Episode 6
I live right outside of Nashville, TN. The county line is a mile from my house; I am 20 minutes from downtown Nashville where tens of thousands of tourists make their way to Broadway and the honkey tonk bars each week. We have tons of musicians and creative types, medical and business professionals, athletes, educators, non-profit and start-up folks, and the average 9-5 person.
I remember when I moved to Nashville, nearly a decade and a half ago, I was thrilled to be in a bigger city that I thought would be easier to date in. I had previously come from a small community where my primary social engagements were connected to the (very) large church that I attended, worked at, and volunteered at. Because of this, I knew most of the single men in my area that showed characteristics of a Godly man, but none of them piqued my interest. Not because of the hunting, fishing, and general “up north” life that they lived but because they never saw their lives as anything bigger than a tiny, northern Minnesota town where everyone knew each other, got married to their high school sweethearts and had 3-5 kids by the time they were 25.
At the time, that was what I wanted too. I lamented and believed that I was living in unrepented sin that I was unaware of because God never rewarded me with a husband. Despite fasting and praying, being held accountable, putting myself under the leadership and mentorship of those who were older and wiser, each of the men who would have qualified as a good candidate, due only to a shared faith, were not interested in me.
I tried to feign excitement and interest when someone new would come to our church or on the rare occasion that they were interested in me, but ultimately, I was never the type of woman they were looking for. I wasn’t the quiet, mousy, submissive type even though I tried. My occasionally timid demeanor was born only from the many times I was admonished for not being more ladylike, not allowing the men in my life to lead me, or because my natural skillset made men intimidated by me which would never work in a relationship where he was supposed to be the head and I the submissive wife.
I would be a rich lady right now if I had a dollar for every time someone pulled me aside to tell me that I needed to get back in my lane and practice submission with the men in my life so that I would be prepared for my future husband someday.
Despite being in leadership positions within various ministries, I remained single. Though I desperately desired to be satisfied in my singleness—since I was told this was the only way that God would deem me ready for a husband—the more I tried to be ok with being single and simply dating Jesus, the more difficult it became to believe that God would grant me a husband.
One night, in my late 20’s, I confided in my (former) best friend how confusing my singleness was and that I felt abandoned by God. In tears, I explained that I had tried so hard to follow all the rules, pray for my future husband, and be as patient as possible; I couldn’t figure out why God was withholding the gift of a husband from me. In no uncertain terms, she told me that I was still single because of past sins that God was still punishing me for and using to teach me a lesson. My job was to be faithful to God’s plan, trust that everything would work out and not ask additional questions.
(I never did figure out why it was so frowned upon to ask God questions…if he was the creator of the universe surely he could handle questions, right? Now I recognize that this was a tactic of gaining control, but back then, the not-questioning God thing only added more confusion and shame to what I was already feeling.)
***
When I moved to Nashville, I was ready for change in most areas of my life. Dating apps, as we know them today, were not used by most people and we had to meet the old fashioned way: through friends, church, or the guys that frequented the same Starbucks as I did. I eventually met my now ex-partner at church but after almost 2 years of an abusive relationship, I kicked him out of our home and my life.
By the time he left, I was over him—there was no more hemming and hawing about getting back together. We were never, ever getting back together (and that was way before T. Swift coined the phrase!) Since I was over him, I thought I was ready to get back out there with dating, so I started using some of the free dating apps (which I didn’t know then were considered hook-up apps, but I quickly learned). As it turned out, I was over him. But I was not over the impact of him which influenced which men piqued my interest.
For a few years I got in and out of situationships before my little heart simply could not take it and I vowed to do self-work before I dated again. I simply could not handle the heartache, pain, and confusion that I was experiencing constantly.
Over time as I resolved my trauma and recovered from all that I went through, I began to develop confidence in myself and how to navigate relationships and decided to put myself back out there. This time around, I was pleasantly surprised at the men I was meeting. At therapy one day I told my therapist that either all of the men in Nashville had gone to therapy since the last time I dated or I had changed who I was attracted to. While she didn’t discount that perhaps the men had gone to therapy, she encouraged me to consider that it was me who had changed. Who I was attracted to after taking a 3-year break from dating to focus on healing, was much different than in the past.
