3:45am

My alarm was going off and I quickly hit the snooze button; it felt like I had just fallen asleep and I wasn’t ready to get up yet. I could hear footsteps in the bedroom above me and I groggily remembered that my parents were in my guest bedroom; they had flown in the night before to help me with my surgery recovery. I groaned, wishing that I could catch just a few more minutes of sleep but knew it wasn’t going to happen. 

It was the day of my surgery.

I got out of my bed and began stretching, as was my daily routine; I wondered how many weeks or months it would be before I would be able to stretch like that again. Despite having taken a shower the night before, I hopped in the shower again, as I had been instructed, so I could wash my body one more time with the antiseptic soap that had been given to me. 

I packed my hospital bag–Dr. M told me I needed to bring one in case they needed to switch to a c-section surgery (instead of laparoscopic) which would require a 3-day hospital stay. I smiled as I packed some of my splurge items: the Cozy Earth jogger set, a “Goodbye Uterus” coloring book, and my haflinger wool clogs since I anticipated bending over to tie my shoes would be painful. I reasoned that if I had to be in a hospital for multiple days I wanted to be as comfortable as possible. 

4:45am

My parents piled into my car; I sat behind the driver’s seat knowing that it would be less anxiety-producing for them to try and navigate downtown Nashville as rush hour traffic would soon begin. Dr. M told me at my pre-op appointment that I was her first surgery of the day and that I had better not be late. I didn’t take Dr. M to be a person who minced her words; my nervousness that morning was only toward making sure that I was there on time so the rest of her surgeries would go according to schedule.

My check-in time was set for 5:30am; at 5:27 I signed in, was given a urine test, blood drawn, and sent back to my seat to wait to be called to head to the surgery prep area. One by one people were called back into the surgery prep area. Despite having been the first one in the hospital waiting area, people who came an hour after me headed back as I remained seated. My nerves began to hit; I remembered Dr. M’s warning and reluctantly asked the nurse at the desk if I had been forgotten about. She was kind and assured me there was still plenty of time, despite my surgery being scheduled for 40 minutes from that point. 

Finally, the nurse called me back and I left my parents in the waiting room and began answering the battery of questions about my health. For about 25 minutes, everything was a blur–changing into a gown, getting hooked up to an IV, blood pressure taken, meeting with the anesthesiologist and his nurse, more pokes and prods…and then silence. 

I welcomed having a moment to breathe and immediately closed my eyes and envisioned a scenery that represents calm and safety for me. I could feel my heart rate decreasing and peace starting to wash over me. 

Just then, a kind nurse walked in and cheerfully asked how I was doing. Per protocol, she asked me what surgery I was having and if I had any questions. She began scanning my preoperative medications and made small talk with me about the disgusting electrolyte drink I had been required to drink pre-surgery. I liked her. 

After she gave me my pre-operation concoction (about 10 pills in total), she told me Dr. M would be in shortly to answer any questions. She caught my eye and reminded me that Dr. M would be in a hurry and to have any questions ready to go–I saw the corners of her mouth curl upwards and I knew that she understood Dr. M’s businesslike persona. And, as she predicted, when Dr. M came in, she very formally asked if I had any questions and promptly walked back out.

The nurse then discussed what would happen next: the final steps of surgery prep, the surgery, and the aftercare process. She let me know I would be in the ICU to be cared for until I woke up and then would be transferred back to my room, noting that according to insurance protocols I had four hours from the time I was released from the ICU to be well enough to go home. I was shocked at the short time table but she quickly added that if I needed more than four hours they would work to get approval from my insurance.

She seemed to have an inside track to my usual habits because she looked me square in the eyes and said “do not downplay your pain or what you need. If you need something, if you have pain, if something doesn’t feel right, you let the nurses know. Do NOT pretend everything is ok.” 

Her words hung in the air as if they needed to slowly descend upon me in order for their full effect to take place. I smiled and told her ok; she gave me one more reassuring look before she grabbed my chart and began heading out of the room while reminding me one more time to be honest.

***

I don’t know exactly when it was that I learned to downplay my needs, my pain, my preferences, or my discomfort. There is no singular moment that stands out, but somewhere along the way, I learned that my needs were not as important as others’. Perhaps it’s because I’m the oldest child. Or because I was taught about JOY (Jesus first, then Others, then You/myself). Or because I indicated needs that were unable to be met, even by the most well-intentioned caregivers. 

The origin of where I learned this is less important than knowing that I did learn this. And I lived this. 

