out of cervix

It’s been said that to be successful in life, you must learn something new each day. If this is truly the case, then yesterday I was SUPER SUCCESSFUL at life because I learned not one but several very important things:

  • That thing where people faint at the sight of needles or blood is called a Vasovagal Syncope (which is also the name of my Gogol Bordello cover band)
  • It can also be caused by a traumatic experience
  • .. like getting DONKEY PUNCHED IN THE CERVIX

My Mirena 2.0 officially expired in February. I took my sweet ass-time getting a replacement for it, but everything came to a head yesterday afternoon during the Swappening: the removal of 2.0, and insertion of 3.0.

I was already not looking forward to it, because I remember how much it hurt during the previous Swappening. Still, the very real dangers of unscheduled sperm showers haunted my every step, and I felt it was probably time to put on my big girl pants and just get it done already. After all, it’s been over five years. Surely it wasn’t as bad as I remembered it!

Yeah, no, it was SO MUCH WORSE.

I was given the option to allow a medical student doing her rounds to be present during the swap. I said yes, because it wouldn’t be the first time my vagina would be on display for rotating groups of strangers. They then asked if I minded if she did the first part of the procedure, to which I also said yes – I was half naked, in stirrups, and as compromised as I could get on a random Tuesday afternoon, so why the hell not. This may have been a mistake, as her snazzy white lab coat belied her level of experience: she was pretty green. Greener than I was about to be. Her bedside manner was quasi-soothing, but her actions were jerky which is never an adjective you want used when someone is all up in your business with clamps and industrial lubricant. There were issues locating my cervix, long pauses for explanations, and several comments about the weather as I just sort of laid there with my nethers flapping in the wind.

Then everything went sort of grey and soggy.

Apparently I am triggered by my cervix being manhandled, and I went into a classic vasovagal reaction: my pulse dropped like a hammer, I broke out into a full-body sweat, and things got real tinny and bright for a good long time. My doctor actually stopped the procedure when he noticed sweat pouring from my shins (did you know shins could sweat) and attempted to bring my pulse back up. This apparently was the best possible time for the student doctor to pipe up and say “okay, so I’m gonna take off now, bye”, and she left. Okay then. I’m sorry my troublesome vagina was not interesting enough for you to stay through the entire procedure, but you do you (and half of me).

The medical assistant came in to take her place, and I sort of pathetically asked her to fetch Ed for me (since this was all his fault, what with the penis and all) but he wasn’t in the lobby – he had gone out Harry Pottering. I endured an eternity of being asked to scooch in various directions while barely hovering on this side of consciousness before grabbing my phone (and dropping it on my face) to text Ed to get his ass back in the office. He eventually arrived to crack some jokes while I asked my doctor to just ignore my plummeting blood pressure and shove that thing all up in there already so I could go home and die in the dignity of my own home. The IUD was inserted, I almost fainted several more times, and then I got to listen to a monologue about what to expect with the Mirena and what could go wrong in the next 24 hours when all I desperately wanted was to recover some of my shame and lost fluids and leave this fluorescent hellscape for good.

Then I came home and slept for approximately one million years. I am now awake, full of cramps and baby-preventing hormones, and still feeling quite woozy about the whole thing. If I stop too long to think about it, I start to get really faint and spinny again. I’m told I’ve got another day of this, then things should mellow out in my uterus considerably.

F——, would not vasovagal again.


it looks like you are trying to avoid procreation! do you need assistance?

this is a throw down a hoedown

Timehop has reminded me that I utterly failed the prime directive: I was never supposed to replace my hardware; I was supposed to demand a traditional tying of the tubes. When I first got the WSD in 2008, I was evidently still way too young and immature to say I didn’t want children, and clearly couldn’t be trusted to make such a monumental decision on own. I reluctantly agreed to having a tiny sperm warrior shoved all up into my nethers, and hoped that by the time five years in the future rolled around, I’d be able to find a doctor who would take me at face value.

Then I forgot all about it, and I completely forgot to bring it up at any of the four appointments with three providers I had leading up to last Thursday’s cervixical (a word now) hoedown.

