Five Years Free!
It's been five years since my hysterectomy.
I mention this, since it seems to be on everybody's mind, and with everybody, I mean those directly involved, and my facebook memories feed.
So naturally I went back to my post about the whole matter and was a little surprised at how superficial it was, and potentially not helpful at all.
So with today's rare post I'm going to revisit that post, but go a little deeper. Once again, consider yourself warned that today's contents are best viewed by adult women.
The Lead Up
It all started with my regular physical. For years, and I mean going on decades, I had been suffering from irregular periods. Menstrual issues are one of the many side effects of my seizure medication. Now, we’re not talking just your occasional bleeding on the wrong day irregular periods. In the beginning, perhaps. There were months when nothing happened. This isn’t a big deal, until you have a significant other. Then, during those months when nothing happened, it occurred on more than one occasion that I just-in-case purchased a pregnancy kit, despite condoms, diaphragms and spermicide-just-to-make-sure. Just because pregnancy wasn't probable, didn't mean it wasn't possible.
Aside: When visiting my old stomping grounds I will not infrequently interrupt discussion to point out a building that provided a quiet bathroom wherein I peed on a stick, heart pounding, please no, please no, please no.
Because in addition to irregular periods, one of the other side-effects of my seizure meds is an increased potential for birth-defects. And at that time, I hadn't decided one way or another whether I wanted children. I did know that if I chose to have them, they would have to have at least as good a home as I had, and I was years away from that.
Over time my irregular periods changed from sporadic to perpetual. That included a daily need for pads, and more back up pads. Because not infrequently a dam would burst and accumulated detritus would gush forth.
My closets, as a result were filled with black pants, and black underwear. Because blood doesn’t show on black, though it does on red. A lesson I learned the hard way. On black it typically just looks wet, until the cloth comes in contact with something lighter. Then your heart stops, you grab your handbag with the secret pads and spare tampons and rush to the restroom, hoping whichever side is spotted is the side you encounter no one on. As a result, I knew which chain stores had public restrooms, and furthermore, which ones and had nice ones.
On optimistic days, I would wear a dark skirt. On those days I would typically wear a tampon with a pad, just in case. (That was also a lesson learned the hard way) Optimistic days were also days when sex might happen. Inevitably before proper post-sex cuddles could occur I would rush preventatively to the bathroom to put all the non-sex related fluid trappers in place again.
Years passed, and finally I grew sick of it. Changing medication wasn’t an option for me, as it took a long trial and error of finding the right one at the right dosage. For almost a decade now, it’s been working (knock on wood) So if the meds couldn’t change, something else had to. I could handle the pregnancy scares; what I couldn't deal with was the constant reassurance from my body that I wasn't.
The Initial Visit
I went in for my physical, for which I had prepared a list of questions. They were mostly follow ups to follow ups to the initial question. But before I could get to my second question the weirdness happened. There was the usual, "Okay, so let's have a look" because with something like this, something I'd dismissed for years, something I'd lived with because certainly it was inevitable due to the medicine's side-effects, right? you have to take a closer look, run extra tests and scans, because now it's a different game, and that's good medicine, that's good science.
I assumed the rather graceless position one assumes when one undergoes such exams and underwent the poking and prodding with only minor facial distortions. For me the greatest interest came from watching my PA's expression struggle to not change. With great professionalism she wondered when the last time was that I'd had sex.
Aside the 2nd: I want to interrupt here for a moment to state that, yes, sex continued during the vaginal grossness, but it changed. Not in any negative way, but when one's body doesn't play by the rules, you adapt. So when she asked me that very loaded question, I hesitated a heartbeat because it was a long clarification to a simple response I'd already given (her: how's your sex life? me: good [because it was])
I'm a little hazy on the back and forth that happened then, but I very clearly remember it ending with, "... and you see, your uterus, which is supposed to feel like the size of a golf ball, feels more like a southern cantaloupe. It feels like you're 5 months pregnant."
