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Violatress
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Name: Rachel
Country: United States
State: Maryland
Metro: Annapolis
Birthday: 4/8/1981
Gender: Female
Interests: Weather forecasting, Tennis, Jewelry making, Reading, Sewing, Painting, Singing, Riding my Trikke
Expertise: Expert? Expert at taking care of the house (when I'm not working) and doing nothing...
Occupation: Sales
Industry: Retail
Message: message me
Website: visit my website
Member Since:
2/7/2005
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| How cool! I haven't seen a good ice storm in years! I love the crystallized trees, the glazed bushes, the crunched fenders...No, actually I kid on that one. I grew up in Cleveland, and despite years of experience driving in the snow, we recognize that ice is very hazardous, and if you don't need to be out, stay put. In my mind, the only people who should be on the road should be those with jobs that immediately pertain to others saftey and well being, ie. police, fire fighters, paramedics, doctors, nurses, power company employees, plow and salt truck drivers, etc. At about 6:30am I was woken up by not only the sound of ice pelting the windows, but people were out clearing their cars! Maybe some of them were the emergency personnel I listed, but I find it hard to be believe there were that many.
Yesterday at the bike shop, I was working on inventory when I heard the ice start pelting the roof around about 1:30pm. At 3pm we made the decision to close. People were still zipping past on the road in front of the shop, but the parking lot looked like a glazed, slushy mess. Not really wanting to reacquaint myself with the how-to-get-out-of-a-skid in a narrow car park, I idled my way out to the plaza driveway. Thanks to light traffic, I coasted out onto the mostly wet road. As I reached the intersection for the busy road that runs in front of the shop, I once again slowed down, because I had to pull into the slush covered right turn lane and did not want to skid into oncoming traffic (which tends to zip by at about 45-50mph). Now I was at the front of the line, with a red light, a slush covered turn lane, and tires that were probably not only ice covered, but probably under inflated too. So what pops up in my rearview? A friggin' impatient FedEx truck honking its horn for me to turn, because he knows SO much better than I do. Needless to say, I turned when I was comfortable.
On the way home, I started out doing about 40-45mph on the highway, then slowed down to about 10mph for about 3 miles or so. Traffic picked back up again to about 40mph about 2 miles before my exit, but I still hovered around 20-30mph, because the road certainly didn't look any better. My usual 20 minute drive took me an hour, but at least I got to listen to a bunch of songs on my iPod.
I just don't understand people out here. Ice = slippery = poor steering = poorer braking = whoopsie! But people still drive like the road is dry. I saw people tailgating yesterday! This morning on one of the news shows, they were talking with a guy from AAA about driving safely in icy weather. He gave the usual tips; don't go out if you don't have to, if you do, leave 9-10sec between you and the car in front of you, take it SLOW. He mentioned that people in SUV's tend to display too much confidence in their vehicle's handling, resulting in faster, riskier driving, which in a crash could mean a flip over due to the high center of gravity in an SUV. Personally, since I drive a small car, I worry about getting creamed by one of these "invincible" morons. As my husband pointed out, all-wheel drive only really helps you if you're having trouble getting moving, it doesn't help you brake any better. His cousin in Colorado was infinitely thankful that she had a Jeep to get through the snow, because all of the small cars were stuck.
Also, he mentioned being careful with the power outages. Many traffic lights aren't working, which means...anyone? anyone? Bueller? Every intersection with a disabled light becomes an ALL-WAY STOP. There have been quite a few times I was out in severe weather, and people have just cruised through these dead lights. They've even honked at me for stopping at them! Sheesh!
Ah Maryland, a land of people who have no idea what to do when winter shows up.
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| Ah November, time for colder weather and colds. I haven't run much since the half-marathon in Chicago, but then, I've been sick for the past two weeks. Sore throat and sniffly, stuffy nose, not exactly exercise motivators.
I've got a complaint. What IS it with the designers of women's pants?! Everytime I try to go out and find either dressy pants or jeans it takes forever to find even one pair that will fit. Everything is low-rise and/or has stretchy spandex. Excuse me, but I'm not some cheap, little hussy who feels the need to flash her underwear at everyone. Considering I work in a bike shop with a bunch of guys, and I'm a married woman, it doesn't seem like a good idea. I really hate the low-rise thing. The low-rise pants typically require a belt to be secure and they balloon out in the back providing a chasm of underwear/butt viewing. In addition to the low-rise issue, a number of pants are sewn so that they fit tightly around the thighs (at least in my experience). Yeah, let me tell you that's REAL attractive... Makes my legs look like a couple of over-stuffed sausages. And as for the stretchy business, I have a pair of stretchy capris, and after they've been worn for a day or two, they definitely need to be hitched up, constantly. Bah, if I can't find something that works, I may be stuck with the infamous mom-jeans.
