Is this really "better"?

There's something mildly concerning about being wheeled to the operating room with your purse.

My purse is gigantic, so there was the immediate concern that one stretcher wouldn't be enough for both of us. If it couldn't stay where it was, crammed between me and the stretcher rails, I wondered where they could put it during the procedure. What if it tripped somebody wielding a scalpel?

I had arrived at the hospital barely forty minutes before my giant handbag and I were rolled up to surgery, which felt like a record. Appetizers take longer to roll out at most restaurants.

Two days prior I had been sent home from emergency room number one (ER#1), following what could best be described as my vagina exploding. The doctors and nurses on staff at ER#1 were clearly trained in the not giving a fuck area of emergency medical care, and so for two days I continued bleeding profusely before I was could snag an appointment at a wonderful local sexual health clinic.

Bleeding and pain weren't the only disturbing symptoms I had noticed in those two days, but they were the only ones that made any sense. My pregnancy test administered at ER#1 was negative, as were the STD tests - a huge relief, as I'm sure an epidemic of a previously undiscovered genital-exploding STD strain could have caused some panic within the community.

By the time I was ready for my examination at the clinic, the doctor was already suitably concerned by the bleeding alone. There didn't seem to be a need to share any of the other red flags I had noticed.

In fact, I didn't have to hardly explain anything at all. She examined me for approximately two seconds, and knew what was wrong.

Much like burns, there is a classification system for bodily tears. I wasn't sure if this classification system followed that for burn victims, but apparently I had 2nd degree tearing.

Second degree means too deep to heal without stitches, and I would have to go immediately to emergency room number two, where her staff had already notified the gynecologist on call that I was coming.

At least I knew what was wrong, and would worry about how in the name of sweet nugget of Jesus this could have happened at a later date. For now, all I cared about was whether the gyno on call could sew straight.

He assured me he could, because I actually asked. Dr. Q examined me within minutes of my arrival at ER#2, and told me I'd have to be put under. He did not recommend I have stitches without anaesthetic.

I shared his well-informed medical opinion whole-heartedly, and was greatly relieved to find out it would be a simple procedure, and I'd be heading home that night. So simple, I could even take my purse up to the OR.


****


The first time I opened my eyes in the recovery room, I stared at the clock on the wall. I'd gone to the OR close to 6:00 pm. It was just past 10:00 pm. Clearly, their anaesthesiologist did not fuck around.

The second time I opened my eyes, I saw another patient lay directly across from me, his feet facing mine. His toes were huge. They freaked me out.

The third time I opened my eyes, his toes were still freaking me out. Then I remembered that the bottom of my feet were still orange, due to serious self-tanning miscalculation from a week before. He was going to wake up and see my bright orange feet and be really freaked out too. I felt bad.

The fourth time I opened my eyes, a nurse was asking me whether I needed to throw up. I didn't. Next was what my pain level was on a scale of one to ten, and did I need morphine. I sure did. Finally, I wanted to know what time I'd be getting out - friends would be coming to get me.

I wasn't getting out. Not that night. Maybe not even tomorrow. Did I know the rectal and vaginal wall was perforated, and it took three surgeons working on me to put me back together? Did I know that? The sutures were extensive. The tearing was fourth degree, not second after all. I had a catheter and my vagina was packed. I wouldn't be going anywhere.

First of all...no. I didn't know any of that. She sounded somewhat accusatory, like I had rolled up on the OR, determined to pull one over on the hospital staff. My plan was to present like I just had little bit of second degree tearing, but once they got all up in there...surprise! There was actually no "all up in there" left!

I supposed it had been my fault. I could have mentioned that the one bowel movement I'd had in two days seemed to have...taken the wrong exit. I could have mentioned that I had sneezed once, and fell to the floor screaming in pain. Nobody had asked though, so these details didn't seem that important.

For now though, these details still didn't seem important. All I could think about was that I had a packed vagina. What on earth did that even mean? What was it packed with? I hoped to God it was bubble wrap and not Styrofoam peanuts. That shit gets everywhere.

The night passed very pleasantly in a morphine induced haze, and I was annoyed to be shaken out of it by Dr. Q. He wanted to know if I was ready to tell him what had actually happened yet


Considering I was still struggling with the fact I somehow had a packed vagina, it didn't seem fair to be shaken awake and asked a completely baffling question. I had told him exactly what happened the night two days previous when my vagina exploded.

