Physical Therapy

You guys know I am pretty open on here about everything. I mean, I talk about my vagina. All. The. Time.

 

And puking. And having sex. And even peeing myself.

 

But there is one thing I am still pretty hesitant to talk about. And that is pooping and farting. I’m actually blushing just typing those words. I don’t know why I am so weird about that and apparently nothing else. It would make more sense for me to be shy about some of those other things.

 

My sister J loves to talk about those two subjects. And I do for her sake. Pretty much constantly. And it doesn’t embarrass me to do so with her. But with most other people I shy away.

 

So I have been putting off on telling this story for over two years.

 

You guys probably remember me falling down the stairs and hurting my back.

 

Well, the first thing I did. After having an allergic reaction to my steroids and staying the night in the hospital. Was to go see a physical therapist.

 

I had never been to one before and had this idea in my mind of what it would be like. Based 100% on movies. Which are really the best thing to base everything on, right?

 

So, if movies taught me anything it’s that my physical therapist would be a sexy but tough woman who would help me learn to walk again. She would be firm but fair. I would be in intense pain. We would fall in love. Cue to me haltingly taking my first steps into her open arms. End film.

 

Turns out my physical therapist, J, was a very attractive lady. Who was happily married with two kids. Also, she was maybe five feet tall. For those of you that don’t remember, I am six feet one inch.

 

So I meet her and explain about how I hate people touching me. As I do the first time I meet any doctor or person that has to touch me for their job. I like to set the right tone in my relationships.

 

J takes me back to one of the therapy rooms and does an examination of my back and has me bend and stretch and do all sorts of things. Just to see what I’m about. And what I am about is that I do a lot of yoga and she said she was impressed with how flexible I am. For my height (whatever that means).

 

She has me lie down on this little bed that looks like a weightlifter’s bench. And she’s telling me what she wants to do to help me with my back and my pain and all.

 

I’m cool with it. So I tell her to go ahead.

 

She reaches under me and kind of wraps one arm around me in an awkward way. Her hand is directly beneath my spine. My arms are crossed over my chest.

 

With absolutely zero warning, she throws herself down and kind of propels herself onto me. She was like a tiny WWE wrestler trying to take me down.

 

Two things happened at once.

 

She knocked the wind out of me. And…she knocked the wind out of me.

 

I farted. So long and loudly that there could be absolutely no mistaking what had just happened.

 

Despite my extreme mortification, I also immediately started laughing. Because I am an immature child.

 

She was very mature about the whole thing and pretended to not realize what I had just done. So she stood there over me, arms crossed. Patiently waiting for me to stop.

 

But I couldn’t. This was our FIRST meeting. I had known her for all of 10 minutes. This physical therapy was not going as planned. But most things don’t.

 

After a solid 10 minutes of me laughing so hard I couldn’t speak, my eyes filled with tears and my face getting redder and redder. I finally stopped.

 

She had barely cracked a smile. I don’t know how she managed it. But once I finished she just kind of nodded and said “Shall we?” And got back to it.

 

I saw her every week for over a year and she was kind enough to never bring it up. Ever.
And I did my part by making sure that little incident was never repeated. Ever.

Blood and Urine

Whew! I am back and ready to talk more about bodily fluids!

 

You guys may be asking yourself what I have been doing for the past month and a half. Well… I finished my novel. Like, finished finished. I turned 31. I got a new job. I made some jewelry. I found some new blogs to creep on that fill me with feminist rage. In short, I’ve been busy.

 

Incidentally, if anyone wants to read my novel and give me feedback please email me. I would appreciate it.

 

And now, to the story!

 

When I was a kid, I shared a room with my sister J. But when I was even younger, like 7ish, I shared a room with J and my brother T. Actually, J and I shared a bed. And a pillow. That’s right, I did not even have my own pillow.

 

One night while we were sleeping (I always made her sleep on the inside because I am a bit claustrophobic) I had a lovely dream. I dreamt I was on the toilet, urinating.

