Yep. What I needed to hear.

January 17, 1977: My mom, after giving birth to my little sister, starts bleeding uncontrollably. She is enveloped by the soothing white light that people who come close to death talk about, and makes the conscious choice to stay on earth with her three girls. There will only be three: she has a hysterectomy to stop the bleeding.

January 17, 2012: I am bleeding uncontrollably in the ER of a random hospital in downtown Houston. (I, however, have not given birth.) I have no soothing, reaffirming white light moment; instead, I am just terribly frightened and lonely and can’t stop crying. (I sent SBS home around 11 p.m. on Monday night, since our presentation–the main reason we went to Houston–was on Tuesday morning.)

When I am admitted around 3 a.m. so I can have a blood transfusion, I can’t sleep. Lying in a lumpy hospital bed whose linens smell too flowery sweet, I search “hysterectomy” and “recovery time” on my Blackberry. I am positive I will need to have my uterus out in Houston because there is no way this bleeding will stop otherwise, and I want to know when I can get home. All I want to do is be home.

“I just want to go home,” I barked at Dr. Higgenbotham, the ob/gyn who visited me mid-day Tuesday, when she asked me how I was. I brought out the bitch because I wasn’t sure what else to do to get attention; I asked for a Sprite at 8 a.m., and it didn’t come until 1 p.m. I couldn’t find a call light for the nurse, so I had SBS call the hospital to have a nurse check on me. Three different people came in from housekeeping over the course of four hours to empty the trash, but nobody cleaned the floor where I’d made a mess.

The sweet doc was as awesome as her Seuss-ian Higgenbotham name. “You poor dear,” she said, “I read your chart and felt so sorry for you.” I softened a bit. She started talking to me like I was a friend, not  a patient, and acted like she was going to hang out for hours with me. She told me her priority was to get me well enough to get home. Phew.

I mean awesome: Despite having delivered two babies, she went back to her office to get me some meds to slow the bleeding. She knew the hospital didn’t carry them, and she had samples in her office. They expired at the end of December 2011, but she was cool with giving them to me, and I was more than cool taking them.

Awesome again: I have pretty significant fibroids, and she went through all the options for them with me, giving me the scoop on everything from IUD to full uterus a-goner. I asked her what she would do, and she wrote down all the things I needed to ask my Denver doc.

Awesome x 3: Still, I couldn’t think straight and had somebody else’s blood (thankfully) dripping into me and I hadn’t slept in what felt like forever and there were gross stains on the ceiling I had to stare at and I was in downtown Houston and I live in Denver and the bad daytime television made me feel lonelier than ever. “I’m just so alone,” I cried when she asked if I felt better.

“You are not alone,” Higgenbothem replied very matter-of-factly, “This happened for a reason. Maybe we were supposed to meet. Maybe the universe has a plan for you…” and she went on, giving me this  speech that I can’t remember very well. But I remember how it made me feel: soothed, reaffirmed, purposeful. Like I was supposed to be in a random Houston hospital on January 17th, 35 years after my mom was in a hospital for a similar reason.

I know that many of you have suffered with fibroids, heavy periods and other lovely feminine uterine-based issues–lucky us!–and this little journey of mine will be yet another way to connect to each other. I’m the more modest one of this pair, so I won’t make you relive how many times I sent SBS out to CVS for more maxipads and super tampons (and peanut M’n’M’s), but I will obviously keep you posted on my progress.

I have a feeling I’ll be starting from square one–yet again–once I am finally able to run again. (The good news is that the fibroids might be contributing to my hamstring problem. Could be the best BOGO ever.)

Sure, I was throwing a major pity party for myself in Houston. Was it justified? Yep. And necessary to cope? Probably. But the party kind of ended when Higgenbothem left. She was right. I might have been physically solitary, but I wasn’t alone. The presentation Sarah gave on Tuesday morning had a line about how female runners travel in packs. Not only was my mom floating around me (and reminding me to use my manners), but our AMR pack kind of grabbed me and lifted me up and reminded me to stay strong and positive. Nothing good comes from negative mental energy; I had to point my toes towards the finish line and concentrate on crossing it.

Don’t quote me, but I’m pretty sure the blood I was given wasn’t type AB, but type BADASS.