With the results of our first technicolor ultrasound in our favor, life was good. We could get on with our lives. Just one more pesky follow-up exam with the lab, and I would be done.
That follow-up appointment was scheduled roughly six weeks later. Hubbie and I went with a clear conscience. There was no reason to believe that things would be very different.
But they were.
The cysts had grown. A lot.
Within a few days, my OB got in touch with me after reviewing the results. It seems that between her measurements from the initial ultrasound and the two colorful scans my cysts were getting bigger.
They were doubling in size. Every six weeks.
Double. The. Size.
Surgery was the recommendation. About six weeks from our conversation. She had a time booked for me, if I wanted it.
Of course I wanted it, didn't I?
It was to be an out-patient procedure. Most surgeries of this kind take about twenty minutes, give or take. A laparoscopy to peek in, snip out the cysts, a few stitches and I'd be good as new. Depending on how I felt after the anesthesia, I could absolutely spend the night if I liked. Most women didn't, I was told.
I booked it for August.
I met with the surgeon. The physical therapist. Got a tour of the Women's Ward.
The morning of my surgery arrived. I had never been in a hospital for anything, and here I was in another country about to get filleted. Everyone was very kind. They even spoke to me in English as they helped me up off the gurney and walked with me into the operating theatre.
Their protocol was stellar. They asked me to read my name off of my armband. They asked me what kind of surgery I was having. They explained where they would be cutting and how the surgery would proceed. Did I have any questions?
Long, deep breaths into the mask.
I woke up. Three hours later.
Thursday, September 11, 2008