 

Unfortunately, when I woke up, I found that I had peed the bed. The downside of sharing a bed with someone is that if they pee the bed then you get peed on. And J got peed on. A lot. She still reminds me of it sometimes. I imagine it wasn’t as funny to her as it was to me.

 

We had to change the sheets. And mattress pad. And take a bath. All in the middle of the night.

 

I have not peed the bed, or myself ever since.

 

Until recently. Because I had the Essure procedure last year I have noticed a weakening of my pelvic floor. It is actually very common as women age and especially after giving birth. But mine started a few months after my procedure.

 

Image result for essure springs

The springs all up in my tubes

Basically what happens is that when I have to urinate, it is an emergency. I don’t notice needing to go more frequently, just more urgently.

 

I have had a few close calls where I barely made it to the bathroom on time. And maybe a few times where a few drops came out on the bathroom floor instead of into the toilet bowl. (I know I am coming back strong and with my typical class).

 

Today I was on my period. And for some reason, using my Diva Cup tends to put pressure on my bladder, which does make me have to go more frequently. These two things were the perfect combination for disaster.

 

Image result for diva cup

The cup all up in my vaginal canal

I was sitting on the couch, rewatching Supernatural and minding my own business. I suddenly felt a warm wetness in my underwear. I actually thought my Diva Cup had overflowed and was leaking out into my underwear. It happens sometimes during heavy flow days.

 

I pulled my underwear down to check and saw that I was peeing. I didn’t even feel like I had to go. But there I was, actually peeing myself.

 

I ran to the bathroom. I left a trail of urine like Hansel and Gretel through the forest. Only that wasn’t a trail any woodland creatures would want to follow.

Image result for hansel and gretel breadcrumb trail

Only with urine.

I took a shower and wiped the urine up off my floors. Thankfully they are fake wood and not carpet. I fucking hate carpet, but that is a rant for another time.
Unfortunately,  I had also peed all over my couch. So I cleaned it as best as I could and am now sitting on a towel. Like a sick cat. (Thanks to Debbie for that hilarious phrase.)

Tiger Balm

Back by popular demand, more stories about my privates! Yay! I feel like I will just never run out of stories of terrible things happening to them. So here goes:

 

When I was a child I learned to read at a very young age. Like, before kindergarten. My mother homeschooled my older sisters for a year or two. I don’t really remember why. All homeschoolers are either super hippies or weird religious people. And though my father is a super hippie, my mother was just an average person.

 

At any rate, I had nothing to do during the homeschooling. I was too young for school, too young to be left alone, and we were too poor for daycare. So I spent homeschooling also being homeschooled.

 

My sisters are 8 and 10 years older than myself so I have no idea what they were learning. But I learned the alphabet and then how to read and then how to tell time on an analog clock.

 

Which is amazing because I seem to have de-evolved through sheer laziness and now have to actually pay close attention when reading an analog clock.

 

So I went into kindergarten already knowing all the material. Which made for an extremely boring year of school. Plus, I was an insufferable show off and know it all. As a result, I had exactly one friend.

 

But I didn’t need friends. I had books and my little sister, J, to torment.

 

One day J and I were playing in my parents bed. I was in kindergarten so she was about three. And we were snooping through everything, as children do. When we found a little tub of something.

 

Being older and literate, J asked me what it was. The label was covered in all kinds of funny symbols that I did not recognize. And then I saw the words Tiger Balm. Well, I knew what balm was. It was a salve, like lip balm. It went on your lips.

 

This was still a few years before my chapstick addiction, which I still have today. So I handed the tub to J and told her to put some on her lips.

 

I don’t know if you guys know what Tiger Balm is. It is like an Asian version of Icy Hot or BenGay. It smells terrible (that’s because of the menthol). It is also very strong when applied to sensitive areas, like the lips of a three year old child.

 

I remember her screaming and crying in pain and then, as usual, my mother came in and found us. And I was, once again, in serious trouble for doing something mean to J. But I swear, it was an honest mistake.

 

But that isn’t the end of the story. My privates were involved, remember?

