This post is going to be mostly complaining about my bodily functions. If you don’t care to read about a stranger’s bathroom habits, then just click here. If you’re willing to put up with it while I vent, then feel free to continue. It’s my blog, and I’ll complain about my poop if I want to.
As I said previously, this weekend was an adventure and a half, with my 9-year-old daughter and 6-year-old son visiting me for the first time. Both my son and my daughter are very bright, but I can see little quirks of their psyche that I can’t help feel guilty for. Hopefully with the help of my Hottie we’ll be able to give them a firmer foundation and help smooth some of those odd spots a little. We’re starting by letting them pick out their own beds and decorate their side of the room how they want.
We went to Texas de Brazil for Mother’s Day. Briefly, this is a place where you sit at a table and roving servers bring around giant skewers of meat and ask if you want some. It’s all you can eat, and they also have a huge salad bar with lots of things besides salad. The soup of the day was lobster bisque, for example. They also bring you these warm bananas that have sugar and possibly cinnamon on them, to help “clear your palate” between meats. Yeah right. They’re very tasty, I asked for extras of those.
I have, up until this point, been sure I’m more a carnivore than a vegetarian. I love meat, and I love rare meat. I grew up on the tri-tip roadside BBQs of California, and my step-dad used to buy big bags of it to freeze and make roasts and jerky out of. Needless to say, I stuffed myself at the restaurant.
The next day I felt a little queasy, but I chalked it up to nervousness at getting an IUD. What a nightmare that was. I’ve never really liked male gynecologists, for obvious reasons. So while he’s down there doing horrible things to my uterus, I’m writhing in pain and squeezing the nurses hand. Twice the whole thing came out before the IUD stayed. Each time I feel like someone is punching me in the stomach. I find out later I had a good reason to feel this way.
The doctor leaves the room. I can barely get my legs out of the stirrups and onto the table. I roll onto my side and start shaking uncontrollably. I have a hot bowling ball in my uterus. Finally I feel like I can get off the table. As I bend over to put a pad on my underwear, I start getting the feeling of impending doom. I tell the nurse, “I’m going to be sick,” and frantically try to pull my pants on. I grab my shoes and she clears a path to the bathroom for me.
I spend the next several minutes reaquainting myself with dinner. I decide that I need to both chew my food better, and stop eating meat. Finally one of the nurses knocks and asks me if I’m okay. I stagger to the door and tell her yes, I just need a minute or three. Turns out she’s the ultrasound tech who is going to check to make sure the IUD is in the right place. I finish up in the bathroom and shuffle to the room with the ultrasound.
This is a great ultrasound room. If you’ve ever had one, you’ll know that typically the machine is off to your right and you have to break your neck trying to see the screen. This room has a large plasma TV on the opposite wall from the bed, so no neck-breaking is necessary. I see my uterus on the wall, and the shadow of this thing… uh oh. The nurse is frowning. She keeps rechecking the same place!
“Tell me it’s not in the right place.”
“It’s not. I need to get the doctor in here. See this? It’s supposed to be here. It’s actually down here, in the muscle.”
The doctor had impaled the inside of my uterus with the IUD. Fortunately it didn’t go THROUGH, which, as I understand it, is a rare occurance. She fetches the doctor, I tell him to take it out and don’t worry about trying again.
He pulls the thing out, and I immediately start to feel better. Not fantastic, but the hot bowling ball has been reduced to a minor cramp. The doctor wisely writes me a prescription for birth control pills instead, and the nurse fetches me some advil. By now I sense that my snugglebug is getting hungry, and just as I’m about to ask the nurse if I can borrow a room for a while, another nurse brings my Hottie and the Snugglebug to me!
Nursing is a comfort to both of us, and I waste no time. I’m feeling better by the minute, and when we leave 20 minutes later I’m almost feeling human again. An hour later and I feel fine. We head back to the apartment to decompress and let the little man catch a nap, and I try decide where we’re going to dinner. Finally I make a decision I will later come to regret. “Let’s go to Red Lobster.”
Dinner was great. I had crab legs and a potato. Little did I know that the two days of indulging would swiftly come back to haunt me.
Cue this morning. I wake up about 7 with the urgent need to violate the toilet. With no effort at all, I do so. And I continue to do so about every half hour, with little to no warning. Just “GOTTAGONOW!” I’m disgruntled because I had to work today, and it’s hard to type when you have to get up to go to the toilet every 30 minutes. On top of that, someone switched my toilet paper to sandpaper. Fortunately, Boudreaux’s Butt Paste works just as well on bottoms abused with sandpaper every half hour as it does on diaper rash. Dehydrated badly, I send Hottie to the store for Gatorade and Pepto, a sure sign of my desperation because I hate to take any kind of medicine if I can help it. Later I send him back for some cottonelle wipes and chicken noodle soup.
I just finished eating the soup, I’m feeling better, but my butt is still on sandpapery fire. As I keep telling Hottie today, “Never again.”