In an instant three scenarios in which I might have gotten pregnant crossed my mind, each with as strong a grasp on reality as greased teflon: 1) actual intercourse, which the reasons why that was out we’ve already discussed 2) drugged rape, which was also moot and finally miraculous conception, which would be especially ironic, given my heathen tendencies. Oh, or parthenogenesis, which to be fair, only occurred to me now, not then. But there it is.
At that point, given the relationship of trust we'd built over many years my PA may have been willing to believe me when I told her there was no way I was pregnant, but because she was also my PA and a scientist, she made a list of tests, at the top of them all, a pregnancy test.
When the pregnancy test came back negative, there was an unspoken air of "I told you sos" in the room. Her's, because I was right, and mine, because what, then, was in me that was the size of a North Carolina farmstand cantaloupe?
Fear and Wonder
Throughout it all I had a surprising lack of fear. The tests kept coming back with the right answers. I went in for biopsies and ultrasounds and blood tests, to different hospitals for different doctors. Beyond my PA, we now also included my gynecologist and in time the surgeon. I don't know whether it's my non-alarmist nature, whether I was in denial, or whether I just trusted the system, but I wasn't afraid. I marveled at the ultrasound pictures, and even went so far to ask for a picture print-out of my massive uterus.
Aside the 3rd: I was half-tempted to post it as my user-pic to go with all the other ultrasound images gracing my facebook feed at the time, but I did not.
Having heard and read and seen stories and images of hysterectomies, or c-sections or other surgeries involving the reproductive female bits, my ghast was perpetually flabbered at how simple my procedure was supposed to be. Unless something went wrong, of course, they always caveated.
The procedure was to be the easiest part for me, as I would sleep through it. I would have three incisions, each about an inch in size. My navel, which would from the surgery on serve a double purpose, as it would also serve as one of the incision locations, and eventually a secret double scar. They would use these openings to insert assorted tools and gizmos to essentially sonic out my uterus, and then glue me back up. Glue, y’all. They put me back together with the surgical equivalent of tape and paste. The few stitches they did use would dissolve. Dissolve or fall out, I can’t remember. I felt a little bit like I was headed for the infirmary at Hogwarts, as after everything was magicked out, I could just leave with my magic tape and it would vanish once it was all better.
When they added the anesthesia to the drip, I asked whether things were supposed to look like they were underwater. At least, I intended to, I don't think I managed to finish. Over and over I was in a state of continual “wow!”
Even those alone moments, the moments when you talk about whether you're sure, and how lucky you are that it's only adenomyosis, and that you are okay with not having your own kids, but if we really wanted to, I’d still have my ovaries, but truly, if we really wanted to we would adopt, and thank goodness for all the support, truly all of it. The moments where you ask, "are you sure?" and the answer is "I am, are you?" and even the moments where you go beyond and ask, "but what if?" I felt the wonder of being free to wonder, free to be amazed, free to marvel.
Especially those all-alone moments, where it's just me and the voices in my head. I did not worry. I did not have to. I had Bill, I had a job, I had health insurance, I lived in one of the best states in the Union to be sick, I had my choice of hospitals, I ended up with a surgeon who specialized in my condition, I had friends and family from all corners asking how they could help, in my mind, my bubble, my sphere, there was no cause for concern. Just continued wonder at what a blessed life I had at my time of great need.
Fear
The fear I felt was from others, from those who were concerned for me, whose minds were filled with all the scenarios that were so far from mine. I would have said a thousand times, that all would be fine, that I would be fine, to not worry, except that I’m a demi-Croat soaked in the superstitions of my people, and have an advanced degree wherein I spent a lot of time poring through tomes of folk and fairy tales, and legends and myths besides. I’ve read all about hubris. So I squeezed hands, and thanked everyone for their well wishes and kindnesses and good thoughts and hoped that would be enough. And those with the most and biggest fears, I squeezed tightest, and together we repeated all the things the good things the doctors had said, all the positive-for-me test results. That would have to do.