 

So earlier this year, I had a little tub of Tiger Balm that I actually never use because I have very sensitive skin and it is just too strong for me. But I also didn’t want to get rid of it because nothing I do makes any sense.

 

I keep my Diva Cup on the same shelf of my medicine cabinet as the Tiger Balm. When I got my period, I pulled the cup out of it’s adorable little bag, washed it, and then inserted it.

 

It took a few minutes for me to feel anything. But then it started feeling…weird in my vagina. Like not good weird. Bad weird. Although I suppose there is rarely any good weird if it is taking place inside your vagina.

 

And then it started tingling, again, bad tingling. It started burning. I pulled the cup out and smelled it. Yes, it was just in my vagina. I don’t care. I know what my vagina smells like. But I could distinctly smell the Tiger Balm.

 

I remembered the story with J and felt a moment of pity for her. That shit must be really bad on your lips. Because it was really bad on my vagina. Hopefully, she will feel a bit of justice with this story.

 

I limped around in pain for about 30 minutes and cursed myself for being an idiot. No amount of washing helped and I didn’t want to upset anything happening down there (vaginas have their own flora and fauna going on). And after my period was over, I put my cup back in it’s little bag and back in the cabinet.


Now, I’m not a total idiot, I had thrown away the Tiger Balm and washed the shelf where it had been.But I am at least a partial idiot because I didn’t wash the bag. And the following month, when I got my period again? You guessed it. I put the cup in and my vagina started feeling all weird again. And not the good kind of weird.

Shaved

So this one time I was in the hospital, waiting to have a heart surgery. I’m pretty sure it was the first one. To be honest, they start to blend together after enough of them.

 

The reason I think it was the first one is because I was in the hospital for about a month during that first stay. And I wasn’t allowed out of bed, at all, the entire time.

 

Every time I so much as sat up my heart rate would jump to over 180 bpm and all the machines would start beeping in a panic and the nurses would run in, sure that I was dying.

 

This means that I was using a bedpan for a month, which made me feel pretty sexy. Also, I wasn’t allowed to bathe. Or brush my teeth. And no, I wasn’t getting any sponge baths either. I was just marinating in sweat and body odor the whole time. It was gross.

 

I get that when you are on the verge of dying, having fresh breath and clean hair isn’t a priority to the hospital staff. But I felt repulsive. And I had always been obsessively diligent about cleanliness, so it was extremely frustrating. On the plus side, it almost completely broke me of my OCD.

 

But, since I was bedridden and also on loads of blood thinners, I also wasn’t allowed to shave. So, the night before my surgery, a nurse came in to shave my pubes.

 

Being me, I tried to lighten the horrifying situation.

 

I mean, her face was down in my unwashed vaginal area. I’d had a period come and go, and no bathing. I could smell myself from where MY face was.

 

Now that I think about it, I just realized this is where my vagina smell complex started.

 

So, this older lady came in with an electric shaver and I said, “I hear you’re going to give me a trim and a perm.”

 

Nothing. No smile. She barely even acknowledged me.

 

So, I tried again. “Actually, I was hoping you could do something fun down there. Maybe a mohawk or a Charlie Chaplin?”

 

Still no response from her. It’s possible she didn’t speak English. Or that I am completely unfunny.

 

She yanked the covers back, lifted my hospital gown and shaved me totally bald. When I looked down and saw it I said, “Oh, the old Bruce Willis. I dig it.” And then I winked at her.

 

And I need to tell you guys right now, that I have invented my own winky face emoticon. Because when I wink, I don’t smile, like this  😉 . Or grin, like this ;D . I kind of make this face ;V .

 

It’s really awkward.

 

She just kind of rolled her eyes at me and left the the room. Leaving me alone with my newly shaved vulva and insomnia. But that is another story.

 

Waterbed Sex

Growing up, my period was as unpredictable as a wild animal. I could go months without getting it at all. And there were a few times I would get it twice in one month. Usually it would only last a day or two. But every once in a while it would come at me with the fury of a rabid wild creature.

