What my uterus knew
In 2001, after 47 years of occupying its perch above my bladder, my uterus had enough and tried to leave on its own. In medical terms I had a “uterine prolapse” where the uterus drops down into the vagina. I knew something was happening when I felt a fullness or a pinch and some pelvic pain. I had just run a marathon and thought maybe all that bouncing around jarred it loose. Being curious and a nurse, I took a mirror into the bathroom and placed it between my legs. I saw something that did not belong there, protruding slightly from the opening of my vagina. “Sorry, my uterus said.” “No hard feelings, but I am done.”
Oh that’s just like my uterus, I thought to myself. It had done its own thing my entire life and now was going to be the first of my organs to leave. My appendix and tonsils, commonly removed in my childhood era, stayed, quietly doing their job. My gallbladder didn’t mind if I ate fatty foods and faithfully did its work digesting them.
My uterus did not go into the business of ovulating, and building a lining to prepare for a baby, until I was 15 years old, putting me way behind my faster maturing friends and prompted me to lie to get out of gym class once each month, so no one would know that “my friend hadn’t visited me yet.” There it sat, with the ovaries on either side, connected to and supported by them, taking its own sweet time to begin orchestrating the path of my life. “Don’t worry” it said. “We are doing you a favor.”
Once it started, though, my menstrual cycle never pedaled on a regular course. It saw no need for a strict schedule, even after I was married and it could have been more considerate. Because of the sporadic workings of my reproductive parts, the first time I was pregnant, I didn’t know it, or, at least, admit it, for about four months. I was unable to take birth control pills so I had an IUD placed - a Lippy’s loop. I trusted medical science: of course it would work. My uterus had other ideas and directed the fertilized egg around the loop and safely planted it. It seemed to know what was best for me and rejected foreign interference. While I was shocked and amazed that my uterus decided to grow a baby, it simply said “We better think of a name.” Well, actually that is what my husband said.
My uterus did a fine job growing our firstborn, a daughter, even keeping her three weeks longer than her scheduled arrival. “It’s the safest place she will ever be” it said defensively after I was sent home from the hospital twice because my labor wasn’t progressing. “At least you know where she is.” Finally, on the third visit, after I refused to leave, and after about 12 hours of labor, my uterus let her go down the birth canal and into the world.
I was frightened but also in awe how my body took over and there was nothing I could do but go along with it. Everything worked together and I did my best to be part of the team. The uterus contracted, the cervix opened and out she popped—her beautiful blue intelligent eyes staring at me. Inside her was a tiny uterus that would follow the same pattern of regular irregularity that was common in women on my mother’s side of the family.
My uterus continued with its sporadic workings. It ignored another IUD and then a diaphragm and went on to house two baby boys. With each pregnancy, it was reluctant to relinquish its contents. Post-partum, like a balloon that has been blown up more than once, it shrunk down but never as far as it had on previous occasions. Because of my ease in getting pregnant, I felt guilty around my friends who suffered from infertility. Guilty, but proud of that unconforming uterus of mine. And grateful for the three perfect children it gave me.
When I made my discovery in the bathroom that day in 2001, it was two months before the world changed on September 11th. It was as if my uterus knew and didn’t want to be a part of the world as it would become. For the previous year, it had been acting even more sporadically, giving me what my husband called “fits of spontaneous menstruation”.
An obstetrician confirmed my uterine prolapse. “Midwestern women always have prolapses,” he generalized, He knew I had grown up in the midwest but I had lived in Utah more than half my life. I was pretty sure there was no scientific studies to support his claim. He continued with “We will do an ultrasound and if you want a hysterectomy, babe you got it.” I left in tears at his lack of compassion. My uterus was indignant at his lack of respect and both of us wondered how he would feel if someone so callously talked about his testicles being removed.
I found another doctor who was more sympathetic. He explained that I could use a pessary, a diaphragm like contraption that would keep my uterus from “falling out.” That seemed messy and barbaric. And I already knew how my uterus felt about foreign objects.
“Let me go, my work is done here” my uterus said. “Best to leave on good terms.” We decided on a hysterectomy.
My uterus, tubes, and ovaries were removed, and, after evaluation in a pathology lab, dumped into a hazardous waste bucket and destroyed.
I wonder about those unused eggs stored in the ovaries. Do they exist, along with my uterus, somewhere in the universe? Or in another dimension filled with old parts? Maybe they are floating around somewhere with my dad’s right amputated leg and my uncle Charlie’s left amputated arm, exchanging their stories. Should I have asked to see it—that part of me that gave me so much pain and joy and functioned as it should despite not following the rules? Would that have been closure? My uterus probably was perfectly fine without a viewing.
