Back (look I did a pun or is it a double entendre?)

Soo….. I am back.

Like, really back. For real.

I know what many of you are thinking. And frankly, you’re all a bunch of pervs.

But seriously.

Something pretty bad happened and it’s taken me a while to feel capable of being funny about it. But I think I’m there now. Lucky for all of you.

I am sure you all remember that time I fell down a flight of stairs and hurt my back. If not, feel free to read about it here.

So, I recently had to get a new MRI. My back pain has been getting worse. And my doctor wanted to see where we were. I mean, I knew where I was. In lots of pain.

When the results came back my doctor sat me down for a serious talk. My disc is herniated and pressing on a nerve that goes into my groin. So she asked me, “Are you having any issues with incontinence?”

Now, you guys all know that I totally am. *cough cough* Here.

But like any responsible adult, I lied my ass off to my doctor.

She explained to me that incontinence is a sign of serious nerve damage. And that if I am experiencing it then I would need to see a neurosurgeon about getting back surgery.

Nothing like being threatened with surgery to get the truth out of me. So I told her I was having issues. Needless to say, my doctor was not pleased. Hell, I wasn’t pleased.

She also told me that my vertebrae were also pressing on my spinal cord (called spinal stenosis and is a result of the disc herniation). And that, untreated, it could cause me to become paralyzed.

And some combination of those three things are causing my constant back pain.

I’m not sure what my response was at that point. I believe I may have bragged about winning the genetic lottery. I know it isn’t fair to rub that in people’s faces but I really am a sore winner. And then I got the hell out of her office so she couldn’t see me cry. 

She referred me to a pain management doctor to see about getting shots in my back for the pain. And she referred me to a neurosurgeon to see about getting back surgery.

I left her office and cried for basically the entire day. I also texted a bunch of my friends some whiny self-pitying bullshit. Sorry, friends!

But then I started joking about trading in my body for a robot body. Like, a sexy lady robot with 8 foot long legs and laser gun arms. And I had to admit, that was pretty cool. But unlikely.

More likely was that I would be paralyzed and get a wheelchair. So I started thinking about that instead. But my wheelchair was going to be bitchin’. I wanted like, a glow in the dark human skeleton frame. And I would knit and embroider all the panels and spokes. And maybe carve some Enochian spells from Supernatural into it.

That wheelchair would be cool as fuck.

That night I lie in bed and thought. It’s not like back surgery would be worse than five heart surgeries. It’s not like being paralyzed would be the worst thing to ever happen to me. Not even death was scary to me. I had already made my peace with it years ago.

So what was the big deal?

Turns out nothing. I waited for my doctor’s appointments and tried to pretend like I was fine. Not facing the reality of my life is a finely honed skill. And I am on some expert wizard level at that.

But, I found out this week that my neurosurgeon wants to wait on back surgery. My pain management doctor wants to put some needles into my spine (which sounds metal as all hell).

And now I am just waiting to make sure I’m not allergic to the drugs I’ll get pumped full of. Which would be my luck.

In reality, nothing much has changed. My back doesn’t hurt worse now that I have names for my problems. And I’ve been making a lot of pretty dark jokes to everyone about it.

So I am back!

And I decided to dye my hair grey to match my tired, shitty, old person body. That story will be next!

That “V” Word

I can’t believe how long it has been since I have written a post about my vagina. Not to worry, I am not out of vagina stories. Here’s one now:


You guys may recall that I had my Essure procedure done last May. That was a crazy hectic time in my life that involved court hearings and being homeless for 4 months (which is another story I haven’t told but will get to eventually).

Two of these are in my Fallopian tubes.

Basically, the one thing I really needed was some time off (and a place to live and money and not having a shitty abusive ex stalking me). I went to my boss. He only vaguely knew any of the anything that was happening in my life.


I mentioned that I was having the Essure procedure and would need a few days off for recovery. His response was that I was going to regret it. And that if I didn’t want to have kids then I just shouldn’t have sex. Like, ever, I guess.

Sperms on billboards. Sexy stuff.

Naturally we agreed to disagree and he said I could have the time off. Like I said, I tend to not get too involved with personal discussions.


A few days before the procedure I went into his office. We were discussing some sensitive work related things, so I closed the door to his office. Per my usual.


Once we had wrapped up the work talk I reminded him that I would be out the following week for my procedure.


I should remind you all that I am the only woman at my office. And everyone tends to tiptoe around me depending on the subject matter. Especially ‘gross lady body things.’ Because women’s bodies are apparently repulsive to some men.

My boss had forgotten I was going to be out so he entered in my vacation time. And then he asked the question:


“So, where do they go in for this procedure?”


I looked at him for a few beats. I was really confused. I said “Um…Well… my vagina?” I didn’t know how else to say it.


My boss freaked out when I said vagina. He began stuttering. “Oh! I am so sorry! I didn’t mean… I just thought..”


So then I asked the natural question. “Where did you think they went in?”


“I don’t know. Your neck?” He had his hands up as if to ward off the dreaded ‘v word.’


Now I was even more confused. “My neck? How could they go in through my neck? I know you know how female anatomy works. You have a wife and four daughters.”

