Has this ever happened to you?

You’re minding your business, trying to enjoy life mid-cycle, when weird symptoms hit.

You’re nauseated.
Your breasts hurt.
You have pelvic aches and pulls.

It starts lightly at first, and you think, “OK, my body waited ’til my mid-20s to participate in PMS, but here it is.”

It goes on for a few days.

Then you’re sick in the morning. And it goes on for more days. And a few more.

Then it’s two weeks of nausea, headaches, pain, peeing constantly … but no cycle. And suddenly those little barbs to the boyfriend about “maybe I’m pregnant” just aren’t funny any more. Because god damn, what if you are pregnant?

You go back and forth about how to respond. “This has happened before,” you say. “YOU ARE KNOCKED UP” your body says. “My cycle is irregular anyway, I shouldn’t worry about being a few days off my expected Day 1,” you say. “HELLO, YOU’RE PREGGO!” says the soreness. And so on.

JESUS CHRIST IS IT PREGNANT OR NOT PREGNANT ALREADY!?

After two weeks or so of late cycle, pain and sickness, you’re convinced that you are pregnant. Surely you must be. But you’re not. Right? You’ve charted everything. It’s physically impossible. But it could be possible. Right? Or not?

ANSWERS PEOPLE I NEED ANSWERS

So you finally take a pregnancy test. You count the seconds out loud, and watch your phone’s clock anxiously. Thirty seconds turns into three minutes turns into eternity.

And guess who’s pregnant? NOT YOU.

No, that whisper of a second pink line that you were sure was developing is still part of the little white window, and one line emerges, bold, defiant.

And your emotions plummet. There’s relief: “I’m not ready for a baby!” There’s disappointment: “My junk is so defective I can’t even get pregnant on accident!”

And for me, there’s fury. Because without fail over the last year, I’ve had longer and longer PMS weeks between cycles (a relatively new phenomenon) that not only freak me out unnecessarily, but definitely ninja my brain into thinking I must be pregnant, which carries its own complex set of emotions.

But it’s not just that. No no. It’s that my own Red Menace picks THAT DAY, the Day of the Negative Pregnancy Test — sometimes 12 hours later, sometimes 10 minutes — to arrive.

That’s right. My Aunt Flo is a horrible, prank-playing bitch, waiting until I literally flush costly pregnancy tests down the tubes before making her appearance. Theatrical skank.

Listen, Red Menace, stop karate-chopping my brain. I don’t need the stress, and those PTs are expensive, comrade. Eight or more dollars for two, sometimes three tests in a box? Just to have my cycle jump out and go SURPRISE BITCH within an hour of using a test?

It’s happened several times in 2011, and it’s getting old in a major way. Problem is, if I start to think about it, then I freak a little because I’m taking pain meds every day, and wouldn’t I need to stop if I were suddenly PG? What would I do in that situation? I’m still torn on the ethical points of having a (series of) hereditary illness(es) that could be inflicted on my unborn child. Then again, life as a doula constantly reminds me what could be if I were to be pregnant, and it’s something I’m not sure just yet I want to do without.

This is not the only change. Since my third laparoscopy in 2010, my cycles have been shorter and shorter, PMS has suddenly kicked in and is cruel, and I’m going longer between cycles. Can’t get in to the gyno for these issues and my new pelvic pain until Jan. 10, or my annual until March (both of which I should have been seen for the first week of December).

Surely I can’t be the only one getting the baby bait-and-switch courtesy of my lady bits?

But I want you to know I am reading your comments and will be responding to them one by one. I’m even working on fine epics to conclude The Appendix Misadventure and Mirena: The Final Frontier!

In the mean time, don’t forget that the conversation is going all the time on Facebook and I’ve been tweeting my butt off and want you in on the responses. Jump in, this place is about to get even better.

