The Bob Report

Apparently Bob is quite looking forward to my post-op recuperation period, and not because he has a secret unfulfilled desire to be a nurse. No, he was dancing around the house last night singing The Rolling Stones' "Under My Thumb." He thinks he's going to have a great time telling me what to do, and says that I won't be in any shape to contradict him (visualize him rubbing his hands together here, a la the quintessential mad scientist).

I guess this all came up when I told him I was concerned about one of the items on the post-op care sheet that I got from the doctor--avoid stairs if at all possible. Well, it says something like that, I don't have it in front of me, but I said something like, "I'm not supposed to climb stairs," and we started this whole discussion about did that mean all stairs, no stairs at all? For how long? Were we going to have to buy/rent a bed to set up in the living room, since our bedroom is upstairs?

Bob even mentioned maybe I should plan on staying out at my folks' house for a few days, since they have a ranch house.

I thought that was probably a little extreme, unless he didn't want to take care of me, and he assured me that wasn't the case. Then we went and read the actual instructions, which said, as I pointed out, something like, "try to stay off stairs as much as possible," which he interpreted as meaning that as long as he can get me up the stairs when I come home from the hospital, I just have to stay up there.

He's considering actually updating my site himself while I'm incapaticated, and I'm thinking about setting up a blog for him. He also had the bright idea of a "Recovery Cam," and demonstrated how that would work by lying back on the bed and groaning, and also playing the part of the voiceover: "This is Willa one day after surgery." "Owwwwwww." "This is Willa two days after surgery." "Owwwwwww."

As is probably apparent, I'm feeling better. I got the results of my blood work back this morning, and my hemoglobin was 14.3. From what I can tell, normal for a woman is 12-16, so it looks like I'm in good shape and in no immediate danger of becoming anemic.

I had some panicky feelings this morning while reading one of the hysterectomy support boards (this one in particular seems to have a wealth of information, but obviously you have to choose what to believe). So many of these women seem to have suffered with terrible pain and bleeding for years; my symptoms have been very slight and only in the last couple of months. And surgery seems drastic.

But then I reminded myself that while there are treatments for fibroids, there are no guarantees, and some of them aren't permanent, i.e., the fibroids come back as soon as you stop taking the drugs, and given the size of mine and (here it is again) "my age," it does seem to make sense to just have the surgery and then not have to worry about it anymore, and also not to have to worry about uterine or ovarian cancer in the future.

There are surgical procedures that can just remove the fibroids, but there again, it's surgery, and if I have to go through it, I might as well get it all taken care of at once.

My doctor is very big on "quality of life" issues, and I'm grateful for that.

If I had unlimited time, and unlimited resources, I might be willing to explore some alternative treatments, but since I don't, I think this is the right decision for me. And I feel good about having made it, and having a firm date to work toward (surgery is set for January 12th).

The test I'm having on the 15th is a urethroscopy, which is to find out if the very minor bladder problems I've been having (oh well, what the heck, I've been saying everything else--some of what they call "stress incontinence" when I cough or laugh or wait too long to get to the bathroom. Bob asked me last night, so you're not having to wear adult diapers or anything? and I reassured him that no, it hasn't progressed to that point.) are due to the pressure of my uterus pressing on my bladder or if there's a problem with the bladder itself.

The surgeon said that his "gut feeling" is that my bladder is perfectly fine, and my gut feeling is that it is, as well, but look at how wrong my gut feeling was last time. So I'm trying not to have any preconceived notions, just take it as it comes and deal with it.

This is important, though, because if the bladder is fine, then they can do a laparoscopically-assisted vaginal hysterectomy, which means an easier recovery and a shorter recovery time. If he has to do something to the bladder (I think "tie it up" is the way he put it), then they have to do an abdominal incision, which I'm sure would be fine, too, but which I would like to avoid if possible. Fine, of course, being relative.

In other news, I got stuck in the elevator yesterday morning. I was going to title this entry "Insult to injury," but it really wasn't too horrible. The elevator at work is a mysterious thing, and is broken more than it works. I should probably just take the stairs, but there's something wrong with them that I've never been able to pinpoint.

They're old, covered in musty carpet, and they sag in the middle (I can just hear Bob saying: "Just like you!"). The depth of the steps is wrong, or something. It's just two flights, or really, I guess, just one flight, but two sets of stairs, but they feel like climbing a mountain. I think maybe the steps are too deep and too short. So it always feels like a blessing when I come in in the morning and the elevator actually works.

Yesterday morning it seemed to be working; I got in and pushed the button for the second floor, well, actually I pushed the button, nothing happened, and I got out my key and unlocked the elevator, then pushed the button again. It opens right up into our office, so we turn it off at the end of the day, and John is the first one there most days, but he always takes the stairs. So I turned it on, pushed the button, it went up to the second floor, but the door didn't open.

I pushed the "door open" button. Nothing happened. I thought, "Huh." I pushed the buttons for the first and third floors, and the buttons lit up, but I didn't go anywhere. It's kind of a weird feeling. I don't have claustrophobia, I don't think, or at least not any more than most people, but it is a weird feeling to be stuck in a box.

I got my cell phone out of my pocket and called the office number. John answered the phone and I said, "Hi, it's Willa. I'm stuck in the elevator," and he told me to hang on and he came over and pushed on the elevator door and then manually forced it open, and I jumped out. Later that day one of the guys who works on the third floor came down and mentioned that he had gotten stuck in the elevator Tuesday night when the building was empty; he had called the emergency number, but the guy was coming from Lone Jack which, if you're familiar with the Kansas City area, is a heck of a long way away from Kansas City, particularly if you're stuck in an elevator, and he (the guy who was stuck) was eventually able to manually force the door open then, too.

I've always had a policy of not getting on an elevator if I have to go to the bathroom, which policy came about after getting stuck once while I worked at the trucking company on the 10th floor. I've since adopted a new policy: Don't get on an elevator without a cell phone.

And I guess another one: Don't get on the elevator in this building at all.