Attacked By My Sheets: The Bri Wareham Story

     The last two weeks have really put the F-U in fun. At very least, they’ve accentuated them.

    To put it politely, I am in pain. I’m not getting any writing done, or anything done, really. That would require being able to think past the pain and the ability to physically move about and do things like a normal person. I’ve been doing things, just really stupid ones. Because I’m not thinking clearly, it’s a toss-up as to what weird thing I’ll do each day, but there’s always at least one. Doing simple things like vacuuming my floor has become a Sisyphean task.

    I saw my doctor again last Thursday. I need to have surgery to remove the endometriosis, which I expected. The nurse I had in office was great. She told me the tale of her endometriosis whoas and how that word is a swear word, only to be spoken by those who are particularly dazzled by the concept of passing into the afterlife forthwith. I tend to agree.

    Though my doctor does surgery, she feels that I need a specialist to do the surgery this time based on the amount of pain I’m in. The pain feels worse this time than it did before my hysterectomy, but I can’t tell if it actually is or if it’s an illusion since the first time I dealt with it the pain came on gradually. I had time to adjust as it worsened. This time it just showed up with all its suitcases, moved right in and refused to leave like that one family member no one likes. It didn’t give me any warning or time to acclimate to its rudeness.

    When she told me what hospital the doctor worked out of, I was unfamiliar with it. I called to make an appointment only to find the hospital is an hour and a half away, right smack dab in the middle of the city with no way to avoid construction. Not to be persnickety doodle doo, but if I wanted to go to the city, I wouldn’t have made an appointment at a hospital based office ten minutes from my house. There are six hospitals within a half an hour of me that do surgeries. This is an absolute no for me.

    I am in too much pain to drive very far at all. I do not have people who can take days off work to cart me around like Miss Daisy. This is going to take at least four appointments and I’m not here for it. First, I have to meet the doctor. Then, I have to get cleared for surgery. There’s the surgery itself, which I’ll obviously have to have a ride for, and the follow up after. Expecting someone who needs surgery to make four, hour and a half trips one way - three hours round trip - is not in my wheelhouse.

    Having not had to go to a specialist for the hysterectomy, I’m not sure what kind of specialist she’s sending me to. When I Google the referred doctor, it tells me she’s just a gynecologist, like the doctor I already have. I’ve called the office and let them know that an hour and a half drive is not feasible and I need to get in with a doctor who works out of one of the six hospitals in our area. I don’t think that’s asking too much. Hopefully I’ll hear back tomorrow and she can suggest someone, or at least tell me exactly what kind of doctor she’s trying to send me to so I can look for someone myself.

    I’m sure all of this is going to push the surgery back further and I’m ready to rip my insides out. Technically, nobody told me I couldn’t, but I guess it’s highly frowned upon. I have other medical issues and this has my whole system thrown for a loop. As it stands now, I made the appointment with the specialist she recommended just in case, but they can’t even fit me in for an initial meeting until the middle of October. I’m hoping she can help me get in somewhere closer with someone who can do this sooner. If I am unable to function properly and continue to unspool slowly, leaving a trace of stupidity in my wake, I may very well be what brings the world to an end on my misadventures.

    For added fun, the ER gave me pain meds, but I will run out long before the surgery. My gyne can’t give pain meds, which is fine. She keeps suggesting that I take NSAIDS. The problem? I have ulcerative colitis. I cannot take them regularly, and I’m not supposed to be taking them at all. They rip my whole digestive system up. It looks like I’m going to have an abnormal amount of visits to the ER just to get pain meds until I can have surgery.

    Unfortunately, though endometriosis is well known and diagnosed by now, this is very, very common with endometriosis patients. Gynecologists don’t usually prescribe painkillers, and even my doctor’s own office told me to go back to the ER if I needed them. I was fortunate enough to not have to do this the first time, but I don’t think that will be the case this time. I do not want to be known as the woman who goes to the ER for painkillers.

    Because my pelvic area is so badly swollen, I had to go buy going out pants, staying in pants and pajama pants two sizes too big for me and elastic or smocked waistbands only, so they’re not cutting into my pelvic area and causing more pain. I did find myself a really nice pair of white pants that strongly lend to the elderly, rich, eccentric lady on a yacht who would never be caught dead in these pants after labor day vibes. I’m not even forty, but I feel quite fancy.

    To add to the llama drama of the week, my fitted sheet had a closed door meeting with itself wherein it decided it would be really fun for the elastic to wear out. Since I sleep in an adjustable bed half sitting up, I now have the pleasure of being smacked by my sheets in the middle of the night and had to get another set. I can’t be too mad. I got these sheets on sale at JCPenney in 2004, so really, I got a bargain. Nevertheless, it’s not stopping me from wanting to write a movie for Lifetime entitled Attacked By My Sheets: The Bri Wareham Story. I will market it as a half haunting, half crime film with an ambiguous ending.

    Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must go assist a fly who isn’t long for this world. I don’t know how it got in my room. I don’t know who invited it, because it wasn’t me, but it will not leave me alone and the lady simply had enough.