I thought about this a bit yesterday morning, and I think I know the problem (beyond my not bringing it up; that one is entirely on me): all the doctors I’ve seen ARE taking me at face value, and that face is not of a woman dangerously close to 40.

Science <tm>has irrevocably proven that three things are true:

  • Fat don’t crack
  • Black don’t crack
  • Asian women look 30 until they’re 60

Any one of these traits is powerful enough by itself, but I’ve got two of them working in my favour: I’m fat AND Asian, and also don’t look or act my age. This is less a humblebrag than it is fact sharing, but it’s not just my glowing youthfulness throwing a wrench into my uterus: I have the wardrobe and makeup counter of a spoiled tween. Every once in a while (but not often enough), I get kind of embarrassed for myself and think that maybe I should trade my awesome, ridiculous, rainbow-filled and nerd-happy wardrobe in for some twinsets and pearls, but that makes me sad. Same for replacing my glittery neon makeup with matte neutrals and mini-dresses with pantsuits and mom jeans: probably should; don’t wanna.

I need to start prefacing all my Important Decision doctor appointments with my age: don’t let the glitter and Dalek dress fool you; I’m almost 40 and therefore hopefully running out of time to “change my mind someday” about wanting children. I will not change my mind when I am older: I AM older. I don’t know if science has pushed back menopause while they expanded the baby window, but if I’m still in danger of getting knocked up by the time this hardware expires/I decide I want it out, I am going to be really pissed.

I do enjoy that my age is somewhat of a mystery, though. Earlier this week I made a Cheers reference at work (because what else can you do when presented with a guy named Norm), to which my boss replied he didn’t think I was old enough to know of the show. Cheers ran from 1982 to 1993, and while it’s flattering to imagine otherwise, there’s no way I look that young. I’m an ambiguous 30 at best. Also, I’m very likely older than my boss (which actually makes me look REALLY bad, given the tumulticity (also a word now) of the last 8 months).  Oops.

I do wish this headache would go away, though.

thrills! chills!

Yesterday was both bouncy-squee-exciting, and curl-up-in-a-ball-because-I-think-I-may-be-dying painful.

First, the Thrills (not the purple soap gum): a few weeks ago, Ed and I came to a handshake agreement on three weeks in London this June. It was a fair compromise – I had wanted four weeks, but Ed wanted two – and we shook on it (after which I posted a Facebook update so it would be down in e-stone). Since the agreement (and spurred to action by an overlapping vacation request at work), I’ve been researching madly to find the best possible time/place/price .. and yesterday morning, I bought our plane tickets. We’re going to London in June for my birthday. Is it too early to start packing?

The Chills came in the afternoon at my appointment to have my hardware upgraded. I tried to prepare myself as best I could, but no one is ever really prepared to have a wheel jack crammed into your fun hole (twice, as the doctor had to go find a longer speculum to deal with my wandering cervix), cranked open, then a handful of lit fireworks shoved inside. The removal of the IUD 1.0 was unpleasant. The cleaning of my wonder box was very unpleasant. For some reason, a drying was needed: this was horribly unpleasant. Then came the applicator, which was terrible, and finally the main horrible terrible very bad no good hideously unpleasant main event, the IUD 2.0 itself. This time I knew well enough to NOT try and get up immediately after the construction crew left the site, but that didn’t stop my body from trying to reject everything ever and freaking the fuck out in pain and anger. There was much shaking, and my whole body broke out into an ocean of sweat – ever have your kneecaps start leaking? It’s weird. And damp. The doctor let me sit in a heap for a few minutes while the room spun around me, and I think I tweeted some inappropriate things before Find My Friends told me Ed was close enough for me to leave the doctor’s office. He took me home and took excellent care of me while I cursed everything around me, and the rest of the evening passed in a sticky, painful blur.

It’s all worth it, though. I’m now prepared to fight off the inevitable waves of sperm that come my way, and can resume living my secret life as a hentai revision of Elizabeth Báthory. Refreshing! 

(ewwwwwwwww I grossed myself out)

the future of healthcare

GUYS the most awesome thing just happened!