The Operation
This part is also a bit of a blur. Few things are truly clear. I remember thinking I should wash my feet extra hard that morning, so that foot stink would not be one of the odors they would have to contend with. I also remember wearing my favorite socks, but having to take them off because I would have to wear some disposable surgery socks. I remember every doctor and every nurse introducing themselves, asking how I was, and everyone one of them asking me which procedure I was undergoing. I had a nifty wristband with a barcode that they zapped every time someone new came around or I was moved to a new location. I mentally moved from Hogwarts to the Star Wars medical bay, expecting a bacta tank next.
I remember the surgeon chilling in the chair next to me, going over notes, making some of his own before handing me over to the anesthesiologist. I think. I have a vague recollection of being moved from one flat surface to another.
The next thing I remember is waking up to crackers and water, if I was up to it. I was disappointed at the crackers, as when I woke up from the biopsy, I had buttered toast, and in my bleary mind, I recall the toast being the best thing I’d ever eaten. I tried a cracker, and I must have made a face, because there was laughter from those surrounding me. What they didn’t know is that once I’d bitten into the cracker, it crumbled instantly into sand and turned the inside of my mouth into the driest desert. I asked if I could have the toast with the butter instead, with the response of more laughter. I suspect everyone was mostly relieved that I was immediately sounding very much like myself.
Aside the I-don’t-remembereth: I did get the toast eventually.
The plan had been for me to leave the same day after the operation. It was an outpatient procedure and I would have the benefit of drugs still having a solid effect on me so that the ride home would be relatively pleasant. However I ended up staying the night since my procedure took so long. The complications weren’t the expected ovaries not staying in place and thus needing removing, they were my uterus being so ridiculously big and needing more time than planned to be removed.
Aside the next: Here’s something I’m unclear on to this day. I don’t know whether it was because they injected dye into my bladder, or whether it was something in the pee collector thing that was on the toilet, but the first time I had to pee in the middle of the night, my urine was blue. I had my wits together enough to ask the nurse about that, but not enough to remember her response, except that her response was very “oh, yes of course” in nature and so I didn’t worry. The blue gradually vanished over the course of the day until finally it was the shade of yellow you expect.
Aside from the aside: I hadn’t seen proper yellow pee in years. It had constantly been tainted by something from my adenomyosial flow. Is that even a word? I don’t know. There you are. It was the first post-hysterectomy moment that made me grin from ear to ear.
After
I won’t say much about aftercare, because this post is already obscenely long and it can be quite neatly summed up with “take time, as much as you can” and “take all things SLOWLY” and “ask for help, even if it’s pulling up your underwear” and “enlist all the friends and family you can.”
Instead, I want to instead share this list of post-hysterectomy highlights:
No more pads. No more tampons. Finding hidden pads and/or tampons and being able to throw them out, because no one uses the size you do (did!!). Not spending money on pads and tampons. Built in birthcontrol. Swimming carefree. Changing your wardrobe to include colorful undies, white pants, dresses, skirts, because now you don’t have to worry about surprise blood showing up. Not constantly “casually” checking your clothes to feel if something’s come through where you can’t see. Clean sheets. Confidence to walk, run, strut, dance, sashay. No longer checking where you just sat for spots. Spreading your legs. Skinny dipping. Smaller handbags. No handbags. Eating steak without (almost) instantly opening the floodgates.
TLDR
With hints of too much information, I go into my crazy positive experience of having a laparoscopic hysterectomy due to adenomyosis, which may or may not be related to my seizure meds. The jury is still out on that. I talk about why it took me so many years to reach my point of “fed up!” and about the doctor’s visit that started the whole ball rolling. There are still parts missing. I do not talk much about kids. I don’t talk about missing a part of me, or not feeling like a whole woman, because none of those things apply to me. But I will save those other things or another time. Maybe.
