The Captain is away on business. This means I have extra time at night, because I am not engaged in the sexy sex. That's why I can blog. Unfortunately, it also means I have to deal with all the children alone, which is why this post is so late. But it will be a fairly short one, because it is the medical update.
IT'S MY GALLBLADDER.
I felt like I should let you all know, because I've held you hostage through this journey. I got the results back from the HIDA scan on Friday, and my gallbladder is only excreting at 26%. The gastro guy said when the percentage is less than 35% they recommend surgery to remove that sad sack. He makes no guarantee that my symptoms will disappear, because they can never be completely certain it's all the gallbladder's fault. However, it appears I am a classic gallbladder disease candidate, as described here:
Gender. In medical school, the "five F's" help doctors to remember the usual patient with gallbladder disease: "fair, fat, forty, fertile, and female." Sexist as it sounds, it describes the group most frequently affected by gallbladder disease: overweight middle-aged white women with a history of several pregnancies. Excess estrogen may be implicated, since hormone replacement after menopause increases the likelihood of stones.
Well, we all know I'm fertile. I am also fair, and could be considered overweight, or at least fat-laden. I make no pretense that I am eating anything resembling a healthy diet, and I'm sure that has something to do with my attacks. But I also think the gallbladder, like me, might just be tired. We've been working hard these past few years, and I'm certain many of my body parts would like to shuffle off to Buffalo. Or Miami.
I pitched the idea of decommissioning my uterus to my gynecologist. There is no other part of me more deserving of a champagne toast and caviar dreams. I thought we should relieve Ms. Stretch Armstrong of her monthly commitments, and let the fundus go have some real fun. But the doc wouldn't sign off on it. Something about being thrust into menopause, blah blah blah.
Well, on Thursday I'm going to talk to a surgeon who is more than willing to divest me of my pear-shaped bile repository. I did read some articles about how changing my diet could prevent surgery, but I think that ship has sailed. I honestly believe the gallbladder started failing after I had Boy Three, which is when I first experienced real pain. I think thirteen years is a good run for a hobbled organ.
I'll let you know when I'm going under the knife, or the laser, as the case may be. I hope it's soon, because I would like to feel better for One's graduation, and be at my peak Bettiness for the RWA convention. I'm relieved to have an answer. Now, on to the it's-not-my-heart pain. Aren't you just on the edge of your seat?