And the award goes to...

This girl. Remember this post? You know, the one where I refused to go in the bathroom and care for my yomitting husband? Well, I need to hand over my crown and "Best Wife Ever" sash because when the tables turned, I had a cool wash rag and a glass of water. Complete with hair petting and back rubbing.

You may, or may not care to know why I was barfing my poor dehydrated little brains out. Well, it's a bit of a long, female issues, poop and surgery filled story so you might want to abort the mission now or get comfy.



Still there I see. Okay then. You can't say I didn't warn you.

Once upon a time, there was a woman who thought her insides were trying to become her outsides. Figuring she has become a bit of a sissy post-marriage passed it off as bad cramps. It happens, but not usually to the extent of walking around like a 90 year old granny. Even so, I toughed it out. It went away. The villagers rejoiced with glee.

Flash forward to a few months later. The wretched pain returned. Not only did it return, it returned with a vengeance. Operation Make Bernice Beg For A Frying Pan To The Head had begun. I finally gave in and went to see the friendly neighborhood doctor. After an ultrasound in which I literally almost peed my pants and had the single most satisfying pee in my entire life, I was diagnosed with a 5cm ovarian cyst. Hey, this girl don't mess around. I was told to continue taking the low grade pain meds that were prescribed to me and to "wait it out" as they generally resolve on their own.

Flash forward 4 weeks. Pain is now uncontrollable with present prescription, so a new prescription for the big guns was called in. I called the doc back the let her know that things have changed. You know, like she told me to. I reported my pain was constant and nothing I did would make it go away. I convinced her to move up a follow up ultrasound. Low and behold, the little bastard of a cyst doubled in size and was now a full 7cm. I didn't understand how that works out mathematically, but that's what the doc said. After reporting the growth spurt of this little bugger, my doctor decided, on a Friday afternoon, to drop the C word. Oh yes. You know the one. "But don't worry over the weekend. We will get you in for blood tests on Monday." Yeah, okay lady. No problem. I decided not to mention the whole truth to my siblings. There was no need to for more people to freak out. I'm sure after they (meaning my sister) reads this, she might be a little mad but I still think it was a good choice.

Back to the story... Needless to say I lost my dang mind. Visions of sprouting an entire chin full of whiskers and a mad surgeon ripping my entire reproductive system out of my body circulated through my brain. Honestly, all I could think about was, I want a baby.

Monday came and went and the phlebotomist did an awesome job. I tapped my pathologist resources to get the correct read/feel on the blood tests they were running. I also made an appointment with a different surgeon/OB who just happens to be an oncologist and a saint. There was no way my doc nor I wanted her doing the surgery. Let's just say my confidence in her abilities were less than stellar at this point in time.

Flash forward a week or so and I'm sitting in a conference room with JB, surrounded by images of lymph nodes, bisections of abdomens and various other scary items. The doctor was amazing. He was kind, caring and took his time explaining everything. He was very positive but all I heard were hysterectomy, colostomy bag and removing lymph nodes. He was adamant that we would do nothing unless it was a risk to me continuing to breathe. Since JB had to leave town for work that following Monday, the wonderful, kind, awesome surgeon personally cleared his schedule to fit me in the same week, three days later. Feeling slightly better and nervous as hell, we left his office and headed to the pharmacy. For what you ask? GoLytely.

Now I need to digress here for a second. What kind of sick son of a jerkface names a bowel prep GoLytely? I mean, it's all cute and makes you think you wont want to curl up in a ball and die while in the midst of the prep, but they LIE! Don't even get me started on the "crisp lemon flavor."

I prepared myself for the bowel prep with books, a laptop and lots of water and gatorade. The first glass was rough. The second glass got me behind schedule. The third glass set me even further behind. (Puns may or may not be intended.) The fourth glass, well that was just as nasty coming back up as it was going back down. Despite all my preparations, I had neglected to ready the trash can for upper GI violence. My only option was... you guessed it and I can't even bring myself to type it. Needless to say I got up close and personal with my intestines that day. I did some more research and read that if you mixed it with Sprite, it would be that much easier to drink. I phoned JB and requested some Sprite. Ten or so minutes later, he was at the front door.

Of course poor, poor JB was unaware of my plight and his cheerful "Hello, Poopy McPooperpants" as he extended the bottle of Sprite out to me was met by hysterical outburst of "THAT'S NOT FUNNY!" punctuated by tears. It had already been a rough day and it had only begun. After breaking down in hysterics again at the thought of drinking more of this liquid evil, my mom convinced me to call the doc. They suggested I pick up some magnesium citrate to finish off my evening. This is hilarious for two reasons. One, in my present state there was no way I was leaving the house. Second, the thought of expelling anything else out of my body was utterly exhausting. Maybe I'm a wuss, maybe I just don't do well with bowel preps. Who knows. Either way, I was certain this was worse than the surgery would be.

Now, you would think the injustice stops there. Oh no. At 7pm and 9pm you are instructed to take two rounds of antibiotics. This does not bode well for the girl who can't even take Flinstones vitamins on an empty stomach. But being the smart girl I am, I decided that drinking chicken broth with it would constitute as food and therefore no more barfing. Round about 10pm, the tummy burn set it. At 10:30pm, salivation joined the party. I sipped ice cold water, curled up in a ball, laid on my stomach and prayed. It was all in vain. My final sprint to the bathroom resulted in a randy good session of chicken broth barf followed by an overture of dry heaves that would make Jillian Michael's stomach muscles cry uncle. Much to my surprise, there was my night in shining armor wielding a cold wash rag, a cup of water and a hand to rub my back and hold my hair. I mean, after all the last time he was yacking, I just pulled my pillow over my head. That right there is one of the million reasons why I love him. I know every time I talk about him I ramble on and on and go a little Tom Cruise about him but I just can't help it. He loves me enough to not laugh at me as I yell into a toilet bowl. That right there folks is love.

I'm sure now that I've spilled the beans, you want to know the rest of the story. I've obviously spoiled some of the ending since you know that I am alive enough to type out this really long, borderline TMI post. Well, it will just have to wait until tomorrow because I have a turkey to find. Yep, I'm in charge of the bird this year and I have to not only find a 15# turkey, but somehow get it defrosted before Thursday morning.