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| Ok, back again. Time to wrap up the saga.
Consciousness returned faster than my motor functions. My eyes remained firmly shut and I thought I was about to throw up, however it's possible they were just removing the breathing tube at the time. After that initial unpleasant sensation came pain. To me it seemed that either I came out of anesthesia a little quickly, they forgot to get some pain meds in me, or they wanted to wait and see my reaction before dosing me up. My gut was full of a fiery pain and cramping. I was also cold and starting to shiver (that didn't help the pain...), possibly from anesthesia, probably from lying there half-naked. If I had been physically capable at the time, I probably would have tried to curl up into a ball. Instead, I lay there like a rock. Someone got me covered fairly quickly with a warmed blanket, but for what might have been 5 minutes, I lay there with a grimace creasing my face, gently rocking my head back and forth and barely whispering "I hurt" over and over. Fortunately, the nurses were familiar with the facial pain scale (used when one may not be able to get a verbal response from a patient). I heard one of them say, "She looks like a 10," which is at the top of the scale. They quickly dosed me up, I believe they used morphine and Demerol.
After my pain subsided, my eyes slowly regained their ability to open and close. But, without my glasses and feeling so tired from the anesthesia I kept them closed for the most part. I was stuck in the immediate recovery area for about an hour, while the medical staff continued to monitor me, and I waited for the rest of my body to come back online as I grew increasingly grouchy that I could not yet see Ben.
After an hour, they moved me to the recovery/discharge area where I was finally allowed to see Ben. My pre-surgery IV nurse came in to see how I was doing. She raised the head of the bed for me and insisted I have some ginger ale and saltines. Easier said than done, with the anesthesia slowly wearing off and all of the pain meds in my system, my stomach was feeling pretty darn queasy whenever I sat up completely. I didn't even have anything in my system since I hadn't eaten anything after midnight. A nurse came in to give me my post-surgery instructions, pain med prescription and personal belongings. Eat lightly for the rest of the day, don't take a bath for a week (but showers were OK....?), leave the band-aids on for 72 hours, don't lift anything 20 lbs. or more for a week, don't work for a week, call your doctor for a follow-up visit,etc. you get the idea. Ben signed off on the info, I still lacked some coordination. My IV was taken out and I tried to relax and get normal.
Ben told me that my doctor had come out to see him right after the surgery to let him know that everything went very well. The mass they removed was about 2" in diameter, which is roughly the size of a cue ball. My doctor had said that the mass looked like some sort of birth defect, it was benign and may have always been there. He also told him he had put some dye into me to check my tubes. Ben got to see pictures of the surgery. I was kind of jealous and disappointed that my doctor didn't stick around to tell me anything about my surgery, but oh well, doctors are busy people. Also, it was nearly 5 o'clock, my surgery had started at 1. Ben informed me that the surgery had taken 2 hours (typically they only take a half-hour to an hour), I had spent an hour in the immediate recovery and here I was taking about an hour more in discharge.
Despite my nausea, at about 4:45 I was encouraged to get dressed while my departure was arranged. Ben had to help me dress since I still wasn't feeling very swift and bending over was not an option. My poor husband had to put my bra on (there's a change...) and help me with underwear, pants and socks (my shirt was button down, the only easy part.) Dressing took some time since I felt flushed and a wave of nausea everytime I sat up or stood. The only thing left was my shoes when the orderly showed up with the wheelchair. We decided to forgo the shoes, and the orderly had Ben start downstairs before us so he could pull the car up to the doors. Ben left, and the orderly helped me into the chair. He was a young, overweight, very kind, black man. He took his time and gently wheeled me through the halls as he talked to me to try and keep my mind off my flipping stomach and my now aching shoulders (from the CO2.)
The smartest thing I did all day, make Ben take my Camry instead of his Sebring. I have a difficult time getting out of his car when I feel fine. The seats are just a little too low so some effort is required to get in and out. The Camry has seats that are closer to my stature. Ben pulled up to the doors and the orderly wheeled me out. Ben reclined the seat to reduce the nausea and the stress on my abdomen. I was then maneuvered into my seat, secured with the seatbelt and we left for home.
