Okay, first I’ll apologize for the cheesy title, and then I’ll apologize for the potential for TMI in this post. I really tried to edit myself. If this watered-down tale of events upsets you…well, that’s your problem, not mine. On with the show:
I have polycystic ovary syndrome. This means a whole host of unpleasant things, but mostly it means I have cysts–multiple ones–on my ovaries. Now, yesterday wasn’t the first time I’ve had one rupture; the eye-crossing, gag-inducing, breath-stealing pain was nothing new. I clutched my lower abdomen and hobbled to the back of the pharmacy, pulling my BlackBerry from my scrubs and hitting the key that would speed dial my gynecologist.
In my pain-riddled mind, the conversation went like this:
“East Tennessee Regional OB/GYN, how can I help you?”
“I’m dying,” I wail.
“Excuse me?” the polite voice asks.
“I had a cyst rupture and I’m in a lot of pain. What should I do?”
“When did this happen?” She sounded alert and concerned. The staff at my doctor’s office? All awesome, all the time.
“Just now, I’m at work,” I told her. “It really hurts.”
“Can you come in today? We have a 2:45 open.”
“I’ll be there,” I told her.
For once, everything worked out perfectly. My doctor had an available appointment in an hour, and my amazing pharmacy manager agreed to let me take a long lunch so I could get my “lady troubles” sorted out. The fifteen minute drive to my doctor’s office was pretty excruciating, as was the physical exam, but I left with an appointment for an ultrasound, a prescription for Percocet, and doctor’s orders to take it easy for the next few days. What do I do? I go back to work.
Okay, so I didn’t exactly follow doctor’s orders, but I only had like three hours left in my shift and I don’t have stellar attendance, so I took four Advil and steeled my resolve. I explained the situation to Boss Lady, and we were able to find someone to cover the next day’s 2pm-10pm shift. When 6pm rolled around, I said my goodbyes and clocked out. The stabbing pain combined with the late afternoon heat made me swoon for a moment, but I finally sank into my car, grateful that cool, conditioned air would soon be circulating in the car’s interior.
Dinner was an uneventful affair, as was taking my first ever Percocet. After the sodium-packed black beans and rice, I drank a half-gallon of water. I remember it sloshing unpleasantly as I carefully lowered myself into bed. I remember being awake long enough to tell Matt that I wanted an ice cream cone. And then I remember it being pitch-dark when it had been sunny. I checked my phone and saw that it was 2am. I crawled to the bathroom and drank another half-gallon of water, took another Percocet and headed back to bed, where I slept until 10:30am. That’s fifteen hours of sleep, for those of you keeping count.
Today was ultrasound day. Naturally, I got lost trying to find the place, but a quick call to a surprisingly friendly receptionist had me back on track in a few seconds, and I pulled into the hidden medical plaza and parked. I could go into detail. Some of the ultrasound wasn’t unpleasant, like the “goo” wasn’t ice cold. Some of the ultrasound was very unpleasant, and I’ll spare you those parts.
The results? My ovaries are full of cysts. The good? The cysts, aside from the big, ruptured one, were small and don’t require hospitalization or surgery. The bad? This will happen again, at random, without warning, and it will suck. Great.
