I stopped talking around noon. Which is what happens before something big, only the "something big" is usually a performance or a race. Luckily, Boyfriend is a Pro-League Introvert, so Endurance Silence is one of his better events. Which is better, in my opinion, than small talk about condo prices and weather. Way better.
We drove to the clinic with one of my woo woo meditation CDs playing in the background. We got rock star parking on the second pass of the lot. We got box seats in the waiting room. It was a good start.
It got better when Scottish Nurse Jo practically hugged me on sight. She was a big fan of the Herald article. She said I am doing a great service to women. Then she got down to the brass tacks. She showed me another diagram, this time of the LEEP procedure. Grounding pad gets stuck to the leg – to avoid electrocution. Gulp. Anesthetic injected locally into the cerv. It will make your heart race. Check. Been there, experienced that. Zip, zap – an electrically charged metal loop slices off the baddies. Then no heavy lifting, labour or exercise for a week. And nothing up your sleeve (if you know what I mean) for three.
Then I saw the prettiest illustration of my life. It was a fully regenerated cervix. In three weeks, my cerv will be back to normal.
That's when the tears started. Because I thought it didn't grow back. I thought that I was going to be down to a third of my cervix. I told Jo that she was the absolute best. She was the only medical professional that told me the whole deal was caused by HPV. The only one who sat there until every question I had was addressed. And now she was telling me that my lady parts would grow back as good as new.
Her eyes got shiny and she had to blow her nose rather suddenly.
I felt better about the surgery, but I still wanted to know if I could beat it all myself. She said I should just eat fruits and vegetables and get lots of sleep. And not to smoke or drink too much. Not exactly the level of info I was hoping for. That stuff falls well into the Stating the Obvious category. We were going to have to go to the Best for this one.
Out in the waiting room, Mom asked about my career. Not a great move since I have no clue what is going on in that department and am bobbing directionless in a vast ocean of Nothing. Besides that, I am miserable. In general. There are moments of lightness, but for the most part, I exist an emotional wasteland. So, the tears were back for Round 2. Which is when they called me in for the big show.
Nurse #1 gave me a hug, which was nice. Then Dr. Best arrived. I weepily told her about the new pain and 'stuff,' which I described in far more graphic detail than I will here. She said she'd check it out. She told me that she would be describing everything as she went along and did I have any "last minute questions?" Uh, YEAH.
Only by this time, I was buck naked from the waist down, crying and attached to a giant grey machine that looked suspiciously like a BBQ. It had a 'smoke clearance' sticker on it.
I wanted to have a conversation. To see if this procedure was, in fact, necessary. If I could do something different, something that didn't involve electrically charged surgical devices, anesthetic that made my heart beat out of my chest and the word 'cauterize.'
But I had no choice.
Once I was in the clinic, I was theirs. I realize that now. If I had gotten through on the phone, I might not have been there, naked and vulnerable and unquestionably subject to Standard Procedure. But instead, I found myself with my thighs hanging open, attached to a Grill King 2000.
Dr. Best got to work. And the part where she tells me what she's doing went out the window. Instead, the nurses began making ridiculous small talk about some bestselling novel to distract me. Because I'm a writer. And apparently an idiot. Who does this work on? People with an IQ of nine?
I want to know what the hell is happening under that sheet and we're talking about Jodi Freaking Picoult?
All of a sudden, one of the nurses says, "Here comes a pinch." So we're just going ahead now. We're anesthetizing. We're not going to talk about my new symptoms. We're just going for it. And now, I realize I can't escape. It's happening. It's all happening.
I feel three or four needles go in. I wince and Nurse #1 says, "Breathe honey," which will be her only line for the rest of this scene.
Nurse #2 starts asking me what I'm writing or reading or something. I block her out. I'm way inside now. I'm feeling my heart start racing and my legs shaking and my muscles spasming. I'm feeling some foreign something racing through my blood like a chemical freight train. I am particularly conscious of the fact that I can't run because there is a possibility that a very long needle is very deep inside me.
After further Jodi Picoult discussion, Nurse #2 abruptly says, "We're done."
But I can hear buzzing. Which is, I can only assume, the cauterizing bit. I try not to think of steakhouse commercials with the sizzling slabs of Triple-A Alberta Beef. Before I can tell them I take it medium rare, they're slapping on something called Monsel's paste. No one has really explained what this is. It makes me think of some early 1900s apothecary owner named Alfred Monsel who invented this wound-healing paste from a mixture of iodine, baking soda and his wife's famous mashed potatoes. "Works like a charm and tastes delicious!"
Once I'm all good and Monselized, I hear, "Oh and by the way, I didn't notice any unusual discharge or any signs of infection." Thanks, Doc.
I am released from the BBQ and I sit up. I ask Dr. Best how I can avoid another one of these magical medical moments. Not that it wasn't totally romantic and spiritually fulfilling and all. She tells me that she normally advises patients to, and I quote, "Forget about it."
Believe me, I'm trying to.
