On multiple occasions in my life, I have used the phrase "my ovaries exploded" to describe a variation of my emotions, usually positive and usually turned on. I said it when speaking about Nick Carter's hip thrusting at the Backstreet Boy concert. I referenced it again when recounting the night a bartender I was seeing shut down the bar, then turned the music up, slow dancing with me at 4 a.m. while we were the only ones there. I even used it, to Zach's horror, on a day we were both hungover, lying on his floor and the pizza we had ordered earlier finally arrived, spiraling us both into delirious happiness.
On the day my ovaries actually exploded, I was home alone at 7 a.m., crumpled face-first on my hardwood floor, unable to even make a sound because I was in so much pain.
During this experience, I was neither positive, nor turned on.
I would never say I am anti-doctor because that would be stupid and I definitely am not, but I rarely actively choose to go to a medical office when something feels wrong with my body, trusting it to sort itself out eventually. And, it usually does. I have an absurdly high pain tolerance, so when I stress-fractured my leg or twisted my ankle enough I couldn't fit it inside my boot, instead of visiting a medical professional, I iced both those injuries with bags of frozen broccoli, assuming they would be fine in the end. Even five days before my ovaries exploded, I noticed enough pain in my side to mention it to Serria, but when she and her mother (who is a nurse) called me to see if I was going to the hospital, I replied that I was actually at Equinox, exercising my way through the pain.
So, on that Friday morning when I couldn't get off the floor of my kitchen, I knew something was actually very wrong. Years of not visiting the doctor and pretending I am my own licensed medical professional via Googling and WebMD'ing my symptoms had taught me exactly two things:
1. Any symptom ever basically means you are pregnant or have cancer.
2. The appendix is located on the right side of the body.
Through my pain, (in)conveniently located on the lower right side of my stomach, I figured it was extremely unlikely I was either pregnant or had cancer. Not even considering anything could be wrong with my female anatomy, I decided it was much more probably I had appendicitis, something even I recognized had to be dealt with by a doctor right away.
I was unable to walk, so a $12 Uber ride later (the fact I was doubled over in pain, crying and trying not to vomit did not take away from my fury it cost that much to be driven four blocks), I was the first patient at the Upper East Side's City MD. Still in an absurd amount of pain, I gasped out what was wrong with me to a nurse, who then started yelling at me that I "NEEDED TO GO TO THE ER IMMEDIATELY BECAUSE APPENDICITIS IS A BIG DEAL."
The yelling did not make me feel better.
Armed with a piece of paper literally stating I "NEEDED TO GO TO THE ER IMMEDIATELY," I was also given a list of possible emergency rooms on the UES, though I knew without question I'd be going to the one directly across from Zach's apartment.
This is because, for reasoning I still don't quite understand, Zach Groth and I are each other's emergency contacts.
Surprisingly probably no one, we are also terrible at this job. The first time ZG ever needed me in an emergency situation, he'd sliced the tip of his finger off making meatballs. Instead of being helpful, I was drunk on a beach in a different state, causing him to walk around the UES aimlessly until a mom with a toddler noticed him and bandaged him up in the middle of a Duane Reade. Still, despite us being pretty awful in health-related situations, I assumed I would rather choose the ER closest to him in case anything really went wrong.
Now, I've been to the emergency room a handful of times for stupid reasons, like skiing into a pond and breaking my elbow or skidding across a wooden dock with so much force a three-inch splinter was shoved up my heel, but all of those times, I've been there with my mother by my side. It wasn't until after I had called my mom to tell her I was on my way to the ER I realized I was, for the first time, actually going into an emergency situation alone.
Naturally, I began to panic.
Holding my side and limping my way down to 77th Street, I started texting multiple group texts to tell them where I was going. True to their personalities, they all responded accordingly.
Allie, who has known me for the least amount of time, yet clearly knows me well enough to realize I dislike doctor's offices, told me I had to stay in the ER even if I wanted to leave. Chelsea told me she was on her way. Serria asked if I'd told my mom yet while Ashley panicked from miles away in Kansas City.
ZG sent me a photo of the eggs he was making for breakfast.
(In his defense, he never reads the group text and, after he was caught up, offered to come be of assistance, a generous offer because I think he's actually afraid of hospitals).
So, after telling all of the appropriate humans where I was heading, I walked into the ER, noticing that the pain was dulling, but still aware and terrified it would come back in the full force that had knocked me onto the floor that morning. I showed the front desk my forms stating how immediately I needed to be seen because, you know, appendicitis, and was instantly ushered into a room with a new nurse, who took my vitals, then asked me to step on a scale.
