June 2015
Still Hannah: My Fight for Hope After Uterine Surgery
Part Two of “The Day I Became Hannah” series
Who am I? she asked.
I answered, My name was Hannah.
I hear the driver’s side door slam. Every sound seems amplified, every color more vivid. It’s like I woke up inside a movie this morning. Today, I was released from the hospital and am all loaded up in my husband Oji’s car.
When Ms. Dot wheeled me out, Oji met us at the curb. He grabbed my suitcase and tote. I stood slowly to thank her for mothering me in a space where my own mama couldn’t be. She finally released me into his care, with final instructions—including, “Go to the pharmacy. Don’t wait.” I had two hours before the pain meds wore off and the reality of recovery returned.
I held a small heart-shaped purple pillow to my abdomen as I rocked gently in the passenger seat. A gift from the nursing staff, it comforted and protected me from the pressure of my healing body. That pillow was a symbol: not just of pain, but of love—of survival. As Oji buckled in and we pulled into traffic, a sacred silence filled the car. Outside, life carried on as if mine hadn’t just changed.
Inside, I was overwhelmed. The trauma of what had just happened was beginning to set in. The morning after surgery, I had lost so much blood that they called a crash cart. My blood pressure plummeted to dangerous levels. It took hours—and four pints of blood—to stabilize me.
But God wasn’t done.
“Even when I walk through the darkest valley, I will not be afraid, for you are close beside me.” — Psalm 23:4 (NLT)
My doctor—exhausted after performing my surgery hours earlier—rushed in with the crash team. She discovered my blood transfusion was being held up because of a clerical error. She personally sent a nurse to the blood bank. Ten minutes later, color returned to my face, and I came back to myself.
My cousin Diana was there too. A sister in spirit, a trained therapist in life. Six months earlier, when I scheduled the surgery, I called her. She didn’t hesitate. “Tell me the date. I’m putting in my PTO now.” She’s always shown up—for my grief, for my growth, for my hiding places. She was there when I couldn’t find the words to say I was scared. She never needed me to say them.
When I finally stabilized, I told them to go home and rest. Chi Chi, my best friend of 25+ years and a physician, was flying in the next morning. She’d help me understand the full extent of my care plan. Between my husband, cousin, and sister-friend, I was surrounded by love. Still, I felt alone.
The next morning, I was in pain. Weak. I hadn’t eaten in 24 hours but wasn’t hungry. All I wanted was to use the bathroom and couldn’t. I fought the nurse when she tried to get me to walk. Each step felt like a betrayal from my body. Around ten, Oji arrived with Diana and Chi Chi in tow. I barely responded to texts. I wasn’t ready for the world to see me—because I didn’t yet know who I was now.
My doctor came in too. This was when I learned the truth. The masses they removed weren’t just numerous—they were massive. The largest fibroid was the size of a grapefruit. They removed 9–10, but some had to be left in, along with a cyst on my fallopian tube. Removing them all could’ve cost me my life. She gently told me that while pregnancy wasn’t ruled out, it wasn’t safe. She suggested a hysterectomy if my symptoms persisted.
I was gutted.
“The Lord is close to the brokenhearted; He rescues those whose spirits are crushed.” — Psalm 34:18 (NLT)
I said nothing. I closed my eyes. Hot tears gathered but didn’t fall. She showed me pictures from the surgery. She couldn’t understand how I’d lived with that much pain. I didn’t have the strength to be angry. I just silently decided: I will get better.
My husband—God bless him—sat beside me, calm and constant. He said, “We’ll adopt if that’s what we’re called to do. Your health matters more than anything.” A piece of me still felt like I’d failed him, even though he didn’t see it that way. And in that vulnerable moment, I wondered—Is this how Hannah felt?
“I am a woman with a broken heart. I was pouring out my heart to the Lord.” — 1 Samuel 1:15 (NLT)
I imagined Hannah watching the other wife bear children, year after year. Still childless. Still faithful. I was surrounded by love but couldn’t shake the ache of emptiness. And though I dared not question God outright, I longed to glimpse His reasoning.
Fast forward to our car ride home—bumper-to-bumper traffic on the Beltway. Ten minutes of silence. Oji began asking soft, guiding questions. He knows silence is my tell. He was checking my pulse, not physically—but emotionally, spiritually. He feared I’d start to slip into depression.
I finally broke.
“I’m pissed off,” I said. “Royally pissed. I waited until I was married. I was celibate. I did everything right. This isn’t fair.”
Oji didn’t flinch. And then, like only the Holy Spirit could’ve prompted him, he responded:
“Babe, who says there’s not a child—or children—meant for us that we wouldn’t have even considered if it weren’t for this? You and I are meant to be parents. I know it. And God doesn’t make mistakes.”
“And we know that God causes everything to work together for the good of those who love God…” — Romans 8:28 (NLT)
His words healed something the doctors couldn’t. My womb might be fragile. But my faith, my family, and my future? Still Hannah. Still His.
To be continued in Part Three
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