He said the odds were very good that I wasn't going to heal properly. The holes in the vaginal/rectal wall were unlikely to close. If that happened, I would have permanent fistulas. Did I know what that meant?

I did not, but I assumed it was bad. I had said all I could say though, and I went back to sleep.

In retrospect, I hadn't actually given him the entire story at that time. In my defense, even I didn't fit the pieces together until days after I had been released from the hospital.

I had quite a bit of time to think because I couldn't do anything else. Literally, nothing else. I thought about how it was this had happened. Normal people's vaginas don't just randomly explode like faulty gas tanks. It took a couple of days, but I finally had to admit it had been a long time since my vagina was normal.

Close to five years actually.

Five years ago I went out dancing with a friend for her birthday, sat down next to a good looking blond guy, who slipped something very strong into my drink. I didn't see him do it, but I only have a handful of memories after that, so I'm taking an educated guess. One of those memories is lying on the stairs leading up to my apartment, while he tried hauling me up by my shirt.

I can't say exactly what happened that night, but I woke up the next morning with my covers pulled over my head and my arms folded across my chest. I stepped over a few used condoms on my way to throw up for the first of many, many times that day so I could make a couple of assumptions.

Over the next several weeks saw doctor after doctor. My doctor at the time tried to treat my terribly swollen vagina with Celebrex. My inability to walk without limping was initially thought to be caused by my "stressed out" mental state, but this was later revised to "fractured pelvis."

Another doctor I saw in an attempt to figure out where the searing vaginal pain was coming from examined me and then called me a liar. I had to be lying, because what he was seeing couldn't have been caused by an assault. I had to have been in a car accident, or something like that. Besides -- was my face mangled? No? If I had actually been raped, he would have done damage to my face. Because my face was fine, I was lying and he couldn't help me.

It took six months of steadily looking for answers before a female doctor examined me and took notice that there was vaginal tearing. It was deep enough to be difficult to heal over on its own, but had gone untreated for too long, stitches may not be beneficial.

It would just have to close over eventually. She was also able to diagnose significant nerve damage, and prescribed medication that eased most of the physical pain due to nerve damage within 24 hours. I'm still on that medication, and will happily stay on it for the rest of my life.

I attended weeks of physiotherapy to help with the nerve damage, and to prevent incontinence that could arise from the damage I'd sustained to my pelvic floor muscles. I hated having to be touched there, and stopped going.

Bad things happen to good people, and they happen to me. Life has a way of moving on whether I choose to or not, and I assumed it had moved on far enough for me to be safe.

Life also occasionally has a way of bitch slapping you to let you know when it's time to stop moving and to start talking. Safety is very, very relative.

It only took Dr. Q asking me twice more what really happened during my post-op appointments before I told him what more there was to the story. He seemed greatly relieved to be told something that made sense. Frankly, so was I.

The damage that had gone untreated five years ago was like a crack in a windshield. It might have stayed cracked, or the wrong combination of conditions could cause the whole thing to shatter.

I guess I shattered. The original scarred over injury tore open again, and tore everything else open too when it did. How it didn't happen any sooner is a mystery. Then again...not really. I never had sex with Alex and the firefighter...well...he was always just that good.


Every day I'm figuring out just how extensive the shattering was. It was Dr. Q who persuaded the other two surgeons not to give me a colostomy bag. He told them I was too young, and should have a chance to heal.

Every week that passes it's less likely the stitches will "blow." If the stitches fail to hold, I get a colostomy bag. I'm very grateful to Dr. Q for giving me the chance to maintain free-range pooping status. So far so good.

The blood loss was significant, but the chances of turning septic were far greater than bleeding to death. I don't know how I didn't in the two days I walked around around with my internal organs just blowing in the breeze.

It'll be another few weeks before all the stitches are gone, and a few weeks after that before I can exercise normally again. By the sounds of it, it'll be never before I can have normal sex.

No toys. No vibrators. No well-endowed men. No going in all the way if they are. Nothing outside of the missionary position. No risking "certain angles." No anal. Not ever.

It's funny how no goal is ever so desirable as the ones you're told you can't have. What's also funny is how I prided myself on having not lost my sexual desire.

