About a year ago, I underwent a hysterectomy to correct some long standing issues. When I say that I was terrified, I am not exaggerating. I was an anxious child in a midnight room, a snarling monster beneath my bed. It was dramatic ordeal for me and, I am sure, for many women.
I expected the fear that I experienced. I was also prepared for the physical discomforts that would follow surgery. What I was perhaps unprepared for, was the intense emotional reaction that I experienced post surgery. My healing time created much opportunity to think and reflect – let’s face it, what else was I able to do? Over the ensuing weeks, I kept track of all my musings, both the mundane and, for me at least, profound. The result of which is this list.
Lessons Learned from My Hysterectomy
* It is possible to mourn a uterus that you were happy to surrender. It is absolutely essential to grieve when the ability to create life no longer resides within you. Especially when that grief was unexpected.
* The operating room is simply a workplace. Despite being a place of terror for me, for hospital staff it is commonplace, like a classroom within the teacher’s school. Inside it, staff do commonplace things. They lounge about under brilliant white light, arms flung out over chair backs while they chat about the dangers of resort vacations.
* Those in the most specialized professions can behave unprofessionally. For example, a doctor who indulges in conflict with an OR nurse as they prepare their patient (unfortunately, me) for general anesthetic, is acting unprofessionally. When a patient is scared, they need kind attention. They need not witness petulance.
* Sometimes patients are treated callously, a chore to complete, an item to be crossed from a lengthy list. Your doctor can forget that someone, YOU, lives within your body.
* Wedding rings are as essential as wings for doves, and should not require removal for surgery.
* The biker façade can shelter the tenderest of hearts.
A lengthy surgery time caused my strong, no-nonsense husband to stand sentinel outside of the recovery room doors, refusing to sit in the waiting room. Strong, bearded men are capable of fear too.
* The simple act of waking from anesthetic is monumental to some of us! We do so with huge smiles and many declarations of gratitude. It’s all good! Do not judge. If you must laugh, do so discreetly.
* All jobs are important. My stepdad once told us that it didn’t matter what we chose to do as a profession, as long as we did it to the best of our ability. One of the kindest people that we encountered during my hospital stay was the orderly who wheeled me to my hospital room after surgery. He laughed quietly at my many declarations of gratitude (Remember: I was VERY happy to be awake) and checked on me each day of my stay. While his job is probably considered far below ‘doctor’ on society’s hierarchy of importance, he did it well and was a comfort to me and my family.
* When someone tells you that they are in pain, believe them. Do not assume that someone’s discomfort is exaggerated or imagined. As a patient I was in a position of helplessness. Dependent upon others and in a tremendous amount of pain. Many explained to me why it was impossible for this pain to exist and many took the time to discredit my discomfort. Only one empathetic nurse carefully listened, and patiently checked. She soothed and fixed and she earned my gratitude forevermore. A locked catheter hurts. It is incredibly important to believe a patient who insists that her catheter hurts! Easing of pain is important but validating it is vital.
* Our perceptions color our reality. At what I considered to be my weakest and most helpless time, an acquaintance declared me to be a warrior. Where I perceived vulnerability, she saw strength. Perceptions matter.
* A mother’s love does not fade with your age. While her active involvement in your day to day may lesson, her love for you occupies that same boundless space from your childhood. There is no sand-filled hourglass that measures out her love in diminishing quantities as you age. Your mom loves. Period. MY mom loves me with the exact fierceness with which I love MY daughter. During surgery, she was here. Post surgery, she was here. Gathering me into a blanket of care. Her desire to protect and support me did not diminish with my age. For me, this revelation was humbling and shattering.
* Staples should be used on paper only.
* Hospital food? I like it. Each day I was offered a list of food options by a happy woman with an iPad. After years of being the main source of nourishment for my family, this service felt like a luxury.
* Hot peppermint water delivered by a smiling nurse during the wee hours is better than the sweetest wine.
