uterusless

I went in for my hysterectomy on 9/21/22 at 8:30am. There was traffic that morning unusually so. We had Adleigh (3) along for the ride. They walked me into the hospital and up to 6th floor pre-op. They left when I was taken back to my room. I changed into my gown and waited. It was nearly noon before I had the IV placed and met with the anesthesia team, who was lovely. My surgeon burst in and blew through; he’s confident and direct. Straight to the facts. I appreciate his no nonsense demeanor. By 1:30 I’m waking up. I remember it hurting, I could hardly keep myself still. Squirming my legs with the pain in my pelvis. They gave me something and assured me it would settle. My nurse had her back to me she was talking with another nurse. On my right was another woman apparently coming from a hysterectomy, she was more vocal in her pain, she tried to choke back her moans and begged for relief. Her nurse was curt, “you’ve had a hysterectomy, there will be pain” even in the post anesthesia fog I felt frustrated for my cohort. She had an oxygen mask on her face, and I could see her tears pooling along the edge of it before spilling over her cheeks. It was painful. Painfully disregarded in pain, we laid waiting for the bumpy trolley ride in our beds to our respective recovery room.

In the room I slept, dozing in and out. I had the urge to pee but by the time I got myself to the toilet I was too woozey and weak to sit long. Nothing was coming. Nausea was hitting me. A nurse put an alcohol wipe across my nose to help stop the waves of nausea. I let it slide from my nose, “whoops” it irritated me but I feigned humor politely. These are nurses caring for me, I respect their days and lives have been traumatic especially lately. I should do my best to soldier on, I thought. Finally I peed. Just a small amount and there was blood there too. Probably more blood than urine, but the nurses hooted success, I was allowed to go home. Nevertheless I had completed the singular challenge for discharge. 6pm; I was nauseous and wheeled out to my car with my happy little children and husband waiting. Ron looked concerned but putting on his brave face, he hovered around me while I climbed into my seat and reclined. Axl chattering behind me “momma, momma, momma”. We called my parents. We got home. I was weak, just wanted to sleep. I beelined for my bed and struggled into a semi comfortable position. I was nearly asleep by the time Ron got the kids settled into the house and came to check on me. He frantically tried to feed me some toast. I mustered a few nibbles, but nausea struck. I took an anti-nausea tab and a pain pill. Drank some water, and restlessly slept.

The laparoscopic surgery 8/11/22 had been much smoother and kinder. I woke with little to no pain. Alert with very little nausea almost immediately after waking up. My surgeon was my gynecologist, younger man, with a smile and patience to answer my questions and even to wait as I formulated a question. He was a good listener and validated my feelings and concerns. We’d planned this procedure based on my history and current complaints/imaging. I had several cysts on both ovaries. The left side being more complicated side, and most likely contributing to my hip/back pains. I also had a fibroid or cyst on my uterus, that was new for me. The most concerning of the issues. I also had a Bartholin glad cyst that had sort of made itself comfortable in my labia just outside the vaginal canal. It was time to remove that gland, as I’d tried marsupialization multiple times prior to no avail.

After removing the cysts on the ovaries, he scooped out the fibroid/cyst in my uterus and the other contents, and finally cut out the Bartholin glad and sutured up the resulting space. Tissue samples were sent off for testing. After all that I woke up, peacefully. I easily peed shortly after returning to recovery we got me dressed and removed my IV. The gas pains in my shoulders and later the healing wound in my labia were the worst of the pain. I was back to business nearly as normal almost under a week. I felt slightly slower, a bit tender but overall good! Well until the tissue sample results came back. My lovely doctor called with a gentle and concerned tone to his voice. The mass in your uterus wasn’t a fibroid, it is what is called a precancerous mass, the suggestion is that you have a hysterectomy, to remove any potentially life threatening pre-cancerous tissue. He was firm in his suggestion. Sure I could risk it, but I have two gorgeous carbon copy print-outs of my husband from the blasted organ, and no plans for more children. It felt simple. I would have a hysterectomy.

