Nom de Plume

Okay, little warning here. This is another whiny post–so you can decide whether to skip it.

I’ve been debating about posting all the stuff about this ectopic pregnancy and my rollercoaster emotions. Ultimately, I’ve decided to go ahead and do it. This is why: There’s a lot of clinical information out there on various medical web sites. It’s all valuable information–but it’s all about how you feel physically, not emotionally. Thank God for the personal stories on blogs and message boards. Those have helped so much. We don’t talk about these things unless covered by a veneer of anonymity; they are deemed too personal, no one’s business, whatever. But in this connected world of ours, if we can’t talk about the things that touch us, if those things are lost in the never-ending quest for “content”–well, then, what can we talk about? I am still ambivalent about posting all this because until recently, I haven’t gotten that personal on the blog, and I really don’t want to make people feel uncomfortable. So let me make it clear that I’m not looking for sympathy, responses are not necessary. It’s therapeutic to write about it, just as its therapeutic to read about other people going through the same thing. The responses I’ve gotten from the vitiligo posts prove that.

So large disclaimer aside, this is what I originally logged in to post:

Several years ago, Steve tore his Achille’s Heel tendon. I remember thinking that had he lived 100 years ago, he would have been crippled for life. I’ve been thinking about it again. I could have died. This isn’t being melodramatic; it’s a statement of fact. We are fortunate to live when we do: Medicine has rendered something possibly life threatening into something marginally uncomfortable for a week or so, with a couple of tiny scars that no one is ever going to notice. In fact, my recovery time will be less than Steve’s was.

So it seems churlish that I feel such resentment. But I do.

I resent that there was all this stuff done to me when I out cold, like I was just this slab of meat on an operating table. One moment, there’s a mask being placed on my face. The next moment, I’m awake and sore. Two hours–just gone. Don’t get me wrong, I wouldn’t have wanted to be conscious. But when you’re asleep, even those nights when sleep seems like a dark cave of oblivion and you wake still halfway in it, there’s still a shard of self-consciousness. If nothing else, someone doing stuff to your body would wake you. This? This was like death. It was nothing. Where was I? Where did I go? And isn’t it ironic that all this stuff that saves a life feels so negating? (Actually, it’s kind of funny that surgery seems to be prompting an existential crisis.)

I also finding myself really resenting what is functionally a loss of an entire Fallopian tube. (If you want to get all technical, it was a fimbrial ectopic, which means that it got stuck in the part of the Fallopian tube next to the ovaries. This section has a large opening and little tentacles that wave the fertilized egg into the tube. This whole section was removed.) One Fallopian tube works perfectly well, it’s true. Everything else was in perfect condition, that’s true too. And so future fertility shouldn’t be a problem. If you want the absolute truth, I am still ambivalent about having a kid. But now, by God, it’s a challenge.

But if you want to know what I resent most, it’s having to see that heartbeat on the ultrasound twice. That just pisses me off.