Warning, if you know me in real life or you don’t feel like reading about my vag in intimate and gory detail, please use one of the nearest emergency exits.
After pushing MJ out in less than six minutes, I was dismayed to see my midwife reaching for what appeared to be the biggest needle on the planet. I was even more dismayed when she started jamming into my ladybits. Ow. Followed by ow. And ow. And OWJESUSCHRISTOW.
“You just have a small tear at the bottom and a bleed at the top.”
At the top?!
“Near the urethra.”
For about fifteen minutes, I held my newborn son against my breasts and kissed him and loved on him and tried to ignore a series of prodding jabs. The meds weren’t taking. In addition, my midwife and the nurse couldn’t figure out “where the bleed was coming from.”
They gave me a catheter so that, according the nurse, “they don’t accidentally stitch up your urethra.”
So eventually they called in the attending male doctor dude who wandered in and poked around and promptly told me that if I couldn’t hold still he’d put me under and take me to the OR to get it taken care of.
(Later, I learned that this was an empty threat. He just needed me to hold still.)
So I held still the best I could despite my entire body shaking and my legs and hips wanting to jut halfway to the moon while he gave me one excruciating unmedicated stitch.
Wow, I thought. That urethral area is pretty fucking tender.
“I’m not sure I got it, just pack her,” he said, taking off his gloves and heading out.
The midwife proceeded to fill my vagina with like two pounds of gauze for reasons I still don’t understand.
“I really wish you’d had the epidural now,” she apologized. “I’m so sorry.”
Once I was in the recovery room she came in again and asked how I was doing. I thanked her profusely for a beautiful delivery and for being awesome and staying so long with us.
“How’s your bottom,” she asked carefully.
Fine, I guess.
“We don’t see tears at the clitoris that often, I was worried it may have… detached.”
HOLD THE PHONE.
“But I think it’ll be fine,” she went on, leaving me all umwtfseriously?
Four days later when the swelling subsided, I got out a makeup mirror to try to figure out what the hell was going on down there. I couldn’t make out the “bottom” stitch, and that area looked great. This was a major bonus since I had a second degree tear with the chipmunk and that shit hurt like hell for days.
I noticed that one inner labia was basically torn all to hell and kind of mangled. A bummer, but not the end of the world. I’m not anticipating any close up photography in my near or ever future.
Then I tilt the mirror up and almost drop it in the toilet when I spot the big stitch right through the side of my fucking clit.
Well shit, I guess that’s why it hurt so much. I want to write a little note to the dude doctor along the lines of “if you’re going to wing a stitch on a lady’s bits to try to stop an anonymous sort of bleed, maybe aim for normal skin and not her goddamned clitoris. Thanks.”
Seven days out the stitch is still there. Everything seems to be fine. My poor clit is going to be really goofy shaped when it heals but I’m not out to win any symmetrical clitoris competitions. I just want to be able to resume functional wanking in a few weeks.