It’s funny because it’s true.
Bitch of the Moment:
Booty-Butt. That’s what the Girl calls her ass. Not a behind, butt, booty, keester. Booty-butt. The Hubby and I tell her all the time to just say one or the other but nope. Booty-butt is her preferred term for backsides. I must admit, when she says it in her high-pitched little voice, usually with a smile on her face and giggling (because butts are funny,) I can’t help but laugh.
I even laugh when she refers to my ass as a broken booty-butt. It’s about to get all T.M.I. up in here so if you’re squeamish or a dude that doesn’t like to hear or read about girly-part problems, you may want to skip this one. Those that know me in “real” life know of my past medical dramas, to some extent anyway. You’re about to know the full extent. A week and half ago, I had yet another major surgery. Here’s why:
Seven years, five months and nineteen days ago, I welcomed a beautiful baby boy into my life. I was so overjoyed and overwhelmed with love for this little guy who was finally in my arms after trying for so long. I was also very, very drugged – happily so. I’ve always said women who give birth au naturale intentionally must be gluttons for punishment. Hate on me if you want, you Queens of Granola Land, but the pain of childbirth is a badge I did not want to earn. I have a high threshold for pain, except when it pertains to hoo-hahs and medical procedures (I once almost passed out just from having an IUD placed in my cervix – not one of my stronger moments in life.) Anyway, thankfully the epidural was in full effect when my precious 8 pound, 9 ounce, bouncing, baby boy was delivered and stayed in effect for a while after. I am thankful because it hid the fact that all 8 pounds, 9 ounces of baby caused me to have a fourth degree tear. He literally tore me a new asshole. I had asked for an episiotomy beforehand but my dipshit nurse had told me, “Oh honey, it’s better to tear naturally” smiling smugly while walking away. Ladies, we know our bodies, we know what we’re capable of and I knew I was not made to have babies naturally or tear naturally. But, being timid and figuring my doctor and nurses knew better than I since this was my first medical rodeo, I deferred to them. I was a fucking idiot.
Once the drugs wore off, I was in the most pain I’ve ever been in. I thought it was par for the course and that I was just being a big puss because of my known hoo-hah cowardice. So what if I could barely walk and the pain meds seemed to be nothing more than sugar pills? I had a beautiful boy and I’d heal……someday. It wasn’t until after about three weeks that I knew something was really wrong. Here’s where it gets gross so you have fair warning to back out now. I had to…..go. Due to the pain of bowel movements after childbirth, I was already cringing at the mere thought of having to go but this time it really hurt. But not where it should have hurt. It hurt up front. I immediately called my doctor and got his cunt of a nurse. I told her that I thought things were coming out of the wrong area as delicately and discreetly as I could. I could not bear the humiliation of actually saying what was happening to me – I was morti-fucking-fied. She basically told me I was mistaken, that couldn’t be happening, but since I insisted she guessed she’d make me an appointment (I really fucking hated that nurse.) My doctor saw me the next day and after inspection told me that there was a “communication error” between my va-jay-jay and ass. Seriously? A communication error? What the fuck does that mean? It meant that the stitching he did on the wall between my vagina and anus that had been decimated by my child’s huge head and shoulders had fallen apart. Excuse me? Apparently, my ass had decided to take a vacation and leave the dirty work to my Miss Priss and she wasn’t having it, and neither was I.
I was referred to a specialty surgeon to correct my communication error. I found out he mostly did surgeries on cancer patients and the type of fistula repair I needed wasn’t one he performed that often – especially on patients not riddled with cancer. Ummm? And his bedside manner was…. it sucked. If he used that same demeanor in his personal life I’m sure he never got laid – which could explain why he was such an asshole. My Hubby is a self-proclaimed asshole and HE thought this doctor was an asshat. He did my first official reconstructive surgery and much like his sex life I’m sure, it was a complete failure. On to the next one.
I was finally referred to someone who specialized in asses. He actually referred to himself as “The Butt Doctor.” I mean, if you have to deal with assholes all day for a living, you might as well have a sense of humor about it. And of all my doctors (and there have been many – I guess I’m a doctor-slut) he is my all-time favorite. He listened to me, cared about me, and took my age and lifestyle into consideration before he tried anything. You see, he could have started out drastically with major surgery which meant wearing a bag to divert “things” while letting my repaired ass heal. Knowing that was not something a 29 year-old, new mother wanted to deal with physically or mentally, he tried several different approaches that weren’t as evasive. Unfortunately, my ass is an asshole and was still on strike. Four surgeries later and I was still having communication errors. Time to take evasive action.
