Guest Post by Kate Baxter

It’s a teaching hospital, so I wasn’t surprised when a newbie med student did in the initial intake and participated in the exam along with the seasoned urogynecologist. After all the tests, when the med student came back in, I knew what she was going to say before she said it. My primary care doc had prepped me. With a prolapsed colon and bladder, the solution was going to be surgery to shore up my vaginal walls and put things back in place.

She smiled as she sat down. “So the good news is that even though you have multi-organ prolapses, they won’t kill you. You can choose to do nothing.”

“I dunno,” I said. “I kinda think pooping and peeing and pain-free sex are rather important.”

She laughed. “Yeah. Exercise or PT won’t help your conditions. You’re looking at surgery—three procedures.”

“But one operation, right?”

“Yes. First we’ll do a complete hysterectomy. We’ll remove your fallopian tubes, ovaries, uterus, and cervix. Then we’ll—”

My brain short-circuited. I could see her lips moving, but time had stopped. “Wait. Why a full hysterectomy?”

She explained that my uterus and cervix were also horrifically prolapsed, and, with the nonchalance of youth and bedside manner of medical school, added, “Your ovaries are done now anyway. It makes sense to reduce your cancer risk. We’ll just yank those suckers out.” She lifted her hands, made fists, and twisted. “Pop! Easy-peasy.”

“Oh.” I nodded with a side-eye to my husband who was simultaneously in the room and on a business call. My brain searched for a reasonable question. “So what happens to the…space?”

“Oh. We create a cuff. Simple.”

I nodded again.

She began to explain the other procedures, but my brain was running rampant. Ovaries, too? No way.

And why am I freaking out about this? I haven’t had a use for any of these parts for decades.

The surgeon slipped back into the room to check on our progress. “We all set here?” she chirped.

I held up my hand. “I’m sorry. I just need a minute.” My eyes welled.

“It’s okay,” she said, patting my arm. “All feelings and reactions are welcome here. You’re not the first to cry in this room. Not even the first today.”

“A full hysterectomy?” I said.

“Yes. I’ll do it all vaginally. Much easier to heal.”

The med student handed me a tissue and reconsidered her approach. “You might have concerns, like wondering what kind of woman you—”

I cut her off. “I’m a woman. I know I’m a woman, regardless.” I took a deep breath. “Ovaries, too?”

“We can talk about preserving them if that’s important to you,” said the doctor. “You’re young. Well, young-ish. They might still be of some benefit.”

Postmenopausal. I’m full of spare and unnecessary parts, parts that are just going to break down further. Your original warranty has long expired, babe.

“Okay,” I said. “Let’s get the surgery scheduled.”

Driving home, I kept biting my lip so I wouldn’t cry. “I don’t know why I’m struggling with this,” I said to my husband.

“If you’d known it was a possibility, you’d have done the research and figured it out beforehand. It’s a curve ball, that’s all.” He shrugged and answered another business call.

Hysterectomy. The root is hysterical. That’s the reason, I thought. A woman’s issue.

Stop it, said my logical brain. You’re being silly.

Was I? I searched deeper, probing the pain point like a tongue on a sore tooth.

I’m weird like that.

My womb, gone. No uterus. In utero. Oh! I gasped as the puzzle pieces fell. That’s it. My children’s home. It’s where they started; it’s where they grew.

Demolished for good. Uninhabitable.

Barren, like the moon. Tears threatened again.

I’m certifiable, I said to myself. Cray-cray. I just need a Diet Coke.

But another voice was relentless. Your connection to your kids started well before their father’s. Your uterus is the thing that makes you different from men; bearing children is the thing that you could do that they cannot. And if gender is an eternal construct, then what does it mean to no longer have the physical parts of your womanhood?

I shook my head. Where did THAT voice come from? I’m a woman regardless of my physical bits or motherhood status. I’ve always believed that.

But would I believe that if I’d never had a uterus or ovaries?

Wait. Do I really believe the most important part of me is my ability to bear children?

The feminist inside was appalled.

When I tried to talk to my husband about it, he just hugged me and said I was thinking too much. Things will be fine. So much better after the surgery. His vasectomy happened two decades ago without much drama, but also with the purchase of a shiny new convertible.

Maybe it’s the difference between things no longer erupting fruitfully and things permanently yanked. Or maybe I just needed a new car to feel better about this.

Instead I called the kids, ages 27 and 24.

My right-brained son said, “Emotions about body integrity are a very normal. Don’t beat yourself up for wanting to stay together.”

My left-brained daughter said, “Oh, Mom! Of all the twenty-four years of memories I have with you, none involve your uterus.”

I paused. “But I do. I have memories about you that involve my uterus.”

To her credit, she stopped trying to jolly me out of my funk and just sat with me a bit.

We raised good humans.

After a month of research, I came to the conclusions that were obvious to the med student and surgeon. Logically, it all made sense. But as I write this, I acknowledge that hearts and brains and ovaries aren’t always in sync.

In another month or so—surgery schedules for non-life-threatening situations are very far out during the time of year when deductibles are met—this will all be moot. I’ll be figuring how I feel in my new configuration and wondering if these changes come with superpowers or new cars—and still thinking too much.

Kate Baxter is finally getting her energy back eight months after surgery. No superpowers have manifested except Hulk-like rage. But that’s another blog post. Catch up with her at https://katebaxterauthor.com/.