No more babies

Back in February I asked my GP for referral for a sterilisation. I saw the consultant last Monday to confirm that I fully understood what was involved in the process and the fact that it was a permanent, non-reversible contraception etc etc. I was offered a newer, non-surgical procedure called Essure®, which basically involves inserting two small coils into the falopian tubes via the vagina, which cause scar tissue to form blocking off the tubes and preventing sperm from reaching an egg.

I agreed to the procedure, signed a consent form and was told I’d hear shortly for an appointment date. I went home expecting to be waiting for another few months. I mean, the NHS is brilliant but for elective procedures and non-urgent care it can be (rightly) slow.

Not so much… within two hours of getting home I was called by someone from the hospital to advise that a cancellation had been made, and could I make it in the following Tuesday (29th March). Holy shit batman. (Talking of which, the new Batman vs Superman? Pants.)

On Monday night, I lay in bed and had a little cry as I thought about what this procedure meant: no more growing babies in my tummy. No more breastfeeding cuddles. No more snuggling tiny humans to sleep by my side. But what reassured me about this little release was that I didn’t feel regret, or like I was having a last minute change of heart, but simply coming to terms with experiences I’ve been lucky enough to have and realising that although beautiful and life-changing and fulfilling, I am done.

No more babies.

I Feel Old

I’ve spent that much time in and out of doctors and hospitals recently, I feel like I should be cashing in a pension.

I had to see a dermatologist type doc a fortnight ago for The Suspicious Boob Mole. It’s no longer suspicious, mind you, as it’s completely harmless.

Then Tuesday this week I had the follow-up appointment with the cock of a surgeon who told me I’d have to stop breastfeeding Isabel after I had the problems with my gallbladder/jaundice last year. I want to say “haha, fuck you, I was right and you were wrong”, but felt that might have been petty.

Anyway, turns out I still have a bunch of stones in my gallbladder and they want to take it out to sell on ebay. This of course meant we had to get in to the whole “I’m actually still breastfeeding” conversation, which was fun. Anyway, long story short, I will probably be booked in around the end of Nov/beginning of Dec for the op. Isabel will be 2 by then, so even if we assume she’s still feeding, she should (hopefully) be more than content to go without overnight. If not, Karl is going to have to grow some “bubba”s…