Hello, I’m BitchinMommy, and I had a colostomy bag. They’re all the rage. With an array of powders and adhesive patches, you too can feel utterly disgusting and humiliated. Everyone wants to buy clothing two sizes too big to conceal the latest in shitbag attachments. Let’s not forget, you have no control over the noises that emit from it because you cannot feel when things are “moving” so you have the added bonus of providing your own personal soundtrack wherever you go. I wore that fucking thing for four months. Worst time in my life and I’ll tell you, that’s saying something. But, it worked. On December 27th in 2006, I had the bag removed and my ass was finally put back to work, the bum that she is (ba-dum-dum!)
Don’t feel sorry for me. I lived. I pretty much got to stay home the entire first year of my son’s life while getting paid by short-term disability. Silver linings and whatnot. My stomach is scarred and I’ll never wear a bikini again (even when I got really skinny last year) but hey, I got something even better in return for my troubles. I got a brilliant, unbelievably handsome little guy out of the deal who I love to the moon. Who needs a fucking bikini?
Much to the amazement of most everyone I know, I still chose to have two children after that debacle. It’s because I knew that the doctors would be forced to deliver via c-section (like I wanted the first go round) and my ass would never have the opportunity to go on strike again. I already had so many scars you could play connect the dots on my stomach so the idea of more incisions wasn’t even a remote concern. Though, having two more kids jump around on my bladder did its damage. Jumping on trampolines, running, and even sneezing could potentially create embarrassing instances for me so I cut the two of those out that I could (no love lost there anyway.) Also, due to being pregnant three times in the span of four years and nursing all three babies thereafter, I didn’t notice anything awry in the period department because I wasn’t having them. Boy, oh boy, did I get a rude awakening after I finished nursing Lil’ Man.
Boys, here’s a T.M.M. moment so you can avert your eyes (Too Much Menstruation.) When my periods returned, they brought new meaning to “Crimson Tide.” We’re talking the biggest pad you can buy AND a super plus tampon and still having breakthrough bleeding. I would have to change out every two hours. This went on for about five days and then it would stop. I could almost live with that, my panty supply not so much, but if I set a timer and slept on towels I could manage. But Aunt Flo was a real cunt and would return after only a day’s reprieve and go on for another week, week and a half. That’s right, almost two and a half weeks worth of that raging bitch ruining my body, clothes and sanity. But did she wait another 28 days before showing up uninvited again? Of course not. She would show right back up a week and half later. I should have bought stock in Always pads and O.B. tampons.
During my birthing and nursing stint, the absence of my period hid that fact I had developed two massive polyps in my uterine wall which caused the excessive bleeding and abnormal length of my cycles. Eureka! We have found the problem. This shouldn’t be too hard to fix, right? Wellllll….. kinda sorta. My first option was to take birth control pills – the ones that let you go three to four months without a period – which just seemed so wrong considering I had a tubal after Lil’ Man and thought birth control was a definite thing of the past. My second option was to take a prescription that would lighten my periods considerably but would do nothing to lessen the amount of time I spent enduring them. Using either of those options meant taking pills until I reached menopause which is not anytime in the near future. The last option was a hysterectomy. Great, another fucking surgery. As much as it pained me, I went with the first option.
I tried to put a positive spin on taking birth control again by thinking Hey, at least the adult acne I have recently developed might clear up. Not only did that shit not happen, but I gained twenty (20!) pounds in two months. Alright folks, I have been a lot bigger at certain times in my life than I was at this point, even after the 20-pound gain (I got especially large during the “communication error” era when I had to eat a low-residue diet. Low-residue = foods that don’t make you shit like vegetables, you know, HEALTHY DIET FOODS.) Just a few months before the hellacious periods began, I was thinnest I have ever been and was tired of people telling me I looked sick or older. It also pissed me off when I was informed that people thought I had become anorexic or bulimic. I could deal with putting on weight and honestly, I welcomed my once fabulous ass back as she had flattened out a lot when I got skinny. What I could not deal with was no longer fitting any of my clothes and having no money to buy a new wardrobe. With each passing month I was bloating more and more from the damn periods and packing on ten pounds a month was a no-go for me. Since option number two did nothing to lessen the length of my periods, I skipped right on over that one and started the hysterectomy discussion.
