So you may not know this, but I recently partook of a series of most unfortunate events.
During a hysterectomy and laparoscopy, ablating my inners of endometriosis, my ureter was severed, unbeknown to any of us. Within a few days it did become rather known to me. While I had been discharged from hospital, the doctor was standing in because my doctor was away, I was actually not in a very good shape. I assumed this was simply how one felt after a hysterectomy, after all, it’s not every day one has one’s hysteria surgically removed – for the record, I feel no less hysterical now than I did before – and perhaps, unlike my little sister who went home two nights after her surgery to four children, two of which were under the age of three, I was simply a weakling. That night I did think I was dying, I vomited and agonised all night and was back at the doctor’s door in the morning. My fine upbringing and good manners led me to believe it was not necessary to rouse anyone from their sleep or inconvenience anyone into believing this might actually be an emergency. Alas, an emergency it was. But to my rescue came my kind gynaecologist and a noble knight in the form of a dapper urologist. It was no one’s fault, the urologist confirmed that he searched for that little ureter for over half an hour and then gave up the simpler stent option and chopped me right open. At this point our other knight, the kindest anaesthetist in the world, sent my husband a text message to tell him that conservative measures were of no use and they would soldier forth into major surgery. This in the dead of night. But with two knights, so it was a lot less daunting than it might sound. It all ended well, my kidney and I were saved, hooray and I live to tell the tale. Let it be a lesson for all those little ureters out there that a laparoscopy is no time to be playing hide and seek, for it may find itself well and truly cauterised. Ah what a drama. And a close shave. Good health is not a given. Deo Gratias.