Poor Ben was peppered with requests to drive slowly, and accelerate and brake gradually. We stopped at CVS before going home because I wanted to have the pain med handy and I didn't want Ben to leave me home alone for any amount of time.
When we arrived home, Ben got the front door open and then hoisted me to my feet. Once in the house I settled onto the couch. I wanted some comfort, so I called my mom, unfortunately I was still a bit slow and not loud of voice so she had me pass the phone to Ben so he could tell her how things went (I sounded so unfortunate she ended up sending a big box of chocolates  ). I was pretty miserable. I was trying to drink Gatorade, but there was probably too much sugar and my nausea kept creeping up. Sitting up was an effort, my back and abs were easily tired, and the gas gave sharp pains in my shoulders and chest to the point that my breathing went shallow. Laying down felt a bit better, but to lay or sit up I needed Ben's help. Going to the bathroom was scary, blood and dye gushed out, I thought I was going to die. I was quite depressed with all of this discomfort. In an effort to improve my appetite I started drinking water and Ben went out to get some saltines. My phone was nearby and I wanted to hear a friendly voice, so I called my best friend from high school. My call and my surgery really surprised her, but she was glad things had gone well. Ben came back to find me in lifted spirits, and yapping away. My friend and I talked for awhile before her parents started insisting she take the dog for her walk. She promised to call me the next day to see how I was doing. I was a bit more chipper for the rest of the evening, but I still had a few mood swings.
We went to bed late. I had to go up the stairs one at a time. Also, I could not stand up straight, I was bent almost double to avoid pain, but I could not lie flat either, I had to be propped up with 2 pillows. Ben helped me lay down in bed and after awhile I fell asleep. Unfortunately I woke up in the early morning needing to go to the bathroom. I had to wake Ben up so he could pull me up to a sitting position and then I could shift my legs over the side of the bed. At least he didn't have to help me in the bathroom...
Thursday and Friday Ben had to go to work for a few hours for some necessaries. I hunkered down on the couch while he was out, anxiously waiting for him to return. Ben thought that after a couple days I would be feeling almost normal, HA. Friday we tried a short venture to the mall for a little exercise, but it was cold out and I started to shiver heavily in the car, which made my abs tired and sore. We were at the mall for maybe 15 minutes. Saturday evening there was a holiday party at the bicycle shop, we put in an appearance for perhaps an hour, but abs got tired from sitting up. My employers were glad to see my up and moving, but they told me to take whatever time I needed to recover.
For the rest of my post-surgery week I was pretty much stuck at home. Ben had to take care of me, sit me up, lay me down, make meals, put my shoes and socks on, wash my hair. I got to wear PJ's everyday and watch my fill of BBC America.
After a week, I could almost stand up straight, but my abs would still get tired after sitting or standing for awhile.
Finally, after about 10 days I had my follow-up with my doctor. I got to see the pictures Ben saw, and quickly understood why my surgery had taken 2 hours. My left tube had been wrapped around the mass, so it was a bit tricky. I asked how the mass had been removed since my incisions were fairly small. Apparently the mass was cut off and then drained so it could be pulled out. There were other pictures of organs they checked during the surgery, like my appendix and bladder. Despite my queasiness for the surgery, I was quite interested to see what my insides looked like, and I must say the after pictures were indeed better.
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| Alright, so this isn't tomorrow like I had said in my last post, but I'll continue. Be warned, this is just as dumb and detailed as the previous one, but I somehow seem to think getting it out makes me feel better about it.
So, the week before the surgery I held myself together for the most part, the waterworks were minimal. However, as the day drew nearer Ben noticed that I would frequently go into a deadpan stare. The day before, I received a call from my doctor's office to let me know that my surgery had been moved from 3:30pm to 1:30pm. For the most part, that was good news. I wouldn't have to starve all day and the surgery would be over sooner.
Morning of the surgery. Ben got out of bed before me and went downstairs for breakfast, the usual being cereal. From upstairs I could hear the clink of the spoon against the bowl. It kept reminding me that I was not allowed to eat or drink, so I escaped to the bathroom for what would probably be my last good shower for a week. I picked out what I hoped would be comfortable, easy to deal with clothes, khakis and a button down shirt. As we prepared to leave, I urged Ben to bring a nice long book since we would have about 2 hours until the surgery, and then about a half hour to an hour (boy would I be wrong) in surgery, followed by at least an hour in recovery (wrong once again, really).
