The Words of a Wise Woman over 40—Kristina Truly!

Through the years the gene-pool has been more than generous to me. Thankfully I can hold a strong candle to slightly above average beauty, and I still managed to turn a few heads, even at my age. 

However, I do fear, it’s just a matter of time until all hell is going to break loose and down I go; my chin hanging to my boobs, my silicone torpedoes hanging to an old gunnysack of cellulite, my knees hanging to my swollen ankles, and I’m afraid I will eventually have to tuck my ass into the back of my knee-high support hose to keep from tripping on it.” 

My biggest concern is that one day I may wake up and realized—“WOW-- I’m old.”

But until then I say, 

“Ladies, walk with your chin held high. That way when your turkey neck sways, at least it sways with confidence!” 

I don’t have an Ivy League education but I’m no dumbed-down, touched-up blonde

I believe there is a lot to be said for us Street Sauvé business women and if you were stranded on a desert island you would definitely want me with you. 

I can guarantee you; I would find a way off that island before either of us lost a complete dress size.  For one thing, I’d never eat a crawling little anything to keep from starving and even more so, I’d never let my obituary read, “Kristina Truly, found starved to death on a deserted island with chipped toenail polish and in need of a good hair- stylist.” I haven’t missed a hair appointment in the past twenty-five years. Not for the birth of my only niece, not for my 90 year old neighbor’s funeral, and certainly not because I was stupid enough to get stranded on island without hair salon within swimming distance. 

So Remember Ladies...Chin-up and March On!!!

The Evolution of the Tarzan Jane Syndrome

The Evolution of Tarzan Jane Syndrome, (TJS)

I don’t know that there will ever be a cure for Tarzan Jane Syndrome (TJS) and yet it seems to be an epidemic that’s been passed on from generation to generation. This particular syndrome has survived for millions of years and although it has evolved substantially through the years…TJS still infects women of all social statures.  

TJS, in the beginning…Something created man and woman and their need for love. 

Man-Tarzan. Woman-Jane…Tarzan loves his Cave-Mother, Jane. He soon grows older and starts to desire his own Jane. He sees his first girl Jane playing in the trees in a nearby jungle. Tarzan has strong overwhelming urges to track-down this cute looking Jane. She’s young and fit and nothing like his Cave-Mother Jane and when he looks at her. he feels strong and wants to protect her. Tarzan can’t control his desires to be with girl-Jane. He sniffs around her. He loves how girl-Jane smells. He swings with girl-Jane for a couple days. Each time he's with girl-Jane, his desires to drag her by the hair to his cave gets stronger. Soon he ask girl-Jane, “May I take your hair in my strong hands? You make my loincloth hard. I want to drag you to my den. I want to make roaring hot fire with you.”

Jane could not resist Tarzan’s charm. Her desires to be his Cave Wife and bare his jungle children were all she could think about. So Jane agreed to lets her strong-handed Caveman have her hair. 

Jane soon started cleaning up Tarzan’s man cave, giving it a cave woman's touch. Jane slept at his cave a few more cold nights. Soon Jane was at his cave pad nearly day and night. Jane made Tarzan’s life easy; she was there whenever Tarzan wanted her. 

Tarzan started to feel Jane was now hunting him and he would soon be eaten by Jane. He decided he’s done with this girl-Jane. This Jane started to remind him of his mother and his loincloth never got hard around his mother. Tarzan couldn’t control his urges to free himself from his sweet, always there for him Jane, and hunt for a new girl Jane. 

Tarzan realizes there was no need to keep old girl Jane around any longer. Tarzan could see there were plenty of strange Jane's’ in the jungle.

Tarzan’s older brother stopped over to give him advice, “Little brother, it is the most fun when you hunt for the girl Jane that is hardest to catch. Father told me, that mom was so hard to catch that he almost died trying. She had the most cavemen in the jungle and she didn’t give her hair to any of them. She made them all carry her water baskets, bring her their fresh catch of the day, she made them build her fire at night and then made them go to their own cave. So dad had to be stronger and faster than all the other cavemen to get her hair in marriage. Cave Father worked so hard to catch Cave Mom that once he caught her, he did whatever he had to do to keep her happy. Mom was his finest trophy. Dad said catching the fastest, strongest, most ferocious tiger didn’t even come close to the work it took to catch his cave bride.” Tarzan listened to the wise words of his brother. “So, if a girl Jane treats you bad and other cavemen want her too, that’s the girl Jane I should hunt?” Tarzan asked, to make sure he understood what a caveman should do to snag his forever cave bride. “Yes! Nice, easy to hunt Jane-bad...ferocious, hard to catch Jane-Good.” Tarzan’s brother confirmed the ways of nature as they both prepared their weapons for their hunt for food the next morning.

