Doctor Doctor, why on earth is my finger stained orange!
It was somewhat of a shock to me when my gynaecologist told me I had to have an hysterectomy.
I’m not a believer in operations at the best of times and I was way too young to be contemplating this particular one.
But no matter which angle I looked at it, the rapidly growing melon sized tumour needed to be removed.
Before the operation my brain was brimming with worries like ‘from this moment on I can never give birth to a baby again.’
Will this op bring on premature menopause?
I am embarrassed to admit I even thought ‘will this make me less of a woman?’
But on waking from the op, none of these thoughts occurred to me. But rather a very different thought did!
The operation was longer than anticipated due to the size of the tumour and due to the fact that I had begged my brilliant, and somewhat gorgeous gynaecologist, that under no circumstances was he to cut my stomach open, it had to be removed vaginally, I didn’t want a scar! Vain I know, but that’s the truth.
Back in my ward, over two hours later, I came round to intense pain and I was immediately given morphine.
This drug, for most, is a fantastic release from pain and takes people on a glorious trip in an altered universe.
I however am not ‘most’, but rather a control freak, who hates the idea of having no hold over my mind, limbs and particularly my speech.
I recall my gynaecologist came into my room to check up on my pain levels. Now I mentioned that he is gorgeous, so I tried to fluff myself up and look alert and together. This I discovered is not possible on morphine.
What I wanted to say was ‘Good morning Dr, how are you? Looking forward to the opening game of the world cup tomorrow?’ Why I would want to ask him how he is doing I wasn’t sure, but it seemed in my addled brain an excellent opening gambit.
What came out of my mouth was Tjl*by#$, ywgef&@sg %urbgvkkhu. Accompanied by a weak smile.
‘I see you are flying. Well it’s better than crying.’
He turned to the nurse and instructed her to give me two of something and 10ml of something else to help me sleep.
NOOOOooooOOO, I managed, shaking my head. Inside I was very clearly saying ‘Please no more drugs, it’s horrible, give me pain any day.
He patted my arm warmly and left. So did the nurse, luckily without giving me anything more.
I fell asleep.
On waking a little later and a little less befuddled just one thought springs to mind.
What if I can’t cum anymore! What if they have pulled and pushed and poked and prodded and messed it all up!
There was only one way to find out!
Using my index finger, not my preference I’m very much a toy gal, I gently started playing.
It was a slow start but things got going very nicely and I can happily report that while my stomach hurt rather a lot, (okay it was excruciating) it all ended…happily. Pain and pleasure, always being a favourite with me.
I breathe a sigh of relief, waited for the pain to subside… then I notice my finger!
It’s covered in an orangy-brown stain. IODINE!
It was fairly difficult to see what was going on down there and my stomach hurt if I tried to sit up, so I gave the general area a feel. There seemed to be all sorts of things going on, which in my haste to play I didn’t check.
Right no need to panic, I shall simply wash the iodine off my hands and no one will know the difference.
I try to get up.
They say ignorance is bliss, so I had purposefully not researched the hysterectomy procedure on Google. There are always a million horror stories and images no one needs to read or see.
So you can image my surprise when I realized, besides the drip, which I could see, I had a catheter as well.
How was I supposed to get to the bathroom with all this paraphernalia?
I made a few futile attempts, but quickly discovered this was never going to work.
Aha… being OCD I had my own sterilizing wipes in the side drawer. Those hospital issue metal drawers are never easy to open or close, but I had just mustered enough strength to manoeuvre the drawer open when a nurse bustled in.
I felt like I had been caught with my hand in the cookie jar.
‘You need to eat something’
Really like right now!
And from behind her, food appeared on a stainless steel tray.
I have never been one to look helpless and usually I would busy myself getting the wheelie table closer, sitting myself up and generally looking interested and capable. But not only was I in pain, but I was now trying to operate with only one hand, while keeping the orange one hidden.
The food was finally placed on the table, I was sitting up, and I felt sure the nurse would leave me in peace to eat.
‘You need to eat, nothing has passed your lips for 12 hours.’
Yes… but do you have to watch me eat!
I nod wanly and taking the spoon in my left hand, begin eating the stewed fruit mush.
Opening a yoghurt with one hand, not so easy.
‘I eat quite slowly, is it okay if you come back a bit later?’
‘We don’t want you moving the food around the plate and not really eating.’
‘Don’t worry, I’m quite hungry, I’ll eat.’ Liar, I hate hospital food and just wanted to rip all the drips and other paraphernalia off, and get the hell out of dodge!
Thankfully the nurse left the ward.
I go back to getting my wipes out the metal drawer. Success. I wipe my finger… orange stain being the operative word! But it’s better than it was and I can now use both hands to….well yes…move the food around the plate.
I made it to the opening game of the Soccer World Cup on that Friday, just 36 hours after my op; and I cheered when Tshabalala scored the first goal. I had survived a big op, with the ability to cum…clitorally… intact. I would tackle the ‘in out getting faster and faster’ part with my partner in a few weeks.
I only wish South Africa had made it out of the group stages of the world cup! That would have been a real bonus.
