Confession: I’m a bit panicked.
Well, a bit more panicked than usual.
I got a call from a specialist yesterday about Freddie the Fibroid.
He called me on his mobile. His actual, personal mobile.
I’m not used to specialists calling me on their mobiles. They usually work through receptionists.
I mean – I could be a stalker. What doctor in his right mind gives out his personal mobile number to a strange woman with a dodgy womb?
But it’s lovely that he did. Such a nice, personal touch.
He’s spoken to me three times since and left messages letting me know I can call any time to discuss things further.
You see, I’ve decided on embolisation instead of a hysterectomy. It involves cutting off the blood supply to Freddie using a little wire threaded through an artery in my groin.
Why did I choose that option?
I just don’t fancy having major abdominal surgery. I coped (just) with my first two caesareans, but having another one to get some heartless lump plus my womb removed doesn’t appeal.
Not to mention the hell of not being able to take care of myself and my kids for weeks on end. And possibly not be able to work for six weeks.
With an embolisation I’m out of hospital in a day or two and back to work within a week.
My ex is going to work from home next Friday while I have the procedure and have the kids for the weekend so I can recover.
Marlene the retiree is going to mind the dogs for two nights.
DD is going to hold my hand.
So why am I panicking? Because everyone keeps emphasising how much it will hurt. I went through labour with the eldest, I’ve had two caesareans. I know what terrible pain feels like. But apparently this is different.
DD informed me over champagne at the Ovolo hotel the other night that it’s like having a heart attack. And the specialist yesterday said the same thing: angina in my womb.
Wow that sounds AWFUL.
They give you heaps of drugs for the first 24 hours then wean you off onto Panadol with the help of a “pain management team.”
I don’t like the sound of a “pain management team.”
I’m not stoic. When I called my ex to ask if he could have the kids while I’m in hospital he needlessly reminded me of the fact and that I tend to vomit a lot during surgical procedures.
Yes, yes, I know.
But hopefully, once I get through those horrible first 24 hours I’ll be OK.
Hopefully, in a few months, Freddie the fibroid will shrink to half its size. (The doctor’s success rate is 95%)
And hopefully, the blood supply to my ovaries isn’t cut off during the procedure and I don’t go through premature menopause. (It happens in 1-2% of cases.)
Deep breaths …