When the kid was about 2, my monthly visitor Flo, started getting a bit too heavy for my taste. I could get graphic, but I will spare you the bloody details.
It only took about 10 years for my OB to realize that my fibroid was the “first I’ve ever seen in my 30 year career.” It had faster growth than Arnold Schwarzenegger on steroids.
These were my choices: medication that would catapult me into early menopause (having bamboo shoots rammed under my nail beds seemed more appealing) or a hysterectomy. The good doctor thought I should think it through, talk to the hubby. Yeah right. My hubby isn’t the one with the tumor the size of Mount Vesuvius, which by the way, oozed less than I did. I immediately replied with a “let’s rip ‘er out.” No thought necessary.
I think I was most surprised by everyone’s reaction. I thought for sure they’d all be as happy as I was. I felt like I did when I first learned of my pregnancy. I couldn’t wait to share the news. DH thought I should get a second opinion and some thought I would be hurled into a depression.
Well, the second opinion? Thanks, honey, but if you’ve removed one uterus, you’ve removed them all. This isn’t brain surgery. And depression? I had one person send me a link to a Dr. Oz show on just this thing. Give me a break. I was more depressed when they stopped airing “Thirty Something.”
So, I had a Bon Voyage party for my period and on April 7, 2010 my tumor and lady parts were removed and deposited into the nearest dump. I kid you not — I was the happiest I have been EVER! As far as all the incidentals I still had: I wrapped them up in a pretty bow and gave them to my daughter as a gift. She didn’t appreciate it. Ingrate.