Twenty-nine.
I am twenty-nine glorious years old. My facebook feed is filled with chubby-cheeked babies, classic poses by brides on the beach at sunset, status updates about pooping in toilets, and comments about the rat race / work / coffee / bosses / zzzz..... Sorry, I nodded off. Anway, I enjoy seeing those people with their poofy white dresses, drooling infants, and white picket fences because it means that they are doing what makes them happy. Getting married, repopulating the earth, collecting shiny items to display in expensive houses... It's all very wonderful. For them.
I have one hell of an imagination, those who know me can attest, I'm a total weirdo. However, I cannot fathom myself living that life. I don't want a stroller that could double as one of the Transformers and costs as much as a plane ticket to the Middle East. I don't want to work a job I hate (or even merely tolerate) to pay for shit I don't need and a house I can't really afford. No offense, dear friends and family, nor judgement... just not my dig.
I am twenty-nine glorious years old. My facebook feed is filled with chubby-cheeked babies, classic poses by brides on the beach at sunset, status updates about pooping in toilets, and comments about the rat race / work / coffee / bosses / zzzz..... Sorry, I nodded off. Anway, I enjoy seeing those people with their poofy white dresses, drooling infants, and white picket fences because it means that they are doing what makes them happy. Getting married, repopulating the earth, collecting shiny items to display in expensive houses... It's all very wonderful. For them.
I have one hell of an imagination, those who know me can attest, I'm a total weirdo. However, I cannot fathom myself living that life. I don't want a stroller that could double as one of the Transformers and costs as much as a plane ticket to the Middle East. I don't want to work a job I hate (or even merely tolerate) to pay for shit I don't need and a house I can't really afford. No offense, dear friends and family, nor judgement... just not my dig.
My feed also occasionally dons the view from Machu Picchu or a dare become reality. I have been fortunate enough to have collected fantastic friends who randomly move to foreign countries on whim, backpack entire continents in search of the best food, are true artists at heart, and remind me constantly that life is freaking beautiful. They have even inspired some of my insane (and recently updated) Bucket List items! However, a major surgery was never on that list.
Exactly three years ago, I sat down and signed my name on the dotted line to have my insides looked at because I was constantly in pain and my flat little tummy would go from 'pilates video' to 'What to Expect When You're Expecting' in an moment's time. What they found was endometriosis. I also found out I was born without my right ovary, which I later began telling people that is why I fall over when I drink. So, my solo baby-maker paired (ha) with this disease that is eating away at a handful of my organs, I was looking at a five-year window for popping out carbon copies of myself, unless I wanted to contract NASA to come in and make magic happen. I might be paraphrasing...
"Happiness depends upon ourselves." -Aristotle
I had just ended my engagement after a five-year relationship, I had just started doing corporate marketing for a fantastic company, and I was 1,500 miles from my family. I wasn't in a position to make any major decisions and thank sweet Lady Godiva that I didn't. Anything involving the human body deserves both objective and subjective thinking, and time was about to become my best friend.
Flash forward to this semi-sunny week in July of 2013. I am single, working at a non-profit helping people save their homes, planning the big move to Japan, and just aced my last class that has been plaguing me for ages. I am also now scheduled for a massive, life-changing surgery. This is about to get personal kids, but let me tell you why I am choosing to divulge this information before I throw all my lady cards on the table:
We are all in this game together. Things like race, gender, sexual orientation, religion, and the rest of the identifiers don't matter: we are all human. If I can't be there to help someone else who is hurting and alone, I am doing this world a disservice. If someone reads this- whether they reach out to me or not- and is encouraged or relieved, even if only for a moment, I have done something. Complacency, apathy, and indifference are the true evils in this world.
Back to my lady cards. My uterus is trying to kill me. That whiny bitch throws a temper tantrum every month because she made me a beautiful present- this egg- and I don't do a damn thing with it. So, that Jezebel burns down the house. My single ovary is working over-time because her twin got hammered and never showed up. She's exhausted, freaking out, and running out of eggs, so she's pissy with everything around her. The rest of my organs are frozen in fear, wondering how messy this is about to get; there could be a riot on the horizon. My abdomen is making that face people make when they are thinking, "Don't do it, bitch. Don't you dare, oh, hell no! That look pisses off my bratty uterus, who then decides she's going to get back at everyone north of her by literally throwing herself into the chaos that she started. Bitch, you don't belong here. Where is your passport? You don't have one! Deported! Cue: Riot.
