It has never ceased to amaze me how many things magically start to go wrong with you once you hit the big FOUR-OH. Especially with your reproductive equipment. I swear, lately I’ve spent more time in stirrups than Roy Rogers did in his entire career. Without musical accompaniment. (“Happy Trails,” indeed.) Back in the spring, having had my period continuously for the past two years (!), I decided that perhaps more aggressive action ought to be taken. My doctor, having tried various remedies, had several months back had put me on this birth control device called a Nuvaring (sort of like a diaphragm without the middle part) that was supposed to put a stop to it. Hadn’t worked.

So then it was thought that my fibroids were causing it. Now, I’ve known for years that I’ve had fibroids. Most women do, apparently. Several times, I have trotted obediently off to have a pelvic ultrasound, the most notable and unpleasant feature of which is that it has to be done with a full bladder (you, not the radiologist). Nothing like sitting in some doctor’s office waiting room feeling as if you’re going to explode. Then once you get in there, they hand you something that looks like a broom handle with Vaseline on the end and ask you if you’d mind inserting it? Hmmm...let me think about that...guess not. Then they move the broom handle around, ostensibly taking pictures of stuff. Once in a while, they let you see what’s on the monitor, but it’s mostly incomprehensible.

This past summer, I went in for yet another of these fun procedures, which went on for a inordinately long time as the radiologist kept bringing in progressively higher-up people in white coats to gape at the screen, move the broomstick thingy around as if they were playing a video game, and whisper to each other. I lay there, obviously entirely irrelevant to the proceedings. So much so that I think I dozed off. When I woke up, they handed me a piece of paper and told me to make a follow-up appointment with my doctor. My doctor’s office, astutely recognizing the urgency of the situation, generously granted me an appointment two months hence.

When I finally got in there, my doctor was none too pleased. “Why did you wait so long to come in?” she demanded. “I tried to get in earlier, but apparently there was an entire third world country on the waiting list ahead of me,” I replied. She informed me that the folks administering the ultrasound had seen something they “didn’t like” (hey, if THEY “didn’t like” it, chances are I was going to “hate” it), and she wanted to do something called an endometrial biopsy.

I will forever associate that procedure with Sir Laurence Olivier whispering in my ear, “Is it safe?” in a German accent (for all you “Marathon Man” fans out there). Man, did that hurt. Maybe not as much as my abscess and subsequent root canal, but pretty bad. Thankfully, it was negative.

Then she decided what I needed was a D&C. I asked what that was, and the only adjective I caught was “scraping.” I was told it’s the same thing they do with someone who’s had a miscarriage, and it didn’t sound fun. It wasn’t. It didn’t help that I had to start fasting at midnight, my procedure was scheduled for noon, and I didn’t actually get in there until nearly 4:00, at which point I was nearly at the point of strangling the entire nursing staff and taking a sledge hammer to the vending machine.

General anesthetic sucks, y’all. This was my first-ever experience with it, and it was scary. First the anesthesiologist gave me an injection to relax me, cheerfully informing me that “This’ll feel like six straight bourbons.” Not being an alcoholic, I can’t tell you if it did or not, but on an empty stomach it was fairly effective, I think. But when they clamp that mask over your mouth, you feel panicky and claustrophobic and then...you’re out. You wake up in the recovery room and suddenly they’re shoving a sandwich and some Lorna Doones at you when all you can think of is how much you want to hurl. The most disturbing thing was that I had spent the whole day in a GREEN hospital gown, and yet I woke up in a BLUE one. This made me very paranoid for some reason. Then as I woozily got up from the gurney to get dressed, I bled all over everything, and had a nurse nonchalantly wiping me down like a baby with a dirty diaper with a bunch of people standing around watching. Not exactly the kind of fantasy that most of us tend to have.

After a couple of days at home on a steady diet of ginger ale, crackers and chocolate ice cream, I headed back to the doctor to be told I had a 6-centimeter fibroid attached to the outside of the uterus and that bad boy had to come out. Along with a couple of other troublemakers inside it. So they recommended a hysterectomy, necessitating 6 weeks recovery. Woah. I thought about it for a few days (I’ve never had kids, but at 48 and single, I would say it’s unlikely), said okay, and then...they backtracked, saying that since I’ve had this for a long time, we should “wait and see.” For what, I have no idea. They have sworn up and down that they saw no cancer, so maybe they’re waiting for...what? Another immaculate conception? (Given the nature of some of my recent dates, this would not be out of the realm of possibility.)

Hey, at least the bleeding stopped. And it’s been kind of nice giving that area a rest...lately more folks have been trooping in and out of there than the Department of Motor Vehicles.