DON’T Have a Hysterectomy

Until you’ve read this article.

I had my hysterectomy and nearly died. I thought that was the worst of it.

There were multiple things that people didn’t tell me as I contemplated going under the knife. Years later I’ve come to believe that there are reasons, especially in a country where medical care is part of the competitive, capitalistic, get-the-money stream, why certain things aren’t discussed. I might have changed my mind. I should have asked more questions but, well… here’s the story.

I had heavy, painful periods. I was diagnosed with fibroids. “Oh, yes, that’s a big problem there,” said the surgeon. “You need a hysterectomy.”

I was so invested in the idea that the surgeon was next to god and his opinion sacrosanct that I didn’t even ask if there was an alternative. There is. There are plenty of alternatives. But Dr Hacker (that’s truly the name I remember) didn’t offer any to me. Instead, he made me drink a lot of water and hold it in my bladder until I thought it would burst as he made me stand while he painfully manipulated it through my vaginal wall. “We’ll also fix that,” he said as I peed involuntarily all over the floor and his hand. “But not if you don’t fix those toenails.”

It took me a minute to actually register what he said.

“I don’t operate on women with chipped polish on their toenails,” he said looking up at me with a twisted smile while he continued to ‘examine’ me.

I looked over at the nurse standing at my elbow. She smiled weakly and nodded her head. Instantly, I was more red-faced embarrassed over the state of my pedicure than the invasive ‘medical procedure’ I was experiencing. If I was going to ask questions, the window of opportunity had passed.

We sat in his office after, me still deeply, physically and psychically pained, him, self-important and assured. “We’ll schedule you for next week,” he said writing something in his diary.

“Um, I would like to wait…” I tried.

“No, you don’t want to wait. We need to get this taken care of right away. For your comfort. Besides,” he grinned, sure I’d get the joke. “I want to go to Bermuda.”

He proceeded to tell me that I would also have my ovaries taken out. “Make certain we don’t have any cancer troubles later, hmm?” Because, after all, I was forty-five and wouldn’t really need them since menopause was just right around the corner anyway.

I truly didn’t know any better. It was a while ago, when we didn’t have the conversations we do now about menopause. Certainly, there were no conversations about the consequences of a complete hysterectomy other than “a few hot flashes, taken care of by this prescription I’ll give you for hormone replacement therapy”.

So, I had the hysterectomy. I let him take my ovaries. Then, I went home and dove into the death process.

I ran fevers, my kidneys began to shut down, I was in and out of consciousness. I felt the breeze of the open door to eternity. A friend came by. She and her husband sat by my makeshift bed on the sofa saying “You ought to be getting better by now.”

Then they called the ambulance and I went back in the hospital. I was very, very ill with a collection of blood clots in my abdomen that were septic and killing me. At any moment one could have entered my blood stream and travelled to my lungs and heart. Pfft, done.

I never received a bill for either hospital visit, just a letter stating that of course I would be satisfied with having my bill waived, wouldn’t I? I gather my surgeon decided he didn’t need to go to Bermuda that winter. He was gone, though. Resigned and off to another hospital within the year.

I felt lucky that I didn’t have a huge medical bill to pay. I also didn’t question it very deeply until a few years later. Though, it is obvious, isn’t it? That something about the whole thing had the hospital, who eventually revoked the surgeon’s privileges, running just a bit scared.

I was unlucky, I’ll say that. But I was also victimized, not just by the ham-fisted doctor but by the attitude that women’s parts were and still are not nearly as valuable intact, as men’s are. It was only a uterus (and my ovaries) and once I’d reached a certain age I didn’t need them anymore anyway since I wasn’t going to have any more children. Right? If you have cancer by all means get all the treatment you may need, including surgery . But, I didn’t have cancer. I had a treatable condition that could have left me with everything just where it was meant to be. But I wasn’t given that option.

After the operation and its aftermath I was simply grateful to have survived. I knew I had a period of physical recovery to navigate and that occupied my attention for some time. It didn’t occur to me that there would be other things resulting from my surgery that I would never recover.

I noticed within a few days that my skin glowed red hot at weird and inopportune times and in strange places; my chest, my upper arms, my thighs. I was irritable and uncomfortable and beside myself, not fully in myself, just outside myself and unable to get back in. This feeling was deeply disconcerting. I dripped sweat and then got very cold. My hands and feet were ice while my face, neck and torso were on fire. This was instant, overnight full menopause with all the unlovely symptoms (minus the gushing blood) at unexpected times. My ovaries weren’t there to provide any relief with the soothing balm of normal hormone production. My body had instead, a sudden, complete secession of every hormone ovaries produce. That much was obvious and expected but the hormone therapy prescribed alarmed me so I refused to take it. My mother died of breast cancer and such therapy is frowned upon for a possibly susceptible daughter. I just thought I had to suffer through until all the unpleasantness stopped.

Then, I noticed that I didn’t give a two-cent chip out of a nickel as to whether I’d ever have sex again. At first, not alarmed, I thought that physical recovery would change that. But it didn’t. There was more to it than that.

My lack of libido was not discussed because really, it wasn’t just a lack of libido. It was a full blown physical sense of having been taken apart and then put back together missing something utterly vital. There was a huge empty space where my uterus had been. I felt less than myself.

Sex, even when my husband and I did overcome my lack of interest was far, far less satisfying. When I could reach that elusive orgasm it was a massive disappointment. I used to have earth-shattering orgasms, orgasms that would make my whole body shudder with pleasure. There was no more shuddering. There was only an empty little quiver. My uterus wasn’t there to respond. Yes, some uteruses do respond and pulse in rhythm along with clitorises. But of course, mine didn’t. It wasn’t there anymore.

I had no one to ask about this. My doctor just shrugged and acted as if I shouldn’t be thinking about such things at my age. None of my friends had had a hysterectomy. I hesitated to expose my sex life to them anyway. I felt bereft but didn’t have any idea of how to talk to anyone about it. I was grieving my uterus. People would have said I was lucky to be alive and should be grateful. I didn’t think anyone would understand my grief.

The results of the hysterectomy were not what I had thought they’d be. There was much more loss than gain from the surgery I endured. Knowing what I know now I’d never have had it. I would never recommend a complete hysterectomy to anyone unless they had cancer and needed the surgery to save their lives. I would encourage anyone contemplating such an operation to ask every question they can conjure and do their research and ask more questions. Every part of a human being is vital. We lose more than just a piece of flesh when we have anything surgically removed. We lose a part of ourselves.

Finally, this isn’t about people who need to remove parts of the body they were born with to be the person they know they really are. I thought I knew who I really was before my surgery. It wasn’t until I wasn’t whole anymore that I knew what it had really meant to be the complete me.