I was so happy that there was one thing that piece of shit never took from me. He did a lot of damage, but thank God I could still enjoy being passionate and wild and sexy.

It took five years, but I stand corrected. Guess he wins that round too.

And then it got worse.

Following a vaginal explosion as detailed in my previous posting, and with blood still gushing, I called a girlfriend for a quick chat. I casually mentioned that the boy had come over, it went well, now I'm bleeding, quite a bit actually, but I'm sure it's no big deal and I'll just go to a clinic in the morning.

Minutes later I was hunched over in my friend's passenger seat, on my way to the emergency room. It's a good thing my good friends have learned to pick and choose what words that come out of my mouth to pay attention to, and which ones to ignore completely.

Once there, it seemed certain we'd be processed quickly. Ahead of me at the triage station, a young guy with a skateboard was telling the nurse that he'd “felt anxious” all evening.

At the registration station and below a sign stating that persons with uncontrollable bleeding should make themselves known immediately to a nurse, an older guy was retching into a bucket, accompanied by his son.

Finally it was my turn with the triage nurse, and she asked what the problem was. I said I was bleeding. Like, a lot. She asked from where, perhaps recognizing I wasn't sporting a traumatic head wound. Suddenly aware that everything I said could be easily overheard, I pointed down at my lap.

Could you be pregnant? No? Are you sure? When did it start? What were you doing when it started? Excuse me? You were having sex when it started? Was it with a male or female partner? How long were you having sex for? I don't mean how long you knew him, I meant how many minutes were you having sex for? What position were you having sex in?

I quickly learned to hate the triage nurse. Just in case there was an ambulance driver somewhere out in the parking lot who happened to miss a word of my intake interview, the triage nurse handed my file over to the registration clerk sitting less than four feet away by saying, “This is Bambi. She was having sex and now she's bleeding.”

She could put in on billboards for all I cared, as long as somebody did something very quickly about the pain I was in. I got my wristbands, and then my friend and I were told to follow the blue dots on the floor to another waiting room, where we sat for two hours.

Clearly, matters of life and death were taking place in the ER. The kid with the skateboard and anxiety was looked after immediately. Then, a woman who followed us in was provided with dramatic resuscitation for her multiple bullet wounds.

Ha, no. Not really. She was given a tensor bandage for a puffy wrist though. The guy with the bucket was still puking. And still, I waited. And bled, finally bleeding through my pad and pants.

Finally, somebody called my name and I followed a nurse to a room 20 feet down a hallway and around a corner. I was told to strip off all my bottoms, and to sit up on a stretcher. A doctor would be with me shortly.

Since taking my pants off and sitting down led immediately to making a big gory mess, I was stuck right where I was. As it turned out, I would be stuck sitting in an ever widening pool of ick for more than an hour and a half, so I had some time to think.

First, I thought about my evening so far. To think my biggest worry had once been that the boy would stay over and I would fart in my sleep. I was sure that would strike me as funny at some point. Perhaps not this year, but maybe if I survive another few decades.

Then I thought about what in the fuck could be possibly be happening to me. The sex with the new boy was downright normal, if perhaps a little overly enthusiastic on his part. Still, his dick wasn't shooting laser beams or bullets, so one would think things should have been fine.

And yet, one would be wrong. Therefore, in my highly esteemed medical opinion...this was something else.

I had to be having a miscarriage.

Yes, I'm on the pill. Yes, the firefighter and I always use condoms, and yes, my womb is listed as one of the top ten places on planet earth most inhospitable to human life, as voted by the United Nations Security Council. Two of those three things are true, but the third is not that far off.

However...I'm still me. By nature, I'm not a lucky person. It's more than possible I might have taken a pill late. It could be possible a condom might have sprung a leak, or broken altogether. If both of these things were to have happened, they very well could have happened the last time he and I were together, more than two months earlier.

On that occasion I sprained my back and helped prove IKEA shelving will not support a grown woman attempting pages 32 – 37 of the Kama Sutra. If I was going to be accidentally knocked up by the firefighter, that would have been the time.

Miscarriage. Holy fucking shit I'm having a miscarriage. It's the only thing that could explain what's happening, and what was running down my legs and dripping on to the floor.

Though God and I have been feuding since 1998 and despite not being a religious person, I wondered if I should say a prayer of sorts.

