June 2016
I looked gingerly down at my cell phone at a text from my husband; he was informing me of the status of his arrival. “I am downstairs,” he said. I replied, letting him know I was on my way. Ms. Dot and I took one more pass around the room to ensure nothing was left behind. “Do you have your phone charger?” she asked. “Yes, ma’am,” I replied. The room, with its tiled floors and contemporary furnishings, was reminiscent of a hotel suite outside of the big white elephant in the middle of the room, a hospital bed. My phone vibrated again, informing me I had another message. This time, it was from my sister, my best friend.
“What are you doing? Have you been discharged yet?” she asked in the series of short lines quickly coming across the screen. “Yes, Oji is downstairs in the car. They are rolling me out now.” I texted her back as Ms. Dot wheeled me down the corridor. With my free hand, I aimlessly waved to the nursing staff as they said their final goodbyes. I am walking fine, just on my own, but it is hospital policy no discharged patient is allowed to leave without the assistance of a wheelchair. On the ward, I could hear the cries of newborns as I recovered and the frustrated urges of new mothers attempting to calm their babies to sleep. Then there was me. No baby’s crib is posted in my room near my bed. The foot-long incision on the abdomen was my merit badge, provided I belonged among this odd grouping of ladies.
Stapled close, I did not go into having a baby, but my stay and surgery were similar to that of a pregnant mother scheduled for a C-section. For two years, I delayed the inevitable, going under the knife to correct a problem that was threatening my ability to carry children. My doctors told me that my womb, though filled with life, was not the kind that could one day bring me more joy than the pain it did each month during my period. I was diagnosed to have uterine fibroids. They found several large ones during a sonogram, and their presence extended my abdomen to that of a woman pregnant for at least five months. To have them removed, I would need to have surgery, a myomectomy. However, the original plan of action laid out to me almost two years ago fed my fears more than my faith. Though she was charming, my gynecologist directed me to a gynecological oncologist.
My mother experienced eight pregnancies. She had six live births, a stillborn, and a miscarriage. Mama had her first baby while still in her teens and ended up giving birth to me in her early forties. I thought I had time! I never thought my body would be my greatest adversary when becoming a mother. It hurt me to the core when I was first diagnosed. It hurt me even more profoundly when I learned that after almost six hours of surgery, with the removal of nine to ten noncancerous masses and four pints of blood, it was advised that I not even attempt to get pregnant! Like really?
To be continued in Part Two
Works Cited
Myomectomy – Better Health
http://www.betterhealth.vic.gov.au/bhcv2/bhcarticles.nsf/pages/Myomectomy
© 2023, Lela Fagan. All rights reserved.
