Had an appointment this morning with my OB-GYN nurse-practitioner. It was just to get my Nexplanon implant put in finally. (First I was on vacation, then they didn’t get their shipment of implants on time, and then I got my period the week of the election, and I didn’t have time to do it that week. So it’s been several months that I’ve been trying to get this done.
The procedure itself went fine. It’s just a shot of lidocaine, and then they stick a little plastic tube under the skin in your arm. I guess some people get squeamish about it, though, because she made a big deal out of, “The lidocaine will sting, but only for a minute.” I stick needles in myself twice a month, and the Humira stings a hell of a lot more than the lidocaine. I had to bite my tongue so I didn’t laugh when she was making a big deal about the lidocaine shot not being a big deal. I also had to try not to laugh when she made sure I understood I could have unpredictable bleeding with Nexplanon. I have unpredictable crapping my pants, which sometimes also involves bleeding. So some random bleeding? Really not a big deal. And there’s a 20% chance this could stop my periods altogether, which would be amazing.
But then she basically had me cornered. She wants me to come back in three months for an exam. “Just an external exam,” she said. (She knows I have sexual abuse issues.) She specifically mentioned a breast exam, an abdominal exam, and looking at my vulva. (“Without touching,” she said.) I get the point, I do. My mother was diagnosed with breast cancer before she turned 50, so I’m at higher risk. I can handle her poking at my belly–god knows my gastroenterologist does that enough already. Maybe I can handle a breast exam, but that’s iffy. But anything involving my pants not being on means MAJOR panic. The only reason I can deal with colonoscopies is that my gastroenterologist knocks me out completely, so I don’t have to be aware of it at all. But I know myself well enough to know that if I’m already there in the office, and she tells/asks me to do something, I’ll let her. I’ll even say it’s okay if she asks, even if it’s really not okay.
Even the conversation was incredibly triggering. I went from talking about Star Trek and knitting patterns to staring at the floor, barely able to speak. Mostly all I could do was nod or shake my head, and what I did say was just one or two word answers. “I guess,” “Okay,” “I don’t know,” “Maybe.” She wanted me to look at her and say I’d come back in three months, and I couldn’t. I couldn’t look at her, but I did say I’d come back. “We can just talk about how the Nexplanon’s working if that’s all you can do,” she said. But they don’t schedule appointments that far out. That was weird to me–I mean, Christ, I’m lucky if I can get an appointment with my gastroenterologist within three months. So that means I have to call and schedule an appointment in March, and I don’t know if I can make myself do that. But now I feel like I have to because I said I would. If they’d just been able to schedule me for an appointment while I was there, it would’ve made it a whole lot easier.
Since then, I can’t really get or stay grounded. It started in her office–my vision started to go weird like it does when I dissociate, where the colors get dimmer, and things blur and start to disappear. I managed to get home–C took me, and apparently I faked it well enough that she couldn’t tell anything was wrong–but since then, I’ve been really messed up and out of it. I keep shaking, and I can’t get warm no matter how high I turn the heat up or how many blankets I hide under. I listened to a guided relaxation recording that helped a little, but I’m still really not okay.
I don’t want to have a body anymore.
Another Hope Entirely 