Tomorrow I’m having an organ removed.
The organ is my uterus.
I’d like to say it’s nonessential but that’s not altogether true.
It’s a decision that’s weighed on me for years. I’ve held onto it at the urging of doctors and well because I don’t like invasive anything, regardless of how much trouble something is causing me. Some people run courageously toward surgery. I run like a scared little girl in the opposite direction—which is not always the smartest decision.
What I do is I holistic it to death. I acupuncture it, tincture, and energy work it until it’s no longer a bother.
That has worked for me with everything. But this organ has given me a run for my money. It’s wanted my unwavering attention for the past twenty-something years.
Fuck. I’m fifty-eight. I’m tired of the fight. I’m waving the white flag. I’m over it.
Due to the fact that I chose NOT to have children, this organ has been as useful to me as an oven is to someone who doesn’t enjoy cooking. Oh, again, I guess that would be me, so… the oven gets it next.
Anyhow, it has been a long time coming and I won’t bore you with the gory details. I’m only telling you about it because:
1. I may not feel up to writing this weekend.
2. You SO wish you could be a fly on the wall in post-op. I’m told I’m hilarious in post-op. That I need to stay under the influence of the copious amount of chemicals (anesthesia I’m guessing), and take it on the road. Seriously. Hey, maybe Facebook Live?
3. I’m not sure how I feel about yanking out one of the only organs that make me different than a man.
Thoughts: I’ve grown things in my uterus my entire life. Just not people.
I’ve never professed to be maternal. Nurturing, yes. Maternal, not so much.
Maternal involves self-sacrifice. The kind that is not convenient. The kind that pays dividends that are not always obvious. It has been my observation that you must possess a certain amount of altruism to be maternal. High levels that replace all of the blood in your veins, influencing every decision you make.
That cause you to miss a hair appointment that took you months to get in order to pick up a sick kid. Stuff like that.
I’d like to say I’m that person—but we all know I’m not.
More thoughts: Maybe some of us stand in line for the standard issue female body even though we have an inkling we may never use it to its full potential.
I feel sorry for my uterus. It drew the short straw. Maybe next time it can be a Duggar womb.
But ultimately I get the last say so I’m saying a very grateful, heartfelt but emphatic…goodbye.
Carry on,
xox