I don't believe life begins at conception, but I've seen enough video of spermies (technical term – try to keep up) swimming toward an egg to believe that while perhaps not miraculous, conception is at least pretty cool. If not life, I believe the resulting cell cluster contains at least...a spark.

And so I thought about that spark, and what it could mean. I have no idea whether there's a heaven or a hell. I like to think that hell already exists in so many places and within the hearts and minds of so many people on Earth, there's no need for anything comparable in the afterlife.

I am convinced however, that we come from somewhere and go somewhere else.

Therefore, I wondered how my cell-cluster might have passed his time in the universe's waiting room, considering whether to make his arrival official or not.

(I had no doubt my cell-cluster would be male, because there's no way a female would have made such a goddamn mess of things.)

Because my cell-cluster would have half my DNA, it would inevitably have been freaking the fuck out, and would have sought out somebody in Management to discuss contingency planning.

As blood dripped off of my feet onto the floor of a hospital room, I imagined how that conversation might have gone.

Cell-cluster: So my parents are an artsy type and a firefighter...? That sounds pretty cool!

Management: Well...sure. It's cool. It's also a little complicated.

Cell-cluster: Complicated? I knew it! What's the deal?

Management: Well, you know nowadays there are all kinds of relationships and all kinds of families...

Cell-cluster: Don't give me that bullshit.

Management: Fine. The firefighter is married...to somebody else. Happily. Your mother is single. Beyond single, actually. No hope there.

Cell-cluster: Oh. Well...do the firefighter and my Mom at least love each other maybe? Is it like a polygamy thing?

Management: Ha! Hahahahahahahaha...oh Jesus. You're serious. No kid, it's not like a polygamy thing. There is no way in hell those two women...


(Management involuntarily shudders, removes a bottle of vodka from a desk drawer, and takes a giant swig.)


Cell-cluster: So if they don't love each other, what's the deal? How did this happen?


Management: Well, when it comes to love...your Mom admits nothing. Your firefighter Dad however would totally admit he really loves fucking your Mom.

Cell-cluster: HEY. That's my Mom you're talking about.

Management: The point is, it's complicated. Also, your Mom has killed every house plant she's ever owned. Unless you want an aqua globe up your ass you may have to learn to feed yourself. Your call. Stay or catch the next ride kid.

Overall, I think our cell-cluster made the right call by fleeing. If I wasn't stuck sitting half-naked in a hospital room increasingly resembling that scene out of the Shining when the tidal waves of blood sloosh through the halls of the Overlook Hotel, I would have fled too.


Without question, this was a bad situation.

When the 12 year-old looking doctor finally showed up, stuck a q-tip all up in there to check for gonorrhea, syphilis or chlamydia, instead of expressing any concern with...oh I don't know...the stupid amount of blood still coming from some mysterious location and the fact I was in too much pain to sit or move without help, I sensed the situation had grown worse still.


When she told me she was sure this was all normal, I gave up. I gave up even more when I was told I couldn't leave before providing a pee sample, to check for pregnancy.


Ummm...if I had been pregnant when I arrived, I was fairly certain I wasn't going to be leaving that way. Still, after everything else...why not? Why in the fuck should I not be locked into a blood spattered bathroom (blood that wasn't mine by the way), left alone to unpack my pregnancy pee test kit and instructions, which included two tiny moist wipes which weren't about to do me any good, a funnel of all goddamn things, and of course, a plastic cup.

According to the instructions, I was to begin peeing, stop, then start again into the cup, using the funnel if for whatever reason I needed either a fashionable hat while doing so, or better aim.



(I'm sure my handful of readers brave enough to procreate would have an idea why one would need a stop and start pee to test for pregnancy. Is pee not pee? If I were to just let it all go, would it skew the results that badly?)

(After thinking about it, I don't believe it would. I think the medical community is just trying to prepare women. If the test comes out pregnant and you pop out a child, you'll be spending the next few decades unable to pee without interruption, so I suppose it's a case of forewarned is forearmed.)


Sadly, my vagina suddenly going through a violent Quention Tarantino phase meant that I had lost the ability to pee. When I sat or squatted over the bowl, it felt like my internal organs were going to fall right the fuck out. The pain was so bad, I couldn't push, nudge, squeeze or bitch slap my bladder into doing anything but cower.