We left the house just before 11am since I had to be at the hospital two hours before the procedure. We went up to the same day surgery department, got checked in, and they went over all of my personal info. As we sat in the waiting room, waiting for them to call me back to get prepped, I fidgeted and struggled to put on a brave face.
Within 15-20 minutes a nurse came in to take me to the prep area which consisted of a series of 3-walled rooms that could be closed off with curtains. She asked me if I knew about the procedure I was having and told me that another nurse would come in to take care of my IV, go over some more info about the surgery and answer any questions I had. She instructed me to place my clothes in the Patient's Belongings bag. Then she showed me the lovely hospital couture I would be donning, the typical "look-at-my-butt!" hospital gown, a "robe" which really seemed to be a reversed gown in slightly heavier material, snug fitting thigh high stockings to prevent blood clotting, rubber treaded fuzzy socks to go over the stockings, and the poofy hospital cap to cover my hair. When she mentioned the blood clot prevention stockings, I started to lose it. I tried to hold myself together as she got my blood pressure and heart rate, but the tears just wouldn't cooperate. She asked me if I would like to have Ben come back and sit with me, and I nodded yes. So she called to one of the other nurses to please bring my husband in and brought out a box of tissues. Thank goodness there were tissues, because the waterworks were on right until I went under.
Ben came back, the nurse closed the curtain and left. In a very sad, but slightly ill-tempered manner, I started getting into the hospital garb. I haaaaaate hospital gowns. There's a vulnerability associated with it. One knows that nurses, doctors and technicians are going to need access to your entire body, it's an idea I just can't get comfortable with. After the gown and robe came the stockings, they were very snug, about 10 times harder to put on than regular ones. I popped the socks on, plopped down on the bed and started sobbing. Ben worked on calming me down and a few minutes later a nurse came in to go over the surgery, paperwork, questions and put in the IV. She was a very nice, soft spoken, middle aged latina. She also tried to calm me down and urged me to ask her any questions I might have. She understood my anxiety since it was my first surgery. She asked if I was worried about having children, and the tears gave an affirmative. She told me I just had to trust in the Lord, and give thanks that the mass had been discovered and something could be done. I knew what she said was true, and that I should look to the Lord and place all of my anxiety with him, but I have an over-active brain that darts from worry to worry and leaves me with no opportunity to rest or focus.
She asked when I last ate, 11:30 last night was the answer, and she figured it would be best to start the IV and get some fluid in me. It was going to be put in the typical spot, on the back of my left hand, so I stuffed my hair into the dumb cap since I would not want to move my hand much with the IV in. To me IV equals needle-of-torture, though when it was removed it turned out a needle was used to insert what was really more of a very thin plastic tube, and that's what stays in place. The nurse put the IV in. It hurt a little bit and it kind of itched. This was followed by the rather odd and somewhat unnerving feeling of cool fluid flowing into my hand.
A nurse who would be in the operating room came in to see how things were going. She also tried to assure me that things would be fine and let me know that the time had been moved up yet again to 1pm. The prep nurse assured me this was good news, things would start soon and be done sooner. However, my waterworks continued even as the nurses insisted on covering me with a blanket and then they left with words of encouragement.
My next visitor was the anesthesiologist, a very nice, pretty, black woman probably in her mid 30's to early 40's. She also tried to calm me down, and was advising me at the same time that there were risks associated with anesthesia, but considering my age and health, the risks were minimal. My doctor popped in while the anesthesiologist was talking with me, and once again I started losing it, especially when I realized the surgery would be starting in the next 15-20 minutes. He left for a short while, and let the technician finish talking with me. She continued to tell me that once I was under a breathing tube would be put in place and then removed just as the anesthesia started to wear off, so I might have a slightly sore thoat. The thought of the tube scared me. Unfortunately it reminded me of a very sad episode of "House" where a guy's pregnant wife had to undergo surgery for a cancerous mass. The surgery went wrong and she bled to death internally, but they saved the baby (of course). After the failed surgery, the guy was allowed to see his deceased wife who was still hooked up with tubes, including the breathing tube. I mentioned that I'm a slightly crazy and depressed soul, yes?
