I was TERRIFIED when I woke up yesterday morning. The anxious wait for the dreaded Mirena insertion totally messed with my head.
I’d been told so many horror stories: it was the worst pain one friend had ever experienced, another told me she needed morphine, even the gyno warned it could be so difficult – due to my virgin cervix and caesarean scarring – that I’d have to be booked into a hospital for a general anaesthetic.
I enlisted a friend to “virtually” hold my hand via text message while I was in the waiting room, which was lovely of them considering they were heading overseas and really needed to be packing instead of fielding “I’m sooooooo scared!!!!!” messages.
(Actually I’m not feeling guilty at all after discovering they got upgraded to FIRST CLASS at the airport and gleefully sent me pictures of themselves sipping Tattinger. Have you ever been upgraded? The only time I ever got upgraded was when I was pregnant with my eldest and was juggling morning sickness with the most horrific case of flu and languishing in a hotel bed in London. Husband cashed in all his frequent flyer points to get me – not enough left for him – home in business class. Those were the romantic days.)
It didn’t help my nerves when the gyno’s receptionist asked if a medical student could observe the procedure. I flinched, hesitated and sighed before reluctantly saying: “Sure, in for a penny …”
When I walked into my gyno’s office, I confessed how terrified I was … secretly hoping he’d offer drugs. But all he offered was reassurance that he’d done it thousands of times and it would be fine.
So I stripped off and put my feet in the steppy things (he got a bit offended when I called them stirrups – outré) and tried to blank out the lovely Ugandan medical student smiling shyly by the gyno’s side.
I finally lost my cool when he offered to let me watch the procedure on a monitor. “No! No! No!” I squealed … then quickly apologised for potentially scaring all the other patients in the waiting room. He agreed his walls WERE a bit on the paper thin side.
Surprisingly, the procedure itself was uncomfortable rather than painful. A bit like a Pap smear but longer, because he had a bit of trouble getting past the scarring and my womb is (apparently) on a funny angle.
But it was rather surreal to have a cheery bloke’s head peering up from between my thighs, discussing how he hoped the insertion was going well because he’d hate to get a negative review on the blog.
Oh brave new world which hath such strange things in it …
Fifteen minutes later I wobbled back into the waiting room, paid a kings’ ransom to the receptionist and raced off to the city to get my hair coloured at Crown Hair by the divine Paolo. Should you be in need of a colourist, I can thoroughly recommend the divine Paolo. He’s a total sweetheart. I decided to protect his young ears by not discussing my traumatic earlier appointment.
Instead, he told me about his pug, who got so depressed when his brother (pug) died that all his black markings went grey, all his teeth fell out and his tongue started flopping out the side of his mouth. So he had to go on antidepressants. The pug, not Paolo.
I started giggling uncontrollably, while repeatedly apologising to Paolo – between gales of laughter – as we both agreed it really wasn’t funny at all.
I’m blaming my appalling behaviour on the stress I’d been under earlier that morning.
Song of the day: Joan Armatrading “Rosie”