I remember the first time I heard someone say that they were so glad they had a hysterectomy. At the time I thought it was odd. Don’t get me wrong, I had a hate hate relationship with my uterus. The only good thing it did for me was help carry my now grown daughter from her conception to her birth. Heck I even had issues with one of my ovaries but that’s another post for another day.
I was in my early to mid thirties, one of my older friends (most of my friends are older, one of the perks of being a pastor’s wife) had just had a hysterectomy and she was ranting and raving about how amazing it was and how she wished that she’d done it sooner. I was still hoping for more kids then, I couldn’t believe that someone was actually excited about getting rid of their baby maker. I still had hope that my own personal one could pull out a miracle or two and didn’t dare let myself believe that life without it would be better.
Over the years, I had other friends have theirs removed. Most of those stories were not the celebratory brag that still echoed in my mind. In fact, most were precautionary tales or last ditch efforts at a normal life. How has medicine come so far and still have so much more to figure out?
Fast forward a few years, insert a few miscarriages, a diagnosis of PCOS (poly cystic ovary syndrome, surprise it’s actually not an ovary disease!), one start of a pandemic and a positive pregnancy test. It was early enough in the pandemic that Joel and I went to the intake appointment together. I went by myself for the first exam. Things were weird, I was measuring correctly but there had been some bleeding, no heartbeat was found with the sonogram and there wasn’t an ultrasound available in the office. She’d asked if I’d taken a pregnancy test recently. Why would she ask that? They scheduled my first ultrasound, I was hopeful, not too concerned but I did take a pregnancy test, it came back negative. I confirmation biased myself into believing that tests stop working once you’re pregnant for a while thanks to Dr. Google. I went to the ultrasound with a bandana as my mask because masks were just starting to happen. I’m sure you already know that I was no longer pregnant, the enlarged uterus was because of fibroids.
Fast forward through some janky phone call doctor visits, a trip to the hospital, and a removed uterus that took way longer than planned, lots of cute encouraging bandaids on my belly, and a video of my insides floating around in academia as an instruction tool on scar tissue vs endometriosis.
At that point, I didn’t just not want any more miscarriages, heavy periods (heavy like could barely leave the house using a cup), a week of recovery from said periods, constant anemia, I also discovered that I didn’t want even the possibility of having another infant. And I somehow turned into my friend, the one that hooted and hollared, celebrating its removal from my life. They left the ovaries so technically I still have perimenopause and menopause to look forward to but that’s another story for another day.
Here’s the real story. All those young years, I wanted children, even though I’m not a fan of infants. God and I went to fisticuffs over it most every period. And it wasn’t until God and I got done wrestling and I gave up my uterus that I realized how many people God was putting in front of me to love and care for. I thought I needed to make people and all I really needed was to make room in my life and God filled it up.