T Minus Forty Eight Hours

It is forty-eight hours before someone cuts me open to get a rogue IUD out of my pelvis. Readers, please note that I have decided to turn this sad medical story into the tantalizing tale of a rogue IUD incapable of handling the Mirena protocol. It did only what it could, and that was pierce my uterine wall to escape. It now lays in my pelvis trying to figure out its next move, but can’t really concentrate because it is right next to my bowels, and even though I don’t eat Kashi I Will Make You Have Gas Pains That Mirror Contractions, it is still really loud.

Today I had an x-ray. The technician said to me, “Would you like to see?” “Hell yes baldy, I would love to see.” I then glanced upon my screen, and there right above my hip bone, my Mirena IUD looking like an anchor on the ship of cruelty that is my life lay. On the table beforehand, this guy informs me how that something like this in a pelvis can move pretty freely: when you get up, when you sit down, when you fall down drunk because you can’t handle the pain of the fact that your uterus and cervix are total bitches. He also mentioned that he hopes they get it out quickly, but you never know because there are flaps and folds, and matter, and gobbily gook (he did not use this term, but I feel it suffices). Basically he made it sound like my doctors are going on a god damn fishing mission for Moby Dick. But you know what? I don’t really care because after getting the x-ray, I had to give blood. You know what giving blood is like for me, it goes something like this:

Me: I have really hard veins.
Tech: They all say that, blah, blah, blah. (Looks at my arms)
Tech: Wow, they are really tiny.
Me: Yep. That is what I said (asshole).
Tech: Let’s try to get them out. (Puts on arm strap).
Me: Uh huh.
Tech: Oh, they are really deep. (Tries other arm).
Me: (Considering whether getting a tattoo on my veins that says - yes, they are deep, and thin, and you will have trouble getting them so don’t even try dickhead - is too much.)
Tech: Your hand looks good.
Me: Yes. Lots of time they will do my hand after poking me.
Tech: Well let’s just do the hand.
Me: I love you.

I get my blood drawn through my hand. I would like to point out that I find it funny that now people don’t even attempt to get blood out of my veins, but instead just go to my hand vein, even though it is more painful and causes bruising, because the alternative is that bad. I would make a horrible junkie. After the blood letting, it was time for a urine sample. To the CalPac instruction writers of the urine sample, the term “labia” should not be used ten times in the instructions. In fact, I venture the term “labia” should not be used at all since it is entirely cringe worthy. In addition to the cup and wipes provided, perhaps include a barf bag, because you know what? I am nervous enough about this entire situation, I don’t need to read instructions about parting my labia and wiping in a downward stroke with two different alcohol based wipes. I honestly felt like calling the cops on myself for sexual assault.

Also CalPac, let’s call it what it is, a “surgery”, and not a “procedure”. Are you having a procedure? No, I am having surgery for a militant IUD incapable of protecting my eggs from the evil and dastardly spermatozoa. It is by no means a “procedure”. It is a battle for supremacy. So yeah, forty eight hours. And yes, I do realize the entire having surgery on 9/11 might not be the best idea, but it is a Friday, so there.