While I like having work done on the house, I didn’t appreciate the discovery that we’d be responsible for putting all the heavy items moved by the contractors back to where they were before. Most of the things in my home are moveable with little assistance. Although now everything was covered with a thin coat of brown dust from the new flooring. After we got that swept and dusted off, we had to move the heaviest item, the entertainment center with the faux fireplace, back into place.
This particular piece of furniture is a pretty hefty point of contention. I needed to slide it a few inches into place, but my husband insisted we lift it. I couldn’t get a grip on it and after several attempts, finally yanked it into place awkwardly. Then I looked down.
My belly button was inverted and some mushy ball like thing was pushing out in its place. Oh shit, I thought. I tore my incision from my tubal, and *that* is probably a hernia. I tried to put it back where it came from, but it kept plooping out again.
I declared that I was done moving things, and that no further activity could continue. I took it easy for the rest of the weekend, hoping it would resolve on its. I think it did, and as I was recounting this information to a coworker that Monday, she got very stern with me. She told me that these things just “don’t go away on their own” and that I would “absolutely need” surgery.
Freaked out, I called my doctor’s office to see if they could see me. The doctor wasn’t available, but I did get a chance to see the nurse practitioner. She didn’t feel any protruding from it, which was a good sign. She did recommend a CT scan, however, just to make sure. So, now I’ve got that to work on. Next week, I’ll have to drink this awful barium sulfate stuff and hopefully get some good news. If not, I guess it’s another round of surgery. I’m frustrated thinking that after two pregnancies, I didn’t manage a single stretch mark or injury, but moving damn furniture managed to rupture my abdomen like swiss cheese.