by Rebecca Mayes
There is a strange phenomena in Western medicine that if an organ is diseased you should just cut it out. This seems to be our best method of “healing” after thousands of years of practicing medicine. Much of our society is walking around without gall bladders, a kidney, a scrotum, part of their intestines, breasts, and, of course, a uterus.
It was recommended early on in my reproductive health struggles that I have a hysterectomy. This was the best promise for relief, they said. But I refused.
So why keep it around? Why not get rid of it? This organ was supposed to be healthy for me, and getting rid of it could put me at risk for cardiovascular issues, a decrease in bone density, or a messed-up metabolism. But most importantly, if it actually performed the way it was supposed to (and there was always the chance it could) then I would have a child, and that would be worth every minute of pain and discomfort and unpredictability. If I let them cut out this organ, I knew they’d be removing hope along with it. To let go of one meant letting go of the other.
So I kept it, despite the fact that it could not contain or control its own endometrial lining, but allowed parts of it to go astray inside my abdominal cavity, creating webs of tissue that would sear with pain when hormone levels changed.
I kept it, even though its partners-in-crime, the ovaries, would regularly spawn cysts that sometimes grew until they burst, causing me to go into shock and rendering me lifeless on the floor (once in the bathroom at work, where the EMS kindly extracted me).
I kept it, regardless of how disappointed my OB/GYN always looked when I handed in my fertility tracker, which was supposed to have green, yellow, and red baby stickers lined up and color-coded, in an obvious pattern. Mine looked more like a traffic light gone haywire.
I kept it, though its unpredictability and lack of punctuality pushed me to the brink of insanity by producing monthly (I use this term loosely) signs and symptoms that gave hope of a pregnancy and then dashed them to pieces, over and over and over again.
I kept it, and simultaneously detested it, when it neglected to nurture my one biological child and instead allowed him?/her? to die.
I kept it, though the amount of blood it was producing in my 40’s was enough to make me anemic.
Until one day, I finally told this uterus of mine (figuratively) and my OB/GYN (literally), “Cut it out.”
This was not, of course, without first praying about the decision and talking to my husband. I felt like a hypocrite, having denounced so many times over the years the over-prescribing of hysterectomies to women who were done having children. It’s true that this was (still is?) a flaw in our medical system, and few physicians or patients recognized the important role this reproductive organ serves beyond reproducing. But my doctor, a Christian man whose joy in life was to help couples bring children into the world and and also lead healthy, pain-free lives, could truly do nothing more for me. It was time to let go.
Seven years later, I can tell you that this surgery completely changed my life. My wise doctor left the healthiest ovary to help me gently transition through menopause, so there was no sudden hormonal shift. My physical pain was completely gone. The optimistic voice in my head that chanted “but what if??” incessantly each month had ceased to haunt me. I was no longer afraid of sudden, conspicuous leaks in public places, or of having a cyst episode while away from home. I could finally have an entire month where I was fully present with, and taking care of, my precious family. My heart had always loved my family, but my body had prevented me from taking care of them consistently. Now this cross had been lifted, and I “rejoiced with great joy.” I still do.
My story is not your story. My decision is not recommended to all who share my medical issues. Sometimes surgery does not provide the full relief a woman is looking for. I knew that going into it, which is one reason I was hesitant to do it earlier. There are no guarantees. The idea of intentionally removing all hope of conceiving probably sounds insane to those of you still without any children, but I was not in that position. I was at a place where I was ready to let the surgeon take both the hope and the pain together.
After our first adoption, someone gifted us with a beautifully framed poem, which read as follows:
“Not flesh of my flesh,
nor bone of my bone
but very remarkably,
all my own.
And never forget,
for a single minute,
that you weren’t born
under my heart,
but in it.”
I read the poem to my oldest son when he was around 5 years old. He looked up at me, bewildered and confused, and said, “That’s a big heart.” Maybe it was time to remove my uterus so I could have more room for the heart.
