I can see my navel, so checking my incision site is easy. My body is still trying to decide if the incision site should scar over or not; nevertheless, my incision is barely 1.5cm and entirely hidden by my navel. Even five days post-op, you'd have to look hard to find it. At two weeks post-op, you'd be hard-pressed to guess that it was an incision site at all. Needless to say, I wasn't concerned about the checkup. I'd spoken with my nurse practitioner six days post-op, who had assured me that if I was feeling up to it, I could resume any and all activities—including clothed or naked exercise—as soon as I was no longer bruised or aching.

But there I was, sitting there in a doctor's office with my jeans unbuttoned and my pants half down, two weeks after a tubal ligation, and my doctor's talking to me about birth control? "Your incision site looks really good, and it sounds like you're healing up really well. Now, given what you just went through, you might want to consider something like an IUD. I know some people get antsy about the missed periods, but that's not a major concern. If you're not interested in going through that sort of thing right now, you should definitely consider the Pill, since it's got a really high rate of contraception."

"Oh, yes, I know how the Pill works. On me, it's really simple. It works because it makes me hate all men. That's why I decided never to use it again…"

Then he started talking about condoms and I thought, okay, this is insane. "What the hell?" I zipped up my pants. "Look, don't you think that's a little … overkill? I knew the risks and benefits going in, and I think this is a little unnecessary."

"Well…" He looked at me with this you're-chewing-on-the-furniture-again-Amy look. "You are here for a post-op consultation for a tubal pregnancy, right?"

I pushed my before-and-after photo of Bob The Angry Fallopian Tubes at him and said, "No. I'm here for a post-op consult for a tubal ligation. See? Little clips." I made the universal face and hand gestures for choked Fallopian tubes (which, I might add, look suspiciously like a choking bird flapping its wings) and he put his head in his hands.

"Oh, hell." He looked down at his notes again, then picked up his papers. "Enjoy your sex life. I'd say you're good to go, then." He shook his head and laughed: "It's been one of those days, and it's not even noon. Is there anything else you wanted to ask me while you were here?"

I explained about my level of tiredness lately, and ran through my usual diet and exercise routine. He arched an eyebrow and opened my chart again. "Yep, I can see it here - your chart shows a significant but slow drop in weight over the past year and a half. So let me make sure I've heard you right: you work out six days a week. On three of those you do weightlifting and thirty minutes of elliptical work, another two days you do thirty minutes each of elliptical work and swimming, and one day a week you do elliptical work and yoga?"

"That's pretty much it."

"Sundays off?"

"Yeah."

"Well, I can see a real easy solution. If you're going to train like an athlete you have to learn to rest like one too. Take a day off sometime, dammit. It's good for you."

Hush. All of you. I heard that.

Bizarrely, Hallmark doesn't make a "Congratulations, you got your tubes tied!" card. (There may be a niche market here we can exploit.)

So I sent this one instead. I don't really get it either…. - Jess

(23:39:29) Eleanor: I'm working on my latest blog post and I'm reminded of something. Have you ever heard of or used the term "redneck tupperware?"

I love my inbox. It's as random and funny as my friends are. Mind you, even small amounts of random laughter incites minor blood loss right now, but this too shall pass, and the funny is worth it.

So, you ask, how was it? Lemme see. Next to me on the desk is a photo of two Very Angry Fallopian Tubes, both of which are sporting the latest and spiffiest in metallic clamps. (I keep telling them "think of them as fashion accessories, like corsets!" but, as is typical of fallopian tubes, they're ignoring me.)

Oh, wait, that doesn't answer it. Short version: textbook. I'm fine, I'm healing, and I want more soup. (But I have to stand up to get the soup, thus presenting a bit of an issue.) I didn't have a blood sugar crash (hurrah glucose IV!) and my nurses were quite funny ("Date of your last period?" "Now." "Hmm. Guess that pregnancy test is a little redundant then.").

I remember…a heated blanket in the surgical suite. My surgeon walking in and asking if I was ready, and the nurses cracking up when my response was an upraised fist and "Bring it!" The anesthesiologist patting my head gently and saying, "Okay, time to put the anesthesia in your IV—see you in a little while." Waking up in the recovery room and being told I couldn't have any more demerol for another three minutes. Jeff's hands tracing gentle paths on my shoulders, causing me to realize I wasn't in recovery any more. Speaking briefly to Mary on the phone and realizing the slight soreness in my throat was from the intubation. Seeing the clock on the wall and realizing that while only a few minutes had passed in my head, several hours had passed for everyone else.

Ginger ale for the nausea. Unsteadiness when I did my first post-op walk.

Snoring on the way back to Brian and Suzan's.

The thunderstorm outside cooling the air in the guest bedroom and soothing me back to sleep after talking to Danielle.

Waking up sometime this evening and realizing that, at last, this particular journey is finally over. I don't have to worry any more - just periodically change the gauze protecting my navel, wash carefully, and heal up.

Hopefully we'll drive home tomorrow. I plan to celebrate it with codeine and chocolate ice cream. Maybe you should too.