Now Tarzan knew just what he must do to be a caveman just like his father. And the next day Tarzan tossed Jane over the nearest tall rocky cliff. Without as much as saying good-bye, Tarzan hurried back to his cave to watch the Tigers verses Gazelles. He cracked open a nice cold coconut, made a warm fire, roasted a wild boar for dinner, played with his monkey, slept and was ready to start his hunt for a new hard to catch Jane the next day.

 Jane on the other hand… Plummeting off yet another rocky cliff after a few dates with a hunky caveman who she was sure was “The One”. Midair, her new leopard fur dress caught on a tree branch growing out of the side of steep cliff breaking her fall. Her perfect sized hips for riding Buffalo cushioned her backside as she hit the torturous terrain below. The branch had ripped off her clothes leaving Jane exposed wearing nothing but her push-up grape leaves and ivy-fern panties. She bounced twice, before landing in the middle of a man-eating piranha infested mucky river. However, Jane, like a spawning salmon, she beautifully uses the breast stroke to fight the current upstream battle that lay ahead.

Once on stable ground, Jane, snatched a piranha from the water with her bare hands; uses the piranha’s teeth to comb and style her hair. Soon, after designing a new line of women’s fashionable jungle attire, she negotiated with the King of the Jungle to donate his gorgeous thick mane to her charitable foundation, “Locks of Mane”.

Combining efforts with a strong political group, Alligator’s Unit, Jane donated hundreds of pairs of shoes and purses to the surrounding Cave Schools for those Cave Kids that have Caveman Fathers who were eaten for lunch while hunting for dinner.

Jane’s new haute couture, Palm Fronds and Monarch Butterfly fall collection, rocketed to number one in the exclusive Neanderthal’s Fashion week. As an inspiration to young Cave Girl’s Jane was featured in the June issue of Modern Day Jungle magazine.

Finally, after years of seeking spiritual guidance from a highly respected Shaman, Jane worked through her dysfunctional childhood issues. Jane realizes she was a self-sufficient, highly successful Cave Woman.  However, Jane also had needs and wanted to be in a relationship. So Jane swung over to Tarzan her ex-BF’s den for a quick one night romp in the cave. Only this time after sex...Jane threw herself off the cliff to save time. 

TJS has been around since the beginning of time and continues to plague women of all cultures. 

The Art of Kissing!

"Of all the gin joints in all the towns he’s

never walked into mine."

Having never picked the right guy for myself after searching 40 something years, my grandmother insists I’m cursed; I tell myself.... I just haven’t met the right guy.

 

 After all, 40-something is the new 30-something, so they say. Although I don’t know who “They” are, I assume “They” must be over forty. And although I have kissed more than my share of toads, many dashingly disguised as an adorable prince, but I still manage to have hope that someday I will cram my size 8 foot into that damn size 6.5 glass slipper and when it shatters into a million pieces my perfect prince will be there to tell me, “Damn! Sweetheart your ass sure looks hot in those jeans.”

  

Through the years the gene pool has been more than kind to me. Thankfully, I can hold a strong candle to slightly-above-average beauty, and I still manage to turn a few heads, even at my age.

 

I don’t have an Ivy League education, but I’m no dumbed-down, touched-up blonde. I believe there is a lot to be said for us street savvy business women. If you were stranded on a desert island you would definitely want me with you. I can guarantee you -- I would find a way off that island before either of us lost a complete dress size. 

 

I haven’t missed a hair appointment in the past 25 years. Not for the birth of my only niece, not for my 90-year-old neighbor’s funeral, and certainly not because I was stupid enough to get stranded on an island without a hair salon within swimming distance.

