Because there is absolutely no way to say this without sounding like a complete weirdo I am going to rip it off like a Band-Aid and just say it. My lady bits are actively trying to kill me so I am having a hysterectomy. Tomorrow.
There I said it.
And, honestly, the only reason I’m even talking about it is because we ladies seldom talk about what is, you know, real, what is actually happening in our lives that doesn’t resemble a Pinterest moment. Like, how one’s life can be so shitty with an angry uterus that the idea of someone ripping the useless lady satchel directly from my cookie is so much better than spending one more month in her company. This is a public service announcement, really.
I wish someone, like one of the five actual doctors I’ve seen over the past decade, would have told me that all these symptoms weren’t a) normal or b) a figment of my imagination. So, when my current doctor, who, by the way, is so ridiculously beautiful and amazing that I’d offer up any other organs she’d want to remove no questions asked said that “we poked the bear” and “now she needs to go”, I was totally on board.
I should’ve asked about a million questions but I was too shocked to say anything. Instead, the first thing I did was buy a plush uterus on Amazon and named her Lagertha because nothing screams research and readiness like a pink uterus pillow. Now, since I’m basically clueless going into this here’s my list of questions for her tomorrow morning:
If the answer is “no” to all of the above questions, honestly, maybe she isn’t as amazing as I initially thought and I should find someone who will do those things. Holy shit, are there countries that still send you home with your organs floating in glass vials of liquid? If so, I should totally go there instead. In the meantime, fingers crossed this isn’t as bad as I have made it out to be in my head. Ladies, have this conversation because someone you know may have been through something similar. Yesterday my cousin was diagnosed with Stage 1 uterine cancer, which sucks, so let’s lift the veil of secrecy and talk about it. Here, I’ll start: My lady bits are actively trying to kill me so I am having a hysterectomy.
There I said it.
And, honestly, the only reason I’m even talking about it is because we ladies seldom talk about what is, you know, real, what is actually happening in our lives that doesn’t resemble a Pinterest moment. Like, how one’s life can be so shitty with an angry uterus that the idea of someone ripping the useless lady satchel directly from my cookie is so much better than spending one more month in her company. This is a public service announcement, really.
I wish someone, like one of the five actual doctors I’ve seen over the past decade, would have told me that all these symptoms weren’t a) normal or b) a figment of my imagination. So, when my current doctor, who, by the way, is so ridiculously beautiful and amazing that I’d offer up any other organs she’d want to remove no questions asked said that “we poked the bear” and “now she needs to go”, I was totally on board.
I should’ve asked about a million questions but I was too shocked to say anything. Instead, the first thing I did was buy a plush uterus on Amazon and named her Lagertha because nothing screams research and readiness like a pink uterus pillow. Now, since I’m basically clueless going into this here’s my list of questions for her tomorrow morning:
- Can I have my lady bits in order to fashion a necklace or coin purse out of her?
- If not, can you take a picture of me flipping said lady bits off in the operating room?
- Since I am keeping my ovaries for hot flash prevention purposes can you at least remove ten pounds of fat instead?
- Will you pose with me and Lagertha before the procedure for Facebook shits and giggles?
If the answer is “no” to all of the above questions, honestly, maybe she isn’t as amazing as I initially thought and I should find someone who will do those things. Holy shit, are there countries that still send you home with your organs floating in glass vials of liquid? If so, I should totally go there instead. In the meantime, fingers crossed this isn’t as bad as I have made it out to be in my head. Ladies, have this conversation because someone you know may have been through something similar. Yesterday my cousin was diagnosed with Stage 1 uterine cancer, which sucks, so let’s lift the veil of secrecy and talk about it. Here, I’ll start: My lady bits are actively trying to kill me so I am having a hysterectomy.
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