My doctor popped back in towards the end and both he and the anesthesiologist assured me that things would be closely monitored during the surgery, so if things started to look wrong they could see right away and fix whatever might be the problem. Then the technician left and my doctor sat down to talk with me. He urged me to let him know what was going through my mind as the tears kept coming. "Cutting, poking, prodding, stitching," was my reply. He explained the cuts would be really rather small compared to the old version which required making a large T-shaped incision across the abdomen. As for the internal activities, he said he would keep things minimal, he would try and remove as little as needed to be removed. However, he said I had to realize there was a possibility I could lose the ovary (anxiety spikes here), but I also needed to realize that God gave me two, so all was not lost if that was to be the case. Once the few questions I could think of were answered, he jokingly instructed Ben and the nurses not to upset me anymore. He said he would see my shortly in the operating room, and his would be the first voice I'd hear calling when I came to (not really in the end, but the thought was nice).
After a couple of minutes, the operating room nurse came to wheel me down to the room. I settled back in the bed, and Ben walked down the hall with us until we reached the waiting room and he assured me it would all be over and I'd see him soon. We continued down the hall and turned through double doors into the surgery area, and finally wheeled into the room. I saw the overhead lights, all sorts of machines and instruments and started to panic. This was different from my previous anxiety. The bed was pushed next to the operating table, a short bed covered in hospital green sheets. The nurse helped me remove the robe and had me scoot onto the platform. The anesthesiologist had me shift down the bed so as to cradle my head and neck on what might have been a curved pillow for my neck. It was covered with perhaps a warm blanket or a heating pad, I'm not sure, my attention had fled me. My feet hung over the end of the table, and my panicked mind rattled around with thoughts of what was about to happen. It was too much, I started to sob and hyperventilate.
That's a very rare state for me. Somehow I've ended up with a mentality that society claims most men have, crying in front of others shows weakness. And yet, if someone loses it in front of me, I'm not bothered and I don't consider them weak. Crying helps release the pent up energy associated with sadness and anxiety. It provides relief, unless you're a constant ball of nerves, as I sometimes have the tendency to be, obviously. In the operating room, I didn't give the slightest care who heard me or what they thought about me. My arms were stretched out at my sides, just as if I were on a cross. A blood pressure wrap was put on my right arm, and a nurse extended my IV arm on the left. Then a nurse started placing the round pads with wires over my chest, I assume those are for monitoring heart rate and breathing, I really have no clue. Nurses and technicians were bustling about with preparations and I couldn't think of anything else except being cut into, pumped full of CO2 and my insides being examined and cut into. Then I heard someone, possibly the anesthesiologist say that they needed to get something in me for my nerves. They put something in my IV, quite possibly Valium. After 30 seconds to a minute, I noticed that I was starting to feel spacey, and my sobs started to subside slightly. Next they put a breathing mask over my face, maybe it had nitrous oxide, I don't know. What I do know is there was no need to count back from 10 or recite the ABC's, for a minute I was there, spacey and breathing through the mask, and then I was out.
To be continued...(oh the suspense, eh?)
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| Well well, a new year. It hasn't had a very good start, but it could be much worse. From October through December I had 3 ultrasounds to track the development of a mass in my abdomen. It stayed the same, and was not causing any pain. However, it was rather large and no one could say for certain if it was an ovarian cyst or something else. So, when my doctor got the result of the 3rd ultrasound and nothing had changed, he decided it would be best to operate, see what was really going on, and remove the mass.
Now, those who really know me know that I am a depressed, pessimistic, cautious, hypochondriacal, paranoid worrywart. During the 3 months of ultrasounds, I had periodic worries about what on earth could this mass be, and why wasn't something more being done? I had looked up information on ovarian cysts, and knew full well that typically the best way to evaluate a cyst was to keep an eye on it for about 3 months, barring any troubling symptoms such as pain and bleeding. Fair enough I thought, if it was a cyst, but no one could be sure what it was. If it wasn't a cyst, what sort of mass was it? Benign? Or maybe cancerous? If it were cancerous, then here I was losing 3 months of precious time. It worried Ben as well, but he's the optimist and he figured since cysts are fairly common that was probably what it was.
When I got the call for surgery from my doctor, I was partly relieved, something would finally be done. He told me his secretary would call me later to work out a day for the surgery, and he went through a basic explanation of the procedure he was going to use. I kept most of my composure through the call. But I broke down as I headed back downstairs to Ben. Removing the mass : good; needles, scalpels, stitches, being put under : terrifyingly bad. Ben did his best to put away my fears and put emphasis on the former concept.
