A place for endometriosis survivors & supporters, and all that goes with it.


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Update on the little man

This is a follow-up to a post I made recently, detailing some health issues with my dog, Pippin.

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On one recent Sunday, I took Pippin to work. He’s the best in the biz.

Long story short: NO SURGERY FOR THE SMALL DOG! The ultrasound shows a nodule on his pancreas, and some of his organs were a bit enlarged, but there’s no cancer, no foreign object stuck in his gut, and absolutely no need for surgery, as the first vet had pressed so firmly into my brain.

Basically, his big tummy was full of air and food that was fermenting, which was the culprit in his gastro issues. He’s a small dog that’s getting older and the high-fiber vet food just wasn’t right for him. I put him on soft food of a different brand for a bit, but when that didn’t stop the gastrointestinal distress, we put him on the tried-and-true diet for doggy diarrhea: chicken and rice. He’s been eating it since with only one short-lived gastro issue over the weekend when we relented and gave him a bite of egg white.

No more panting all night like a cow in labor. No more shitting himself. No more tear-inducing farts that wake us up out of a dead sleep in the middle of the night.

My dog did not have cancer. My dog had to take a shit and change his diet. THANKS, VET NO. 1, FOR THE PANIC. I guess doctors of all shades can be total dipshits.

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The buttonhooks are back.

English: Buttonhooks with handles made of horn...

English: Buttonhooks with handles made of horn and wood, on display at Bedford Museum. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

 

These, my lovers, are buttonhooks. These sharp little bastards were used to help cinch buttons into the buttonholes of button-up shoes, naturally.

And for several weeks, the little demon in my pelvis has been using one to get my attention at most inopportune times. Like at work. Or home. Or sleeping. Or just trying to pee. I usually describe my pains to physicians and friends alike as like buttonhooks pulling my insides apart. (I blame the move “Sybil” for working this imagery into my psyche when I was 16.)

And sisters, the buttonhooks are decidedly back.

This is how I felt constantly before my third laparoscopy: lots of ripping and stabbing, sudden sharp tears of pain that moved quickly from the left to right side, or punctured through the right of my pelvis down through the cervix. You ever been punched in the cervix? Probably not, but most endo sisters are going to know what I mean. Guys, try to imagine one of those long slender metal knitting needles being used to get a really bitching penile piercing, except it’s sliding up your urethra.

Yeah. That.

At the end of February I had a pain spell that knocked the hell out of me. I suddenly lost focus of vision, had ripping, dragging pain from left to right in my pelvis, and couldn’t catch my breath — if I breathed in more than a shallow pant, it hurt like hell under my ribs. I suddenly burst into tears, unable to deal with the shock and terrible feelings. I ended up lying on the floor for a good 40 minutes while the waves of pain increased and then gently floated away. I was glad to not be alone, and Phil talked me through it — mostly he was on the internet, asking my symptoms and entering them into a WebMD symptom checker. After each inquiry, he’d tell me the online remedy was “go to the hospital.”

“Try another one,” I’d reply. I’m not going to the hospital unless I damn well need to. Not only do they not deserve any more of my money, but all they’ll do is keep me cold and braless for 6 hours, take an ultrasound or maybe an MRI if they feel adventurous, and send me home with the classification “unknown cause, please follow up.”

Even just tonight I walked to the bathroom here at work. By the time I got there I was gasping — the knitting-needle-to-the-cervix pain left me breathless and sweating. And the damn things go as quickly as they arrive, so had anybody walked in as I was regaining composure, it would have been a bizarre scene indeed.

I know that my intestines aren’t that happy with me. More pain meds mean more constipation mean more pain — you can’t get around it. And my wonky overtime schedule this week has mean I’m neglecting the awesome essential oils I was given that actually seemed to start to make a gentle difference in my stomach situation.

But what can’t be denied is that I’ve been here before. I was a crumpled mess before my last lap (just go back a few pages, you’ll see) and when they went in — DAMN. Massive endometrioma in the right ovary which was stuck to the uterus and that whole clump stuck to the pelvic wall; the left sigmoid colon stuck to itself and the pelvic wall; endo on the bladder, the uterus, and knotting my ureters together (AGAIN) and for the first time, endo in the cul-de-sac and the diagnosis of adenomyosis.

And I knew I was in pain. I was blacking out from it, even behind the wheel. I was going two weeks with no BM (as I have recently, and it is NOT fun). I was weeping and narcotic drunk and not functional. And it STILL took 4 years, three doctors and a third surgery for anyone to believe it could be “that bad.”

I can’t wait that long this time. Nobody should. I may have exhausted my resources locally, but that doesn’t mean I will let my body suffer. I have one ovary left and it is mine, endo can’t have it, and my life is mine, endo can’t have it.

So I guess it may be time to travel again. You know, I’ve never been to New York City …