 

Why have I been cursed?!

 

As an adult (and now that I am at a healthy weight) it is extremely regular and mild. Except those rare occasions that it comes at me like a wild rabid creature the way it did this weekend.

 

I was sort of expecting it, but I had no idea when I went to sleep Friday night that I would wake up to a crime scene in my sheets Saturday morning. But I did. And this is why women make good serial killers. We know how to get blood out of anything.

Not shown: cramps

 

But this weekend reminded me of another time I got my period.

 

In high school, I was dating the exchange student. We had only had sex once or twice and I was NOT comfortable with discussing bodily fluids with him (and I never would be).

 

My parents had a California King size waterbed with a massive wooden headboard and canopy awning. This thing was a monstrosity and it took up my parents entire bedroom. We only owned one blanket that fit it. A beautiful green and yellow quilt that had been a wedding present to my parents.

It was like this but bigger.

 

Naturally, G and I decided to have sex on it. I had certainly never had sex on a waterbed before. And I figured my parents’ would be my only chance. Unless I went back in time and slept with a dude from the 80s.

 

G and I started kissing. He was one of the worst kissers I have ever experienced. I’ll gladly take part of the blame since he was the first person I had ever kissed myself; I doubt I was any good either. But one time he burped IN my mouth while we were kissing. It was repulsive.

 

We got naked and had sex. Again, not the worst sex I have ever had. But even I knew this was not good sex and he was the only person I had ever done it with.

The quilt I tried to ruin was pretty similar to this one

 

Sex on a waterbed was also a total pain in the ass. The water makes it own waves that tend to fight against your movements. Plus there was no mattress spring action to help us out.

 

It was like trying to swim against a rip tide in the most unsexy way possible. Maybe that was just me, though. I’d love to hear about someone else having a better experience.

 

It was when he pulled out that we saw it. There was blood everywhere. All over him, all over me. It looked like he had been stabbing me with a knife instead of with his dick.

 

Oh, the horror

 

And there was blood all over my parents’ wedding quilt. I started freaking out when I saw it. My parents were never going to get over this if I couldn’t get the blood out.

 

G got angry with me. “Why didn’t you tell me you were on your period?”

 

“I wasn’t. I mean, I didn’t know I was.”

 

But he didn’t believe me. He thought I had tricked him into having sex with me while I was on my period. Then I got all pissed off because he thought I was lying. Plus I was embarrassed about what had happened. Embarrassed that we were now having a discussion about my period.

 

But let me tell you guys something, I have a rule: If you won’t bang me during my period then you don’t get to bang me at all. If you can’t handle my bodily fluids then perhaps you would be happier with a man.


And it turns out, G was happier with a man. So there you go.

April Search Terms

Guys, I have had a shitty week both emotionally and healthwise. I had really only planned to do one post about my search terms. But I think it is going to turn into a monthly segment. Because this shit is amazing. And reading them made me feel better. And I haven’t written anything because I am working too much this week too.

 

Thank you for the search terms. I love all you weirdos.

 

Nacho Taco Bell- I keep hoping that if I talk about them often enough, they’ll talk back to me.

 

Chest Pain Felt Through the Back- This sounds serious. Probably something for 911 instead of Google.

 

Speculum- Have I ever even talked about speculums? Probably, actually. Knowing me. I always thought they looked like guns.

 

 

 

Pew! Pew!

 

Urination- I bet my mother would be so proud.

 

I got off the toilet and I got back pain- Listen, I may be old and falling apart. But I’m not at the point where I injure myself in bathroom related incidents. Yet. I swear, I really did fall down a flight of stairs. Sober.

 

Sex videos I wanted to fuck the meter reader- Should I be flattered? Concerned? I feel like I am disappointing so many people with the lack of porn on my blog.

 

I like fairies- I think we all do, my friend.

 

Back pain after falling down stairs- There were several variations on this. Story of my life right there.

 

Dogs breath smells rotting potatoes- Lots of things smell like rotting potatoes on the internet, apparently.

