Paging Doctor Gregory House! Is there a Dr House in the house?

After I read all the amazingly wonderful comments on my post yesterday (It’s the final update (regarding my breast cancer concern)!) I felt like a jerk. I didn’t mean to lead anyone on, but it didn’t even occur to me that the post would come across as, “YAY! I’m better!”

Suffice to say, while the Lumpy and Leaky saga is over, it was apparently just a chapter, not the book itself. Everything that was going on during my “Not So Wordless Monday – a breakdown of my body’s breakdown” is still ongoing (short version – varying degrees of right side shaking, all over body pain, and vertigo)

This past Monday, something lovely and new (dang, seem to have misplaced my sarcasm font) happened. I posted this over on Steemit on Wednesday, and planned to wait until Monday to post it here, per my former posting schedule, but decided sooner would be better than later.

BE AWARE! This post is even more explicit and swear-laden than my past posts. In my meta description, I mentioned that this is TV-MA (meaning, “Mom Avoid”), but all joking aside, yeah – it’s a bit NSFW.

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First, for those who don’t understand the Dr H reference in the title, the short explanation – House is a TV doctor who is an assholey antagonizer of people a brilliant solver of medical mysteries.

Also, for those who are unaware, my body and I have had difficulties in our relationship since about two seconds after I was born this past July (as detailed in my post, Not So Wordless Monday – a breakdown of my body’s breakdown).

Lastly, for those who wonder why I’m sharing these wicked personal details, the answer is two-fold:

  • To help keep what little is left of my sanity intact by venting, and
  • To help anyone going through anything even remotely similar know, they’re not alone.

Now, don’t say I didn’t warn you…

warning - vagina talk ahead

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This past weekend was super-sized, thanks to the Superbowl. Hubby made sure back in January that he had both Sunday and Monday off, along with his usual Friday and Saturday. We figured, win or lose, we’d be up late Sunday. We were (we might have lost the SB, but at least we’re keeping Josh McDaniels!) right.

For some reason, my brain didn’t get the memo it could sleep in, so I was wide awake early Monday morning. I puttered around on the interwebz for a few hours, then decided to see if hubby wanted to get up.

Notice I didn’t say wake up.
 

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After a bit of lovely, sleepy, adult cuddle time, I headed our bathroom to freshen up. Since this is an important piece to the puzzle, I have to mention that because of things that were done, and not done, I didn’t have to waddle like a duck with tissue paper stuffed between my legs take care of much.

I chatted with hubby a bit as I was peeing doing my thing, then wiped. I quickly realized the toilet paper was soaked in blood.

Yes, blood.

…like my period just suddenly started…

…only, I had a hysterectomy in 2015…

…so I no longer had a uterus that could bleed…

…also, no cervix…

…and the blood was definitely coming from my vagina…

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It took probably a good 10 seconds before I was able to say, “hon, can you come here?”

He heard the panic in my voice, and was by my side in about 0.0010 seconds. He looked at what was in my hand, and said something to the effect of,

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After hours and hours of sobbing hysterically about a half hour, the bleeding calmed down, and so had I. During that time, hubby called my PC (primary care doctor) and left a message asking to call us back to advise us what to do. On the one hand, it seemed silly to go to the emergency room for bleeding that didn’t hurt, and stopped fairly soon. On the other hand,

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In the interim, I remembered we had a perk with our insurance that gave us phone access to a nurse 24/7. Bonus – I’d already established myself with my insurance advocate as a Champion Crier during my breast cancer scare, so when I said, “Hey Alex, it’s Traci” and immediately burst into tears, she was well prepared.

After an amazingly reassuring yet simultaneously frightening conversation with Alex and Nurse Tricia, it was decided that I should take a trip either to our local Urgent Care (minor emergencies) or the Emergency Room. Oh, and for the first of many, many, MANY times that day, I was asked, “was it rough sex?”

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A short time after the phone call, a nurse from my PC’s office called back and agreed with the decision, but said the ER would be the better choice. All the women strongly suggested I get my butt there fairly soon.

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Because I’m also a Professional Procrastinator, we didn’t make it to the ER until 5pm. To be fair, by that point I was also cramping like my period had just started, so I was moving a bit slow. I tried justifying it in my brain with the fact that waiting until suppertime on a Monday would mean it would be quiet at the hospital.

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We were in the waiting room until 6:30pm before a bed finally became available. As luck would have it, I had the same awesomely sweet nurse who checked me in during my heart attack/stroke scare in October. She apologized for the long wait, and said it was because I needed to be in the room that had the “special” bed – aka, the one with stirrups.

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Over the course of the next four hours, I was under the care of three amazing women (nurse, technician, and doctor) and one awesomely cool guy (orderly who wheeled me back and forth to the ultrasound room). We chatted about the Superbowl, the Boston Celtics, the ridiculously cold weather, my even more ridiculous medical history, and my Steemit blog. Oh, and almost every single person asked, “was it rough sex?”

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And every person got the same answer –

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I also pointed out that we didn’t find blood anywhere else, and all signs pointed to it starting after I sat down in the bathroom.

Close to 11pm, and after two ultrasounds (external and internal), some swabs, a blood draw, a urine test, and a full bag of IV saline fluid (for the ultrasound), even for how amazingly awesome everyone was to me, pretty much all they were able to say was –

  • Yes, I’d been bleeding
  • Yes, it stopped.

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So I need a medical super sleuth to figure out what’s going on with me. I’m sure, if Dr House heard my story, he’d find it…

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To be continued…

Paging Doctor Gregory House! Is there a Dr House in the house_

Blog Graphic – Photo credit: Aunty Acid By Ged Backland; Graphic created on Canva

 

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Paging Doctor Gregory House. First, this is not a passive voice. Next, I am writing in an active voice. Therefore, my SEO will stop telling me how to write. Furthermore, these sentences are also shorter than twenty words. Rather, stop being so controlling. I will keep going while until you turn green. I can’t believe this is still orange. Finally, it has turned. Success! Paging Doctor Gregory House. First, this is not a passive voice. Next, I am writing in an active voice. Therefore, my SEO will stop telling me how to write. Furthermore, these sentences are also shorter than twenty words. Rather, stop being so controlling. Paging Doctor Gregory House. I will keep going while until you turn green. I can’t believe this is still orange. First, this is not a passive voice. Next, I am writing in an active voice. Therefore, my SEO will stop telling me how to write. Furthermore, these sentences are also shorter than twenty words. Rather, stop being so controlling. I will keep going while until you turn green. Finally, it has turned. Success! Finally, it has turned. Success! Paging Doctor Gregory House.

7 comments

  1. OMG! I hope it’s nothing super serious! I also had to take a trip to the ER after some adult “cuddly” time and it was awkward AF! I ended up needing surgery! I had a cyst on my Fallopian tube that had gotten twisted in the act

  2. Well, fuck. Actually, don’t do that. Have sex, I mean. Because that’s some scary shit. I swear, every time I get fed up with my own body’s bullshit, you update on the fun your body throws at you, and I suddenly feel very weak and whiny. I’m sorry, woman. Have you tried having a lawyer draft a “cease and desist” letter to your body on your behalf?

Feel free to shout out!