Daily Archives: June 11, 2008

Do not read this post. It is completely disgusting

I’m also working on a post on my delightful room-mates for those two nights I spent in hospital, don’t worry. But this post is rather heavy on the gore and ick. Also, snot and weeping. Heigh ho.

Dear readers, I do hope very few of you have had a miscarriage, and of those of you have had, well, statistically only 2 to 3% will have developed an infection, according to Doctor Google. Doctor Google, however, is a little coy about symptoms and recovery times and, you know, quite important things like that. I can expect pain, yes, done that; fever, yes, a slight one, dealt with with all the paracetamol and antibiotics; and bleeding with ‘foul-smelling discharge’ – this last one freaking me the heck out and I can ASSURE you, gentle reader I have had nothing of the sort. I am bleeding, in a watery, pinkish, feeble, spotting sort of way – ah, by the way, I have now been bleeding practically without surcease since the 17th of May, and is this fair? Is it buggery – but haven’t bled heavily since the operation. Nothing particularly foul about it. I promise. Is this right? Is it good? Is it not good? The NHS doctors seemed to be of the opinion that I get at least another week of bleeding. Harrumph.

Also, I was utterly panic-struck yesterday. I was feeling very crampy, which was beginning to upset me. I was pacing about the living-room in a slightly wobble-kneed way, huffing, and along with the cramps I was feeling a bizarre sensation of pressure and almost squeezing. Very unpleasant. I interpreted this as my possibly needing a pee, so I went into the loo, sat down, and suddenly something slid out of me. I caught it on the toilet paper, and promptly shrieked – I mean really, avert your eyes, and why are you still reading this? – because I’d just passed a lump of, of, flesh, the size of my thumb, and it was disgusting, and it was NOT a blood clot (I know, ohh, I know blood clots). I grew up on a farm. I was there when the cats and the dogs and the sheep and the cow gave birth. This was worryingly placental.

What I did next, I agree, is mentally unstable. I wrapped it up very firmly in a plastic freezer-bag, and, um, I put it in the freezer. It’s still there.

And then I was outraged for quite some time. Please regard your thumb. Please regard your uterus – no, wait, not so easy. Please consider your uterus. An empty uterus is the size of a fist. In an object the size of a fist, how could you fail to spot an object the size of a sodding thumb? How could they have told me there was nothing left in there? How could the surgeon have told me the ERPC had ‘got everything’? Argh, foam, gibber.

Rant.

Hiss spit.

Ach.

Anyway. I think that is why I couldn’t flush it away. Part of me was determined to march straight back down to the EPU and demand an explanation. And when they reiterate that on the scan, they saw nothing left, throw the sorry little packet down on the desk and yell ‘What the hell is that then, a lamb cutlet?’

But then I remembered the bit about the 8mm endometrium. I am willing to bet that if I fished the sad little object out and measured its width, it would be about 8mm thick. So so far I have not stormed the EPU with an axe. Soon, in fact, I will get rid of it. Soon.

Yuk.

So – incidentally, it’s safe to read again – so, what other horrors can I expect? And for how long? Please? I am such a freaking freak now, apparantly. I can’t think who on earth else has been through this.

Edited to Add: Ooh look, I’ve passed several more nasty lumps. Rather smaller ones, you’ll be pleased to hear, and I pressed flush on all of them. Urgh. Ow. Urgh. Yuk.

And to think I agreed to the ERPC because a) it would reduce the risk of infection and b) would mean I wouldn’t have to pass the sorry remains myself, slowly, painfully, alone in my own bathroom.

HAH.


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