I mention this, since it seems to be on everybody's mind, and with everybody, I mean those directly involved, and my facebook memories feed.
So naturally I went back to my post about the whole matter and was a little surprised at how superficial it was, and potentially not helpful at all.
So with today's rare post I'm going to revisit that post, but go a little deeper. Once again, consider yourself warned that today's contents are best viewed by adult women.
The Lead Up
It all started with my regular physical. For years, and I mean going on decades, I had been suffering from irregular periods. Menstrual issues are one of the many side effects of my seizure medication. Now, we’re not talking just your occasional bleeding on the wrong day irregular periods. In the beginning, perhaps. There were months when nothing happened. This isn’t a big deal, until you have a significant other. Then, during those months when nothing happened, it occurred on more than one occasion that I just-in-case purchased a pregnancy kit, despite condoms, diaphragms and spermicide-just-to-make-sure. Just because pregnancy wasn't probable, didn't mean it wasn't possible.
Aside: When visiting my old stomping grounds I will not infrequently interrupt discussion to point out a building that provided a quiet bathroom wherein I peed on a stick, heart pounding, please no, please no, please no.
Because in addition to irregular periods, one of the other side-effects of my seizure meds is an increased potential for birth-defects. And at that time, I hadn't decided one way or another whether I wanted children. I did know that if I chose to have them, they would have to have at least as good a home as I had, and I was years away from that.
Over time my irregular periods changed from sporadic to perpetual. That included a daily need for pads, and more back up pads. Because not infrequently a dam would burst and accumulated detritus would gush forth.
My closets, as a result were filled with black pants, and black underwear. Because blood doesn’t show on black, though it does on red. A lesson I learned the hard way. On black it typically just looks wet, until the cloth comes in contact with something lighter. Then your heart stops, you grab your handbag with the secret pads and spare tampons and rush to the restroom, hoping whichever side is spotted is the side you encounter no one on. As a result, I knew which chain stores had public restrooms, and furthermore, which ones and had nice ones.
On optimistic days, I would wear a dark skirt. On those days I would typically wear a tampon with a pad, just in case. (That was also a lesson learned the hard way) Optimistic days were also days when sex might happen. Inevitably before proper post-sex cuddles could occur I would rush preventatively to the bathroom to put all the non-sex related fluid trappers in place again.
Years passed, and finally I grew sick of it. Changing medication wasn’t an option for me, as it took a long trial and error of finding the right one at the right dosage. For almost a decade now, it’s been working (knock on wood) So if the meds couldn’t change, something else had to. I could handle the pregnancy scares; what I couldn't deal with was the constant reassurance from my body that I wasn't.
The Initial Visit
I went in for my physical, for which I had prepared a list of questions. They were mostly follow ups to follow ups to the initial question. But before I could get to my second question the weirdness happened. There was the usual, "Okay, so let's have a look" because with something like this, something I'd dismissed for years, something I'd lived with because certainly it was inevitable due to the medicine's side-effects, right? you have to take a closer look, run extra tests and scans, because now it's a different game, and that's good medicine, that's good science.
I assumed the rather graceless position one assumes when one undergoes such exams and underwent the poking and prodding with only minor facial distortions. For me the greatest interest came from watching my PA's expression struggle to not change. With great professionalism she wondered when the last time was that I'd had sex.
Aside the 2nd: I want to interrupt here for a moment to state that, yes, sex continued during the vaginal grossness, but it changed. Not in any negative way, but when one's body doesn't play by the rules, you adapt. So when she asked me that very loaded question, I hesitated a heartbeat because it was a long clarification to a simple response I'd already given (her: how's your sex life? me: good [because it was])
I'm a little hazy on the back and forth that happened then, but I very clearly remember it ending with, "... and you see, your uterus, which is supposed to feel like the size of a golf ball, feels more like a southern cantaloupe. It feels like you're 5 months pregnant."