The hysterectomy surgeon was at an oncology clinic, there are few places as solemn as an oncology clinic. Everyone seems to wander through with a veil of respectful concern and curiosity. The air is tense in the waiting rooms, the mumbles sound more scared, the faces of the other paitents turned away a bit faster, some openly wept. I shook with nerves, and the copay was outrageous, but I couldn’t muster enough anger about it. The pre-surgical appointment was quick, the surgeon (and a few of his students), was quick, short, and direct. He reviewed my case, looked over my labs, he agreed hysterectomy was the way to go. he drew me a picture explaining pre-cancerous tissue and the risks, some sort of explanation about uterine lining tissue, I was enveloped in a bit of panicked fog by that point, I just remember being directed to the schedulers office. She was clearly a character but kept that out of her work, though it poured out of her in the way she decorated her office and the ornate glasses chain and jewelry she wore. Sign a form and write the date in pen in your planner, I left with a bag of pre and post op prep supplies and a weight in my heart. I hadn’t even begun to process what was to come.

The recovery from the hysterectomy was much different. I tried to sleep. I could hear the kids giving Ron a hard time from my spot on our bed. The popped in to say good night and it was all a blur. Then I was vomiting, laying on the bathroom floor, Ron trying to coax me back to the bed, I begged for a boost- surely I just needed sustenance? Consciousness got slippery, I wasn’t in pain so much as nauseous. Crying and confused, I insisted I was ok, I just needed to throw up, sleep, maybe eat, I’d be ok. Finally panicked combat medic USMC veteran hubby-o-mine called for an ambulance after I wobbled out of bed and crashed into our mirrored door dresser, shattering the mirror and crumpling to the floor. Was I naked at that point? I think maybe but I don’t know why. I remember clamoring to get a nightgown on before the ambulance arrived, worried they’d wake my babies who snoozed through most of this ordeal. The of course beyond adonis paramedic and his partners arrived and had very concerned serious faces. I remember them asking why we didn’t call sooner, I think I tried to defend poor Ron with a weak, “I insisted I was ok.” Then I was waking up with Ron rubbing my sternum, I had passed out in the metal pole carry chair thing they’d loaded me into. The paramedic said to Ron something about knowing what to do, and they chatted about that. I was sweaty, and too naked for this much social interaction in my pink night shirt. They hauled me out of the house and onto a gurney and down our ridiculously steep driveway; loaded me in the ambulance and started covering me in stickers and sensors, the paramedic was calm and chatted with me, I tried to joke with him. You know lighten the mood since I was clearly being a bother with my medical emergency.

The ride was fine, unremarkable. At one point, I remember being worried my untethered breasts were wobbling too much under my nightshirt while the ambulance bounced along the highway. The emergency room seemed empty, the staff clustered behind a half wall desk. A few nurses came to help transfer me to a bed that stirred up a wave a nausea. I warned them all several times, I am so nauseous. “Just call for help, or hit this button if you need anything.” and out they went. I was cold, the room was too bright, and everything was buzzing. I projectile vomited the chocolate Boost I had tried to heal myself with earlier. It covered me and the bed, and the floor, and I may have got those bonus points with some wall contact. I couldn’t reach the stupid help button, I had flailed in puking and knocked it out of my reach. I hollered, weakly. I’m not boisterous to begin with so, it was probably comparative to the sound of an upset kitten’s mew. A nurse poked her head in and a bit of shock waved over her face before she motioned for assistance and a few more came shuffling in with her. They made quick work of cleaning me up, and shortly after Brad Pitt’s little brother wheeled me to imaging, I still smelled like chocolate Boost puke, I was sweating so much my baby hairs stuck to my forehead and my ears itched. A big machine made some noises and I was plopped under it, then back to my bed and back to the room. I don’t know how long I was there but eventually I was in a hospital room with a window, which was better. They were giving me IVs of plasma with something. My hemoglobin was concerningly low and dropping. They got the nausea under control, but I wasn’t allowed food or water, just little ice chips to keep my mouth from fusing shut. They said I may have to have surgery again, unless my hemoglobin goes back up. I don’t know how many folks had to come into draw my blood, but eventually I was so poked I felt pincushiony, they were sweet, apologetic, empathetic, but still stabbing me with needles in my elbow pits, wrist, hand, anywhere. We waited all day, more and more IVs some sort of super IV with extra punch, still didn’t do the trick so they next morning I was whisked to surgery. The surgeon seemed annoyed and immediately I felt the need to be apologetic. “I don’t know what happened, this hasn’t happened before.” was the best explanation he ever mustered for what went wrong to me. Later he tried to explain to my husband that I’d ovulated and that broke open something causing the internal bleeding that was the source of my readmittance. This didn’t make sense, I only have the one ovary left, and she’s the generally well behaved righty. I had ovulated earlier that month based on my dates, but I’m no surgeon.

After the emergency surgery, my energy came back but slowly. I was relieved, the problem was solved the nausea faded, and the deep purple bruising across my abdomen was startling but relatively painless.