I’m three days away from being completely out of crazy pills, and I am far, far too lazy to go to the doctor to get a new prescription. I know it’s my health and putting on clothes is really a small price to pay for some of that sweet sweet Canadian health care, but it is seriously a huge pain in the ass to get done – an hour+ out of my workday, a random doctor who doesn’t really care (“are you sure you’re not just depressed because you’re fat?”), having to convince someone new each time that I’m not six years old and can handle more than thirty days of medication at a time, and so on and so forth. I’ll gladly (well, maybe not gladly but you get the point) go see a clinic doctor if something else is wrong – say, I’ve grown a third head or my kidneys fell out – but the amount of hassle for a routine prescription really gets my goat.

SO! Instead of promising myself I’d go to the clinic tomorrow or maybe Friday but FOR SURE before I completely ran out of meds, I decided to give Medeo a try. Medeo is an online health care system that allows you to see a licensed BC doctor right from your computer or smartphone, and it is completely awesome. I signed in today for an appointment, and was immediately talking with a super-helpful receptionist. She took some information from me then booked me in for an appointment: in 20 minutes I could talk to a doctor, and all I had to do was keep the window open. I was able to keep working (aka sending dirty tweets and arranging a trip to Seattle) while waiting to see the doctor instead of idly leafing through outdated fashion magazines and glaring at the clock; a pleasant change.

My appointment time came and I checked in, spoke briefly with the receptionist again, and was talking to a doctor a minute later. I had already provided my BC Care Card number and preferred pharmacy, so after chatting for a few minutes the doctor filled my prescription and sent it right over to the pharmacy – I can pick up my meds later today. The doctor also offered to help me find a regular family doctor, and when I told her about my current IUD issues, referred me to a local doctor on Broadway and Cambie who is “the best IUD insertion specialist in all of BC”. Both the receptionist and doctor I spoke with today were crazy awesome, and I couldn’t be happier with the speed and service and amazing convenience of Medeo. Seriously, if you’re in BC, give it a try*. So cool.

Oh! And I just checked my Medeo account, and the doctor’s notes are already there complete with my prescription, where it was sent and when I can get it, the info on getting a regular doctor, and the IUD Expert’s contact information. This is amazing! I am pleased! And so should you all be pleased, as this means I will continue taking my crazy pills and therefore not go on any kind of rampage anytime soon!

*: Obviously using Medeo is for things that don’t require a physical examination – otherwise I would have taken care of my IUD issue right then and there – so please approach with common sense. Don’t use Medeo if you’re currently on fire or bleeding heavily from the eyes or you’ve fallen and can’t get up. DO use Medeo if you need a prescription or you have a non-life-threatening medical concern or you’d like to have some tests done (seriously, they can email you the test form and you print it out and go to the lab for various fluid work or exams). Check the website if you’re not sure, or call 911 if you’re on fire. Don’t just go on Twitter. I learned that lesson the hard way.

tick tick tick boom

Five years ago today (and many more times since then but I’m only speaking to this particular instance), I was on my back with my legs in the air while a stranger fiddled around with my insides; preparing my womb for the installation of a time-sensitive Doomsday Device: the Mirena IUD. This Weapon of Sperm Destruction has been quietly working away all up in my business, blasting foolhardy sperm into oblivion and protecting my carefree, pointless existence from the ongoing threat of responsibility and purpose. Go ahead and splash my cervix with the most potent of your man juices: I laugh at your ejaculate! I sneer at your seminal fluid! Your mightiest warriors of procreation are no match for the chemical wasteland that is my uterus; all spermatozoa look on my works, be mighty, and despair!

Unfortunately, all wonderful things must come to an end: the Mirena has a 5-year lifecycle, and as of an hour or so ago, I am in immediate danger of pregnancy. Even as I type this, I am calmly dodging a steady stream of sperm coming from all directions, trying to take advantage of my vulnerable state. The joke’s on them, though: while the Mirena has a recommended lifespan of 5 years, it apparently will work just fine for up to seven years. I did a bunch of panicked research this morning when I realized my blinking red palm flower was about to go solid black; fully anticipating some sort of explosion followed by a swarm of babies, but .. nothing. I am safe.

You’ll never convince ME that having a foreign hostile object all up in my quivering velvet is a bad idea. IUD? More like IUDeeeeelightful!

Thanks, I’ll be here all week.