In an instant three scenarios in which I might have gotten pregnant crossed my mind, each with as strong a grasp on reality as greased teflon: 1) actual intercourse, which the reasons why that was out we’ve already discussed 2) drugged rape, which was also moot and finally miraculous conception, which would be especially ironic, given my heathen tendencies. Oh, or parthenogenesis, which to be fair, only occurred to me now, not then. But there it is.
At that point, given the relationship of trust we'd built over many years my PA may have been willing to believe me when I told her there was no way I was pregnant, but because she was also my PA and a scientist, she made a list of tests, at the top of them all, a pregnancy test.
When the pregnancy test came back negative, there was an unspoken air of "I told you sos" in the room. Her's, because I was right, and mine, because what, then, was in me that was the size of a North Carolina farmstand cantaloupe?
Fear and Wonder
Throughout it all I had a surprising lack of fear. The tests kept coming back with the right answers. I went in for biopsies and ultrasounds and blood tests, to different hospitals for different doctors. Beyond my PA, we now also included my gynecologist and in time the surgeon. I don't know whether it's my non-alarmist nature, whether I was in denial, or whether I just trusted the system, but I wasn't afraid. I marveled at the ultrasound pictures, and even went so far to ask for a picture print-out of my massive uterus.
Aside the 3rd: I was half-tempted to post it as my user-pic to go with all the other ultrasound images gracing my facebook feed at the time, but I did not.
Having heard and read and seen stories and images of hysterectomies, or c-sections or other surgeries involving the reproductive female bits, my ghast was perpetually flabbered at how simple my procedure was supposed to be. Unless something went wrong, of course, they always caveated.
The procedure was to be the easiest part for me, as I would sleep through it. I would have three incisions, each about an inch in size. My navel, which would from the surgery on serve a double purpose, as it would also serve as one of the incision locations, and eventually a secret double scar. They would use these openings to insert assorted tools and gizmos to essentially sonic out my uterus, and then glue me back up. Glue, y’all. They put me back together with the surgical equivalent of tape and paste. The few stitches they did use would dissolve. Dissolve or fall out, I can’t remember. I felt a little bit like I was headed for the infirmary at Hogwarts, as after everything was magicked out, I could just leave with my magic tape and it would vanish once it was all better.
When they added the anesthesia to the drip, I asked whether things were supposed to look like they were underwater. At least, I intended to, I don't think I managed to finish. Over and over I was in a state of continual “wow!”
Even those alone moments, the moments when you talk about whether you're sure, and how lucky you are that it's only adenomyosis, and that you are okay with not having your own kids, but if we really wanted to, I’d still have my ovaries, but truly, if we really wanted to we would adopt, and thank goodness for all the support, truly all of it. The moments where you ask, "are you sure?" and the answer is "I am, are you?" and even the moments where you go beyond and ask, "but what if?" I felt the wonder of being free to wonder, free to be amazed, free to marvel.
Especially those all-alone moments, where it's just me and the voices in my head. I did not worry. I did not have to. I had Bill, I had a job, I had health insurance, I lived in one of the best states in the Union to be sick, I had my choice of hospitals, I ended up with a surgeon who specialized in my condition, I had friends and family from all corners asking how they could help, in my mind, my bubble, my sphere, there was no cause for concern. Just continued wonder at what a blessed life I had at my time of great need.
Fear
The fear I felt was from others, from those who were concerned for me, whose minds were filled with all the scenarios that were so far from mine. I would have said a thousand times, that all would be fine, that I would be fine, to not worry, except that I’m a demi-Croat soaked in the superstitions of my people, and have an advanced degree wherein I spent a lot of time poring through tomes of folk and fairy tales, and legends and myths besides. I’ve read all about hubris. So I squeezed hands, and thanked everyone for their well wishes and kindnesses and good thoughts and hoped that would be enough. And those with the most and biggest fears, I squeezed tightest, and together we repeated all the things the good things the doctors had said, all the positive-for-me test results. That would have to do.
