Brian the Obloid Fibroid

 Disclaimer: this will be a journey into self-pity - disgusting, sweary and furious. I've barely endured a medical problem before and I’m obsessed with this one. I can’t keep bothering friends and twitter followers with every loathsome detail and crippling fear, so I shall record them here, because writing is how I make sense of the world, and also if I can get some copy out of this horror, that will feel like partial recompense. 

A couple of years ago I started struggling to pee. It was worst in the mornings and when my period was due. It wasn’t like cystitis: there was no stinging. It felt like there was something physically blocking the pee from emerging. If I walked for ten minutes or so, things started to ease up and I could pee like a normal girl. Same thing happened if I’d been crunched up on the sofa or in the car. Gradually it got worse. I started to sweat one day I might not be able to fix it with walking and I'd blow up in a giant pissy puddle, which would make for an undignified end.

I remembered my mum sitting on the loo when she was about my age and growling at her bladder when she couldn’t pee. “Come on you little bastard, shift, I’m busy, for Christ’s sake”, she would say, over and over, while I ignored her, being an obnoxious self-obsessed teen. So I guessed I’d inherited some dodgy piss problem. She'd had fibroids and needed a hysterectomy.

Then about a month ago I felt a bulge at the top of my vagina.  I do nude modelling. I was due to make a spanking film where I would have to stand bent over with my legs spread, getting twatted with a wooden paddle. The prospect of having some bit of myself falling out, frightful enough for most humans - gentleman, please imagine your kidney suddenly emerging from your nostril to engage empathy sensors - was therefore particularly horrific for me. Everyone in my chosen professional field was about to discover my professional equipment was broken, that I was elderly, poorly, past it. Me, who’d always considered illness indicative of moral failure.  Well, that’ll teach me. Me, with my tail between my legs, which was rather how it felt. I couldn’t bear to look myself. I asked my fella to stare up my gash and tell me the worst and he said, “hmmm...yes...I see what’s happened”, which wasn’t totally reassuring.

I did the shoot. No one said anything. While it felt the size of a grapefruit to me, blatant as my bloody nose, probably no one else was even aware of it. Important always to remember no one actually gives a shit about you. They’re all worrying about themselves, all the time, just like you are. 

I bought this gizmo which really seemed to make a difference: https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B001S2LGH0?ref=ppx_yo2ov_dt_b_product_details&th=1

It’s like a little buzzy dildo you shove up yourself for half an hour every evening. It exercises your pelvic floor and tightens you up. My fella said he could feel the difference, hurrah. It’s meant for incontinence really, which is the exact opposite of my problem, but I saw it recommended for prolapses too. It worked. The bulge receded. But my pissing woes continued. 

I saw my GP, for the first time in sixteen years. 

The last time I saw my GP I’d come back from Egypt with the raging shits. While originally enjoying the unexpected weight loss, after spending a week emptying my bowels ten times a day, I started to worry it might never stop, rendering long journeys troublesome. Antibiotics, thanks doc, bosh. I tell this story to brag, once again, about how extremely healthy I am, usually. I find the sickly wearisome and disgusting.

Further disclaimer: I love medfet and this new GP was insanely handsome. Loving medfet is an inconvenient kink for the absurdly healthy. Usually I have to get my kicks getting fellow porn stars to dress up as doctors and treat my nymphomania by giving me a clit caning. Faced with an actual medical setting, I couldn’t get my knickers off fast enough. “I was going to pull the curtain and give you a sheet for modesty, but whatever”, he muttered, before having a rummage and declaring my womb “boggy”. Boggy? I echoed, hurt and confused. Google told me later a boggy womb is an actual thing, not merely an insult. He referred me to a gynaecologist. The next NHS gynaecologist was available ten months hence. Ten months! I NEED my vagina. I need it in tip top shape to earn a living. It’s not like my left elbow or sanity which I could easily function without. This shit is important. So I went private. £198.

And I liked the nice private gash doctor. He told me in the accent of a fighter pilot I had a calcified fibroid, about 20 cm across, partly impacted, which was stopping me peeing, probably about to stop me pooing, and also to start pressing on nerves and causing me terrible pain. “But other than that you’re perfect!” he cooed. I’d come to see him just in time. I need a CT scan and blood tests to make sure it was a massive fibroid and not anything worse, followed by six months of Zoladex injections to shrink the fucker, then a hysterectomy.

I got that email yesterday and had a little cry. Zoladex sounds hideous. It’ll bring on the menopause instantly, make me fat, depressed and kill my sex drive. I can’t drink on Zoladex, and I like drinking as much as I like cock, maybe more. It will, in short, make me an entirely new version of myself, one I suspect I won’t like, boring and prudish and lumpen. Fuck that shit. Fuck you God. I tried to tell myself I was lucky to get this far without medical woes, that I was lucky this woe wouldn’t kill me. But I wasn’t convinced. There is a sense in which this will kill me. I am entirely governed by my hormones and they are about to face a total volte face. Will I stop being an angry, drunken horny little slut and become instead a flabby neutered tabby?

I decided to call my fibroid Brian, because I’ve never met a Brian who wasn’t an annoying arsehole. Someone on twitter referenced Douglas Adams and suggested he be Brian the obloid fibroid. I liked that idea so much I decided to name my blog after it. Thanks random twitter man.

That’s enough self-pity for now. I have to do some actual work. Thank you for reading this far.