Facebook: http://on.fb.me/endosucks

Twitter: twitter.com/endosucks

Spent overnight in hospital for observation after the ER doc wasn’t convinced by the CT radiologist’s diagnosis of early appendicitis and nothing showed on a pelvic ultrasound (not that it would anyway unless I had a left ovary cyst). Full of morphine and Zofran, a great surgeon came in and checked me out around noon today and looked at my CT. He was also concerned it’s not appendicitis. So my instructions are to go home, rest, watch the pain, return if it increases or stays the same in the next few days. At this point I may just have to play the waiting game and properly evaluate my pain after my cycle ends. Had a killer migraine since about 4:30 a.m. that brought me *thisclose* to vomiting; likely a combo of not having eaten anything since Thursday and piling pain meds on top of it. Still not hungry but am being encouraged to munch on anything, so I’ll give this mac and cheese my BF made a go. Part of me wants food, the other wants to see how long I can go without eating. Sick, right? But a girl needs to get into skinny jeans. (Not really.) Mac and cheese, here I come!

Ladies and gents, let my experience today be a lesson to listen to your body.

I started having strong, right-side pelvic pain going strong into my thigh on Wednesday; can’t cross my right leg, stairs are tough, even turning the steering wheel in my car hurts. I already had a doctor’s visit scheduled today, so I brought it up while I was there discussing the shots I’ll need to go to India in September. I felt pretty sure I’d pulled a muscle during kickball, or when I fell on my ass in water at Publix, or even due to period pain since my Day 1 decided to show up earlier than normal and start my weekend off with more fun.

My doctor felt it probably would be adhesions too, but to rule out hernia and appendicitis, they sent me next door for a CT with barium and IV dye contrasts.

SIDE NOTE: I was given four cups of a thick white glop of barium drink to ingest before the CT. It looks like milk. Thick milk. And I HATE MILK. The flavor was supposedly Creamy Vanilla Smoothie — no joke, this apparently comes in a variety of smoothie flavors.

Now available at Publix, Rite-Aid, Jewel and Walmart.

BUT I DIGRESS.

We went back to my original doctor’s room and waiting on my stat results for 15ish minutes. At this point, I haven’t eaten anything but a codeine and some Water Joe (not that I’ve been hungry anyway), I got up too late to shower so all I want to do is wash my hair, and I feel bad that my boyfriend is again toting me all across town for medical trips when we should have been at the pool by now.

And the doctor returns with — early appendicitis! Hooray!

… Wait, I didn’t order this shit.

So I’m going to cut this otherwise comical and enlightening blog short because my pain is increasing pretty rapidly all of a sudden. I was told I had time to go home and get a back, shower and take my tail straight to the ER for a consult. I called my sister Aliye on the 30-minute ride home and read her my CT report. Thanks to the so-called “fatty streaking” apparently visible on my scan, it’s def time for the appendix to nut up or shut up. We got to talking about how it’s better for it to come out early in the inflammation process rather than burst or get bad, since the appendix has a nasty habit of sticking to other items in the gut and being harder to remove when it’s bad. Which led to some jokes about “Spaceballs” and my appendix bursting onto the table.

Doesn't your appendix wear a top hat and sing a jaunty tune?

So as of now, my mother is a nervous wreck, my boyfriend is snoring on the bed, and I’ve succeeded in putting a pair of terry cloth shorts and a box of tampons in my suitcase. But I did also talk to Endo Sucks! folks on FB, called my boss for a heads-up, and let me team mates know where to bring the beer later tonight. Plus I’m about to tweet like a mofo. Priorities, y’all.

In a few hours I’ll know if I’m coming home with antibiotics or coming home one organ lighter. I’ll post then. If you want something to do in the mean time, it would mean a heck of a lot if you would go vote at Circle of Moms — no registration needed! – and vote for The Feminist Breeder. Run by an ex-Veruca Salt rocker, fellow Illinoisan and awesome activist mom, The Feminist Breeder deserves all our votes. Political Mommentary and her followers have come up with some fun terms for TFB and its readers lately, including commie, feminazi, creepy breeder, and psycho feminist doulas. All of which sit super well with me. (sarcasm helmet is on.) And you can vote every day, and multiple times a day from different IP addresses, so go to the library and get your vote on, vote from your phone, etc.

OK, as Hyperbole and a Half indicated on her seriously superior pain scale, my pain is really not fucking around and actually might be super legit right now. Off I go!

Like a boss.

As if that news (and a system malfunction) isn’t enough to keep you awake at night with leftover adrenaline, the prospect of seeing a new primary care doctor for the first time certainly will.

It’s a new thing for me: a serious attack of White Coat Syndrome and First Visit Jitters.