 

However, I do fear it’s just a matter of time until all hell breaks loose and down I go -- my chin hanging to my boobs, my silicone torpedoes pointed straight down towards an old gunnysack of cellulite, my knees sagging to my swollen ankles, and I’m most afraid I will one day have to tuck my ass into the back of my knee-high support hose so I won’t trip over it. I anticipate the day I wake up and realize, “Wow, I’m old.” Until then I say, “Ladies, hold your chin up high. That way when your turkey neck sways, at least it sways with confidence!  And keep your sex, spicy and hot, hot, hot!

 

Remember when you were 20 and you loved when you were kissing some little hottie that you just met in a bar. A couple shots of tequila and the next thing you knew he’s got his tongue down your throat like he’s going to rip your tonsils out…But at 20 years old kissing wasn’t the nucleus of hot and horning, the tequila and hormones took care of that. So kissing was just something you did to pass the time until you got to the good stuff.

 

But now days…the kissing better be good. After a hysterectomy good kissing is like the whip cream on the strawberries. Kissing is the battery cables to my slightly sluggish motor.  But a few good kisses, a glass of wine, my estrogen patch, some testosterone gel, a shot of KY jelly and I’m good to go.

 

But I’ve noticed that old people and married couples don’t really kiss. I’m not sure where they lost that part of their relationship. Maybe because good kissing is really truly an art, and I’m grateful I mastered it way back when and I love to kiss. Nothing hotter than a long passionate kiss-Like a kitten chasing the end of a string and never gets tired of it. I love to be kissed by a guy who knows how to smooch.

 

But now at my age, good kissers are hard to come by. Maybe they're lazy, perhaps they should slow down on the little blue pills until they master the art of kissing a girl the way she should be kissed. Slow, soft, and just enough to make her want more.
 

Recently I went out with a guy and after a pretty nice evening, talking and drinking wine, he walked me to my car. Innocently I opened my mouth to say thank you, and that’s when he seized the opportunity. Like a cruise missile he launched his tongue into my mouth. The torpedo hit my pearly whites like he was ready to sink my battleship. “Wow-Slow down G.I. Joe” I said once I caught my breath. But before I could start my car, Torpedo Tongue fired again. This time, I blocked the blow with my cheek… “Awe, I just wanted to give you a nice good night kiss Kristina” He said with a sad pathetic look on his face. “Yes, I detected that when you fired your bazooka down my throat. Personally I prefer a soft tongue teasing approach” I said as I started my car. “Well it was just a tactical error. I’ll do better next time. Lets go to your place Saturday night?” He said as the car waiting for my parking spot honked their horn to hurry us along. “Call me….” He said as I drove away…

  

“Next!” I said to myself as I put my jammies on and crawled in bed alone.

"Granny What The Hell Are You Watching on TV?" "I Think They Still Call It Porn Kristina?"

Well summer has gotten away from me…I’ve been so busy, but with what... I can’t tell you? It’s always something however; I never seem to fit enough hours into my day…maybe Granny’s right-maybe that’s why I’m still single? I took her to lunch last week and she told me, “Kristina, you have to make time to find a man…you’re not getting any younger and one day you’ll be too old, to have fun. You need to loosen up and live a little.” It struck me as bit odd the way she said it. She had a big grin on her face and the weirdest thing was, she winked at me when she said, “to have fun”, then I thought…what the hell does a 83 year old woman remember about having“fun”…Let’s face it those days have been long gone for my Granny. Even when Grampy was living they had separate beds ever since I could remember. Wait… not just separate beds but they had separate bedrooms.

Growing up I didn’t realize that parents actually slept in the same bed until I was at my new friend Lynnie’s house for a sleepover. We were in the second grade and she asked me to spend the night. I was nervous about sleeping away from home but I agreed to it because at Lynnie’s they got McDonalds for dinner on Fridays and we got to watch The Partridge Family…a Big Mac, fries, a chocolate shake and David Cassidy…That was living! (Not living healthy but we didn't care about good health in the 60's...Cigarettes and martinis helped women get through their pregnancy!)

