Almost There
Friday, June 1, 2007 Today, in a doctor's office, I signed away my uterus and cervix. There were fluorescent lights that made the papers appear to vibrate and something hung on the wall next to a placard that read "African Body Mask". It was a mould of a woman's breasts and pregnant belly. Behind me was a bulletin board crowded over with babies at Christmas, babies with proud new fathers, babies' first birthday cards, and babies smiling above shiny, spit-covered chins. I suddenly felt that an obstetrician's office was the wrong place for someone in my situation to be. Everything was pointing its finger at me and saying You can't.
For someone who has never wanted to have children, this cat's got issues with outside forces telling her no and removing a supposedly useless organ.
I had terrible dreams last night. In one of them, my mother was holding a long, clear plastic tube to my right nipple. There was some kind of suction device that forced milk from my breast, and it ran and sputtered down the length of the tube into a small bowl. There was no baby to go with the milk, only milk and my mother to milk it. I did not want her to be there touching me so intimately. Somehow, it was her fault that I continued to produce this milk, but I sat there unable brush her away. I felt drugged and lacklustre. She pulled the tube away and tapped the last drops from it into the bowl. That's a good amount, she said, and I could see that it was. I noticed that some of it had dripped onto my finger, and when I licked it off, I was surprised by its sweetness. It's sweet, I said. I know, she said.
I thought of that dream while I signed forms that said they could throw away my body parts and do whatever the hell else they find necessary when they are inside my abdomen. I thought that it might be nice if they tattooed small X-marks-the-spot Xs on all the parts of me that my uterus touched while it was still there.
I was a little sad that I wouldn't be taking my uterus home with me in a jar. I would have hidden it on a shelf in the closet and brought it out for morbid houseguests to oooh over. I would have tapped the glass in order to watch the fallopian tubes bob in an aqueous solution of formaldehyde.
Reader Comments (15)
Rootin' for ya, slugger. You got big brass balls, you know.
I, too, am disappointed that you can't take it home with you in a jar. Did you ask??
I, too, had cervical ca. It was adenocarcinoma which is invasive an aggressive. I was only 27. I had most of my cervix removed but was spared my uterus. Could they not do that for you? Why not? Why can't they do that for you?
I'm with Mr. Head.
But partly because I like his name so much.
Words escape me...
So I will follow bb and Mr. Head.
I'm thinking about you and sending good energy your way. Also, I have my fingers crossed.
Jesus Murphy. I'm so sorry. It is truly a sign of the horrible emotional ineptitude of the medical industry that obstetrician's offices (with pictures of babies everywhere, and happily pregnant women with you in the waiting room) are the places where they send women who are infertile, who have miscarried, who are having abortions, or who are having hysterectomies. Insensitivity on a massive scale, that.
Hang the hell in there. We're thinking of you every hour.
~K.
Aw hell, Schmutzie. We're thinking about you.
As usual, your writing is holding up beautifully.
I, also think you should ask if you can take your uterus home with you in a jar. I took my placenta home with me in a jar. Your uterus belongs to you (which brings to mind my favourite Simpsons quote), so you should get to choose whether it spends the rest of its days as a dried husk in a jar or as medical waste.
I think I even have information about how to dry placentas and uteri so that they don't go all gorby.
I feel certain Pollyanna would say, "But look! You still have your beeboos!"
(I desperately hope that came off as funny, and not insensitive, seeing how I'm just a stranger.)
Speaking as a woman who also knows very clearly I didn't want children I still felt sad and moments of regret. Especially as I went through menopause--I suppose I thought since I didn't want kids I shouldn't or had no reason to feel this way but hey we're not just a brain but a body too that has it's own desires. Hang in this too shall pass...
Pamela
thinking of you. (and also, thinking I swear i've seen a photo on a blog somewhere of knitted ladyparts . . . .)(not in jars, though)
Schmutzie...
Sorry just doesn't seem an appropriate sentiment.
Thank God that real women are no longer defined by their breasts, their role in bearing children, their looks... but instead for their humanity, their intelligence, their compassion and their strength.
I say when you are feeling better, you tattoo your uterus on your pelvis...it will be like looking at a picture of an old friend that you once had a close relationship with. always missed, never forgotten.
Here's to a speedy recovery...
My thoughts are with you.
You're right, an OB's office is a terrible place for women with cervical cancer. Although it doesn't really compare, I felt the same way about going to the OB when I was dealing with infertility. It's like all the pregnant bellies are mocking you.
Have you read Margaret Atwood's collection of short stories: Wilderness Tips? There are a couple in there I think you'd particularly enjoy right now.
All my best to you.