Normally, this would not be a problem, but the day my ovaries exploded was only Day 19 of the Whole 30 and you aren't supposed to step on a scale until the very end. The nurses' annoyance at my hesitation was visible and, seeing as we'd only been interacting for less than a minute, I figured it would be fine as long as I didn't look at the number. Apparently with no regard for the Whole 30 rules, she then asked me to read it out loud to her. Frustrated, I looked, but luckily, the number was in kilograms and math conversions are too hard, especially when there's a persisting stabbing feeling in your lower abdomen.
At this point, I was feeling much better than I had just twenty minutes earlier, when I'd been doubled over in the lobby of the City MD. Perhaps sensing the hesitation I was now feeling of actually being in the ER in the first place, a different nurse came over and immediately put a needle in my arm so I would be unable to leave.
Resigned to being stuck in a chair, I started to be treated by a med student who could not have been much older than me. (She confided in me that it was her first week which I found oddly comforting, even though I see now it definitely should have freaked me out). She offered me drugs, which I refused, telling her my pain level was now at a 2 when, earlier, it had been much closer to a 9. Then, she handed me a 40 oz bottle of liquid and said I had to finish it so it would light up my insides for the CAT scan I'd have to take later.
By that time, Chelsea had arrived (she's literally the best human), and, as I looked at the liquid, I told her I was wary about drinking it since it definitely wasn't Whole 30 approved. From the taste, it seemed like it was just Crystal Lite mixed with medicine and contained a lot of sugar.
In nicer words than "You're an idiot, you have to drink it," she told me, "You're an idiot, you have to drink it," and, so, I did. Having Chels there was so helpful and, because I was now in a minimal amount of pain, actually very fun. We were able to catch up (amazingly, despite us spending at least eight hours together at work every day, we always still have things we need to update each other on), and she was able to document the entire experience of me being wheeled around the hospital in a gown on the way to my multiple procedures, which included two ultrasounds and the aforementioned CAT scan.
Friday was lit
For reasons that have not once included me being pregnant, this was my fourth ultrasound experience of 2016, though it was the first one I'd had with a friend in the room, making me very thankful Chelsea had shown up at the hospital and I hadn't had to call in Zach as my emergency contact. (He's a great friend, but I think he would have sooner died than been in that procedure with me).
Really wishing I had thought to wear underwear with more coverage before coming to the hospital, I was then wheeled from the ultrasounds to the CAT scan, a thing I had never done before. My apprehension at actually being in the hospital was evident -- I was now in almost no pain -- but still was unable to leave because, you know, the needle still in my arm.
Also, Chelsea was holding my pants and I'm pretty sure if I had tried to leave, she would've refused to give them back.
So, I went to my CAT scan, an experience I found super cool. Still, my lack of pain was starting to concern me. Despite the very real, immobilizing agony I'd felt in the morning, I was getting worried there was nothing wrong with me and I'd made Chels skip an entire day of work following me in a hospital gown around for nothing.
But, there was something wrong. After I was finally able to put my pants back on, a doctor came over and told me I didn't have appendicitis, but my ovary had exploded. In my mind, he made an explosion sound along with a hand motion, but this could be a false memory altered because, at this point, I was really very hungry considering this whole hospital experience had began well before breakfast and it was now 2:30 p.m.
And, of course, he didn't actually say my ovary had exploded because it hadn't. (That really only happens when Nick Carter hip thrusts on stage). What had actually exploded that morning was an ovarian cyst ON my right ovary, evidently a very large one, so large I was written a note to be excused from all physical activity and work for at least five more days.
When I was diagnosed, I was internally cursing WebMD for not mentioning ovarian cysts when referencing stomach pains, but was also thankful I got to keep my appendix for at least a little while longer. When the discharging nurse, who looked identical to Kurt from Glee and had the same name as my ex-boyfriend, was (finally!) taking the needle out of my arm, I asked him how I was supposed to handle my burst cyst.
The answer to this was "Netflix and Percocet."
After being discharged, I thanked Chelsea profusely, then walked back to my apartment, my hunger so strong I forgot to stop by Duane Reade to pick up the drugs I'd been prescribed. By the time I remembered, my pharmacy had closed and, instead, I laid in bed watching Netflix with a frozen bag of string beans on my right ovary.
Because, really, some things never change.