Herb and Anna-Bell were Lynn’s parents and I can still remember thinking…”What the heck- they only have one bed in the big bedroom? Hum? Wonder where Lynnie’s parents sleep?” Lynn and I camped out in our sleeping bags in the family room and once she and I had crawled in our sacs for the night and settled down to sleep (and giggle) her parents came in, turned off our light, said good night and walked in the big room and shut the door behind them. Not sure what to think I whispered, “Do your parents always sleep in just one bed together?” Lynn answered like any typical seven year old would answer, “Yep. But not when dad comes home from work really late and smells like beer, then he sleeps on the couch.” Well that was as good an answer as any and off to sleep we went.

For the past five years every Wednesday night Granny and I have dinner at her house together. I usually stop to pick-up Chinese and she and I will watch a little television and chat until 8:00 or 9:00 and she’ll fall asleep in her chair snoring. I often wonder if she feels lonely-so sad to get old.

So after work on Wednesday night like always I headed out to pick up dinner. “Granny, I’m on my way, I just pick-up dinner at Al’s Palace and I’ll be there in five minutes.” I said on speaker phone from the car.

“Oh dear, is it Wednesday? Well, that will be fine, my friend is here but they always give us enough food for 10 people. See you when you get her.” Granny said as she abruptly hung up the phone.

I thought it strange she would have someone over; in the past five years she’d never had a lady friend over, so I was pleased to know she was socializing.

I opened my Granny’s front door with my hands full of food and headed straight for the Kitchen. “Granny, I’m here.” Of course she couldn’t hear me because her television was turned up loud enough for the entire block to hear it. “GRANNY, turn down the television. Dinner’s here.”

I yelled as I fumbled in her cupboards to find her paper plates and set the table. The volume on the television quickly muted. “Kristina, lets eat in the living room, Ed and I are working on putting this puzzle together and we’re on a roll.” I laughed at her choice of words and wondered if she meant her girlfriend Edwina? I scooped up all the plates and boxes of Kung-pow chicken and egg fried rice and headed to the living room.

“Hey, Granny. Oh and Ed.” I said with a surprised tone in my voice and a strange look on my face. It was Ed, like in a man Ed, not Edwina like in a girlfriend. “Ed, this is my granddaughter Kristina. She’s looking at you like a deer in headlights because she thinks I’m old and should be home alone doing crossword puzzles. Kristina, stop staring at Ed and set the food down so we can eat it before it gets cold”

Still a little dumbfounded I did exactly what I was told. I sat down in her La-Z-Boy recliner with my TV tray in front of me and tried not to feel like the third wheel. Ed and Granny were laughing and cracking jokes…and seem to know each other quite well.

I had just scooped a fork full of rice in my mouth when I happen to glance at my Granny’s 42 inch HD TV that I bought her last year for her birthday…”Grrrannyyy…WHAT the hell is on the TV? What are you watching?” I said as I chocked on my food in shock.

“I think they still call it porn Kristina. Oh look Ed, I found that center piece we’ve been searching for” Granny never looked up from her puzzle and Ed took another bite of egg roll.

“PORN?! You’re watching porn? Why are you watching porn…with ED? Or at all?” I said with disbelief and disgust as I stood up to search to find the remote control so that I could get it off her TV before I had to make an emergency visit to my therapist. But instead I tripped over the cat and fell on my ass. I landed face first looking up at a ménage-a-trois on the fucking TV at my grandmother’s house. I wanted to die.

“We are watching porn because Wheel-of-Fortune is over and Jeopardy doesn’t come on for another 20 minutes. Ed, would you like more Kung-pow chicken?”

Well, just like when I was seven, that was as good an answer as any so I left it at that!

Just in The Nic-of-Time—Saved By The Estrogen Patch.

Oh, the power of the patch!!! Like a bottle to a baby, putting on my estrogen patch finally shut me up!!! About twenty minutes after the silver-dollar size thin sticky film hit my ass, I was Ms. Congeniality. I made no more death threats to anyone that dared to breathe around me. It was as if the heavens opened up and angles swung down, took me in their arms and we flew through the clouds like beautiful birds. OK, well maybe that part was the pain meds, not the patch, but whatever… I was back on the road to “normal” So I thought!

After a hysterectomy I’ll be honest, it takes some getting used to. I’m not sure what happened to my skin? I looked 17 again… but not in the good way.  My face broke out with underground land mines. Just days after my hysterectomy there were red painful zits big enough to blow up Texas all over my 40 Something Year Old face! And I’m not sure what hormone infested bug flow up my bee-hive but my beautiful long hair went from string straight to curly-kinky blonde…and again I don’t mean in the good way.