I’m going to see this new doctor based on a suggestion from a friend who is her patient. I really feel like the disdain and bad attitude at my former doc’s office is something I can’t go back to. But the thought of hashing out my medical history, dragging in those pill bottles and talking about them one by one, trying to explain where I’m coming from and how I feel … it’s actually exhausting. I’ve never had so much anxiety about going to a new doctor. Usually I just think of the usual “forms-history-don’t check my weight plz” as a run of the mill pain in the butt, and repeating your story over and over is tiring. But this has had my stomach in knots, to the point where I’ve considered canceling the appointment.

But I don’t have any options left. No pain meds, more pain, questions about this weird and sudden breakout I’ve been having … yeah, I should probably see a doctor.

Plus I’d be charged $50 for canceling now. And that is the line.

So grateful that my boyfriend is going with me for support. Will let you all know if I get any sleep tonight … or any help in the morning.

This month, Clear Passage is sponsoring another contest for infertility treatments. You can find out more on their website. I am wondering if I should enter? The contest, Share Hope, wants you to tweet your infertility story to try and win a book or 20 hours of free physical therapy for infertility. Apparently people travel from across the country and the world to visit these clinics: there’s on in Gainesville, FL; Irvine, CA; and a clinic will open in Washington D.C. this summer.

So what do you think: Should I enter? Will you be entering? Let me know in the comments section.

Click the banner below for more info from Share Hope, which offers support from experts and authors in women’s health, such as the awesome Dr. Christiane Northrup.

I’d read her post before about why the pain scale — the one that doctors and ER techs will ask you if it’s a “1″ for not much pain or “10″ for worst pain you’ve ever had, usually accompanied with little cartoon faces that range from “on ecstasy” to “I shit my pants at age 35″ to “bring me the sweet loving embrace of death” — is a lot of crap, but I’d forgotten about its brilliance.

At some point or another, you will probably be asked to quantify your pain on a paltry 10-level scale. I have always filed this under “total bullshit,” which makes me psyched that I created that tag last week. Honestly, my pain is different from your pain. And my pain is different day to day. To what exactly should I compare today’s pain? It’s all relative. Why are you in the emergency room if you can point to the “totally fucking rad!” happy face end of the scale?

Here’s an example of one, taken by Hyperbole and a Half:

The current pain scale ranges from "totally rad!" to "I'm sorry I was drunk and peed the rug at your mom's funeral"

And where are the odd numbers? Medical professionals again take away my options. FOR SHAME.

I personally plan on printing out many copies of this blogger’s vastly improved pain scale, which not only provides to-the-point descriptions of pain but also goes up to 11. I’ll carry it in my purse at all times and may even give them to my laboring mothers.

Click here to go read Hyperbole and a Half. You won’t be sorry:

For reference, the new pain scale is as such:

0: Hi. I am not experiencing any pain at all. I don’t know why I’m even here.
1: I am completely unsure whether I am experiencing pain or itching or maybe I just have a bad taste in my mouth.
2: I probably just need a Band Aid.
3: This is distressing. I don’t want this to be happening to me at all.
4: My pain is not fucking around.
5: Why is this happening to me??
6: Ow. Okay, my pain is super legit now.
7: I see Jesus coming for me and I’m scared.
8: I am experiencing a disturbing amount of pain. I might actually be dying. Please help.
9: I am almost definitely dying.
10: I am actively being mauled by a bear.
11: Blood is going to explode out of my face at any moment.
Too Serious For Numbers: You probably have ebola. It appears that you may also be suffering from Stigmata and/or pinkeye.

And rate these blog entries and tweet them if you have a second. I promise it won’t be the saddest, worst pain you’ve ever experienced.

On Thursday, my PCP decided to put me on oxycontin rather than refill fiorinal with codeine while I also take esgic. (Fiorinal and esgic both have caffeine, butalbital and an analgesic, but fiorinal has codeine; both contain different amount of the ingredients and are taken for different levels of pain.)

His reasons have been creative and varied, and he and his assistant require constant reminders about which is which. This is the same MA who constantly calls in the wrong medication to the pharmacy. His reasons have been “it’s too much caffeine”, “I don’t want you addicted so try oxycontin (!!!)” and (via his assistant) “too much butalbital.”

