They don’t have going-away parties for uteruses

But in hindsight, I sure as hell might have.

You see, I wasn’t ever going to make use of that particular organ anyway, so it was just taking up space without even paying any rent.  Not that I’m implying that I rent out my body.

Okay, moving on.  Back to the uterus.  It’s gone.  See ya.  Ciao.  Sayonara.

And you know what?  Good riddance.  My uterus is one particular body part that Mother Nature boldly assigned to me without ever consulting me first.  Because if She had, she would’ve known that I was vehemently against the idea of ever making use of it.  Waste of space, if you ask me.

Moving on again.

The surgery was monumental.  I squeaked by with the DaVinci (high-tech robotic assistance) by the skin of not only my teeth, but possibly someone else’s, too.  It almost didn’t happen that way, because (as happens with many ladies), the gravity of the situation often isn’t 100% apparent until the surgeon actually goes in and looks around for him-/herself.  And as “luck” would have it, the situation is often worse–not better–than originally thought.

I’m thanking my lucky stars right now that there was never any known endometriosis.  I’m crossing my fingers that things stay that way.  I’m also thanking my lucky stars that the gas pain has, for the most part, cleared out and that I have no more insomnia than usual.

In case you’re wondering about that gas pain, we’re not leading up to any fart jokes here.  Oh how I wish we were!  No, this was many shades worse; abdominal gas refers to the idea that each hysterectomy patient is essentially a balloon to be inflated during the procedure.  It does make things easier in the long run.  It just sucks for a while, especially since there is no other relief than to let it dissipate (absorb) back into the body on its own.  Yay.  (Which means, though, that it does get better with time and without any effort on your part.)

Waking up from surgery was kind of like waking up in a body prison in which nothing worked right, my vision was blurry, I couldn’t talk properly. and I couldn’t take a deep enough breath due to the pain of the abdominal gas (see Silver Lining Moment above).

I’m surprisingly mobile considering what I’ve been through but not nearly as flexible and ambulatory as I had come to take for granted in normal life.  I must be careful and deliberate with each movement and stay focused on the movement I’m trying to make lest I hurt myself, but other than that, I’m okay as long as I don’t overdo it.

Yeah, overdoing it.  That’s a subjective term, tricky, because it means different things for different ladies.  Suffice it to say that I won’t be swinging from tree branches or shot-putting bowling balls down the alley any time soon.  Those parts of my life are perpetually paused for a little while.  (Although the tree branch swinging does sound fun.)

So bye-bye uterus.  Off you go to the path lab so that they can (hopefully) tell me all those fibroid tumors are benign and I can go about my daily life, one achy but cherished step at a time.


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