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.