Sunday, July 1st. It's a beautiful day. We're out on our boat, anchored in one of the lovely, lonely sloughs of the Mississippi River. It's afternoon, and we are lazing about in the master stateroom, recommitting ourselves to our marriage. Geronimo is curled up on Dayton's pillow snoring away, ignoring our sighs of pleasure.
But then pleasure turns to pain, and the cramp has me in its grip. I roll away and curl up in anguish. "What's wrong?" he asks, and I gasp, "just a cramp, would you bring me an Advil?" 10 minutes later, I feel fine.
Sunday, July 8, one week later. Again it's afternoon, and we're still on the boat. It's a hot, steamy day. I'm feeling guilty - it's my Mom's birthday, and I really should drive to her house and take her out for dinner. But she's three hours away, and she was here with us for the mid-week holiday celebration, and I'm tired. And again we slide into bed for that lovely Sunday cuddle.
And the cramp returns. This time he fetches the Advil without request, and as I gulp some water, he says, "maybe you should see a doctor."
Yeah, I agree. Something's wrong. But I hate doctors, avoid them at all costs. I'm young - 47 is still young. And I'm healthy and strong. It's probably just gas.
Monday, July 9. We're home, and the cramp is back. No lovemaking today to trigger it, just a trip to the bathroom, and I'm doubled over. What is this, I wonder? Is it menopause coming in like a March lion? I do some google searching, and learn that pre-menopausal women are subject to gas. Great, I'll just cut back on starchy foods and that will be fine.
Tuesday, July 10. Cramp. Cramp. Luckily not during my afternoon show.
Wednesday, July 11. Cramp. Cramp. Cramp. Luckily not during my morning show - I got up extra early to avoid them, since they like to attack during that first bathroom visit.
Thursday, July 12. Dayton leaves at 7 am for business meetings and the boat. He gives me a quick kiss, not noticing how hard I'm gripping the kitchen counter. I can hardly say goodbye, the cramp is so severe. It has to go away, I'm supposed to drive to St. Louis today for the National Storytelling Conference. I'm supposed to help my friend Linda set up for her Fringe show tonight. I'm supposed to wear my sparkly red shirt help pour the wine.
Instead, by 10:00 I'm on the phone, looking for a doctor. I want a woman, I had a male doctor growing up and I hated him. I want someone associated with Swedes hospital, because when Dayton had his last knee surgery we went there, and we liked the staff - plus the other hospital in town is no longer a Blue Cross provider. There are 3 women doctors available, the earliest appointment is for a week from today. When I explain that I haven't seen a doc since 1999, the nurse decides I have to come in for full physical, and reschedules me for August 10th! I mention the cramps, and she says, "You should go to the Immediate Care Clinic."
Drat. I wanted to avoid that. It's too much like an Emergency Room. That's for people in car crashes and with bullet wounds and who are dying. Not pre-menopausal women with cramps. Severe cramps, the kind that take my breath away. I gather up my courage, and hie myself to the clinic.
The staff is kind, although I wish the receptionist wouldn't make me go into such detail about my "condition" in the open waiting room. A nurse leads me to a small room and takes my history and blood pressure. The doctor walks in - a man. He shakes my hand, hears that I'm having "pelvic pain," (I can't get him to agree it's just cramps) and decides that I should see a woman doctor. Hooray!!!
Dr. S comes and reviews my history - again. "It could be a lot of things, endometriosis, internal bleeding, or then again, you're pre-menopausal, so it might just be normal for a woman of your age." She tells me that I should probably see a gynocologist ASAP, and they have nobody on staff who is qualified. For the next hour I sit and wait as her nurse calls every gyn. in the city, trying to find an appointment. They take a vial of blood, and a urine sample - to check for pregnancy, although I assure them that I am not pregnant. (I'm right, by the way, I'm not.)
Finally Dr. S comes back beaming. "We have an appointment for you on Saturday morning." She gives me the name and phone number of the next doctor, and I'm out the door.
I don't make it to St. Louis, and the cramps haunt me most of the night.
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