Ovary Gate '08

Okay, so remember, a week ago today, when I was going on and on about how that Tuesday was far less painful than the others, and I was feeling good about myself, and how I was starting menopause in a week and everything would be all fabulous?

I spoke far too soon. The irony.

So here's what happened:

Around 4:30pm on Tuesday (while I still have an hour and a half of work left), I start to feel nervous. I'm suddenly in a lot of pain, it's suddenly hard to walk, and it takes me like 2 hours to waddle down to the bathroom because I really had to pee. (I know you were dying to know that.) Now, I've been in some pain recently, but nothing like this, so alarm bells start going off. I don't want to freak out yet though, or freak my boss out, so I wait it out and see if it goes away.

It doesn't. By 5pm I realize "oh shit, another cyst is totally rupturing in my abdomen," and I gmail message Erin, who replies with "HOLY SHIT CHELSEA!" and proceeds to leave work and come pick me up. I waddle to my boss' office and try, as calmly as I can, to explain that I'm about to keel over, so I'm going to the hospital, but don't worry, I'm fine.

Dramatic Reenactment

This is while I'm making really awkward, unattractive faces (have you ever seen me cry? or wince? good LORD ), I'm pale as a ghost, and clinging to the door frame. My boss freaks, but I manage to calm him down, and then proceed to beat my head off my desk as I wait for Erin.

Erin arrives (I'm so proud of her for remembering my building) and whisks me off to the hospital in a speeding cab. Although we were halted through two entire green lights because Cheney's motorcade was going by, which only further proves that Dick Cheney is the antichrist.

Such a Dick

After Cheney was finally done being a priss and holding up traffic, the cabbie whisked us to the ER entrance of - drumroll please - The George Washington University Hospital. What I love so much about my former school's hospital is that it has such an amazing reputation; presidents, high ranking political officers, foreign heads of state, all are taken to GW Hospital - hell, even Regan was there, after being shot. It's the place to go, they say.

Unless you're not a rich politician. Then you're treated to the most horrifically pathetic, deprived, unfriendly doctors in the entire world. For the second time, I spent like 9 hours in the hallway, but this time I was not on drugs, and I was pissed as hell. I spent most of the time arguing with the doctors, who wanted to give me more painkillers (even when I refused after the initial morphine-esque drug, as I get horrifically hungover about 10 seconds after taking them) and telling a male doctor just what I thought of him.

For the record, male doctors: if a woman has an ovarian cyst rupture, she is not up and mobile as soon as it's done rupturing. Even if you think she's capable of putting on some sneakers and running a marathon, you are wrong. And I was serious about kicking you in the balls repeatedly, and then seeing how well you could walk. I know where you live.

Also for the record: creepy, creepy intern, an internal gynecological exam is not a porno. I know my fruit basket is the most amazing thing in the world, and I know you want to worship it, but stop getting that scary pedophile look in your eyes when you watch doctors give the exams. You were lucky the scalpels were out of my reach.

Tomayto, Tomahto

On the other hand, I was lucky enough to have been given the chance to watch a live reenactment of those "Don't Do Drugs!" videos from DARE classes. My cot/stretcher/rolly bed was conveniently placed right outside one of the emergency care rooms, and I was eye-level with the window. Inside, someone initially was unresponsive and out cold. He'd taken a LOT of drugs, and was found face down at a bus stop (after dramatically declaring he was going to jump off a bridge.)

Well, that blissfully unconscious state didn't last for long. Now, you may be wondering "what did he take?" According to the doctors? GHB. Yep, the date rape drug. When they first said it was in his blood, I stupidly wondered if someone had slipped it to him, but apparently people take it on a recreational basis. Why is entirely beyond me, especially after watching the aftermath.

He woke up and promptly began screaming and throwing himself around, which was part sad, part funny, considering he was restrained to the bed and could only swing himself repeatedly into the metal bars along the bed's edge. That was fun for awhile, mostly because it took my mind somewhat off the horrific pain in my stomach.

Of course then GHB guy started projectile vomiting. It was so gross, but so impressive. I mean, this guy had skills - I've never seen someone project so much, so far, without even trying. I couldn't entirely be angry for the smell and the ruckus it caused. For a few moments, at least.

10 hours, a battery of tests, and a lot of threatening on my part later, Erin and I were free to limp out of the hospital and attempt hailing a cab at 4am on a Tuesday (well, technically Wednesday.) AWESOME. In case you were wondering, there were no cabs, so we were out there for awhile.

I spent the next week on bed rest, while my dad came down and assumed a Mrs. Doubtfire-esque role, spending his days grocery shopping, Blockbuster hunting, and booze procuring, as any good father would. I was well fed and sufficiently liquored up, and yet I still developed an unhealthy case of Rear Window Cabin Fever.

I see what you did right there, neighbor across the street

Unfortunately (or perhaps fortunately) I did not have access to a telescope, so I had to settle for peering awkwardly out the window, and hoping that the people on the street didn't notice me (since I'm on a lower floor, and people are always looking in my window, and everything.) Besides going to the dermatologist to have a freckle removed (which was blissfully, mercilessly painless and took about 2.5 seconds) and attempting a trip to Erin's to watch the Pats crush Jacksonville (which ended very painfully - well, for me and the Jaguars, at least) I spent almost an entire week cooped up inside.

After that mind numbing week, in which I didn't get much better, my primary doctor thought it'd be a good idea to come back to Boston for more rest and an evaluation. So, I'm home, and blissfully mooching off my parents for a few days. I plan on flying back to DC on Sunday, and attempting work on Monday. Um.

Yes, I said flying

Also, I'm not on menopause yet, because my insurance is a giant piece of crap. It's supposed to be a good insurance, but it doesn't cover the lupron, which is ridiculous. A LOT of women are on it, and a TON of men are on it - it's actually used in prostate cancer cases (which boggles my mind, since it medically induces menopause in women) and it's an in demand drug. And without insurance covering it, just how much is my three month dose?

$1700. Yep.

So my doctor is calling their medical exception line and ripping them a new one, which should go over well because she's small and feisty and I have all the faith in the world in her. So hopefully I'll go back on menopause this week, and I'll be good as new in a few days.

In the meantime, I'm staying healthy by having no appetite (which is awesome cause now I'm finally back down to 125), taking unhealthy amounts of ibuprofen and advil, and steadfastly staying away from the temptations of GHB. You never know.

Your Survival Technique of the Day:
How to Survive an Ovarian Cyst Rupturing

Step 1: If you're a man, breathe a sigh of relief. I'm not sure if you're aware, but you don't have ovaries or a uterus, so you're spared.

Step 2: Breathe. Calm yourself down, and figure out a quick and efficient way to the hospital. Preferably take a path that doesn't intersect the path of a motorcade. They take their sweet ass time, and they have, like, 40 cars in their entourage.

Step 3: Find a suitable hospital. Which means don't go to GW Hospital.

Step 4: TAKE THE DRUGS. Ask for extra, extra doses of anti-nausea medication.

Step 5: Pass out/Ask for a medically induced coma/Ask someone to knock you out. Since the drugs will make you sick, and the doctors earned their degrees playing Operation.




For Your Time: The caption on an NBC News segment about OJ Simpson being held in Vegas for his supposed role in an armed robbery was just called: "Squeezing the Juice." Awesome.