The secretary called me and we picked a day for the surgery. About five days later, she called to confirm the day and time of the surgery, and told me that I would have to stop by the office and pick up some information for the procedure. There was a request for some bloodwork to be done about a week before the surgery, so I picked up the info a couple of days before I had to go for the bloodwork. Fortunately, I had to be at work, so I didn't have much of a chance to look at the pre-surgery instructions or the pamphlet (with pictures, curse the pictures...) explaining the procedure.
When I returned home, I sat down in the kitchen and had a good look at my pre-surgery instructions. I needed to get the bloodwork done the week before, clear out my bowels the day before, not eat or drink anything after midnight, and show up 2 hours before the surgery with my D.L., health insurance info, and a responsible adult to drive me home (i.e. Ben). I moved onto the pamphlet. Pelvic laparoscopy, where a 1/4 to 1/2 inch incision is made below the bellybutton, and others are made lower on the abdomen depending on what's being done. The abdomen is pumped full of carbon dioxide to give the surgeon a clear view of things, ("Give me 120psi doc! I can take it!"). The laparoscope (in my mind, a camera on a lonnnnnnnnng stick) goes in at the port at the bellybutton. The other ports are used for the insertion of instruments (also lonnnnnng, as well as probably pointy) and the inflation. A catheter is also put in place, because I'm assuming with the pressure of the gas, how could you not pee under general anesthesia? The side view cut away diagram, of how this should all look, viscerally disturbed me. I continued to read about what the procedure was, why it is done, what risks come with the surgery, what to do before surgery, what to expect after surgery, emergency instances when one should contact their doctor afterwards, and what the post-surgery instructions will most likely be.
I really should come with a warning about explaining surgical procedures. I reacted far worse than I had for my wisdom teeth. I broke down into convulsive sobs, ran upstairs, put on my brand new, flannel PJ's from Ben, and curled up into a very sad ball on our bed. Ben came home from a run about 20 minutes later, and found his miserable puddle of a wife upstairs, still churning out the waterworks. He read over the info and tried to talk some sense into me. The procedure sounded low risk, minimally invasive and therefore quicker recovery and less pain. I knew it made sense, and probably wasn't as bad as I was thinking it would be, but I was not relieved. My mind has a tendency to dwell on unpleasant and upsetting things, so I spent the rest of the evening breaking into the waterworks off and on. My head ached, my chest ached and my eyes were a puffy mess. Later, when we turned out the light to go to sleep, Ben dozed off almost immediately, my mind started to race with unbearable thoughts about the surgery and would not stop.
There's a comedian out there who has commented on women's minds, it might be Wanda Sykes. Most of the time, guys don't have a whole lot on their minds. And when they do have something on their mind they will stick with it, work through it and be done with it. Women will sit there and run a multitude of things through their mind, a woman is always thinking of something. "Should I get that pair of shoes? So-and-so at work has a great pair of shoes. I need to talk with her. Did I lock the front door? Did I lock my car? I need to shop for groceries. What should I make for dinner this week? When am I going to get some time off? Will I make it home in time to watch that show?" That's a generic example of what my mind goes through, on an everyday basis. With the surgery stuck in my mind in horrible detail, I could not find rest. My sobbing woke Ben up, but he was tired and the only comfort he was capable of was giving me a haphazard backrub. He lacked the coherence to try and talk me out of my fright. It seemed like he just wanted to sleep, so I took my waterworks and my Bible downstairs to the futon. Ben followed a few minutes later when he realized I was having serious issues. He drew me out and got me talking, typical me. I very rarely volunteer to talk about whatever is upsetting me. I figure it's my problem to deal with, why should I hassle anyone else with my problems? What if they think my problems are silly and criticize me for them? Now I should know better with Ben, but old habits die awfully hard.
Ben got me talking though. I was kind of upset that he saw the surgery as being a simple procedure, whereas for me it was very personal. I had to go through preparations, go through the surgery and deal with the aftermath mainly on my own. I explained how I was bothered by the thought of being cut open, even ever so slightly, and then prodded and cut and stitched, especially in what I deemed a very private and delicate area. I was also worried about my chances of having children. On one hand, my current condition might take away my ability to have children, on the other hand, something could go wrong in surgery. Ben worked hard to reassure me that this seemed to be a simple, routine procedure with minimal risks, and said I did not have to have the surgery, but what would the outcome be then? He preferred that I get things taken care of, since the mass was not resolving itself. I started to calm down a bit, and Ben suggested that we pray about the surgery, whatever else was on my mind, and ask for peace, which I desperately needed. I felt better after we did so, not 100% but enough that I could relax and go to sleep.
It is late, so I will continue the saga tomorrow...
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