Medevac

Soon after we got back to Brazil from R&R, I began having medical problems. I won't go into detail, because, you know, it's gross and whatnot, but I did see some doctors in Brasilia.  They had all kinds of opinions, ranging from "nothing is wrong with you" to "this is what's wrong with you, even though NONE of the symptoms match the diagnosis" (side note: hospital emergency room floors in Brasilia are cleaned by dumping a dirty bucket of water on the floor and squeegeeing the waste out the front entrance of the hospital).  Before long, I was in enough pain that I really didn't leave my bed for several weeks and it was decided by my team (which consists of Mitch, the embassy health unit, the state department, and myself) that I would fly home to the US for some of their fancy 'merican doctorin'. 

The problem with a medevac is that you lose your medical clearance and may not return to post until it's reinstated, so I had to plan to be gone a long time from my family.  This is another one of those instances where this lifestyle really just sucks. However, I knew I couldn't spend the rest of my life in bed, because there aren't enough reruns of 90210 in portuguese for that. So, I got to work in the kitchen, making three weeks worth of freezer meals for my people to eat in my absence.  I chose to fly home to Spokane, rather than the medevac point of Miami, and am so glad I did.  My amazing family has been taking good care of me. Also, it's pumpkin latte season here in America, so double win. I just hope I'm not still around for eggnog latte season.

At my first appointment, the doc knew right away what the problem was (and no, it wasn't what the Brazilian doctors thought), and by some amazing stroke of luck, he had a surgical cancellation for the next day.  I will confess that I laid my sob story on pretty thick so I could get home quickly--four hungry children, overworked husband, terrorists at the door, etc.  But hey, whatever works, no?  So, I had a complete hysterectomy this week at the tender young age of 29 (my story, my fabrications, so shut it).   Everything went well, and the doc's diagnosis was spot on.  Now it's just a waiting game while I recover and can go back to Brazil and my babies.  To reward myself for partnering with my crappy uterus for so long, I got a fab new purse.  Kind of like a fine leather replacement uterus which accessorizes better than the old one.

My narcotic-influenced sense of humor is typically horrible.  Every time a new doctor or nurse explains things to me since the hysterectomy, I adopt a solemn expression, lower my voice, and say, "but I'll still be able to have children, right?"  The look on their faces makes me laugh and laugh. Which hurts.

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