Having a hysterectomy felt like, at the time, the permission I needed to start moving forwards, to begin to widen the scope of view on my life.
In the eight years of trying to have a baby, there was unexplained infertility, multitudes of tests, countless doctor appointments, multiple miscarriages, endless hoping, and tidal waves of grief. There were also various expressions of guilt and shame. Throughout those eight years, there were many times that I felt like giving up trying, but I couldn't let go of that little voice inside that held onto the hope and the 'what if.' I had fully bought into the loud narrative of the fertility community to never give up, to keep trying. That one day would come, and it would all be worth it because we would have a baby. I felt that no longer trying to conceive and maintain a pregnancy made me even more of a failure than I already was, like I mustn't want a child enough; otherwise, I would want to keep trying.
I have a history of fibroids and had a myomectomy in 2006, so it was no surprise when my doctor suggested another one in early 2016. By that time, I was so tired of big poked and prodded that I couldn't face the procedure, so I didn't have it done. The doctor also told me that removing the fibroids could create scar tissue, making the uterus an 'inhospitable place for a baby.' That made up my mind; I wasn't going to do something that would make a seemingly already inhospitable place more so.
The fibroids I had removed in 2006 were pretty sizable, so I was familiar with the sensations of fullness plus the look of fullness in my lower abdomen that had accompanied them. As 2016 became 2017, I was not only in deep grief about my childlessness, I often found myself answering questions such as 'when are you due?' or 'how far along are you?' or 'what took you guys so long?' Even more astonishing were the statements such as 'It's great to see you finally pregnant!" or 'you're going to be a great mum.' On good days, I would kindly let the nosy acquaintance know that it is highly insensitive to comment on a woman's body. On bad days I would mumble something through the tears and leave the grocery store, garden centre or sidewalk, wherever I happened to be.
As time went on and the fibroids grew, it became clear that I needed to have them removed. After investigation, fibroids were found in/on my cervix, and a hysterectomy was likely the only way to remove them. I remember a strange feeling washing over me when the surgeon explained this to me. I couldn't identify it at the time but later realized that it was relief.
I had spent the past eight years with disappointment, grief, and shame as a backdrop to my life. I had moved to a new town, sold a house, started and built a business, all the while trying and failing to conceive and maintain a pregnancy. I did all of that while making hope and the 'what if' of getting pregnant a central feature in my life. Increasingly, between the grief and hope, there wasn't room for much else. Removing the possibility of ever having a child by having a hysterectomy would free up the energy that hope was consuming. It would allow me space to fully grieve as I would no longer feel stuck in the liminal space in-between.
I had the surgery in July of 2018, and a hysterectomy was successful on the second attempt. Unfortunately, the details of the first attempt are too much for this piece; I will leave it at that.
Once the physical recovery was well underway, the grief hit, and it wasn't as bad as I thought it would be. I realized that since the surgeon had presented the possibility of a hysterectomy over six months before having the surgery, I had started to assimilate that information, and the grieving process had already begun. The grieving process had been well underway since the first miscarriage eight years earlier. It was different now, though; now, it didn't have to compete with hope. It felt more manageable, which is baffling to say of grief, but it was.
It took me a while to shift the mindset of 'what if I am pregnant?' or 'what if I have a baby?' when making plans for the future. It only became apparent how ingrained this narrative was when it continued to be the first thought even though the possibility had permanently ended.
It also took a while to open up to what my life could be without a child. It isn't the life I had expected, but it is the life I am living. So I gave myself permission to move forwards by accepting this fact.
I don't believe that women need permission from anyone but themselves when deciding to step off the trying to conceive rollercoaster and begin to embrace the life they have. Making the decision is enough to draw a line in the sand and start the next phase of life, whatever that may bring.