But there was something else. I was different too.
While I was proud of who I was and who I was becoming, I couldn’t deny that who I was, was not the typical woman that men in the South are looking for.
Though I am deeply kind, I am not sweet.
I value compassion and consideration, but I do not mince my words.
I do not seek out conflict, but I am not afraid to stand up for what I know to be right.
I am respectful and appreciative of others, but I do not dumb myself down or shape shift in order to make others comfortable.
I know how to bake a pie and grill a steak.
I own a sewing machine and a power drill.
I am non-religious, liberal, curvy, extremely intelligent, professionally successful, and uninterested in having children from my body.
Oh, and I’m letting my gray hair grow out.
***
“Are you planning on having kids?” My surgeon looked at me intently, waiting for my answer. “No” I quickly said, “in fact, I was going to ask if you would tie my tubes when you’re removing the fibroids.” She nodded and told me that was a possibility. My surgeon, who looked to be less than 10 years older than me, said that we needed to do another transvaginal ultrasound before we discussed surgical options. “But,” she went on, “if you’re not wanting to have kids, that gives us additional options.”
Ten minutes later, I was naked from the waist down, getting another ultrasound. Having watched all episodes of Grey’s Anatomy multiple times, I knew that surgeons were business with touches of bedside manner. Dr. M seemed to struggle at the small talk as she took measurements of my fibroids–which maybe was ok since it meant the ultrasound was only a few minutes. She flipped the lights back on, told me I could get dressed, and to meet her back in her office.
Sitting in her office, I glanced around the room–pictures of her medical credentials, her husband and child, and anatomical pictures of female genitalia littered the walls. Dr. M walked in a few moments later and as she sat down she looked me in the eyes and said, “do you want to have kids?” My mouth formed a tiny smile as I said “no”, again. I knew what she was doing–she was asking me a second time, per medical protocol, to make sure I was firm in my choice–a choice that would impact my surgical decisions.
I braced myself for pushback. Would she warn me that I might change my mind? Would she remind me that some of these options were permanent and irreversible? Would she ask me how I might handle conversations in the future with a partner about not having kids? I knew there were many doctors in Tennessee who would do that. Women in Tennessee aren’t allowed to get hysterectomies in many hospitals unless it is medically necessary or their legal husband signs off on it.
But she didn’t. She believed me and trusted my disclosure to her. I didn’t have to explain how long ago I had made that decision or why. I didn’t have to convince her that I wouldn’t change my mind. “Good” she said, “this gives us many options to choose from.”
Dr. M explained to me the size of the fibroids. The third explanation was the charm–despite seeing the written reports and meeting with my nurse practitioner a few weeks before, I had not yet wrapped my mind around the size of the fibroids. She, too, used hand motions to share the sizes; I was stunned.
My newest nephew had just been born the day before; this gave me the perspective I needed. One of my fibroids was as large as his head. Dr. M caught my shock and asked me to take a breath; I complied. She then asked me about my symptoms, noting also that it sounded as if I was going through perimenopause. Despite her being the third medical professional in less than a month who told me that, I brushed her statements off–it was too much to handle for that day.
Dr. M shared with me that the placement of my fibroids (higher up, close to the fallopian tubes) explained my extreme pain during ovulation as well as my lack of heavy periods during menstruation. She then gave me my options: do nothing, get a myomectomy (removing the fibroids) and a tubal ligation (per my request) or a total hysterectomy: taking the uterus, cervix, fallopian tubes and of course, the fibroids.
Once again I was in shock. A hysterectomy. I had expected the myomectomy as an option; I was prepared to schedule my surgery immediately, if needed. But the suggestion of a hysterectomy made me feel nauseous and shaky. She asked what my thoughts were and I admitted that I hadn’t been emotionally and mentally prepared for her to suggest a hysterectomy and asked her to, again, explain the benefits of that over a myomectomy. Dr. M could tell that I was perplexed and told me to not make a decision right then. She encouraged me to go home, talk to whomever I needed to talk to and call her surgery scheduler once I knew what I wanted to do.