The hospital stay was lonely. The kids and my husband were busy with work and school, and I’m sure my absence was noticed, but from my hospital bed, I felt utterly useless. So deeply useless, I was uterusless and useless. I had emotional support pouring from my phone, the calls and texts from loved ones was the little thread I clung too. The nurses also busy with more intensely needy patients left my styrofoam water cup empty much longer than I’d have liked. I was so thirsty, I couldn’t drink enough water. The hospital food, was it usual bland unappetizing selection, and I wasn’t much for food anyway.

Finally, my hemoglobin inched its way to a dischargeable level and I was let loose to my home and family. I was so relieved and happy to be going home, but exhausted just getting down to the car. Then the ride home was uncomfortable for my bruised abdomen, even in the Cadillac every bump and turn was difficult holding my battered bread basket together. My sweet friends had come to help clean and tidy the home, made us dinner and brought gifts. It was such a nurturing and loving gesture. I didn’t have the energy to stand long or truly express how grateful I was to them. I still think about that, and hope for the day I can return to them a gesture of equal loving care.

The rest of the recovery was just me rushing. Rushing to heal, anxiously watching the borders of the bruise recede (after they expanded a bit). The glue holding the sutures closed was aggravating, clinging to fabric like little strips of velcro across my tender tummy. Mostly the struggle was my energy levels. I was exhausted. Devastated that this medical thing was getting the the way of things I “needed” to be doing. I had a job to get back to, children to tend to, birthday parties to plan, holidays to prepare for, I pushed myself to get back to it. I wish I wouldn’t have. I wish I would have given myself the love and patience I would have given a friend. That seemed like a luxury however, because without me, who would get the things I do normally done? Ron was spread thin already with work, and his usual stress level being elevated anyway, so I knew leaning on him too long would exacerbate his struggles. I hold myself to an incredible standard when it comes to being mom to my babes. And now more than ever, since the internal xerox has been removed, and they are the only “fruits” my loins will ever produce. I pushed myself to be homeroom mom for my kindergartener and continued to be on the board of the preschool. I apologized for my slow responses and lack luster moods; I was doing the best I could. Gradually, and somewhat amazingly my body healed, my energy & appetite came back, I had some bladder issues (boy that was fun), but those resolved eventually too.

I still feel this thick sense of mourning for that organ, it troubled me from jump dealing with endometriosis and miscarriages, I should have been happily waving it off to oblivion. I felt like I lost the connection to the babies that were lost. I felt like I lost a bigger part of me, the root of things near and dear. The internal healing physically is likely about wrapped up now at the one year mark. My mind is still working on repairs, renovating spaces left empty by my medical and emotional trauma.

Pushing myself from “I will love myself” to “I love myself”.

From “I will heal” to “I am healing”.

From ” I will create beauty in the world” to “I create beauty in the world”.

The things I think I will do, I am doing. I learned looking back that I need to care for and love myself. I don’t need to apologize for the space I take up or the human needs I have. I am a human with struggles like all the others, uterus or not, I am a human and my experience is just as valid as anyone else’s. I’m watching myself type this, and seeing myself edit. I see I still have some work to do in loving my uterusless self. This is a new chapter and I will tackle it bravely. As I have all struggles before, I will take one these changes and the inevitably looming new challenges ahead with calm determination.

I am working on being authentic and having a high level of integrity. I want my thoughts, actions, and words to be aligned. I recently came to the realization that laundry isn’t a repeating, done to completion task, but rather a cycle with clothes moving through the stages of clean to dirty and back. I think that’s how this alignment of inner and outer worlds goes too. Thoughts, words, and actions ever evolving through stages of congruency.

Uterusless, I am still loved. That seems to suprise me the most. Fat and covered in purple bruises that healed to scars, my husband still loves me. Letting my grey hair grow out, he still loves me. Angry and emotional, maybe a bit erratic, he still loves me. My kids still love when I joke and be silly with them, and set up their rooms/toys in elaborate “worlds” for them to play with. They still love me. My parents are still proud of me. My friends still enjoy the occasional chat with me and my cat-like friendship style. The things that matter most to me persist, despite whatever shortcomings of mine life exposes. I would offer that it is painful to experience loss of any kind, and unconditional love will heal over time in ways that can’t be put to words. Conditions put on your loving me, are no longer acceptable. I had to lose my uterus among other things in order to learn to genuinely love myself unconditionally. I will be am the wombless warrior woman I never knew I always wanted to be.