 

Sexy math- ALL math is sexy math

 

Cute Billy Boyd- I keep hoping if I talk about him often enough, he’ll talk back to me. Sorry for disappointing whoever was expecting to see some pictures of Billy Boyd. But let me make up for it now.

 

 

 

Sexy neaud (sic) doctor fingering pics- I don’t get the sexy part. Or the horrible spelling part.

 

I watched as my little sister peed in the cup- I think we’ve all been there. Or is that just me and this searcher?

 

I miss my period for a month and when I use the washroom I am passing sherik (sic) of blood sometimes- Once again, probably something for 911 instead of Google. I don’t know how much a sherik is, but it sounds dangerous. And vaguely Middle Eastern.

 

My character crush is fucked up- I am kind of offended this took you here. YOUR crush might be fucked up, but mine is totally normal.

 

How to stick a suppository up my boyfriend’s ass- The same way you’d stick anything else up his ass, it’s pretty self explanatory.

 

Naked woman that’s had heart surgery- Um…I’m not naked. At least as far as you know.

 

Gag sister story- Wow. Yeah. I’ve never gagged my sister. I don’t think I have ever even talked about gags. I mean, till now.

 

Fucking a stuffed animal that came to life- This is possibly illegal and you should take way less drugs before fucking your stuffed animal/actual animal. Or is this an idea for a movie, like that Mannequin movie? Because it is still kind of horrifying.

 

I need to die but can’t- Don’t worry, you will definitely eventually die. Unless you are immortal. Please be immortal.

 

Publix is shit- No it isn’t. You are wrong ma’am or sir. Publix is amazing.

 

Ingering (sic) gives me pain on the hip bone- I keep saying this in a sing song-y voice in my head. I like it. Thank you.

 

Male teenage suppository administration stories- I really feel like this more oddly specific porn searches.


Underwear for hematoma- It would be really cool if they had underwear that looked like you had a hematoma. Right? It’s going on my list of money making schemes.

 

 

Bursting of the dam

I haven’t posted anything about my period or my vagina in a few weeks. But brace yourselves, people. The shame is strong with this one.

My fifth and most recent heart surgery took place just over two years ago. It was noteworthy in several ways. It was my fifth one. I had been chosen to participate in a clinical trial for a new type of catheter that had sense receptors on it. They were going to burn through my right heart atrium and into my left for the first time. And I was in my first few months of a new relationship with A. We all know how that turned out.

It’s not like burning holes in your heart is serious or anything.

My other four surgeries had been some of the worst experiences of my life. This one would turn out to be my worst. Because of the added procedure and the sheer quantity I had had by this point, they stressed very heavily that I could die.

I was at a crossroads. I could take medication that controlled my heart, but the medication was newly approved and there had been no research into the long term side effects. There was an extreme likelihood that I would die from liver failure in about 20 years. When I was 47. And I’d be on very expensive drugs forever. Missing even one dose caused serious heart problems.

Liver, shmiver. Am I right?

I was taking so many drugs that I had to set up multiple alarms set throughout the day. Or I could choose the surgery. It might work. It might kill me. It might not work and I’d still have to take the drugs. I decided that I would rather die sooner than later.

I had been on my period for three other surgeries, and it was no surprise to anyone that I was on it for this one too. As mentioned here, I use the Diva Cup. It is a little tiny silicone plunger that catches everything. It is comfortable and clean and good for your body and the environment. (Still no endorsement forthcoming).

Best thing ever invented for periods besides chocolate.

When I was wheeled into the operating room at 5am, I told the head nurse that I was on my period, I was using the cup, etc. She said she would note my chart and if I was under for more than 8 hours they would remove it for me.

I thanked her and didn’t know anything else for a long time. I came to in the recovery room. I have a post waiting to be written about the recovery room, but let’s just say this: It is the last place I would feel okay for several days. And I wanted to make it last. I spent two hours in there.

