Hi, I’m Tania, I’m 42 at the time of writing this and on some as yet unknown date in 2017 I will be having a partial hysterectomy.
I had never heard of fibroids before September 2016. It’s safe to say I’m uncomfortably familiar with them now. I know the different types, the different placements, the different treatments. I know which ones I have and why the number and size of them render any option but a hysterectomy pointless.
I also know why all my attempts to eat healthily and exercise were having little effect on my belly. I am the about the size I would be if I were 5 months pregnant. That’s how many and how large these little blighters are.
Although I’d been feeling a little uncomfortable I could rationalise it that I could still get out of bed, go to work, so therefore I fully expected to be told to just get on with it and they’d eventually go away in ten or fifteen years. These things thrive on hormones that eventually fade from our system. I didn’t like the thought of having them but I didn’t have the extreme symptoms Google kept finding for me so I told myself not to expect anything. The referral was to stop me bothering my gp surgery, that was all.
So it was a shock to leave Worthing hospital having put myself on the waiting list.
When “hysterectomy or nothing” was bluntly stated by my gp surgery I imagined that such a procedure would immediately dump me into post-menopausal womanhood. A place I am not ready to go. I saw it as the end of my life as I knew it and the start of a phase that I wasn’t ready to start. We all know that phase is coming as women, but there’s a rough timestamp on it, and I haven’t yet met anyone who is eager to bring it forward.
Something else I’ve learned is that it doesn’t mean that. Once I’ve recovered, I can go about my life as normal. Just minus the home of a couple dozen fibroids (the largest and most troublesome of which I’ve named Freddie. Naming things helps.).
Having never seriously wanting kids – and not seeing that changing in the next few years – it’s not a problem to consider a hysterectomy in those terms. Although it’s one thing to make that decision myself and another to realise that choice won’t exist in another 12 months. I still don’t want kids (I love them, I also love giving them back), but I want that to be my choice. And soon it won’t be. There’s a weird ass unexpected grief in that. I’m not mourning the loss of being able to have children as the loss of that being my choice.
I want the surgery. I’m uncomfortable and it’s not easing. It’s slowly increasing and I still have months to wait. I’m also very scared. This is major surgery. Abdominal Surgery. Weeks of recovery time. And that’s keeping away from the lists of possible complications that I’m not going to read. Apart from having my stupid toenails removed because genetics insisted they kept fucking up the simplest job, I’ve never had surgery. Never stayed in hospital. I’ve not even broken a bone. And here I am facing having an entire bit of me removed.
So this is me. This is me writing about it because that makes me own it. Makes it somehow easier to deal with. If it can be written down, it can be dealt with.