More broken bits

Wednesday, 12 June 2024

Well wouldn’t you know it. Another health drama.

Typically we only harp on when there’s something really good or really shit to report. We don’t bother writing about the mediocre, mundane. Case in point, there has been no startling news from Full Bush Rat HQ. Work is BAU. My office buddies, MG, ML, NS, JP are legends. One recently turned 40. Yee-haw!!! My car got a pink slip. Did not renew my comprehensive insurance this time – given some (unknown) fucker recently ‘nudged’ the back of the wagon leaving a significant dent. This dent joins the dent that some mofo left on the driver’s side a few years back. This dent joins the cracked frame of the driver’s side mirror compliments of a (known) raving lunatic from Sydney’s Eastern Suburbs. Thankfully she chose to only bust-up the mirror, not take a key to the four drivers-side panels …

The dog is on the decline. Wakes 2-4 times each night. Disoriented. Barking. Looking for me. When I’m home she sits 2 inches from my face, whimpering. She eats the last of the green tomatoes off the vine – even though there are ripe, red ones within reach. Her evening circle work has become manic digging – and now, biting – of the fitted sheet I’ve put across the top of the bed. In the evenings she gets her entrée @ 5:30pm (beans and a cucumber); main @ 6:00pm (190gm kibble); dessert @ 7:00pm (1/4 can sardines). Twice a week she gets to sit in the back of the wagon and bark at the steers grazing at the front of the property. She is now all but completely deaf. Sam pulled up on Saturday, did not even hear the car coming. Gone is the cheeky, bouncy kelpie. She now waits for me to take the lead when we walk, searches the house frantically to find me when I’m working from home. Sleeps long and often, plagued by hectic doggy-dreams.

The boobs are good. The head is good. The weather is cold, bleak. The cottage is freezing. I still manage to get out in the garden for a few hours each weekend. If I could recommend a single thing to people who are going through a shit time, it would be: plant something. Some beansprouts on the counter, a small succulent from Bunnings, some bulbs thrown randomly across the garden at the end of autumn, the act of planting a plant, tending to it, seeing it grow (… or not!) is primal. Good for the soul. This weekend I cleared the spent bean stalks and tomato vines (helped my Lucy), lettuces that had gone to seed, pruned back the sage, pulled out the pumpkin that had succumbed to the frost, dead-headed the roses. I threw everything in a pile, mulched the shit out of it with the lawn mower, then put it back on the garden.

For a few months now, I’ve been experiencing a sharp pain in my right hip. No, it’s not from line dancing or Pilates. There is no sciatica. Rather, it is a deep pain, spasm that can fiercely occur at anytime (much to my work mate’s alarm). My oncologist requests a pelvic scan (bless you Dr P). You will have to forgive me, once upon a time I remembered every appointment, person, nurse, technician, doctor but there’s a point at which it becomes so frequent, so routine, you no longer commit these times, people to memory. The scan identifies two irregularities, “please see your GP and arrange referrals for an ultrasound of uterus and liver”. Ultrasounds booked. The one for the liver requires fasting, the one for the uterus requires a full bladder. Always a joy having The Probe inserted up the fanny then pushed, rotated. Brings on waves of nausea. And bleeding.

Only 1/3 of the cost of the scans are covered by Medicare so nearly $500 out of pocket. But want to get best outcome so I’ll forgo 2 x front tyres … they can wait another 1,000km. How are you supposed to weigh up the value – heath vs road safety??!

As of today, I have not heard back from GP regarding liver scan result - no news is good news right?! Crack open another beer. All good.

My GP’s clinic has (automatically) booked me in for an appointment, 2:15pm, Wednesday 12 June 2024. Curious. Ominous. Dr M will be seeing me in my GP’s absence. I choose to take the appointment via phone, save 90km round trip and $20 petrol. We discuss the weather. The Dr M gets up to speed on the (uterus) scan results. Normal uterus lining = 1 - 4mm. Mine = 32mm. Lots of talk about cystic changes, endometrial hyperplasia, endometrial cancer. Yippee! I have now parked the breasts to make way for the uterus and the surrounding labyrinth: mons pubis, labia majora, labia minora, clitoris, cervix, vestibular bulbs, fundus (not as fun as it sounds), vulva vestibule, Bartholin’s glands, ovarian ligaments, Skene’s glands, urethra and finally … the vaginal opening. Reminds me a bit of IKEA … ie. a massive roundabout way to get to the exit.

I did not expect this. I feel sad, ripped off. Despite our best thoughts, wishes, intentions, sometimes the universe does not deliver. Fuck it. I’m getting bloody sick of my female bits packing up. My dignity is shot. How do you reconcile it when the parts that make you a woman are broken? Parts that are not only amazingly beautiful, sexy, erotic but also grow and nurture life. It is awkward, embarrassing and makes me feel ugly, less-of-a-woman.

Referral has been sent to the Gyne ward at Canberra Hospital. Hopefully I will get a consult in 30 days, 90 at the latest. Right now, I just want my uterus gone – along with its now redundant, support squad.

Will keep you posted peeps.

Love yous all,

The FBR