“Tee of Life” shirt. This is what happens when you look up necks and vaginas. How weird am I for kind of wanting this?

He jumped up out of his chair. “I forgot you were having this surgery. I thought it was for your shoulder or something.”


“Well, it isn’t.  It’s for my vagina.” I couldn’t believe how many times I was saying vagina to my boss.


And neither could he. He practically ran to open his door so we weren’t alone, with the door shut, talking about my vagina.


He then told me, “Please get out of my office. I can’t even look at you right now. You could have said it was personal or something.”


“It isn’t personal. Half the population of the world has a vagina. I’m not embarrassed of it. You asked a question and I answered it.”


“Please don’t in the future.”


I left his office and went into mine. I didn’t even bother to close the door before I laughed and laughed until I couldn’t breathe and my stomach hurt. Sorry to all the men out there that can’t handle vaginas.


We have to see your penises all the time. And see commercials on TV with our parents for drugs to help you guys get erections. And get unwanted dick pics. And see teenage boys draw penises on EVERYTHING. And you can’t handle me saying the word vagina.


Except this. I found this at a local bar and whoever drew it needs to come forward so I can buy them a fucking drink.

A few minutes later I was telling this story to another co-worker so we could laugh about it when my boss walked up. He put his hand over his eyes so he didn’t have to look at me.

Mustn’t make eye contact with vagina woman!

“You know,” I said. “I used the medical term for that body part. And I almost didn’t. I don’t know what the issue is here. It would be like me saying my phalanges or my gluteus maximus. It’s work appropriate.”


I still stand by that. I only told a few work people about this story. People that can handle knowing that I actually have a vagina.

We still bring it up to my boss sometimes to make fun of him. And whenever I tell him I have a doctor’s appointment for any reason, he stops me from giving him any details about it. He apparently doesn’t want to hear about my vagina as much as you guys do.


After this post, I figured I may as well bite the bullet and finish what I started. So, here you go, the next humiliating thing that happened on that hospital stay.

Two days after the fingering incident, the hospital and my doctor were interested in releasing me to go home and recover in the comfort of my own bed. Where the TV  isn’t censored. It’s a religious hospital and I can only go so long without seeing adult language, adult content, and nudity.

Displaying 20130613_033839.jpg

I took this beauty from the same chain of hospitals. I wish I had taken a picture of the 20 foot tall mosaic at my hospital. I may go back and get one. It’s worth it.

Some of you may not know this, but you aren’t allowed to leave the hospital after a surgery until you have a *ahem* bowel movement. (I won’t be offended if you choose to skip this post and move on to the next one).

The problem was that I was not having one. Between the reaction to the morphine, the physical pain, the emotional humiliation, the medicines, and the terrible cardiac ward food, nothing was forthcoming.

Every time the nurse came in she would check the toilet to see if I had had one. Because in the hospital you are not a trustworthy adult. You are a petulant child that must shit into a pan to get released.

Another day went by. Waiting to be released from the hospital is exactly how I imagine hell to be (if it existed). You are in serious pain. They wake you up every few hours all day and night to poke you with needles and press on your wounds painfully so you never get a goddamn minute of sleep. They humiliate you. There is no much bullshit and red tape. And then, you can’t leave. Ever!

Finally the nurse came in to talk to me directly. This was the same one from the fingering story and she had been avoiding me in an obvious and humorous way. She told me that it had been 4 days with no movements and it might be a good idea to take a suppository.

I didn’t know what she meant by a suppository, I mean, I knew what one was. But I thought that’s how you gave pills to horses and how teenagers get really fucked up on ecstasy.

Fun fact: A suppository can be administered not just up the anus but also in the vagina or the urethra for men. You’re welcome.

For my five male readers; there you go, gentleman.

But she was talking about giving me some kind of stool softener suppository to help me “go” so I could get the hell out of the hospital. I really really did not want to do this. But I wanted to go home more.

She got me the suppository. It was huge! Which I guess makes sense because it’s not like I was trying to swallow it.

Like a fucking missile!

I went into the bathroom. Remember the whole serious agony/heart surgery thing? Yeah, there was no way I could contort myself to get this pill in my own ass. I could still barely bend at my hip bones.

I’m glad I got to use this picture.

I called the nurse back and told her the situation. The look on her face was one I will treasure for many long years to come. I swear to you, I could read her mind at that exact moment. And she was thinking “Seriously, bitch? I already had to root around in your nasty vagina. Now I have to put my hand up your ass? Fuck this job.”

But instead she tried to convince me that I really could do it if I just tried harder. And I assured her that there was no fucking way I could bend like that without re-opening my wounds.

I did not feel the slightest bit bad for her. This was her job. And if anyone was going to be embarrassed it was me. And I had instead chosen to find it all very hilarious. But that may have been the drugs I was on.

At this point, A stepped in. He offered to do it.

I tried to talk him out of it, mostly to fuck with the nurse. But he was very insistent on putting that suppository in my ass (you men, so obsessed with anal).