I called him later in the day Thursday telling him I’m not comfortable taking the oxycontin and I want my regular meds. At first the MA says he’s going to write it and takes down the info so she can call it in, then puts me on hold and comes back 10 minutes later with more of an attitude and a rejection. He’s not comfortable writing the two meds, she says. She sighs and adds, “You know, I really wish you had discussed this with him while you were here. What were you talking about? I thought you were discussing this.” Fuck you, it’s none of your business, I think. “We discussed plenty,” I tell her just as sharply. “But I’m the one that has to take it and I’m not comfortable with it.”

She assured me he’d call Monday and we’d discuss it further.

Which brings us to 10 a.m. this morning.

I knew I shouldn’t have answered the phone. I didn’t recognize the number and the ringing phone had woken me from the first deep sleep I’ve had in days. Working nights does nothing for a healthy sleep cycle, so yes, we tend to go to bed between 3 and 4 a.m. (sometimes later) and get up in the 11 o’clock hour. But I still answered.

He asked for me, gave me his name, and I knew it wasn’t going to go well.

“Listen,” he says, “I’m usually a pretty easy-going guy to deal with. But if the medical board knew I was writing these meds, they’d take my license away.” (Is he leading with a veiled threat about his attitude? Also, if that’s the case then every doc my mom or I have ever seen is out of work. This is a typical statement used when someone just doesn’t understand why you’re taking something and so they jump to legality.)

He then proceeds to tell me that esgic and fiorinal are the same drug (including codeine for both) and that “because they’re such similar drugs I didn’t think it made a difference which one we gave you to fill.” (ARE YOU KIDDING ME? Then why not just write the one I request? Doesn’t make an ounce of difference for you, bub, I’m the one taking this shit.)

“I put you on the oxycontin for breakthrough pain. I’m doing this to protect you,” he says. He does not clarify what he’s protecting me from and I am too sleepy and unprepared to say anything to him through much of the phone call.

When he tries again to tell me that esgic has codeine, I correct him and he agrees that it doesn’t, but still, the oxycontin “is to protect you.”

You who the last guy was to tell me he was there to protect me? The friend I had in college who went on a trip with a group of our friends, and raped me while our friends went to a club and I was incapacitated. Needless to say, this very vague concept of “I’m Manly Man the Protector” doesn’t really work for me.

“You think about it and get back to me,” he closes. I assure him I will. He says “God bless” in a hurry and hangs up.

I promptly call my mom and relay these messages to her. And cry. At 11:20 in the a.m.

Awesome day.

NOTE: Yes, I’ve tried the oxycontin. He’s only written the med for 10mg tablets and told me to take two at a time (20mg). The Fiorinal is 30mg of codeine and less addictive. I also told him specifically that I didn’t want percoset (oxycodone) and that’s exactly what he’s given me. I’ve tried the two oxycontin at a time since I got it. I can tell you now that the efficacy is not the same as the fiorinal, and come time for my cycle — like next week — I’m probably going to be calling there in a total snit.

This is not what I wanted from my life!

The primary-care practitioner I see now is very nice, and his assistant is nice enough, but she consistently mixes up my med refills, calling in meds sans codeine when that’s the one I need and vice versa. Sometimes they’re called in to a completely wrong pharmacy; it regularly takes three faxes from the correct pharmacy just to get the initial (and incorrect) med called in, and waaaay too early for a refill at that. I’m shocked the pharmacy is even filling the butalbital like that! It can’t look good to my insurance company.

I got a call on Monday that my doctor was out of town so they turned to another MD in the practice about my refill, and he doesn’t want to refill my codeine so I’ll have to choose. I’m sorry, no. You’re not my doctor and the meds are for two different things. But because of that refusal, I have to haul my cookies 30-plus minutes to the Beaches and pay $30 for a follow-up (or FU, as it’s abbreviated) in order for my doctor to refill the meds I’ve taken for years? I call bullshit. And I guarantee I’ll get the old “ask your gyno for meds,” which gynos apparently just hate to do and they refer me back to my primary. Super fun time.

That, friends, is when a follow-up turns into a real eff-you.

It’s also inspired me to add some new categories/tags: “meds” and “total bullshit,” both of which surprisingly have not made their appearance on this blog before. Rectified!

Love the visual of her being lifted up.