Megan Stielstra's Blog

On Thursday I had a cyst removed from my left ovary. I had it done at Prentice Women’s Hospital, the same place Caleb was born, located smackdab in the middle of Gold Coast—next door to the Museum of Contemporary Art and one block West of Michigan Avenue (which, in case you’re not from Chicago, means the busiest shopping district in the Midwest). There’s street construction going on right now (when is there not?) and as we sat there stuck bumper to bumper, I gave a quick prayer of thanks that I started labor at night—no traffic, no construction—because the idea of waiting that long to clear an intersection WHILE GIVING BIRTH made me want to die.

I wasn’t allowed to eat or drink anything after midnight the night before, because—as it was explained—my body needed to be TOTALLY clear of fluids (my doctor said the word TOTALLY in all caps, so she must’ve been serious). So by the time I got to the hospital at eleven a.m. I was so parched it was like I’d crossed the Sahara instead of Lakeshore Drive, not to mention I wanted to eat my own arm. This is not just me being dramatic: when you’re breastfeeding, you eat and drink like every hour, so I was all sorts of loopy and lightheaded. Anyhow, I get to pre-op, fill out paperwork, and then ask for the bathroom ‘cause I want to TOTALLY clear myself out, right? After that, I’m led to a prep room—where you put on the backless robe—and this very nice volunteer named Lois comes in with a little plastic cup and tells me the nurse needs a sample. And I’m like, “I can’t. I just went,” and she says, “They just need a little bit,” and I’m like, “But there ISN’T a little bit.. I JUST WENT,” and she says, “Just a few drops, honey. You can manage a few drops, right?” and I’m like I COULD’VE MANAGED IT BEFORE I TOTALLY CLEARED MYSELF OUT AND DON’T BE CONDESCEDING TO A GIRL ABOUT TO GET HOLES CUT IN HER MIDSECTION except I didn’t say that aloud ‘cause I wasn’t wearing pants. Which makes one vulnerable.

What followed was ten ridiculous minutes in the bathroom trying to conjure up something out of nothing, while Christopher got out his laptop and commenced to live-Twitter the whole experience, much to my amusement, because the time goes by MUCH faster when you’re saying WHAT ARE YOU WRITING??? every five seconds as opposed to lying on a gurney and imagining what’s about to happen to your insides. You need things to take your mind off it all. What happened next was all these anesthesiologists started coming in, not knowing there’d just been a different one in to see me, and they all asked me scripted questions, not knowing a different one had just asked these same questions—what diseases are in the family? are you allergic to anything? you’ll feel a tug and a burn when I put in this IV, that’s an interesting tattoo, what does it mean? While all this was happening, my doctor drew circles on my stomach in purple magic marker and a nurse came in to test my (measly little drop of) pee: “You’re not pregnant!” she announced.

“Thank GOD!” said Christopher.

Everyone looked at him. Then they looked at me.

“Is there a chance you COULD be pregnant?” they asked.

I wanted to tell them that a pee test isn’t altogether accurate. Last May I found out I was pregnant by doing a home pregnancy test (three home pregnancy tests, actually. I am nothing if not thorough) in the public restroom at The Uncommon Ground. Then I met my friend Jeff for lunch and drank like ten bottles of Pellegrino, and THEN I went to the doctor for confirmation. “You’re not pregnant,” she told me, after I peed in the cup. I showed her the three plastic sticks with the pink plus signs. “How about that,” she said, and did a blood test, which verified A. the pregnancy and B. that I’d drank so much fizzy water there wasn’t any pee left in my pee.

“No, I couldn’t be pregnant,” I told the anesthesiologists. “I just WAS pregnant. Now I have a baby. He’s at home playing video games with his godfather.”

“Are you breastfeeding?” they asked.

I felt silly from whatever they were putting in the IV. “Yes,” I said, giggling. Heeheehee BOOBS.

”Mama’s gonna have a little moonshine in her milk tonight!” one of them said, and Christopher and I about died laughing. In retrospect, Christopher was probably laughing at ME laughing at this guy, because I was, just then, laughing at everything, including my doctor explaining the procedure again: how she might have to take out an ovary, how things could go wrong, here, sign this form confirming that I’d been told things could go wrong. “The surgery will take two hours,” she said. “Afterwards, you can go home once you walk across your post-op room and go to the bathroom—” I laughed again. All this going to the bathroom! “—which usually takes four hours.”

“What I’m giving you now will feel like five martinis,” the anesthesiologist said.

“I already feel like five martinis!” I said.

Then I passed out, which I know because next I woke up. My first thought: I don’t want to be here anymore. So I got up, walked across the room and went to the bathroom.

“Well,” said the recovery nurse. “That was fast!”

“Can I see my husband?” I asked.

“I’ll get him.”

“Thank you,” I said. “And can you get me some crackers, too? I might be throwing up soon.”

Christopher came in and gave me graham crackers and juice and Norco. He explained that I still had both ovaries, that my doctor had shown him pictures of my middle and it had all the appropriate parts. I remember being relieved relieved relieved, and fuzzy fuzzy; that we got home an hour later and my friend Amanda was there watching Caleb and cooking risotto; that good friends are the most important things to have for a day like that; that when I’d left Caleb that morning (with Jeff—he and Amanda tag-teamed the baby just like they tag-team me) I’d felt really emotional, not that I was scared anything bad would happen to me but having surgery is a scary thing, period, nevermind when there’s this little person needing me to wake up the next morning and feed him and love him and teach him that life tests us sometimes, to make us stronger, and his mom had just aced one with flying colors.

And a lot of Norco.