Episode 9

As soon as I got home from the hospital, post-surgery, I headed straight for my bed. Despite everything hurting and discomfort quickly becoming the new normal, I was grateful that I could be at home recovering–and that I had my parents there with me. Though I was impressed (and shocked?!?) that a hysterectomy was considered an out-patient surgery (as long as it was done laparoscopically with no complications), I worried that no time in the hospital being attended to by medical professionals would set me back in recovery. However, the moment I got home and laid in my ridiculously awesome bed, I realized that I was right where I needed to be. 

I remained in and out of consciousness the rest of the afternoon. My parents were in charge of pain management and woke me up at regular intervals to administer medicine, my mom helped me walk to the restroom and took my dog out, my dad ran errands and made food and I just got to…be. 

Though there was no way I could have done anything else, I realized that if I had been by myself or even with my former partner, I would have already ignored the medical instructions of staying in bed and would have tried to make myself useful. It was beginning to dawn on me how often I overran my own bodily cues in favor of getting things done, taking care of others, or trying to not inconvenience others, even with my basic needs.

Though I had been administered anesthesia four times in the prior year (2 other surgeries and 2 colonoscopies all within a year of my hysterectomy), the anesthesia hit me hard. I have a genetic condition that makes it difficult for my body to detox; I was aware from previous surgeries of some of the after-effects of anesthesia, but this time was different. I was severely nauseous and could not keep food or beverages in my system and my vision was extremely blurred. My cognitive functioning seemed to be non-existent and I could not warm up (even though I usually prefer being cold!)

Nevertheless, I knew it was important to follow the post-operative instructions and so, around dinner time, I made my way out to my living room so that I could walk from end to end of my house and back with the help of my dad. My parents cheered for me when I had completed the task; I chuckled as I remembered that the day before, on my way home from my hair appointment, I stopped at my favorite trail to walk a quick 5 miles and just 24 hours later, I could barely walk 50 feet. 

As I crawled back into bed, I remembered that my mom told me Dr. M had given her a photo of the fibroids before they had taken them out of me and I asked to see it; she brought me the 8x10 photo. I began sobbing immediately.  

“That’s what was in my body?” I choked the words out in disbelief. 

I was overwhelmed; it had taken me so long to conceptualize how big these fibroids were. To see them inside my body, while simultaneously knowing that the photo wasn’t even true to size, gave me a visual perspective that allowed even more puzzle pieces to lock together. The fibroids were HUGE. 

I wanted to keep crying–to let out the raw pain, shame, suffering, anger, and sadness for how I had doubted and silenced myself–and how I had been doubted and silenced by others, but I couldn’t. The crying was too painful (who knew what an ab workout it is to cry!?!) My dad was struggling too–to see his daughter in pain and grapple with what had been in her body was getting to him; he had to leave the room. My mom kept reminding me that they were now gone. 

I needed a minute to myself, so I asked for it. 

Back in the dark, with Phoebe (my dog) curled up beside me, I let my body finish crying. I knew I couldn’t sob because of the pain, but I also knew that my body was needing space to release what had been pent up for years. So, I used a somatic therapy trick and I let myself engage in sobbing breaths–where my breathing shifted to “as if” I was crying but the tears and ab-workout weren’t included.

(If you would like to see the photo of the fibroids, you can click here. I wanted to make sure that people had an option to see it or not; it’s definitely odd to be seeing inside someone’s body, but there is no blood or gory images. They simply took a photo of my uterus with the fibroids in it with the camera on the laparoscopic tools before they officially began the removal of my uterus, cervix, and fallopian tubes.)

***

The next few days were a blur. I had been warned that a hysterectomy–or any surgery with an organ removal, for that matter–puts your body into a state of extreme exhaustion. Though I had hoped to binge watch a few shows on Netflix, the reality was, I could barely stand to be out of bed more than 10 minutes before my breathing would start to shift into shallow pants–as if I had just run a marathon. My mom caught on to these signals too, would watch for them, and help me back into bed.

I often remembered the words that the nurse at the hospital told me: to not pretend, to not downplay my pain…to ask for what I needed. It felt like my body had taken over and made it impossible to do anything on my own. I needed help and to rely on others; lest my mind wanted to take over and convince me that I could function on my own, my body reassured me with a big “no way” and I had to relent, slow down, and accept the help. 

I joked with my friends that my body was taking advantage of this time of help and a slower pace. For the past year I had been running at a feverish pace–often living in reaction mode as a result of others’ decisions. Despite having taken time off during the year to focus on rest and relaxation, each time I did this, someone else’s needs were greater and my time and attention was turned, instead, to them.

As each day went by and I adhered to my ‘schedule’ of doing nothing, my body seemed to exhale a little bit more–trusting that I wasn’t going to push myself further than I could. I surprised myself one evening when I asked my mom if she would consider extending her ticket another week; I wasn’t sure that I could make it on my own. She readily accepted the invitation, agreeing with me that she didn’t think I was ready either. My body sighed another exhale of relief. 

Slowly, I let down the requirements I had placed on myself for years, decades even, to be productive, to power through, to only halfway listen to my body’s cues for basic needs. I felt like I was back in an infant state: I ate, I slept, I used the restroom and then did it all over again. But I knew that my body was appreciating it. Each day, just like the nurses had promised, I felt a little bit better–even if it was only by 1%.

The next week with my mom went slow and fast all at the same time. I was grateful that I didn’t have to entertain; truthfully, I think she was glad to have a slower pace as well. While she offered to stay with me even longer, as 2 weeks post-op approached, I also recognized that I needed to begin slowly taking care of myself, and I declined her offer. She spent the last couple days with me making meals to stock my refrigerator and freezer, doing my laundry, cleaning my house, and making sure Phoebe got plenty of walks. I was, and am, incredibly grateful. 

I drove my mom to the airport late on a Saturday night, holding back tears as I hugged her goodbye. I was sad that she was leaving. I was sad to go home to no one. I was scared of the silence that would come–silence that hadn’t been present in my life for nearly two and a half months. I knew it meant all of the emotions from the experiences of the year: my partner leaving me, the surgery, the recovery–there would be no distraction. 

I willed myself to wait until I got home to cry. I already wasn’t supposed to drive since I wasn’t yet 2 weeks post-op; I knew I needed to do everything in my power to drive undistracted. But the moment I walked in my house, the tears came–and I let them. I was grateful that I was feeling things–due to the IUD, hormones, and having so many things happening at once, I had numbed everything out of a need for survival. It felt cleansing to let myself release months of emotions; it left me feeling exhausted but also a little bit lighter. 

***

At my surgical consult and pre-op appointment, Dr. M told me I needed to take two weeks off of work. After two weeks, since I work from home, she told me I needed to plan extra breaks in my schedule, give myself time to take naps and slowly ease back into my regular pace.

As the two week post-op date quickly approached, I could tell that I was in a different place, physically, than where I had been two weeks ago. Improvement had occurred. So I emailed my clients to let them know that I was still planning on being back to sessions at a reduced pace. I could feel my body resisting this as I hit the “send” button, but I reasoned that my clients were understanding and most of them had agreed to phone sessions, instead of video, so that I could lay down during the session. My body seemed to be skeptical and I could feel anxiety beginning to set in.

Three days later, in tears and utterly exhausted after conducting just two sessions, I could hear my body speaking to me, screaming at me…a big “No, please stop!” I didn’t want to, but I was beginning to recognize it was time to put my money where my mouth was… 

***

Thank you for reading The “Glory” of Suffering; the next episode will be out next week. If you’ve missed any episodes or would like to re-read them, click here!