And just the other day, I was driving down the street and looked over to the passenger seat and noticed something stuck to the back of the seat…? I reached over to touch whatever it was…and I’ll be damned if it wasn’t my estrogen patch. How the hell it got from my ass to the front seat of my car is a bigger mystery than how my father has managed to get married six times. I could see how the patch may have ended-up on the driver’s seat…if I actually drove my car naked. But since I’ve always driven fully clothed, I was baffled. Well... there was that one exception…I had a major hot flash right before my surgery. I swear it felt 190 degrees when suddenly a wave of fire burning hormones flooded my body as I was driving up to Los Angeles. There was nothing I could do but pull over and whip my top off… and no, I don’t drive a convertible.

I was safely parked on the side of the 405 freeway on a Friday late afternoon so it wasn’t like anyone was driving faster than a tortoise on Quaaludes. I wasn't concerned with anyone seeing me without my clothes after all it was Los Angeles. So once I was off on the shoulder of the freeway I quickly pulled my T-Shirt over my head, cranked the air-conditioning and leaned directly into the cold air and lifted my bra to cool off the girls. That’s when the adorable LA Sherriff or Police Officer, or hell- it could have of been an actor preparing for a part as a security guard for all I know but he was young and looked hot in his starched blue uniform. He leaned down to knock on my window, “Ms, Ms, are you OK?...Oh, Wow! Ms.  You're going to have to put your clothes back on-Please!” He said with a smile and checks cherry red.  “I will as soon as I stop having a hot flash -Officer Cutie” I said as I continued to fan my Ta-Ta's with the cool air. It seemed that Officer Cutie wasn't quite sure what to say to that so he turned and hightailed it back to his squad car, turned his siren on and forced his way back on to the freeway. I guess he knew it was safer to be in the middle of crazy LA drivers on a Friday than to mess with a woman half naked dealing with a power-surge. Smart move on his part. Later that night I fantasized about him and me playing with his handcuffs…It was a lot like “50 Shades of Blue!”   

So I still don’t have a clue how that dang estrogen patch got on the passenger seat of my car? Although I do remember this one time when I was still getting use to putting a new patch on every Saturday morning-I tried to peel off the plastic on the back of the patch without it sticking to my leg or everywhere but my tushie. But half a sleep I peeled off the protective backing and slapped it  on my derrière and dropped the actual patch in the trash…It wasn’t until much later that day when I felt something poking my ankle. I sat down at the gym and took my sneaker and sock off my right foot and that’s when I found the plastic back of the patch stuck to the side of my heel. To my dismay I also found the actual patch stuck to the side of the waste can in my bathroom a few hours later…which still doesn’t answer the question…”How did my estrogen patch get from my ass to the front passenger seat of my car?”

Where the hell's my estrogen patch?

Hormones, Hormones, Hormones…!   

There’s nothing even remotely good when you’re told you can’t leave the hospital after they find a huge mass covering both ovaries.  So that’s when it hit me, I would never have children. I would never be given the chance to screw a child up like my parents did me-it wasn’t fair…

However, I wasn’t the only one distraught about me not having children; my mom bellowed her sorrow throughout the hospital to anyone who would listen. Still a bit loopy while waking up after surgery; the Demerol had also started to wear off, but I could hear my mother loud and clear talking to a group of hospital staff, I think they were the people that delivered the meals to the patients. “My daughter Kristina, she’s in room 201-bed A, she just had a complete hysterectomy. She's over 40 and I don’t know how she will ever get a man to marry her now…you know, in her condition.”  She lowered her voice to a loud whisper when she said “in her condition” She made it sound like I had contracted some horrible disease and only had a few hours to live.

“Oh Ms. Truly is your daughter? She is moy bonita, I served her breakfast this morning. This is horrible for your family. I have 43 grandchildren; I could not live without my grandchildren.” I heard someone say from the peanut gallery talking in the hall next to my hospital room. Then to make matters worse I heard my mother agree with her, with the one word of Spanish she knows. “Gracias. My heart is broken. But thank God, my son is expecting his first child. His wife is much younger than Kristina; she’ll have lots of babies for me.”

