"O, that this too, too solid flesh would melt..."

Saturday: my cyst came back, bigger and more uncomfortable than before.

Sunday: I call the doctor and make an appointment for Monday. Last time I waited two months to be treated; this one is getting too painful to ignore.

Monday: 4 uncomfortable hours in class, followed by a referral to the hospital. After an attempt to page the staff gynecologist, I am sent home with a prescription for antibiotics and sitz baths. I read the first chunk of the new Harry Potter book.

Tuesday: Painful 6 hours of class, mitigated slightly by slouching waaaaay back and essentially sitting on the small of my back. Difficulties sleeping. A lot more time on my back, continuing Harry Potter.

Wednesday: I am up a great deal of the night with pain, despite a Tylenol PM. I call my instructor and tell him I won't be in class; I can barely stand the 20-minute drive to the hospital let alone 2 hours on the GO train and 5 hours of class. I wear a cool black skirt and my "I mate then kill" t-shirt so that they can examine me without the need for a hospital johnny. I arrive at 8 a.m. I finish the new Harry Potter book at 9:30. It is 10 o'clock before I am examined; I can't sit so I lie down. A gynecologist is paged. 2 hours later, in lieu of instructions, I go eat lunch so I can take the penicillin prescribed on Monday. At 2:30 I see a gynecologist. He recommends surgery and is dismayed when I tell him that I have eaten in the last 8 hours. I burst into tears, frustrated beyond belief. My dad walks in and comforts me. They start an IV drip and I'm told to take off all my clothes. I wait all day for an opening in the surgery schedule. They find a bed for me and the Boy comes to sit with me for a few hours. I am out of books and too afraid of the IV in my hand to knit. My mom brings a fashion magazine and cracks a few jokes. I really enjoy her visit. The Boy goes home and calls with some information; I call my group and my professor to tell them I won't be in on Thursday. I read the fashion magazine in the failing light. They give me a shot of morphine that does little to relieve the pain (although it does make me sleepy). I fall asleep.

I wake up in the middle of the night, the pain raging through me. This is very, very bad; worse than anything since labour. I ring the nurse for another shot; she checks my bp and goes away. I get the shot. The pain--unbelievably--gets worse. I am holding my breath unconsciously; I have to force myself to breathe. Tears trickle down my face. I try not to sob and wake up the woman in the next bed. Finally I can't bear it; I ring the nurse and ask for a compress. She brings me a warm blanket instead. I roll over on my back and, noticing that my hand will close around a pen, decide to knit to take my mind off the pain. 6 stitches later, I feel the wetness.

It burst. It started to drain on its own.

I rang the nurse a third time (testing her patience severely) and asked for a pad. The horrible pain was ebbing. By the time I woke up at 8 the next morning the pain was gone, the swelling was gone, I itched all over from the morphine and I was dripping with the foulest-smelling liquid I have ever encountered. And it was glorious. The gynecologist was dismayed to hear that the problem had fixed itself and sent me home with gloomy predictions of re-occurance.

You wouldn't believe how happy I am to sit without pain. And eating again... If sex was always as good as that first mouthful of buttered toast, I'd ne'er put my pants on again.

Anyway, more on the hospital experience when I've had a chance to sleep off all the morphine.

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- Rocketbride's adventure of 7/21/2005 09:42:00 p.m.