For some reason, last night was horrible. I kept waking up, after having nightmares and weird dreams and it never seemed to get any closer to morning. I blame the wine I consumed last night at dinner. It can’t have anything to do with the fact that I’m scared…
The worst one was the last one. I went in for a hysteroscopy to remove my adhesions. I had to wait all day in my hospital gown and paper knickers. How dignified. When I was finally called through, I was met by a doctor I hadn’t met before. I hadn’t met the consultant, either. He started going through the consent form with me, and told me they were going to “scrape me with the back of a knife”! I was quite worried, and told him that he couldn’t that it would make the adhesions worse, and that I wouldn’t have the surgery if they insisted on doing that. I then noticed that as he was writing the consent form, he couldn’t even spell “Asherman’s” and so I asked who he was. He was a gynae reg, who was going to be performing the procedure.
I flatly refused to let him do the surgery, and told him to go and fetch the consultant. He said: “But I’m a reg! And I’m the son of a surgeon!”
He stropped off and fetched the consultant, who said “I hear you don’t want the son of a surgeon operating on you?!”
“No. He doesn’t even know what Asherman’s Syndrome is, why would I?” I replied. I then had to explain to the consultant that he should be dividing the adhesions with microscissors only, and without diathermy. He should give me HRT afterwards. I agreed to have the surgery there, as I realised that we had no other choice, nowhere else to go, no “experts” left to see.
Not too hard to work out what that one means, huh?
I have also had recurring dreams over the last few months, that are always the same. In those dreams, I have a little boy, who is about 2 months old, and called Luke (a name I love). I am always breastfeeding him, yet halfway through he stops, looks at me and tells me off. He speaks like an adult, which is really quite freaky to see an adult voice emanating from a baby. He tells me that I’m doing it wrong, or that I’m stupid and not worthy to be his mother.
No real issues with what that’s about either, huh?