Iron Woman

Did I tell you I have low iron?

Actually low isn't exactly the right word. It's almost nonexistent. Like, it's supposed to be above 20 and mine, at the lowest, was 6.

And turns out that's kinda bad. 

My rheumatologist discovered it first, about a year ago after some routine bloodwork, when I got a panicked call from a frantic nurse who wanted me to drive myself directly to the ER for an immediate blood transfusion. 

I was actually in the car at the time, but I said no thanks.

That's crazy.

"Aren't you tired?" they asked about the main symptom of low iron. "Ummm, show me someone who isn't tired and I'll show you someone who isn't trying," I said. But regardless, this quickly lead me on a journey of iron infusions -- 11 total -- where you sit and read or listen to music or a podcast or watch Netflix or do work to distract you. 

I tried all of that, and guess what? 

Drip. Drip. Drip.

Nothing really distracts you from the giant, dark red bag of iron and other fluids that hang over your head (both figuratively and literally) and slooowly empty into your veins, a drop at a time over two hours.  Mine also took place at the local cancer center, in a giant room for 30+ mostly elderly people all hooked up to something horrible, which added an extra layer of sadness to the whole experience.

Through this past year, my new hematologist (aka blood expert) was remarkably uncurious about what was actually causing this deficiency.  But me, being uncomfortable with my deficiencies of any kind, started digging around and realized the origins were related to my increasingly intense periods, which ripped through ultra tampons and fat pads like they were a piece of toilet tissue stuck to a shaving nick.

TMI? Then you're not gonna like this...

It was the Niagara Falls of Blood meets Sunday Bloody Sunday, except it was every day, for weeks at a time. Only mortally wounded animals on the side of the highway bled more.

So I'm sure you see where this is going. The bloody iron was flowing in and then right back out.  Like a bucket with a big red hole in the bottom.

Charming.

When my last iron level came back lower than when I started, I'd had enough of this bullshit.  A friend at work connected me to an internist, who sent me to a gynecologist, and after a couple exams, a highly invasive ultrasound where the technician should have bought me dinner first, and an extremely painful biopsy that felt like a drill bit went up my hoo-hah, I had a diagnosis. 

Uterine fibroids. Loads of 'em. 

Plus a pretty big cyst, roughly the size of a golf ball. (Fore!) And they all bled whenever the mood struck. Which was... 

All. The. Time.

I was pissed at my dusty old uterus, but I actually really liked this gyno until she told me the next stop was Surgery Town. 

Wait, WHAT? Who, ME? Nooooo!

Yes. 

Somehow I made it 49 years without having ANY surgery, except that rotten root canal, which I don't think counts. This made me a giant fraidy cat and a bundle of overwhelming anxiety that would churn every day like dirty waves on the Hudson.

So my brother jumped on a jet plane to help out with my parents and drive me to this dreaded appointment. Turns out I needed a hysteroscopy, a myomectomy, a cystoscopy, a D&C and some other freakish shit I can't remember. At least I would get to go home afterwards -- so long as I didn't lose too much blood.

I got typed just in case and let's just say I always knew I was an A+ student (haha it's in the DNA!).

We showed up yesterday and met a series of helpful and skilled strangers. My blood pressure was bonkers off the charts, even after 2 doses of something to "take the edge off," and by the time they wheeled me in, I was literally shaking. The fact that the anesthesiologist warned that getting my TEETH knocked out was a risk of a surgery in my UTERUS certainly didn't help.

Spoiler alert: I still have all my teeth. 

And I have no more fibroids, cysts, polyps or other generally unwelcome growths down under. And they examined all that goop and decided it was benign. 

Praise Jesus! 

Although, I do feel like someone took gritty sandpaper and a BBQ brush and gave my lady parts a good scrubbing inside and out. I think my first words when I woke up was that I felt like a scooped-out bagel, but I don't think anyone got the reference.

We're not in Pine Brook -- or NYC -- anymore.

Anyway, twenty-four hours later, sitting up is still pretty uncomfortable but laying back is alright. I think. Good thing because I need to stay pretty horizontal throughout the weekend and probably into next week. 

All of the Ologists agree, I should rest.

I'm told that I have the ovaries of a 30 year old, the stretchy uterus of someone who's had multiple children, and that my periods will be "pristine" moving forward. 

Let's hope at least one of these things is true... wish me luck.