As of July 8th however, I am officially polyp-less. “Jackson Polyp” has been removed and much to my chagrin, he did NOT weigh forty pounds. Hey – a girl can dream. That would have been WAY better than dieting.
Between not sleeping well the night before my hysteroscopy D&C (D & C stands for a virtual “dusting” and “cleaning” of the uterus), waking up at the ungodly hour of 5am and the anesthesia, my memory of the day is rather fuzzy. Here’s what I can recall:
- I remember throwing on a cotton sundress from Target as it was seasonal, clean, festive and nightgown-like.
- I remember changing into a hospital gown (not as seasonal or festive but certainly clean) and having to tell the nurse, anesthesiologist and my doctor how much I actually weigh. I am dedicating an entire therapy session solely to that.
- I remember when I got into the operating room, them asking me to count down from 100 and by the time I got to 98, I was out. Why they patronized me by having me start from 100 is beyond me. They should just say ‘Count down from 3’ or simply ‘See ya on the other side’ and laugh maniacally.
- Lastly, I remember not being able to wake up in recovery. No really, I kept sleeping and sleeping. I never knew I was good at impressions but apparently, I have “Sunny Von Bulow, The Coma Years” down pat.
For the next few hours, if I lay down – I got a migraine. If I sat up – I got nauseous. If I stood up – I got dizzy. It was around the second hour of this position purgatory that I seriously began to wonder if perhaps I should have just kept the damn polyp and raised him as my very own.
Happily, by the next morning, I was feeling better and was more alert. Alert enough to tell my husband something I had wanted to say ever since we found out about Mr. Polyp, “I’m sorry.”
“Sorry for the whole polyp thing. If that’s been the hold up, then, well, it was my fault.”
Sam looked at me for a second as if I were nuts, which he does often. After a moment, he sarcastically replied, “Yes. Please try not to develop a uterine polyp again, would you?”
I’m not sure when or where it started but basically; I feel like most everything is my fault. Whether it’s the delay in conceiving, that we don’t have more money, that initially I may have picked the wrong doctor, that I’m not thinner, that I’m not prettier, that I can’t cook a decent meal, that it rained on my wedding day, that Lindsay Lohan can’t seem to get her act together, that I can’t cure cancer or that people are unhappy anywhere in the world. It’s all me… my fault.
You had a bad day? Sorry about that.
LOST is no longer on the air? My apologies.
You can’t get pregnant? I’m sure I had something to do with it.
Mel Gibson is a sexist, racist lunatic? Yeah, my bad.
I honestly think one of the phrases I say the most throughout my day is, “I’m sorry”. I’m sorry your conference call didn’t work. I’m sorry I got lost on the way to your house. I’m sorry you can’t find your keys. I’m sorry you walked in on me while I was in a bathroom stall. I’m sorry I don’t know the answer to your question. I’m sorry you have the wrong number. I’m sorry that I apologize so much.
I don’t know if it’s guilt or that I feel like I can’t do anything right but any which way, all of this apologizing is exhausting. It’s also slightly arrogant to think that I have that much control over the universe really. If I did, trust me – things would be different. I’d be writing this blog while sitting in my mansion looking like Salma Hayek.
Obviously, it’s not my fault that I had a polyp and it’s not my fault that we didn’t know about it until recently but still, I can’t help but feel bad about it. If it’s any consolation though, I am sorry I feel bad about it.