Note to self: Nominate my Mommy Dearest for mother of the year…UGH!

Well surgery didn’t go as planned and things were much worse than my doctor had anticipated but I was alive and for that I was grateful.

“Help…Dr. Coochie, please I need my estrogen patch…PLEASE!” I begged like someone begging for a smack of heroin. Going straight into menopause was no trip to the fun zone and I was not a happy camper. Insanity had nothing on the way I felt.

“KT, I’m sorry we can’t start your hormone replacement until we can get you walking around and your blood pressure stabilized, we are afraid of blood clots and your infection is still not looking good. You aren’t out of the woods yet my dear.” Dr. Coochie, stood across the room reading over my chart. I’m pretty sure she had heard that I called the resident doctor that had been in earlier that day to check my incision a prick…but he was so I felt he deserved it. “Dr. Coochie, you don’t understand, I need my hormone patch, Please! I’m so hot I can’t take it. The hot flashes are more like power surges and I feel like my body is going to ignite into flames. That’s why I asked Dr. Dick for an ice pack for the back of my neck to help cool me down and like a prick he said, NO.”

“Yes, I heard about that and I also heard you threatened to walk your naked ass outside if someone didn’t turn on the air-conditioning ASAP.”  Dr. Coochie, walked over and stood at the foot of my bed staring at me with a slight smile on her face. “Yes, that’s sounds about right.” I said with a proud stern domineer. “But Dr. Coochie, I’m in hormone hell, I’ve never felt so depressed and angry about everything-my heart is racing, I have anxiety -I feel overwhelmed. No...I feel like shit and no one seems to care.” I started to cry uncontrollably, hoping something would break her down and I could finally get my estrogen patch.

“KT, just a few more hours, I promise, once your blood pressure is stable and your white blood count starts to go down-KT, it’s for your own good.” Dr. Coochie made a bee-line for the door.

So that’s when I decided I couldn’t take it anymore. Looking back I can only assume it was the lack of hormones making me so crazy but when I was in the mist of hormone hell, it wasn’t safe for anyone including myself. First, I cussed-out the safety rail on the side of my bed holding me in hospital prison. But with merely breaking a few fingernails I managed to take down the rail. There wasn’t any blood shed so I was hopeful things were looking up. Then I swung both legs over the side of the bed. I was determined to take off walking to get some cold fresh air outside.

But that’s when it hit me…Wholly crap! I just had major surgery-I had a horribly painful incision across my entire lower abdomen and I was hooked up to more bells and whistles than a security system at a museum. And now I was completely stuck. I didn’t have enough strength to even get myself back in bed. I had no stomach muscles that weren’t on fire! So there I sat hunched over the side of my bed with my feet dangling not quite reaching the floor and I felt dizzy and ready to faint. I soon realized I was in a fine mess and thus far I had been such a bitch to everyone that no one was coming within 100 miles to visit me.  “Help…Help…Please someone I’m stuck.”

Finally a man walked by and heard my cries for help. I would have been totally embarrassed under any other circumstances by the fact the man willing to rescue me was an elderly candy-striper well in his late 70’s. Slowly and a bit shaky he managed to help me swing my legs back on my bed. He carefully got me all propped back-up and even fluffed my pillows. Again, I started to cry.

“Let me guess, you just had a hysterectomy?” This sweet man looked me in the eyes and for the first time I felt like someone wasn’t scared of me. I sniff and he took a tissue and wiped the snot dripping from under my nose. “I remember when my wife had a hysterectomy. Boy, she was a real bitch. A lack of hormones can really knock you for a loop.”  I attempted to laugh but it fring hurt like hell so I grinned really big and gently squeezed his old fragile hand.  

“But I bet you really loved her and she got better really quick. Right?” I looked in his eyes for wisdom and comfort. “No, she was always a bitch and it just got worse after the hysterectomy. But in those days we stayed together for the kids. I was lucky though, she left me for my best friend the day our youngest child went off to college. It was the happiest day of my life” And on that note, Mr. Candy Striper practically skipped out of my room with a smile from ear-to-ear.

