Broken.

One of the things that really sticks with me about Charlie's birth is how intense my labor was. It seemed, after a certain point, that the only way I could get relief was to grab Bryan's hand and have him push against me as hard as he could while I was bearing down.
When the anesthesiologist came into the room I had to sit up and put my legs over the side of the bed. As I was doing this I thought to myself, "There is NO WAY that I will be able to sit through these contractions while he inserts that needle into my back. I'm not going to be able to do this." I kept telling the anesthesiologist to, "Wait! Wait!" during several intense contractions, and I pushed so hard I thought I would split in two. That was the only way I was able to stand the pain.
I think I have a prolapsed uterus. Actually, I don't think it. I'm pretty damn sure of it. Bryan is going to call tomorrow to see if I can be seen by some nicer doctors than the one that delivered Charlotte, but I'm really really scared.
Nothing is ever wrong with me. My body is amazing and resilient and I've taken it for granted that there would never be any problems. I'm scared about the possibility of a hysterectomy. I'm scared that some dumb doctor is going to tell me that they have to remove my uterus, just to bill Medi-Cal $7,000. I'm scared I'm going to have to have surgery. I'm scared that I won't be able to have any more babies. Even though Bryan and I have considered that Charlie might be our last child, I don't want the option taken away from me; I don't know if I can handle it.
So, tomorrow we're making the appointment, and I'm going to find out for sure what's going on with my broken body, and try to fix it. I'm prepared for the worst, but I'm hoping for the best.
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