Are Those Tears on my Cheeks?

The quiet waves of hysterectomy.

… Are those tears on my cheeks? I hastily brush them away. My legs anxiously rock back and forth, rattling the hospital gurney, rustling the green Johnny shirt and blue makeshift housecoat draped around my knees.

“What are you afraid of?” he asks gently. He’s there, 15 years together, He’s there, his calloused thumb gently stroking my hand. My chin quivers as I try bravely to respond.

“I have so much to miss out on; all the ‘what if’s’ keep running through my mind. I don’t want to think about it, but I can’t stop thinking about it.”

All the heart for my loves sits in this cold pre-op room wanting to explode out my chest at the unspoken fear of death. I can feel it trapped in my chest. I can’t help but be worried that this might be my last chance to express my love, tell them well, give them enough to last their lifetimes. I know it’s melodramatic. It doesn’t matter.

… Are those tears on my cheeks? My hand shakes as it struggles to wipe them away. The IV pulls and tugs as I lay my bruised blue/green arm back on the crisp baby blue sheets.

The room is quiet. The hospital wing is quiet. I am so tired. I have nothing to distract me, no energy for anything but to give in to them. Hot tears coarse down my cheeks and pool in my ears.

They told me I’d cry tears of grief and loss but these are tears of relief- such overwhelming, relief. It is over. It has been successful. I can move forward now. No more daily struggle. No more wondering when or how. No more questions if I’m worthy of saying “that’s enough”, I deserve better than this.

… Are those tears on my cheeks? I close my eyes tight but they squeeze out, roll down my cheeks and drip off the tip of my nose. They soak the pillow that lays under my head in my darkened bedroom.

I know you’re busy”, I choke out, “but will you come lay beside me for a while?” He pushes the mop of unkempt curls away from my forehead and settles in beside me.

“What is it?” He asks. But I can’t express it in words. So I lay here, tears falling for each baby we created together. Each baby it sheltered and fed; each movement I felt as it swelled with new life. With each healthy birth story, it forced us into our first moments as two instead of one. My womb; my cradle for new life.

… Are those tears on my cheeks? I watch them drop from my face and soak into the various squares of material as I clutch the quilt tighter around my shoulders and stare off into the past.

Today’s pain is new, it is a healing pain. It reminds me of the days doubled over gasping and cramping in agony. It reminds me of meetings left hiding in the bathroom, family reunions and parties cut short. There are memories of squatting on the floor at work, leaning up against walls, head between my knees so as not to pass out. Times when hot shame burned my cheeks as I ran to the bathroom, evidence of my pain flooding my pant legs. Bathtubs stained red; too tired to do anything but lay on cold porcelain. My uterus; my secret humiliation.

My vision clouds with the pressing darkness of remembering there was no reprieve, no cycle to prepare for, just an outgoing drain of life, an ongoing battle to push through. I’m lost recalling the struggle to find my voice through years of doctor’s visits, explaining and second-guessing, referrals, all the medications, and procedures to control and manage a battle I couldn’t win.

But what now? As the quiet waves of hysterectomy ebb and flow down the lines life has carved into my face I can’t help but wonder, “Can that which made me a woman and a mother, now have the power to take it away?”

**I am now officially one-week post-op and I want to thank everyone for their support and love. The surgery was very successful and I am looking forward to a happy and healthy recovery. I don’t want to give the impression that I am sitting around crying all the time, but I do want to shed some light on the realities of women’s health. 

I have discovered, as I begin to find my own voice, that many women are struggling with their health in silence. We can find doctors and the medical system dismissive and we struggle to stand up and say our health struggles are not acceptable or normal. 

My hope in sharing some of my story would be that women, grandmothers, mothers, daughters, and friends would begin talking and sharing theirs. Let’s stand together and insist upon the support and care we need for the healthy lives we deserve.

Talk to your best friend. Talk to your doctor. Talk again.