“Ms. Truly, I have some good news. Dr. Coochie has approved your estrogen patch, it should be just a few hours and the pharmacy will bring it up and help you put it on.” Nurse Ratchet said gruffly as she checked my vital signs. “A few hours…I could die before that, I need you to speed this up.” I said in my Dr. Jackal hormonal personality as I whipped my sheet and blanket off my legs as a warm flash of heat consumed my entire body.

“I wish I could but that’s not going to happen, this is a hospital not the drive-thru at McDonalds. I suggest another shot of pain meds and some strawberry Jell-O. That’ll have to do for now. Good night Ms. Truly.”  

Poor Kristina…Hormones, Hormones, Hormones! Check in next week…Will KT ever get her damn estrogen patch? We'll see!!!

Hormone Hell-KT, Needs a Hysterectomy

I knew things weren’t looking good when while having an ultrasound of my throbbing ovaries the technician looked at her screen and with her eyes bulging opening like a hoot-owl and her jaw practically dropping to the floor stood up and said, “I’ll be right back”.

In what seemed like forever I waited for someone to come back in my room and tell me what the hell was going on. The longer it took the more than a little curious I became wondering what was the big deal. But first-things-first, before my bladder burst… I had to drink 32oz of water before starting the ultrasound and with all the probing and prodding and the stabbing pain in my ovaries I had had enough for one day. My head was pounding and I needed to pee. I wrapped the skimpy hospital gown halfway around my tooshie and headed down the hall to find a restroom.

“May I help you Ms?” Nurse Ratchet said from behind her thrown at the administration desk. “No, I’m good- just looking for the restroom.” I said as I pushed a door open and entered a room marked with a stick figure of a man and women and wheelchair symbol on the front.

I was seated in front of the ultrasound screen looking at a series of black and white fuzzy shots of my ovaries when the tech and the chief radiologist barraged through the door. It didn’t take a degree in medicine at that point to know they weren’t there to tell me I had just won a trip for two to Hawaii but rather something was not good.

The phone hanging on the wall rang and a bright red light flashed on line-one. “That’s your gynecologist; she needs to speak with you.” I picked up the receiver.

“KT, it’s Dr. Coochie. You can’t leave the hospital. You have a very large mass covering both ovaries and I need to take you to surgery. It looks like we will have to take everything including your cervix. You have a serious infection and we need you on round the clock intervenes antibiotics for 48 hours before I can do surgery on Friday morning. The good news is-I don't think its cancer.”

The Hawaii trip would have obviously been better news. Stunned, I glanced over at the two medical strangers that were staring at me like I was a time bomb ready to explode…and I kind of was. “Dr. Coochie, I can’t possibly stay at the hospital right now, I will have to come back in the morning. I don’t have my toothbrush, clean underwear, my contact solutions and I need to talk to my cat Mr. Snooty so he understands what’s going on. And by the way this all sounds, maybe I better make a call to my lawyer to make sure my will is up-to-date.” I said as I took a seat in the chair next to the phone.

“KT, I highly advise against you leaving the hospital. If the mass ruptures you will go septic and well I don’t need to tell you what that means. So if you choose to leave and because I know you; I’m assuming you will no matter what I’m telling you…please go straight home and come back to the hospital first thing in the morning.”

Poodles, my best friend, whose name is actually Peter drove me to the hospital first thing in the morning …well right after our drive-thru coffee stop for a warm chocolate croissant and caramel latte. I figured ovaries and a cervix must weigh at least 2-3 pounds so I could have a buttery rich chocolate treat to keep my strength up. And just in case I didn’t make it I wanted to make my last meal a good one.

The administration at the hospital was waiting for me and rushed me to my room where they wasted no time hooking me up to all the bells and whistles to pump me full of antibiotics and some really great drugs for the pain.

“KT, darling, it’s Mom. I came as soon as I heard. Why didn’t you call me? It breaks my heart you’ll never have children, how will you ever find a man to marry you?” Just what I needed-My Mommy Dearest…always there with her glass half empty…. She meant well but Mother Teresa she’s not…and so with my right hand I pushed the wonderful little button that detonated a powerful pop of Demerol and I was out like a light…!



Well KT’s not out of the woods yet. The hormone hell has just begun… Stay tuned for “Where the Hells my estrogen patch?”