So, as you all know my uterus and I aren’t on the best of terms right now. It’s ridiculous really since we have a common goal here. She wants out, and I want her out. Yes, I assigned my uterus a gender, but I figure making it a girl is appropriate. Although, if I recall correctly, utérus is masculine. Those French people are weird.

Anyway, I don’t know why we can’t reach a peace agreement since we share the same goal — setting her free to cavort amongst the other uteruses (uterii?) who’ve been similarly set free. But we cannot seem to maintain even a civil relationship, much less our former BFF standing. In the interest of getting rid of this evil entity setting her free, I’ve had four doctor’s appointments to date.

And there is apparently no end in sight. Today, I went in again with every expectation that a date for this long goodbye to be over would be set. No such luck. Me and my broken girlbits are apparently stuck with each other for the foreseeable future. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

I went to the gyn today full of hope and excitment that I would at long last know when I could be rid of a uterus so clearly unhappy with her current living arrangements. Bill and Tricia came along because I’m pretty sure Bill can’t cope with Tricia by himself. (It’s stupid, and I know it. But PPD doesn’t always make sense.)

We go back, and I’m told to get completely naked. WHAT? WHY? My boobs are okay! I mean, they’re *healthy…aesthetically pleasing is a whole ‘nother thing, but the gyn doesn’t care about that. Well, I *hope they don’t care about that. Oh, God, now I’m neurotic about it and wanting to hand out excuses — “I’m 33!” “I’ve nursed two kids now!” “I didn’t always wear a bra when I was younger!”

Oh. Sorry. Got off track. Anyway, the nurse says, “This is considered your annual, so she’s going to do a breast exam, too.” Which roughly translates to “shut up and get naked already.” Except Mary Ann is, like, the nicest nurse ever, so she probably meant just what she said. (Oh, and if you’re Mary Ann’s daughter who just had the baby boy two days ago — CONGRATS!)

So, I get into the gown and wait for Dr. V. Dr. V comes in, and the exam is started. Fair warning — TMI ahead, kids. Probably *way TMI, but well, it’s my blog. I got it like that. As Dr. V goes to insert the speculum, she hits my cervix. And I mean, HITS MY CERVIX. I gasp a little because, well, it didn’t feel terribly nice really, and she says, “I’m so sorry. Your cervix is right there.”

Gee, ya THINK?! Haven’t I been saying that exact same effing thing for two months now?? Gawd. No, I didn’t say that. I kept quiet. The woman had a metal object in my cooper. I wasn’t trying to piss her off with my sarcasm right then.

She then finishes that up and starts beating the crap out of my junk from the outside. WTF? Oh, wait — she’s just doing a pelvic exam. “Ow. Whoa. Why does it hurt like that?” I shriek at her ask. She tells me it’s because everything down there is out of place. Again — no shit? Really? FFS. Yet again, I show a great deal of self-restraint and say nothing. I’ve learned when someone has their hands in any part of your body, you probably don’t want to piss them off.

She then asks if she can do a rectal exam. Erm. “Wha? Are you thinking of switching to proctology?” Okay, fine, what I *actually said was, “Um. Okay.” Apparently she wants to make sure that there isn’t any rectal damage since my rectum and my bladder are trying to make out with each other and the only thing keeping those two lovebirds apart is my pesky, party-pooper cooper. (Party pooper. Hee. It would’ve been funnier in reference to my rectum, but I takes ‘em where I gets ‘em.)

Okay. It’s all done. I’m still filled with hope. I’m still seeing the light at the end of the tunnel. I’m still thinking this is almost over. And then, Dr. V says I have to have a bladder study. A what? A bladder study. They’ll fill up my bladder and make me cough and sneeze and all sorts of other things to see what fun party tricks my bladder might drag out.

Oh, holy night. MORE WAITING?!? Perhaps I have not made myself clear here. I have Ronco Showtime knives. According to Ron Popeil, those suckers can cut through a soda can. I’m betting they can do some surgery. Between my knives, my Clorox wipes and Google, I’m fairly certain we have all the tools necessary for a DIY hysterectomy right here at home.

Dr. V explains that they’re going to have to “tack up” my rectum for sure, and the study is to see if they need to do the same with my bladder. Here’s my thought — DO IT ANYWAY. Cut the bullshit, and get this over with. But no. Dr. V seems bound and determined to make me sit through every trick in her dog & pony show, whether I want to or not.

Fine. Who do I call to schedule the bladder thing? *I don’t call anyone — they’ll take care of scheduling it with the bladder study folks. WHAT? Oh, come ON. You people can’t get me in to your own office on time, and I’m supposed to trust that you’ll get me a bladder study sometime this *year? For real? :sigh: Fine. Just fine.

Dr. V then hauls out the last trick — “What about breastfeeding? This will mess up your breastfeeding.”

Me: What? Um, no, it won’t. I don’t need a uterus or ovaries to nurse since the hormones needed to produce breastmilk aren’t regulated by either.
Dr. V: The baby can’t stay with you right away.
Me: I pump and have been doing so for a while. We have a stockpile of milk in our freezer. It’ll be okay for at least a few days.
Dr. V: Are you bringing your pump to the hospital?
Me: I’d planned on it.
Dr. V: Well, stress can cause a decrease in your milk supply.
Me: For real? What about those bitches who feed their entire families for WEEKS while they’re stuck in a snowstorm with no access to actual food? Now *that is stress. Alright fine. I didn’t say that. But I wanted to.
Me: I’m guessing it will be okay, and if it’s not, then she can switch to formula.
Dr. V: You’re sure about this?
Me: You can take it out *today, if you want.
Dr. V: :totally defeated: Okay. We’ll schedule the bladder study. Once that’s done, you call, and we’ll schedule the surgery.

Je. Gagne. Except not really. I’m still waiting for the appointment for the bladder study. I still don’t have a surgery date. My uterus and I are still at war. My cooper is a broken and abject thing which longs for a return to its former glory. But at least I’ve finally convinced Dr. V that a hysterectomy is what I really want.

Bill still can’t wait.