I appreciated that I didn’t have to make a decision then and asked her about the logistics of the surgery and scheduling. She explained that the ideal procedure would be a laparoscopic surgery that would leave me with four tiny incision marks–one inside my belly button. She noted, however, that it would be necessary to do the surgery sooner than later since the larger of my two fibroids was so big that if it grew any more between now and the time of my surgery, she would need to, essentially, do a c-section.
I knew that it was my decision of what I needed to do; I knew that Dr. M was not allowed to tell me what to do–she could only make medical recommendations. It was clear that her recommendation was a hysterectomy; she told me that due to my age, the fibroids would grow back before I went through menopause and the likelihood that I would have to have a repeat surgery was high. She didn’t have to spell it out that she believed a hysterectomy was the best option for my health.
***
After stopping by the front desk to check out, I ran to my car as fast as I could. The tears were coming and by the time I got off the elevator to head into the parking lot, no amount of willpower could hold back my sobs. By some act of mercy, I remembered where I parked my car—something that is not typical of me—and I sat for a while trying to collect myself.
I was confused at the emotions.
Was I sad? Scared? Something else?
My body was shaking and heaving. This felt big–so big. Bigger than the surgery itself, but I couldn’t put my finger on what was happening.
***
My decision to not have children from my own body was a choice I had made many years before. For decades I believed that there was no other option but to have children. I grew up believing that the pinnacle of a woman’s life was to be married and have children. This is not to suggest there is anything wrong with this, simply, I’m just relaying that this was the only option that promised fulfillment and purpose. Within high control religion, me being a wife and mother meant that I was more of a woman, had wisdom, was trustworthy, and could be revered.
I could not deny that though there were children that I loved–children that I baby-sat, nieces and nephews, and children of friends, there was no pull toward motherhood. There was no jealousy or wishfulness when a friend or family member got pregnant; I did not dream of having baby-showers, decorating a nursery, or picking out a child’s name. I expected I would have kids but I wasn’t excited about it.
It dawned on me one day, in my early 30’s, that the plan to have children was a plan that others had given to me. Until that point, I had never considered that there were other options; I had never considered that I didn’t have to have children. So I began to try it on for size: imagine what it felt like if I allowed myself permission to not want to have children. And it felt so…freeing. I still remember the day I shared with a friend of mine, for the first time, that I didn’t want to give birth to children. It felt like a weight off my chest; I could make my own choice.
In fact, it was in making that choice that I felt free to go back to school for my PhD, open an additional business, and buy a house.
***
Sitting in my car in the parking garage outside my surgeon’s office, I knew the tears weren’t about a hidden want to have children that I had been burying for years, living in denial about the true desires of my heart. I could reason that losing an organ from your body was an emotional process. I recognized that the idea of a hysterectomy wasn’t something I had been mentally prepared for. I wasn’t shaming myself for the tears, but I couldn’t understand them.
It was still early afternoon; I knew my partner was still at work and wouldn’t be available to chat. I quickly typed a text to a close, same-age and life-stage friend who had a hysterectomy 18 months prior, asking her if we could go out for dinner the next night. I began my drive back home, oscillating between wiping tears out of my eyes and trying to tune into my body, looking for answers.
“Just take it all”...I glanced around my car to see if there was someone else there with me. I could have sworn it was an audible voice answering my questions of what to do. Realizing I was driving down the highway at 70mph with no one else in my car cued me into recognizing that this was a voice coming from within me. A voice of wisdom, a voice of answers. A voice of clarity. “Just take it all, we are so tired from everything these fibroids have caused”.
There it was.
Peace started to transcend upon me as I realized this was my body speaking to me. The answers were there; I knew what I needed to do. Emotions were still allowed, but the choice was clear.