Yes, I understand that anthropomorphizing my internal organs is morbid. So is the fact that my best ladybird gal-pal and I both only have one ovary and so we gave them best friend names. Mine is Gerty McNasty.
The bottom line is that my quality of life is not where I want it. It is 2-3 months of no traveling, no playing, and none of the good stuff every time a doctor has to go in there and clean up my stupid uterus' non-baby-mama-drama. I am collecting scars like it's the 90's and they are Pogs. (Yep, I went there.) I'm always exhausted, I feel like I'm 59, not 29. I cancel on my friends constantly because I cannot muster the energy to socialize. I hurt every day. Every. Day. There are no tests or scans for endmetriosis. Pain is not a direct indicator of damage done. There is no cure. There are no pills or drugs that can fix it. There are shots out there for temporary, chemically-induced menopause, there are birth control pills for suppressed symptoms, and there are surgeries for cauterizing the lesions and implants. Until they slice me open and poke around inside of me, they have no idea what the hell is going on in there. I'm basically a piñata. A piñata filled with bitchy organs.
My initial surgery to remedy my internal civil war was scheduled for September, but was quickly moved up due to complications. Yes, I did my research on both the procedure and my doctor. The procedure is called a hysterectomy (uterus). I decided to keep my cervix for personal reasons, plus it is like Switzerland: neutral and just here for a good time. My doctor worked on my sister a few years back and has a great track record. Her bedside manner doesn't suck, so I gave the thumbs up.
Update: I have decided to retain Gerty and wait on the oophorectomy... Trusting God on this one...
My initial surgery to remedy my internal civil war was scheduled for September, but was quickly moved up due to complications. Yes, I did my research on both the procedure and my doctor. The procedure is called a hysterectomy (uterus). I decided to keep my cervix for personal reasons, plus it is like Switzerland: neutral and just here for a good time. My doctor worked on my sister a few years back and has a great track record. Her bedside manner doesn't suck, so I gave the thumbs up.
Update: I have decided to retain Gerty and wait on the oophorectomy... Trusting God on this one...
The idea of being a mother is mind-blowing, and I have the utmost respect for those who do it, especially alone. I also do not believe that the traditional definition of being a mother is the only truth by any stretch of the imagination. If my body is telling me that putting a baby in my belly isn't my path, then I need to listen up. Besides, I can just collect little kids from all my favorite countries as I travel. I would be thrilled to collect the whole set: The Multigrain Family. Who knows, perhaps I can get a 2-for-1 deal if I buy in bulk. I need to call Angelina Jolie and see if she can put in a good word for me.
Kidding...
The majority of my life has revolved around children: nanny, swimming instructor, Sunday School teacher, youth leader for my church, English teacher... I love kids. Each of those positions required me to teach, lead by example, touch a life, and make a difference; is that not the definition of a mother? I have to look at this pending surgery as a list of Pros & Cons, not as removing my ability to be a nurturing mother, because I have been doing that my entire life. When I was 4, I fell at pre-school and split my chin wide open (yes, I have a scar from that as well). The school called my mom to come pick me up and, upon arrival, she found me with one hand propped up on my knee with ice in-hand, holding my bloody chin, and the other arm slung around another child with a book. I was reading to him while I waited to go to the doctor.
This post is me putting my arm around anyone out there who is dealing with a disease, condition, or decision in their life. Whether it is your jerk uterus, punkass balls, or some other rebellious non-reproductive organ... I got your back. The bottom line is this: You must be true to yourself. You cannot give a half a damn what anyone else thinks. Yes, it is important to discuss this with family and friends, gain perspective, etc. However, in the end, this is my body, my jerk uterus, and my life. Comparison is the thief of joy, kids. I can't compare my one little bastard ovary to my overly-fertile friend's dynamic duo; I'd go positively mad.