I had to do several tests before they discovered the polyps, one of which lead them to also discover that I had a prolapsed bladder. Ah, so that’s why I pee a little when I sneeze. Time to see yet another surgeon who could correct this at the same time as the hysterectomy. I like this surgeon almost as much as my butt doctor. He is a Urogynecologist and has the same kind of sense of humor about what he does so he’s a keeper. If you can make me laugh and feel somewhat comfortable while I am almost upside down with my feet in stirrups, half-naked and bleeding, you’re alright. He also does the same surgeries as my butt doctor so he can help me with my upkeep ’round the corner (and yes, there is substantial upkeep – it’s a battle against the bag for the rest of my days unfortunately.) Anyway, once he determined the level of severity of my prolapse (ever peed on an electronic toilet with an audience? No? Well I can cross that off my bucket list thankyouverymuch,) he gave me my options to correct it.
I needed a bladder sling. There’s a very long, technical name for the actual procedure but I can’t be bothered to remember what it is called nor could I spell it if I did remember it. Basically, they use one of a few different materials to raise the urethra up and away from the wall of the va-jay-jay. This allows better control and hopefully no more “I peed a little” moments when I cough, sneeze or pick up anything heavier than Lil’ Man. The different materials they use for this shocked me a bit. The first option is having parts harvested (creepy) from me. They harvest tissue from the lower abdomen to create the sling. This causes longer recovery time and more evasive surgery. No thanks. The second option was to harvest tissue from a pig or cow to create the sling. Ummm, a sphincter says “What?” Look, I have enough body issues; I don’t need to add being part pig or cow on to that long, self-deprecating list. The final option was a sling made of fine, yet very strong, mesh. The only downside to this sling is that it could lead to erosion of the vaginal wall if placed too close. However, the fix for that if it should happen is a five-minute, outpatient procedure that would have little-to-no down time. Sold! I am no longer in danger of emitting oinks or moos from my person.
So, back to the point of this long post of ickiness, I had both surgeries done on the 14th of this month. Luckily, I only spent one night in the hospital and my husband took over a week’s vacation to stay home and tend to me during recovery. I did come home with a catheter that had to stay in for a week. If you ever get the chance, I’d pass on that. I was confined to sleeping on the couch due to how the catheter bag had to be set-up. It was horribly uncomfortable and I actually developed a slight bladder infection. I’m fortunate that I was able to get it out after only a week. Some people who have this bladder surgery can go up to a month with a catheter. Shit on that shit. Also, just like after childbirth, no sexy business for six weeks. I should be okay but the Hubby may just die, poor guy. I should be back to work on Monday so all-in-all, recovery has gone well. I’m looking forward to never giving Always or O.B. another dime of my money, that is, until the Girl comes of age anyway. Here in a few weeks I’m gonna take a stab at jumping on the kids’ trampoline just to be sure the bladder surgery worked. I will say, I have sneezed quite a few times and didn’t have to change clothes. This makes me so happy I could pee (but only when and where I’m supposed to.)
The Hubby and I are coming up on 14 years of marriage. I know he loves me and he knows I love him, although we don’t always show it in the best way or often enough. There are moments, though, when I am completely taken aback by a display of kindness, thoughtfulness or sacrifice on his part to make my life better. They are usually really simple in nature, but to this bitch, his efforts are monumental and make me love him even more which I didn’t think was possible. Here’s just a few tidbits over the last couple of weeks that made my bitchy heart melt and made me laugh when it physically hurt to do so:
* During my night in the hospital, they changed my pain medication to a less potent variety and I started to really hurt. When they came in to give me another dose, I told them it wasn’t working and my pain was increasingly getting worse. The night nurse was not as understanding or as pleasant as my day nurse had been and tried telling me I was suffering from gas pockets. Yeah, gas pockets that just coincidentally fell right around all five incision points from my robotic hysterectomy. Uh huh. She left me writhing in pain and crying. It got so bad that the mere act of crying made the pain worse because I kept contracting my stomach muscles when I sobbed. My Hubby finally had enough and made the nurse come back in the room. He told her there was no way I was going to be able to sleep hurting as bad as I did and that she needed to do SOMETHING to alleviate my pain. She finally got off her ass, called the doctor on duty and got me switched back to my original pain meds for the night at least. Funny how the more potent pain meds helped me finally get rest, but the nurse assured me pain meds wouldn’t do anything for gas pockets. I think it’s safe to say they weren’t gas pockets. I seem to attract cunty nurses. My man stood up for his bitch and came to her rescue.