I ended up in relationships where I over-functioned and over-gave only to find out that when I had relational needs as well, I was discarded. I worked jobs and served in spaces where more and more was required from me and when time off or rest was requested, it was met with judgemental glances and accusations that I wasn’t a true believer or depending on God to meet my needs. I ended up in a career where my sole job is giving to others in a unique (and amazing!) relationship but where I often don’t prioritize my needs because others’ feel greater. 

____

Right before the turn of the calendar year from 2022 to 2023, I sat down to reflect on what I wanted the next year to be. I had what felt like a million ideas come to mind of what I wanted 2023 to be like but as I slowed down and tuned in to my body, the message from within seemed to be one of a much smaller scale. Basic needs. 

(I should note that on a practical level, my basic needs are taken care of. I have a roof over my head, a reliable car to get me places, a stocked refrigerator and pantry, a relatively safe neighborhood, and a paycheck to cover my living expenses. I recognize that there are people who do not have this, or do not have this in such a way that it allows for comfort or a feeling of stability. I believe it’s possible to validate and offer compassion towards individuals in those situations as well as being proud and grateful for providing these things for myself.)

I was curious about the internal messaging of ‘basic needs’ for the upcoming year. It didn’t take long before I knew exactly why it was that this was what my body was asking to focus on. 

I have done extensive trauma resolution and recovery work. The better part of the past decade has been spent learning, growing, changing, and healing. I can look back, with fondness, over the last 10 years and know that while it has not been easy, I am deeply proud of myself for my tenacity, motivation, and persistence. I have changed immensely; I like who I am. 

Essentially, the “big stuff” was out of the way. 

What I recognized, however, was that in my experiences of survival and deep therapy work, my only focus was survival and deep therapy work. I was getting through each day as opposed to being present and living in each day, for quite some time. I’m not ashamed of that, it’s simply what happened. As more of my trauma resolved and I recovered from what happened to me, I noticed increased capacity for the stuff of life, a greater bandwidth to deal with stress, and space to lean into creativity, fun, connection, and relationships. And while that was important, there were still areas lacking that I would brush past in order to move on to the next thing–whatever that was in a given moment. 

Basic needs. 

I had been through a process of grieving and coming to a place of acceptance that I was running my body ragged and wasn’t honoring my basic human needs. I didn’t eat enough. I didn’t sleep enough. I didn’t move my body enough. I had been unintentionally starving myself for nearly two decades. I wasn’t paying attention to my needs–needs that others may take for granted but I had learned to dismiss, even far before I ever understood trauma or how my experiences impacted me.

____

There’s been a recent trend amongst celebrities, public figures, and on social media of individuals documenting their explant surgeries–that is, having breast implants removed. Regardless of their reason for getting them in the first place, many people are experiencing adverse reactions and significant, unexplainable, medical issues from having foreign objects, like breast implants, in their body. Despite being considered medically safe and something that many people have, we are now seeing long term effects of breast implants that impede a person’s overall well being, physical, and mental health.

Interestingly, when the implants and other built up scar tissue is removed, the symptoms alleviate and people begin to report that they feel “normal” again. I remember witnessing, first hand, a friend of mine who went through tens of thousands of dollars worth of treatments, cleanses, detoxes, alternative medicine, therapy, and other procedures trying to figure out what was wrong with her–doctors had no idea. After nearly a decade she stumbled on research around Breast Implant Illness (BII) and promptly scheduled her explant surgery; her symptoms disappeared nearly overnight after the implants were removed. 

While there is a difference between breast implants and fibroids, the principle is the same: the body often does not respond well to foreign objects inside of it. When the body senses a ‘foreign invader’, our bodies do things to get our attention to let us know that something isn’t right–that it needs this thing OUT. Sometimes it’s an overall feeling of general unwellness, other times it is mental health symptoms like depression and anxiety. Many people face other physical and physiological conditions and symptoms as attention grabbers that something is not right. For me, I felt like I was walking around with a snowsuit of swelling and inflammation.

What I didn’t realize until the fibroids were found was that a basic need my body had was to be free from foreign objects that simply did not belong. Unlike people whose bodies hold hardware which supports their bones and body, my fibroids served no purpose nor need. They were simply growing inside me, leaching off of my body’s supply and reserves, taking up space, pushing organs, ligaments, and body parts out of the way, and causing my body to work overtime to create protective solutions to keep me safe and alive. 

My body was trying to tell me what I needed through symptoms I learned to dismiss or assign to other issues. My body had been speaking up, I just didn’t know how to listen. 