The Operation
This part is also a bit of a blur. Few things are truly clear. I remember thinking I should wash my feet extra hard that morning, so that foot stink would not be one of the odors they would have to contend with. I also remember wearing my favorite socks, but having to take them off because I would have to wear some disposable surgery socks. I remember every doctor and every nurse introducing themselves, asking how I was, and everyone one of them asking me which procedure I was undergoing. I had a nifty wristband with a barcode that they zapped every time someone new came around or I was moved to a new location. I mentally moved from Hogwarts to the Star Wars medical bay, expecting a bacta tank next.
I remember the surgeon chilling in the chair next to me, going over notes, making some of his own before handing me over to the anesthesiologist. I think. I have a vague recollection of being moved from one flat surface to another.
The next thing I remember is waking up to crackers and water, if I was up to it. I was disappointed at the crackers, as when I woke up from the biopsy, I had buttered toast, and in my bleary mind, I recall the toast being the best thing I’d ever eaten. I tried a cracker, and I must have made a face, because there was laughter from those surrounding me. What they didn’t know is that once I’d bitten into the cracker, it crumbled instantly into sand and turned the inside of my mouth into the driest desert. I asked if I could have the toast with the butter instead, with the response of more laughter. I suspect everyone was mostly relieved that I was immediately sounding very much like myself.
Aside the I-don’t-remembereth: I did get the toast eventually.
The plan had been for me to leave the same day after the operation. It was an outpatient procedure and I would have the benefit of drugs still having a solid effect on me so that the ride home would be relatively pleasant. However I ended up staying the night since my procedure took so long. The complications weren’t the expected ovaries not staying in place and thus needing removing, they were my uterus being so ridiculously big and needing more time than planned to be removed.
Aside the next: Here’s something I’m unclear on to this day. I don’t know whether it was because they injected dye into my bladder, or whether it was something in the pee collector thing that was on the toilet, but the first time I had to pee in the middle of the night, my urine was blue. I had my wits together enough to ask the nurse about that, but not enough to remember her response, except that her response was very “oh, yes of course” in nature and so I didn’t worry. The blue gradually vanished over the course of the day until finally it was the shade of yellow you expect.
Aside from the aside: I hadn’t seen proper yellow pee in years. It had constantly been tainted by something from my adenomyosial flow. Is that even a word? I don’t know. There you are. It was the first post-hysterectomy moment that made me grin from ear to ear.
After
I won’t say much about aftercare, because this post is already obscenely long and it can be quite neatly summed up with “take time, as much as you can” and “take all things SLOWLY” and “ask for help, even if it’s pulling up your underwear” and “enlist all the friends and family you can.”
Instead, I want to instead share this list of post-hysterectomy highlights:
No more pads. No more tampons. Finding hidden pads and/or tampons and being able to throw them out, because no one uses the size you do (did!!). Not spending money on pads and tampons. Built in birthcontrol. Swimming carefree. Changing your wardrobe to include colorful undies, white pants, dresses, skirts, because now you don’t have to worry about surprise blood showing up. Not constantly “casually” checking your clothes to feel if something’s come through where you can’t see. Clean sheets. Confidence to walk, run, strut, dance, sashay. No longer checking where you just sat for spots. Spreading your legs. Skinny dipping. Smaller handbags. No handbags. Eating steak without (almost) instantly opening the floodgates.
TLDR
With hints of too much information, I go into my crazy positive experience of having a laparoscopic hysterectomy due to adenomyosis, which may or may not be related to my seizure meds. The jury is still out on that. I talk about why it took me so many years to reach my point of “fed up!” and about the doctor’s visit that started the whole ball rolling. There are still parts missing. I do not talk much about kids. I don’t talk about missing a part of me, or not feeling like a whole woman, because none of those things apply to me. But I will save those other things or another time. Maybe.