Years later, in that empty space, I still sense its presence and am grateful for its presents. The small, almost invisible scar just above my pubic bone is now a faded shrine to its existence. Sometimes when I think about my missing, hard working, wise and wiley uterus, I place my hands over that soft empty space on my lower abdomen and silently say “thank you.”
Oh that’s just like my uterus, I thought to myself. It had done its own thing my entire life and now was going to be the first of my organs to leave. My appendix and tonsils, commonly removed in my childhood era, stayed, quietly doing their job. My gallbladder didn’t mind if I ate fatty foods and faithfully did its work digesting them.
My uterus did not go into the business of ovulating, and building a lining to prepare for a baby, until I was 15 years old, putting me way behind my faster maturing friends and prompted me to lie to get out of gym class once each month, so no one would know that “my friend hadn’t visited me yet.” There it sat, with the ovaries on either side, connected to and supported by them, taking its own sweet time to begin orchestrating the path of my life. “Don’t worry” it said. “We are doing you a favor.”
Once it started, though, my menstrual cycle never pedaled on a regular course. It saw no need for a strict schedule, even after I was married and it could have been more considerate. Because of the sporadic workings of my reproductive parts, the first time I was pregnant, I didn’t know it, or, at least, admit it, for about four months. I was unable to take birth control pills so I had an IUD placed - a Lippy’s loop. I trusted medical science: of course it would work. My uterus had other ideas and directed the fertilized egg around the loop and safely planted it. It seemed to know what was best for me and rejected foreign interference. While I was shocked and amazed that my uterus decided to grow a baby, it simply said “We better think of a name.” Well, actually that is what my husband said.
My uterus did a fine job growing our firstborn, a daughter, even keeping her three weeks longer than her scheduled arrival. “It’s the safest place she will ever be” it said defensively after I was sent home from the hospital twice because my labor wasn’t progressing. “At least you know where she is.” Finally, on the third visit, after I refused to leave, and after about 12 hours of labor, my uterus let her go down the birth canal and into the world.
I was frightened but also in awe how my body took over and there was nothing I could do but go along with it. Everything worked together and I did my best to be part of the team. The uterus contracted, the cervix opened and out she popped—her beautiful blue intelligent eyes staring at me. Inside her was a tiny uterus that would follow the same pattern of regular irregularity that was common in women on my mother’s side of the family.
My uterus continued with its sporadic workings. It ignored another IUD and then a diaphragm and went on to house two baby boys. With each pregnancy, it was reluctant to relinquish its contents. Post-partum, like a balloon that has been blown up more than once, it shrunk down but never as far as it had on previous occasions. Because of my ease in getting pregnant, I felt guilty around my friends who suffered from infertility. Guilty, but proud of that unconforming uterus of mine. And grateful for the three perfect children it gave me.
When I made my discovery in the bathroom that day in 2001, it was two months before the world changed on September 11th. It was as if my uterus knew and didn’t want to be a part of the world as it would become. For the previous year, it had been acting even more sporadically, giving me what my husband called “fits of spontaneous menstruation”.
An obstetrician confirmed my uterine prolapse. “Midwestern women always have prolapses,” he generalized, He knew I had grown up in the midwest but I had lived in Utah more than half my life. I was pretty sure there was no scientific studies to support his claim. He continued with “We will do an ultrasound and if you want a hysterectomy, babe you got it.” I left in tears at his lack of compassion. My uterus was indignant at his lack of respect and both of us wondered how he would feel if someone so callously talked about his testicles being removed.
I found another doctor who was more sympathetic. He explained that I could use a pessary, a diaphragm like contraption that would keep my uterus from “falling out.” That seemed messy and barbaric. And I already knew how my uterus felt about foreign objects.
“Let me go, my work is done here” my uterus said. “Best to leave on good terms.” We decided on a hysterectomy.
My uterus, tubes, and ovaries were removed, and, after evaluation in a pathology lab, dumped into a hazardous waste bucket and destroyed.
I wonder about those unused eggs stored in the ovaries. Do they exist, along with my uterus, somewhere in the universe? Or in another dimension filled with old parts? Maybe they are floating around somewhere with my dad’s right amputated leg and my uncle Charlie’s left amputated arm, exchanging their stories. Should I have asked to see it—that part of me that gave me so much pain and joy and functioned as it should despite not following the rules? Would that have been closure? My uterus probably was perfectly fine without a viewing.
Years later, in that empty space, I still sense its presence and am grateful for its presents. The small, almost invisible scar just above my pubic bone is now a faded shrine to its existence. Sometimes when I think about my missing, hard working, wise and wiley uterus, I place my hands over that soft empty space on my lower abdomen and silently say “thank you.”
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