The hardest part of this whole process is trying to talk to people about it- like my doctor- who don't know me well enough to pass judgment. When I went to talk to my doctor about it, she said this little gem to me:
"What if you meet the man of your dreams?"
Shut the front door. Really? If the man of my dreams doesn't want to be with me because I can't make a tiny human in my loins, then he is not the man of my dreams, I assure you. Those of you who have been a reader for a while know that I lack a filter, so I fired back with a smirk:
"What if I meet the woman of my dreams?"
Checkmate. She stopped talking and started listening. People need to stop spoon-feeding societal standards to others like it is the only acceptable form of sustenance. I have felt judged, like I am a freak and heartless, all because I would rather live my life for me and be happy & healthy, rather than spend mountains of money and stress non-stop over making my DNA hook up with some dude's and in a hot rush.
"But Amie, what about in vitro?" Why would I spend tens of thousands of dollars to maybe get pregnant? A lot of women end up with four freaking kids when they mess with that stuff! For that price, I could fly to Kenya, go on safari, adopt a child, feed the orphanage for a week, and buy a gift for the lady who is having four freaking kids because of in vitro.
"But Amie, what about a surrogate?" Hmmm... "Hey, lady, hold my baby. For 9 months. Oh, and then go away, because it's mine. Gimmie. Wait, change their diaper first." Aside from the aforementioned monetary cost, this one is still tricky. I'll keep you updated.
"But Amie, what about having a lot of sex with a guy and just trying?" Trust me, that crossed my mind. Oh, and I tried that. Though it would be a very enjoyable experiment, the result- you know, the important part- isn't a goal. This is someones life. I don't want to bring a person into this world just because I might be able to.
"But Amie, what about having a lot of sex with a girl and just trying?" Nice try.
The hardest part of this procedure for me will be losing a part of me that is vital to feeling feminine. I'm tall, I have some curves (thankfully in the right places), and I have the mindset of a twenty-something dude. I need to feel pretty, delicate, sexy, and feminine... So they're going to take out what essentially makes me a woman... Rad. My family has been supportive, providing as many hugs as they do questions. My bosses let me put my head down on my keyboard until I have a page and a half full of the home row keys on my screen. My close friends offer a full glass of wine and a full bottle of Advil whenever I make it off the couch.
Despite all that jazz, it has been quite lonely. I know this isn't the easiest subject to deal with, and bitches be crazy, but I would like to feel I have managed to have a pretty firm grasp on all this. So, dear friends and strangers alike, if you run into me or end up sipping whiskey with me on a Tuesday night, please don't freak out. I don't expect you to know what to say or how to comfort me, just be cool like the fuzz is watching and all will be well. If it will help, here is a solid list for those who couldn't buy a clue with a $100 bill.
Guidebook to Amie's Hysterectomy
x Don't pity me.
✔ Do buy me a drink.
x Don't avoid me.
✔ Do ask how I am doing.
x Don't let me get bored... Entertain me.
✔ Do just tell me, "I'm here". That'll do, pig.
x Don't forget how hilarious I am on pain killers.
✔ Do come visit me. Seriously... We can color and watch Disney movies...
I don't expect anyone to understand what I am going through, even another Hyster Sister. This is an incredibly personal journey and I am lucky to be doing it at a transitional point in my life. Yes, I am saddened by this, yet another jagged turn in the road that will change my body for the rest of my short but powerful life. Simultaneously, I am honored to be trusted with such a massive task and given the opportunity to shine through as a positive soul. I am nervous that I won't be the same afterwards. I am more nervous that I will be exactly the same afterwards. More than anything, I am excited. I am excited to be pain free. I am excited to never have "that time of the month" again. I am excited to be freed from my chains.
Let's recap what we have learned today, class:
- My uterus is a jerk.
- I am a gypsy.
- I like mismatching children.
- I don't care what gender you are.
- I named my only ovary.
- I use inappropriate humor as a coping mechanism.
- I'm pretty funny.
- I want to watch movies with you while I am high.
xx.a