But, finally, they had to take me to my room. When I got to my room, my mother and A were anxiously waiting for me. What I didn’t realize was that my surgery had taken 18 hours. Plus 2 hours in recovery. They hadn’t seen me in over 20 hours. They were frazzled. But to me, it was around two hours. That surgery time is lost forever.

However, while they felt fine. Maybe tired and anxious. I wanted to die. I am not joking when I say this. For the 24-48 hours after every single one of my surgeries, I seriously wish I had died during it. It is the most miserable and in pain I have ever been in my life.

After this type of surgery, you are not allowed to move the lower half of your body, at all, for 24 hours. Not even to shift positions to get more comfortable. Whatever position the nurses put you in on your hospital bed is how you stay for the duration. And obviously, you aren’t getting up to urinate. Bed pans all the way. In fact, you can’t even wipe yourself.

This particular surgery is when we found out that not only does morphine do absolutely nothing for my pain, it makes me extremely nauseated. But they couldn’t give me something for my nausea in case I vomited it back up. And they couldn’t give me something for my pain in case I overdosed on morphine plus a second pain-killer.

Also, they apparently thought only drug addicts are immune to morphine. Not so!

Cue 5 hours of intense agony and bawling pain. And a healthy dose of abject, helpless nausea. Finally, when it turned out I wasn’t going to vomit (5 hours later) they gave me something for my nausea.

I was feeling a little better and the pain wasn’t consuming my every thought. I finally thought to ask the nurse where my Diva Cup was. I didn’t feel like I was using a pad, but honestly, I might not have noticed.

The nurses checked my chart and found that the head nurse (despite saying she would) had left no notes. The searched the operating room, nothing. They searched the gurney I had been wheeled in on, nothing. They searched the room, nothing.

There was only one place left to search. My vagina.

The nurse came in and sent my mother and A out. She lifted the sheets and my gown and started probing around in my vagina. It was in there.

I was starting to freak out. For those of you bad at math, this was only supposed to be in for 8 hours tops and we were going on 26. Not to mention the fact that I was on blood thinners and the blood wasn’t going anywhere.

She reached in and tried to pull it out. But she couldn’t figure out how it worked. I tried to explain that you had to fold in the wall to break the seal, but she couldn’t get it. After a few minutes of fumbling around in my vagina, she called in backup.

A second nurse came in and they turned on the brightest overhead light ever. It was like an old timey police interrogation and my vagina was the suspect. They pulled good cop, bad cop on my vagina. But their efforts were a waste of time.

Where were you on the night of December 11, 2010?

They were just tugging on it, trying to yank it out. Not only was I in agony, but it felt like they were jerking on my entrails.

This is something I have done to myself millions of times, but I couldn’t move to get to it without opening my wounds. It was a serious issue because I had lost a lot of blood during the procedure. I had already heard mention of a blood transfusion.

They covered me up and called in my mother and A. They explained the situation and I explained how to get the fucking thing out for the third time. My mother rolled up her sleeves and offered to give it the old college try.

My mother has long fingernails. She reached up there and began probing around. I stared up into the light. Wishing myself into unconsciousness. Or at least hoping to blind myself so that I would never have to make eye contact with her ever again. But she also failed.

Finally, A stepped in. He is a very large guy with big lumberjack hands. He did a few quick warm up stretches and dove in like a pro. At this point, I was beyond pain, beyond embarrassment, beyond any sense of shame. This was the fourth person that had put their hand in my vagina in the past 30 minutes.

He finally realized what the problem was. For all the genius of the Diva Cup, they were meant to be removed while sitting or squatting, not lying down. My pelvic bone was blocking it’s passage. But he was determined to succeed.

He thrust and parried, trying to vanquish this worthy foe that had defeated so many others. Finally, with one great lunge, the cup was pulled out. It was like the demolition of a dam. Everything was now soaked with blood.

Brace yourselves!

They cleaned me up and changed my sheets through a long and arduous process. I was free.

And that is how, less than two days after their initial meeting, my mother and ex boyfriend both fingered me while in the same room together, at the same time.