Of course it was a man

I had an ultrasound yesterday to check on the status of Freddie the fibroid and his new neighbours, the ovarian cyst-ers.

If you’re a long-term reader of HouseGoesHome you may recall my gyno christened my fibroid Freddie because it was so big it deserved a name.

So big, in fact, that I was not eligible for muffler-through-tailpipe hysterectomy surgery because Freddie was as wide as a full-term baby’s head. I did not fancy having my stomach sliced open yet again after two caesareans, so I embarked on an … interesting … journey that included having a Mirena inserted, miscarrying the Mirena in scenes that would not be out of place in Carrie, getting my womb razed (ablation) and receiving an embolisation (which cuts off the blood supply to your womb – and the fibroid – using a little wire threaded through an artery in your groin and injecting a glue-like substance into it).

The final procedure was the worst, which is saying something. Experts describe the pain you feel afterwards – as Freddie flails around gasping for blood – as being like having a heart attack in your womb. It was very unpleasant. Ironically, it also involved me mistakenly having an “abnormal cardio event” in the hospital (click here if you missed that corker).

I wonder if Greg the Gyno misses me after all the excitement I brought to his rooms. On my last visit in 2015 he said he was stoked whenever he saw my name in his appointment schedule because I was such good value during patient consults.

While I liked Greg too, I remain intent on retaining my womb, so keep your fingers crossed that Freddie and the ovarian cyst-ers don’t warrant further attention.

But I digress. I wanted to give you the lowdown on my latest ultrasound.

If you are a long-term reader of HouseGoesHome, you may also recall my heart sinking when I had my first ultrasound to establish Freddie’s girth due to belatedly discovering the procedure would be performed in two stages: first externally, then internally. This was made additionally harrowing by the sonographer turning out to be a young, cute male. Now, such things shouldn’t matter in these progressive times, but it does elevate the embarrassment levels slightly.

It’s a VERY intimate procedure. It only takes a few minutes, but it feels like FOREVER. It also involves the sonographer’s hand sliding intimately up and down your inner thigh as they check your inner lady bits from every conceivable angle.

The first blog post I wrote about it was called How Big Is That Thing? It is very freaking big, as you can see from the unsettling main pic.

Anyways, I rocked up for my latest ultrasound and, of course, it was a bloke who called out my name again in the waiting room. Sigh. He was also young, but much more humourless than the first one and not interested in my nervous chitter chat.

To make matters worse he gave me a CHOICE. He said I could opt to not have the internal ultrasound if I felt uncomfortable about it.

I didn’t want to be given a CHOICE. Being given a CHOICE is VERY unfair. I wanted to be told I had to have one, then I could suck it up princess and get on with it.

He was no help AT ALL with making the decision, with nary a pro or con offered to assist me. So I figured that it was in for a penny and told him to get on with it. That way I wouldn’t need to go back again if the external ultrasound didn’t show enough entrail detail.

And then, just when I thought I was in the clear, the sonographer gave me ANOTHER choice: did I want to insert the enormous wand thingie myself? That’s another joyful one to ponder, ain’t it?

I decided to let the expert do it.

And now I await the results.

Song of the day: America “You can do magic”