By the time I got home, I was emotionally spent and headed straight to my bed to lie down. I dozed off and didn’t even realize when my partner walked in to check on me. He knelt by the bed as he witnessed my tears and the news I was sharing. He, too, was taken aback at my emotions. We had talked about the possibility of a future together and agreed that we were uninterested in having kids. He was wise enough to know that dating me meant tears for unexpected and unexplainable reasons, so he simply held my hand and assured me that he would be here for me and that we would get through it.
Three weeks later, he broke up with me.
After telling me he wasn’t happy and was done with the relationship, I sat on the couch in shock, trying to piece together what happened. My hysterectomy was the first thing that came to mind. I had already scheduled it—just a little over a month from that day—and what felt like making the best out of a not-so-great situation, felt even harder. But even then, I couldn’t figure out why. Sure, it was annoying to have to redesign my aftercare plan, reach out to other friends and family for support, and figure out how to navigate the recovery process alone, but again, the emotions were ever present and they confused me.
***
Not so long after he broke up with me, I decided to put myself back on the dating apps. Despite not really having much interest or energy to date, I wanted to see who was out there and if anyone piqued my interest.
As I mindlessly swiped through various profiles–absolutely an attempt to numb the overwhelm I was feeling from the upcoming surgery and the end of my relationship–I got some clarity.
In the past, on dating apps and seeking potential romantic partners, if someone said they wanted kids someday or weren’t sure about having kids, I would look at other factors before deciding to swipe right or left. I knew that it meant it was up for discussion. And, truth be told, I have always been of the mindset that if I ended up being with someone who was absolutely dead set on having a child (with me) that if it was the right person, I would consider it (at least for a moment!)
But this time around, as I looked at how potential suitors described themselves, I realized that my hysterectomy was now one more thing against me that made me more difficult to date.
I am non-religious, liberal, curvy, extremely intelligent, professionally successful, and uninterested in having children from my body.
Scratch that. I cannot have children from my body.
Even as I write that, it’s like a punch to the gut.
Again, it’s not that I was secretly hoping to change my mind or that I wasn’t solid in the decision that I made 7+ years ago.
It’s big. It’s final. It’s irreversible.
It feels like something I did wrong–something that is wrong with me. I don’t want to have children sounds different than I can’t have children.
Not being able to have children invites pity, assumptions that I am devastated, that I am not a real woman, or that I will be less satisfied in life because there is this thing I cannot have.
It impacts how others see and relate to me. It impacts the type of person who might be interested in me romantically. It sets me apart in another way that I am misunderstood or taken a step back from because I am different. I am not seen, by some, as a whole woman. I am seen as someone that will forever be wanting because I cannot give birth to a child which is supposedly one of the highest callings and greatest sources of joy a woman can experience.
Having a partner who was in this with me and who was on the same page as me in regard to not having children helped me feel safe–like I was not in this by myself. It didn’t feel as daunting. Being freshly broken up with meant I was making this decision entirely on my own and accepting whatever consequences–good or bad–would come.
It felt scary–there would be assumptions, judgments, and rejections because of this choice. I knew it wasn’t about needing to explain my choices to people and making them understand; but the thought of having to tell people the whole story sounded exhausting.
But then it started to feel empowering too. I reflected back to my decision to get an IUD several months before–I was making the best choice of the worst choices because I wanted to feel empowered, safe, and free. And here I was doing it again. I was making a decision that was for my health, my safety, and my freedom. It’s a powerful choice and it’s mine.
***
I don’t have a bow to wrap this up with; there are no easy answers. There are no 10-steps to figuring out how to navigate this, how to get rid of the confusion, or how to explain it to your friends, family, and culture at large that I am still fully, wholly a woman and that nothing about me has changed.
It’s just something that is, and something that I have to grapple with.
All that aside, I’m wondering if it’s worth it to keep growing my gray hair out or if coloring it dark brown (my old natural color) may help me “make up” for the fact that I am a kind, un-sweet, non-religious, successful woman in the South who is about to be barren.
(Just kidding, I’m keeping the gray!)
***
Next episode of The “Glory” of Suffering drops next week; click here to read any episodes you may have missed!