By the time I was done trying, the bathroom was in an even bigger mess than when I found it. In my completely normal, nothing is wrong with me at all state - I actually tried to clean it all up.

There was a bottle of disinfectant and a roll of paper towels under the sink so I set about spraying and scrubbing down my legs before my pants went back up, then the floor which I scrubbed with some paper towel under my flip-flop, and then the sink and walls, right before I realized I had lost my fucking mind and really needed to go home.

And so I did. The 12-year old doctor declared me free to go, suggested I pick up a couple of ibuprofen on the way out if I wanted and my poor friend drove me home. If I left a mess in her jeep, she was kind enough to not say anything.

Once at home I couldn't stand, couldn't sit and didn't much feel like sleeping. Instead, I lay down in my shower where I stayed until I ran out of hot water.

As far as I believed, I had had and was continuing to have the most spectacularly ill-timed miscarriage in the history of the uterus. I wanted it to stop, I wanted somebody to bring me some tea directly to my new shower bed, I wanted the pain to go away, and then, more than all of those things, I wanted the firefighter there with me.

Out of everything I wanted that night but couldn't quite manage...that was the worst, and the only aspect out of all of the whole ungodly mess that made me cry.

To have gone from a fun, sexy start to the evening with a new boy, new lingerie, new confidence, new hopes to a bafflingly bloody, screamingly painful end to the night naked and alone in my shower, pining for somebody else's husband to be there to hold my hand...well...was just a bit much.

That was the absolute lowest point - even lower than scrubbing somebody else's bloodstains off of a bathroom floor with some paper towel underneath a flip-flop just so custodial couldn't blame it all on me, but I believed that was the worst it was going to get. That was comforting at the time. Wrong...but comforting.

That went well.

***Note from Bambi: This posting will probably be part one of an approximate 172-part series in which I attempt to outline how exactly my private life crossed over into urban legend status. Part 2 through 169 will cover how and what in the hell happened, and hopefully by the time that's done...I'll have figured out at least one happy ending. For now. Part one.


This time, the sex was going to be different. Firstly, it wasn't going to be with myself, so there was that. Secondly, this new guy was single. I can't even stress how excited I was by the prospect of being with a guy who didn't have to ask his wife for permission first, as I'm sure is typical in most intimate relationships, provided you are me.

Also...the guy wasn't Alex. Therefore, there was no girlfriend, no heartbreak, and no scary sexual history that read like the white pages. And some blue ones. This guy was a new start – totally different. Totally normal, and therefore totally exciting.

Unmarried, unattached, mildly employed, passably literate, totally hot and young enough to barely pass the most generous of gay math algorithms – I was exceptionally pleased with the catching of this particular cub.

Approximately three months prior to this earth-shaking date night, I had posted an ad in desperation on Craigslist, seeking “entertainment for the summer.” In response, I received 37 different pictures of penises. Peni? Lots of wangs.

It's true that everything I understand about the male species can be written on a grain of rice in bubble letters, but there is one aspect of the male psyche that baffles me more than anything else: a man's belief that women will be driven wild by a poorly lit photo of his disembodied nubbin.

Apropos of seriously nothing else, captured in all of its glory(?) by either a poorly focused webcam, or the ubiquitous bathroom mirror self-portrait, men everywhere seemingly believe that their wieners have the power to...well...I have no idea what.
.
It's not as though I've never met a penis I've fallen for, because I most certainly have. There are some very charming appendages out there, but this strong affection usually comes with some all important context. By the time it's waving in my face, I've usually made the decision to go ahead and get better personally acquainted.

Never before, and never will an email attachment and some sort of clever email introduction such as “Hope U like what U see!!!!!!” drive me to tear my clothes off in steamy anticipation of what could possibly just be an adequately sized sea slug for all I know.

My favorite penis pictures received were the thoughtful comparison photographs. One enterprising fellow was kind enough to forward along a picture of what I can only assume was his dick, photographed alongside of a Coke can for my careful analysis. I remained unimpressed, although strangely thirsty.

The point is, I got a lot of idiot replies, but one response stood out from the crowd. Funny, friendly, and the kid included a head shot – of his actual head.

