to ask for pictures of my kids. It’s amazing how much they’ve changed since the last photos. They’re far too precious for me to keep to myself, so I leave you with this.

The reasons I breathe.