____

The nurse could not possibly have known that speaking up for my needs was something I had been actively trying to do. But as soon as she told me that I needed to speak up and ask for what I needed, I knew this was my “put my money where my mouth is” point. If this surgery and recovery was going to be effective and if I was going to honor my body, I needed to ask for what I needed. I made a commitment to  myself that I would ask. I would be my own best advocate. 

A few minutes later, I was rolled into the operating room.

***

“Ms. Anderson?”...I could hear a voice calling my name but it felt far away; I wanted to see who was talking to me but my eyes wouldn’t open yet. 

“Ms. Anderson?”...that voice, again. This time, though, I could crack my eyes open and see there was someone standing next to me. She was blurry but that made sense. I am as blind as a bat without my glasses on. I squinted my eyes to try and see her better, but even that took too much strength and I dozed off again. 

“Ms. Anderson?”...ahhhh, the third time's the charm. I opened my eyes more fully and turned my head toward her. “You’re in the ICU and I am checking on your pain levels. On a scale of 1-10…” I knew what she was asking and didn’t even need her to finish the question. “Eight” I mumbled. I was proud of  myself; I was hazy and not completely conscious, but I knew it was time to start making sure I let the nurse know what I needed. 

My hands slowly drifted down to my abdomen. Dr. M had previously told me that she wouldn’t know if she would have to do the c-section surgery until she was in there; I wouldn’t know which surgery was completed until I woke up. My hands lightly touched my lower abdomen, searching for wound dressing that may indicate a large incision but I only felt skin. Gingerly, I ran my hands over the area around my belly button. I could feel four wound dressings. I sighed with relief; they had been able to do the laparoscopic surgery. I closed my eyes again and went back to sleep.

Finally, after an hour or two my pain levels decreased to a 6 and I was transferred back to my original hospital room. My parents were there to greet me and a sweet nurse, Lilly, was ready to take over my care. I was still in and out of consciousness so Lilly directed her conversation toward my parents but her presence and information was comforting. She shared that she, too, had undergone a hysterectomy and talked more in detail about the process of healing. I appreciated everything she said; I had been able to gather that the lived experience of someone who had undergone a hysterectomy was much different than the description that my doctor had given me.

When I was a bit more coherent, Lilly told me that in order to be discharged from the hospital I had to be able to successfully urinate. I knew the alternative. If I could not urinate, I would have to be catheterized and come back to the hospital in a few days. I was determined to pass this test! Lilly helped me to the restroom and despite immense pain and discomfort, I was successful. This cleared me to go home and Lilly began to assemble the discharge paperwork while my dad went to get the car and my mom helped me get dressed. 

Everything was difficult; every move I made came with a groan from deep within me. Despite being encouraged to stay lying down until they were ready to wheel me to my car, I could not get comfortable in any position. I remembered my nurse’s words from the morning though and knew that my groans were my body’s way of helping me honor the commitment I made to not stay silent about my pain and needs. There was no choice but to be honest. 

***

One of the things I worked on in my own therapy over the years was learning how to set boundaries, use my voice, and show up as myself–especially with those who were a part of my religious life. This was a process that had taken many years of redefining relationships, establishing new communication habits, developing internal safety and being able to see others with empathy and compassion. In the year leading up to my hysterectomy I had been able to see my work pay off and my relationships began to transform.  

I was grateful that my parents were there for my recovery; despite the mad-scramble of changing plans after my partner left, I knew that my parents were the people I both wanted and needed to help me with recovery. It’s a human thing to want your mom to take care of you when you’re sick; having my parents there felt like an important part of my process of healing in the present and the past. And I knew that I could practice speaking up for myself with them. 

Every question they asked, I shared my preference. Did I want to sit in the front seat or the back? Would I prefer the AC or heat? Was I comfortable enough in the car? Did I want something to eat or drink? What radio station did I want to listen to or did I prefer silence? 

It seems so small–questions that have easy answers or don’t have a bigger purpose attached to them. But this was new and different. As someone who had learned to live with pain and suffering, sharing that I wanted to sit in the front seat with the AC on, with 90’s music and not have to talk because all of this would help me feel a tiny bit more comfortable was a big deal. 

I quickly recognized that there was not actually any comfort to experience; every part of me hurt, every time I moved positions, I wanted to cry. So I let myself. I groaned, I cried, I asked for what I needed, I accepted the care and attention. And I began to understand that this was both the key to my recovery as well as a pattern that needed to be implemented for life. 

***

Next episode of The “Glory” of Suffering drops next week; click here to read any episodes you may have missed!