* Crying is a necessary counterpart to trauma. In fact, it is a visceral, primal reaction as unstoppable as rain in April. Crying for whole days will not cause irreparable damage, however not crying may. It really is ok to cry.
* Pets should be permitted in hospital rooms.
* Do not underestimate the value of a private hospital room. After two nights in a hectic ward, the final night of privacy and quiet was soul restoring.
* Relinquish dignity. At least for a couple of weeks. For a time, all bodily functions become everyone’s business; do not be shy about sharing. Fiber has the potential to become your very best friend.
* Small kindnesses matter. A compassionate word; your husband’s lovely face waiting right there, right where you left it before your nap; berries and yogurt from your mom; neighbors waiting in the window as you return home…small kindnesses have huge impacts.
* When your dad calls every day for weeks, it’s important to answer every time. You may exhaust topics of conversation. When that happens, in every awkward silence hear his love and worry. Not all are gifted with eloquence and love sometimes resides in the pauses.
* Community health nurses are amazing. They are a comforting wealth of knowledge that fill all the gaps left once you return home.
* Bruises, even huge, ugly black ones that cover your entire lower half, eventually fade. They are like the scariest of dreams, hazy and difficult to recall in the morning.
* One of the most difficult tasks is to be tasked with doing nothing. Surrendering independence to heal and be cared for is incredibly hard. It is also vital. Do nothing. Your body requires it.
* Anticipate feeling useless. Like socks in a heatwave.
* Never miss an opportunity to read in a swing. Instantly, you are a child of eight.
* Books are ready, steadfast companions.
* Despite what one may think, after one week all pain does not disappear, you are not healed and ready to rock and roll. Despite my inner mindset, I am not Wonder Woman.
* Speaking of pain: use ice packs. Lots of them. And understand that you may never cook another frozen pea…
* Healing is tiring. Naps are fortifying. 8:00 bedtimes are acceptable. Cherish the human who keeps an 8:00 bedtime with you. He is rare.
* Ignore dust bunnies. Let that shit go. Dust bunnies do not inflict pain. Hernias do. Don’t risk it.
* Embrace the opportunity to reflect. When the road bends, taking stock of what you leave behind is liberating.
* Sometimes the universe has other plans. At the recommended six weeks post surgery, I rejoiced in the opportunity to resume my walks and gentle yoga. I had made it! My knee chose that exact week to swell to twice its’ normal size. I believe the universe sent me a reminder to “Go slow. Be still.” The universe knows.
* Let go and let God, whatever your version of god may be. My husband once described this as the squealing child who, with closed eyes, jumps from the side of the swimming pool into their mother’s waiting arms. Faith. That someone’s arms will enfold you. Acknowledge that we essentially control nothing, no matter how much ‘will’ we exert upon that which scares us. Take a deep breath and jump.
* Scars, like most things in life, are temporary. They fade and diminish over time. They are badges of honor, not sources of shame. Reflections of pain endured and survived. Echoes of true strength. My scarred belly will never shame me.
* My body is a gift, a vessel capable of tremendous things. It blessed me with the most precious child, a daughter who supplies my life with joy and light every single day. It is a portal to creativity and a vehicle to journey and explore this incredible planet. I can choose to treat it with kind compassion, or with judgment and contempt.
As I age, my body ages and the things I believe come to bear fruit upon it. For example, if I treat it tenderly and with care, it rewards me with health and vitality. If I am harsh in my perception, it responds in kind, reflecting back an image unkempt and unpleasant to me. At the end of the day, it reflects back upon me, my every thought about it. Therefore, I am learning to approach this body with the gentlest respect and kindest grace.
* Ultimately, the most important lesson that my hysterectomy has taught: I am loved and love deeply in return. My life is blessed by many people who love and value me profoundly. I am gently encircled within their care and buoyed by their support. I try to remember each day, to love them fully in return, to express gratitude for their presence within my life, to acknowledge that I genuinely see and appreciate them. At the end of every day, nothing else matters nearly as much as this.