* I’ve always had issues with catheters not draining on their own. I have to do this roller coaster type deal, lifting and lowering the damn tube to get the pee to go into the bag. Through many hospital stays, the Hubby has taken it upon himself to do this for me. This time was no exception, at the hospital and the week at home with the catheter. Not many men will volunteer to reroute their wife’s piss, so kudos to him for taking on such an unsavory task and making me so much more comfortable.
* Being confined to the house (re: couch) for a week and having very limited mobility and flexibility meant that when I did take a shower, they were short in duration and for the purpose of hygiene only. Meaning: there was no extra stuff going on like shaving. You have to bend and twist to shave and that wasn’t happening. Since I was due to see the bladder doctor the next day to get the catheter out, I was a bit distraught about the condition of my legs; I had become part yeti. Without hesitation, the Hubby rolled up his sleeves, sat on the side of the tub and shaved my legs for me. Ladies and men alike know, this takes a huge amount of trust on our part to allow our partner to shave any part of our body. He was very careful and took his time and I did not have one nick when he was done. Sure, he missed a few here and there because he may have been too gentle but I’ll take stray hairs over nicks and cuts any day. I also got a few laughs (although pained) from the experience. Listening to him say, “How do y’all shave like that? If I did that, my face would be butchered!” or watching him feel around for hairs instead of just noticing where shaving cream was still perfectly intact to find remaining stubble. I think he was just copping a free feel personally, but he definitely earned it. I should have milked it a bit more and conned a toenail painting out of it.
* In an effort to get up and around and prevent those dreaded gas pockets from actually occurring, we ventured out of the house once the catheter came out so I could walk around. I’m a bridesmaid in a wedding taking place next month so I wanted to look for shoes to go with my dress. My rugged Hubby trucked along with me to several shoe stores in search of the perfect pair of silver heels. This is not so easy we found out as silver shoes can go from sexy to garish to old lady real quick. Yeah, a lot of men begrudgingly tag along with their wives to shop for shoes. But remember, I cannot bend and twist due to my stitches and bruising. The Hubby had to put the shoes on my wide, hobbit-like feet, fumble with straps and buckles, then give his opinion on each pair I tried on while I strutted around the aisles. “Do you like them? How do my legs look? How does my ASS look? I only wear heels to improve the appearance of my ass so make sure it looks good.” Many other asinine questions and prerequisites were thrown at him as he sat there, dutifully answering each one. And for the record, he picked the ones that eventually won out over all the others. And my ass looks fantastic in them.
* He still, after all the disgusting things he has seen and had to help me clean up and bandage, the crying, pity parties, mood swings, weight gain, scars, sleepless nights in hospitals, and on and on, thinks I’m a sexy motherfucker. His interest in me has not waned and there’s not a day when he doesn’t let me know that. On days I feel I look like utter dog shit, he has never reinforced my feeling that way nor will he put up with me saying that I do in fact, look like a huge, steaming pile. I get perturbed sometimes when he gets “grabby,” especially if I’m cooking, dealing with my three monsters or whatever else is distracting me at the moment. When the estrogen runs high, the inner-feminazi will sometimes come out and scream (in my head, of course,) “I’m not a piece of meat! You do not own this! I am more than a walking vagina!” But you know what, the day he stops will be the day I’ll have something to scream about. His efforts to be close to me reinforce everyday that I am still loved and desired. Even if I have dried snot on my shoulder from this week’s sick kid or I’ve gained 35 pounds, this man wants only me. Folks, you can’t pay for that kind of reassurance.
He has done many things throughout this recent medical drama, and our marriage for that matter, that require commendation but I cannot possibly list them all. You’ve all been here long enough as it is. For my dear Hubby (who also dutifully reads his wife’s blogs though never comments on them directly or indirectly,) you are my everything: my rock, my bitch, my provider, my best friend, my biggest pain in the ass, my human dictionary and grammar coach, my resident asshole, my lover, my life. Without you, I could not be me. Thank you for all you have done, are doing and will do. I love you more than you think probable and then some. (Everyone else look away, this is private – HA!)
Hugs and kisses on all your pink parts,
Your Bitchin Wife