Remember when I said I was going to have to have fibroid surgery? Well, it’s already happened. It’s funny how sometimes you wait so long for something and then, bam!, it’s over. Here’s how it happened.
The surgeon at my fertility practice was booked up until the fall (how does that happen?), so I started looking into other surgeons who could do it. My fertility doctor mentioned one that was not in my plan, so I had to cross him off the list. When I asked her for other recommendations, she told me to look for a gynecological oncologist. A Google search for my local hospital revealed a surgeon whose name sounded familiar—sure enough, a friend had recommended him to me weeks earlier, but I had forgotten. I made an appointment a month away.
But once we had that appointment, things moved quickly. He seemed to know right away what needed to be done—after all, fibroid removal is probably an easy case for him. Although I still hadn’t been sure if I wanted to proceed with the surgery, after talking with him I realized if I wanted any chance of getting pregnant again I would have to do it. Plus, he said there was a 50/50 chance I’d need the fibroid removed at some point in the future. So we decided on the spot to book the surgery.
He had said to expect to wait two to three weeks for the surgery, but when the nurse came in she offered us a date only a little over a week away—May 10.
And now it’s over. I haven’t been able to blog because the recovery was a little tougher than I expected. It was full-on cut-me-open surgery, much like a C-section. The surgeon removed four fibroids, one of which was on my right tube, so he went ahead and took that out, too. Two nights in the hospital, and then the rest of the week in bed at home. And it still hurts.
But the most difficult part of the whole thing was what to do with LM. I certainly couldn’t take care of him—even now that I’m feeling a little better, he requires constant wrangling and has lately been prone to hitting and kicking. And I can barely walk.
Thanks to an army of grandparents, we are making it work. To be honest, I was looking forward to having a break from LM. He has just been so tough to handle lately, and motherhood is a 24/7 job. There are no days off. So having a week or so to rest and recuperate sounded really nice.
But I didn’t count on the boredom, even depression, that comes from being stuck in bed while life goes on around you. At first it was a welcome change, but as whole days went by when I didn’t see LM, I started to actually miss him. Someone else was holding him and taking him places and putting him to bed. Someone else was playing with him and feeding him and singing with him.
After a couple days at home Foggy Daddy brought LM into the bedroom to see me. We had tried to keep him away, lest his penchant for hitting was directed at my stomach. Somehow he looked older. Somehow he sounded like he had more words and was talking more. Something was just, I don’t know, different about him.
And when he left the room, I missed him.
I realized it was the longest I’d gone without picking up my child since he was born. I was able to give him a cursory kiss, but I longed to hold him and feel his weight on me as he napped on my shoulder. I longed to be the one he called for, the one who comforted him. Did he even miss me?
I’m sure that when I get back on my feet, I’ll wonder what in the world I was thinking. I’m sure when I’m back in the routine of caring for LM I’ll want another break, and wish I hadn’t squandered this one missing him. But if anything, this break gave me a chance to pause and to reflect on my place as LM’s mother. Yes, it’s unrelenting and tough. But it’s also filled with precious moments of snuggles and kissing and brushing the hair away from his forehead. Of watching his little mouth move as he chews. Of picking him up and swinging him around. Of just pure joy.
I’d forgotten that. I’m glad one of the side effects of surgery was to help me remember.
**Warning: possible TMI ahead**
I am using “bloody” here as both the literal meaning and the English curse word.
As part of my testing to see if I can get pregnant again, I had a saline sonogram, which is like a regular ultrasound except they squirt fluid up into your uterus, which somehow gives them a better picture of what’s going on in there. It’s kind of uncomfortable because they have to stick a catheter up through your cervix, and then you have some cramping afterwards because your uterus is thinking, “Get this stuff out of me now, please.”
I didn’t really expect for my doctor to find anything. That seems oddly naive and optimistic of me, especially in hindsight. But I had passed my second shot at a prep cycle (I failed the first), so I felt like things were looking up. Maybe I could even cycle in the next few weeks.
But the doctor did find something. A four-centimeter fibroid that is pushing into the cavity. She said she would consult with the surgeon and let me know, but it would probably require a hysteroscopy. This is a procedure in which they go in through the vagina and clean you out. It involves anesthesia, but you go home right afterwards and recovery time is minimal. There is no actual cutting involved.
The next day I got a call from the doctor. She tells me that the surgeon thinks I need to actually have real surgery to remove this thing. “Like a laparoscopy?” I asked her. I had a lap six years ago to remove endometriosis. It was an outpatient procedure that involved four small incisions, through which a camera was inserted and the surgery was performed. “No, a laparotomy,” the doctor replied. “Like a C-section.”
So, as I understand it, this would mean actually cutting me open and going at the fibroid from the outside of the uterus. It would involve a couple of nights in the hospital, two weeks until I can drive and at least two or three months until I can try to get pregnant. It’s that last bit that is killing me. I don’t want to wait anymore. Now our timeline just got pushed back almost half a year, by the time we will actually be able to get this thing scheduled (apparently the surgeon is very busy).
Foggy Daddy said that maybe this is a sign we should go with adoption. Except that I don’t believe in signs (and, I thought, neither did he). Maybe he just meant that this is evidence that pregnancy is not the best route for us to have more children.
OK, so say we sign up with the adoption agency whenever it is that they start letting in new families (they told me “spring,” whenever that means). Then we have to get all our paperwork in order, have our home study, etc. Then we wait. Who knows how long it could be? What if we are waiting for a year or more? Then I’ll be thinking, Damn, I should have just had the surgery.
But on the other hand, what if it takes a while to get pregnant? Or what if it doesn’t happen at all? Then I’m going to be thinking that we should have gone with adoption, which at least has a definite end point. There will be, at some point in the future, a baby for us through adoption.
Once again, I have to make a decision without all the information.
So then I descend back into anger. I hate my stupid body. I hate my uterus more than any other part, because that stupid organ killed a bunch of my babies and now it’s preventing me from having more.
I suppose I should be grateful for it, because it gave me Sam. But it grew him sideways in such a way that he had to come out with a planned C-section. He was wedged in there so well they had to call in another doctor. They called him a “difficult extraction.”
I saw a blog post once about a woman who was having a hysterectomy. The title was “Die, bloody bitch” (I googled but I couldn’t find it again). For some reason that line has always stuck with me. I have had endometriosis, adenomyosis, fibroids, you name it. I don’t know how I ended up with such a messed up reproductive system, but I have a feeling somewhere in my future, after I am done with all this trying to get pregnant business, a hysterectomy awaits.
And I will be glad to see it go.
Have you ever felt you “hated” a part of your body?