We texted for long enough to determine he wasn't looking for anything serious, but neither was I. I expected a quick coffee meeting next to determine what could possibly be wrong with him, and then he blew my mind completely by taking me on an actual date.

He dressed up to meet me. Took me to shoot some pool. Did the whole manly man showing girl how to shoot properly so he could look down my shirt. Tried too hard to make me laugh. Paid for everything. Took me for tea just because I said I like tea. Tried to pay for that too. Insisted we go for a walk by the water, and steered himself between me and some drunken pan-handlers, like I might be something worthy of protection. Walked me to my car. Gave me such a swooning good kiss goodnight that the peanut gallery waiting to get into the nightclub where my car was parked started cheering. Texted me before I even got home – when could he see me again?

I don't date. Guys don't want to date me. They want to fuck me or they don't, and my options are limited accordingly. My romantic bar is set so low, a guy spending $22.50 on a few games of pool has now performed the equivalent of building me the Taj Mahal.

It was several weeks before we saw each other next, as he had a few issues to deal with including losing his job, his license, and being 25 years old. But...I mentioned he was hot, right? Like, really hot.

This is how we managed to keep texting through it all, and how he eventually came to be making out with me on my bed, and how I came to be four minutes away from having sex with somebody who wasn't me, wasn't married, wasn't attached and who hadn't yet made me cry.

Four minutes later...sex! I wish I could say amazing sex, or mind-blowing sex, but the words that sprang to mind were...clumsy. And, kind of...ow. And, holy shit kid haven't you ever done this before because the whole foreplay portion kind of feels like you're looking for change down there, and I assure you, that's not where I keep it.

Nonetheless, this was really an accomplishment. Normally so paralysed by fear and anxiety surrounding sex, for once I was just excited about somebody new like a normal person. No fear. No worry. Just happiness and...

“I think you're bleeding.”

...blood. Apparently blood. Happiness and blood.

He had backed off away from me on the bed, and I could his hands, elbows and knees covered in something that looked black in the dark. Underneath me was a pool of black that was getting wider by the second.

A moment went by and I honestly couldn't think of anything. Not just what I should do or say, but anything at all. So I just sat there. My bed was ruined, and I should probably have a shower. That's all that came to mind.

I ordered the guy off the bed, stripped the covers off and ran to the shower, shouting that I'd be back in just a moment. Standing under the shower, still wearing my bra and tank top, I sincerely believed the water would fix whatever was wrong, and the bleeding would stop.

It didn't.

The boy had followed me into the bathroom, apparently unfazed by my exploding vagina. Hurriedly scooping clots off of my legs, I yelled at him to go wait...I would. Be. Just. A. Moment.

I seemed to be panicking a little. Was I panicking a little? There was no need to panic – I was just having my period was all. No big deal. It totally happens. I should just come out of the shower and chill out.

A couple of things were just not happening. For one, I was not having my period. Secondly, I was not coming out of the shower. I was however, panicking.

As nonchalantly as circumstances allowed, I let him know I was not having my period. In no way, was this my period. This may in fact be the result of my vagina being under some sort of heavy security and perhaps he had inadvertently set off the dye pack placed strategically next to my cervix, but this was not my period.

He finally left the bathroom, and I finally left the shower. Pain hadn't hit just yet, so I could run from the bathroom to the bedroom, leaving a biblical mess all over my carpet in search of a towel to cram between my legs. Wrapping a towel around that, I felt I could pass for normal.

Finally sorted, I found the boy in my living room checking text messages. I noticed that he really needed to wash his arms. Also, I had totally ruined his socks.

By this time, pain had hit. Was still hitting. Pain like I couldn't have imagined words for. I apologized for his socks and curled into a ball on the couch, determined to keep the party going.

“Would you like me to leave?”

No, I really didn't. I might need him to drive me to the hospital, but even more importantly, two people having a friendly post-coitus conversation was normal.

All I wanted was a normal encounter, and so far I had not yet managed to achieve normal. If I had to sit there and bleed to death so I could have five minutes of goddamn normal than so be it. I was going to sit, he was going to stay, and at least one of of was going to suck it up and pretend like there was nothing unusual taking place at all.

I sucked it up all the way until the pain got so bad I couldn't talk any more, and then I agreed he should go. Also, it was time to change my towels...and perhaps get to a hospital. Just like a normal person.