Continuing the diatribe against my rebelling womb:
Why am I so reluctant to give my protesting uterus up? If only this simple question had a simple answer. Is it pride? A fear of losing control? Sadness? Fantasy? Narcissism?
Like females I’ve seen in movies and read about in books who, upon hitting menopause, feel their worth as a woman slide way down into the depths of nothingness, I am struggling with similar emotions in having a hysterectomy. Won’t the fact that I don’t have a uterus make me less desirable in the eyes of a potential partner, particularly if that partner doesn’t have any kids himself and wants them? Wouldn’t I be, at least in a sense, depreciating myself?
Worse, if I’m completely honest with myself, the idea, no matter how ridiculous or crazy, of having another baby someday gives me a giddy, daydream-like feeling (you know, it could happen, even though it won’t). To take away that potential for another child, even though he or she is very likely merely a flitting fantasy, is worthy of a good bawl, I feel. Who am I if I am incapable of having more children?
Of course I realize, in my head, that there is far more to me than the ability to produce and carry a baby. But, as I said yesterday, none of this is logical. Not one teeny, tiny bit. If it were, I’d be scheduling surgery tomorrow.
Several readers wondered about my age as it relates to this dilemma. I’m 34. Young enough that I still have over a decade of reproductive years left, but old enough that losing my uterus isn’t necessarily that big of a deal, particularly considering that I started having kids at 22 (not to mention the fact that I already have four cherubs running around, but, you know, that’s just a small detail in this whole illogical mess). Then again, I’m 34, which means I have a good 15 or more years before the end of my tribulation is in sight. That’s a long time to be fighting what looks to be a losing battle.
Though I never thought, really, that I’d have another child, this looming knowledge that my ability to do so is probably close to an end leaves me grieving and empty. It’s far worse than the feeling I get when I hold someone else’s newborn baby, that sadness that inevitably steals over me as I realize more definitively with each progressive baby I cuddle that the era of onesies and spit-up, developmental milestones and over-vigilant photo snapping, staring in rapture at my new little one and smelling that incredible newborn scent, is over for me.
It’s not that I have my entire identity vested in motherhood either. Of course, it’s my most important vocation, but I’m also a writer, a friend, a daughter, a sister. I am many things, and that’s how I see myself. Not being able to have more children is certainly not the worst thing that could happen, not by a long shot.
Spending the past three days writing about my uterus, which seems to be determined to go out kicking and screaming, still hasn’t gotten me any closer to a decision. Like many situations in life, there is no easy answer. Every choice has its strengths and its drawbacks; I just have to decide which drawbacks I can best live with and which strengths I can best live without.
P.S. Now that I’ve finished this post, one thought is echoing again and again in my head: I already have FOUR kids! Why is this even an issue for debate? It’s sheer madness to wish for any more, even in daydreams!
And yet…
Your confusion and emotional roller coaster is completely understandable. Completely. I feel for you, but am glad you realize you are so many more things than just one. And your days of holding and loving babies are far from over. With four children (I have four too), your chances of having grandchildren to love and coddle for years to come, is very, very high.
Thinking good thoughts for you…
I know just how you feel. After I had my twins (my third and fourth children), I had my tubes tied. Even though, logically, I know it was the right thing to do and I’m totally blessed to have four healthy boys, part of me is in mourning. I’m not sure if I would have had more kids if I hadn’t had the surgery, but now I know the “possibility” is gone. I feel like I’m in mourning. It’s the end of an era for me (my childbearing years) and now on to another (older) phase of life. I’ll never have the thrill of discovering that I’m pregnant again or feel a baby moving inside me. It’s a milestone that all women reach at some point (whether naturally or surgically), and some women are relieved. But I’m not. I still get a twinge of envy when I see a pregnant woman.
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Thanks for sharing, Sarah. I’m so sorry to hear you dealing with this now or ever. And of course, you’re still one of the most wonderful people I know, with or without the uterus.
Have you tried herbal remedies? Or dietary changes? I don’t know if it might help, but that’s one thing I would try before going through surgery… especially *that* surgery.
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I understand where you are coming from. There is being rational and there is biology getting the best of us! In my case, thus far, my uterus is not giving me grief. My issue is that I know deep down that remaining a family of three is the smartest thing to do. But, sometimes, I literally ache to be pregnant and hold my own baby again. Silly, I know! Oh, did I mention my daughter is only two! Back to you… I wish you the very best. I hope you find peace and comfort in your decision, whatever it may be. Have you considered getting a second opinion, just in case? Not sure if it would make a difference… Just wondering if there might be other options out there.
Sarah,
I’m so sorry to hear about your struggles. If you’re not ready, though, I say you’re not ready. You’ll know when/if you are. You’ll know.
In my case, it’s the breasts that should logically go. Though they’re not causing me any trouble at the present, I have a BRCA mutation and am at high risk of breast cancer. Removing them slashes my risk by a lot. And yet…
Another part of it for me, which may be part of it for you also, is trying to wrap my head around the fact that this body part that served me so well for so many years — that is, in fact, the source of some of the greatest moments of my life — has become the enemy.