So we went back into the bathroom and he assisted me. I assume nobody wants the gory details of this, it was pretty straightforward anyway.  I have never taken anything for constipation before or since. But I can say it definitely works as intended. I was released later that day.

Of course, I developed a huge hematoma and had to go back in to the hospital almost immediately, but that is a story for another day.


Trigger warning: This post discusses abuse and rape.

After my minor medical procedure, C, her husband and I had no time for lunch. It was court time. We stopped on the way and J got me an Arizona  tea and a Reese’s stick. He knows what I like. Unfortunately, my body wasn’t having it that day.

We drove to the courthouse and I changed from my pajamas into a sheath dress. I’m glad I chose a dress, I don’t think I could have managed buttons.

It’s hard to write about this without feeling like I am plagiarizing. The talented and hilarious Aussa wrote a much better post regarding all this here. Feel free to read that instead of, or in addition to, this post.

I was already feeling sick. I hadn’t seen A since our incident. I had moved out in a panic the next day while he was at work. I do wish I had been able to see his face when he got home from work and everything I owned was just… gone.

The injunction had taken me seven hours to complete. A lot had happened in our two years together. The people at the courthouse had to sit me down and talk me into it. It was a bad relationship, but I didn’t want to ruin his life. I still felt bad for filing against him. I only wanted to feel safe.

And I was afraid. Afraid the judge wouldn’t believe me. Afraid that since I didn’t leave him that time he pushed me, or the first time he sexually abused me, or the first time he intimidated or manipulated me, or the first time he told me I was crazy and stupid and worthless, that I deserved what I got. Afraid his lies would be more believable than my truths.

We walked up to the metal detector. I had my stainless steel water bottle. They asked me to drink from it, in case it was acid that I was going to throw on someone. I somehow still managed to make a joke; “What if I had wanted to drink acid today? Then the joke would have really been on you guys.” I don’t know what I was thinking. I blame the drugs.

I was nervous. My stomach hurt. I couldn’t tell if I felt so shitty from the procedure or from worrying. I scanned the parking lot, trying to see his car. The car I had given him.

The elevator doors opened and I checked to make sure he wasn’t on it before getting on. We got to our floor and all I could do was sit, staring out the window, waiting to see him. Wanting to get it over with and wanting him to not show up at the same time.

I started feeling really sick. C took me into the bathroom where I vomited back up my candy bar. I started crying. I wasn’t sure I could do this. I was freaking out. My heart was pounding which was upsetting me even more. Was I having a panic attack? Was I having a stress reaction? Was I having another heart episode that would mean more surgeries? I was a mess.

I was on hyper alert. We walked out into the waiting area and he came in. I had never seen him dressed up. He was in a full suit. He was with a woman I had never seen before. I assumed she was his lawyer. I didn’t have one. Turns out, neither did he. We never figured out who she was. Probably a new girlfriend.

We went into the courtroom. I never looked directly at him, but I knew exactly where he was the entire time. My body stiffened when he scratched his nose, or turned towards me, or shifted his position. At one point C went to the bathroom and he got up and left the room as well. I freaked out and insisted J go out there with her.

After four hours of waiting on a hard wooden bench, C finally asked the bailiff if I could go next due to my medical procedure that morning. I was in agony. The bailiff looked shocked we had waited so long.

We were called up. The judge could not even finish reading my injunction before I was bawling. I answered her questions as best I could. He had written a point by point response to all ten pages of everything I had said.

He offered up several gems during our brief hearing. Things so awful that his defense made even the judge, stenographers, and other petitioners audibly gasp.(He really should have gotten a lawyer). Things like how pushing someone isn’t abuse. And neither is calling them names. And how I only took his rape threats as a threat because I was conceited and thought everyone wanted to rape me. (That last one brought the gasps).

At one point I was crying so hard, C handed the bailiff a cloth handkerchief from my purse (that’s right, I’m classy as fuck). So I could at least blow my nose.

The judge was fair. I had no proof of my allegations. I had stupidly deleted many of his texts (lesson learned). But he was ordered to never contact me again via any means at all for any reason. And was ordered to not contact anyone in my family either.

We walked out of the courtroom, they let me leave first, I guess so he didn’t try to murder me in the parking lot. The bailiff leaned over and told me that they were going to hold him for a long time, so I would have extra time to leave.

In the elevator I turned to my two friends. They were looking at me with concern. I smiled and said “I’m so conceited; always thinking everyone is trying to rape me!” They laughed.

And I had assumed he would not contact me. A restraining order would mean he would lose his job and never get another one in his line of work. But he apparently cared more about harassing me than having a job.

He continued to email me. He didn’t think I had “the right” to end our relationship without his permission.

And I had to go back to court and do it all over again. Four more times. And each time I got that same apprehension walking through the parking lot. Looking over my shoulder, wondering where he was. Feeling sick, wondering if the judge would believe me. Wondering if he was going to show up. Wondering if he was going to show up with a gun. But he never did.

There is no resolution to this story. He was never served the second set of papers. The police department doesn’t know where he is. He hasn’t contacted me in six months.

I’m sorry this post wasn’t funnier. This is the most anxious I have ever felt about sharing something I’ve written. Let us never speak of it again.