Project Yeet the Uterus: Mission Accomplished

It’s been six days since I was parted from my entire reproductive system and I am in awe of the process and recovery.

I arrived at the hospital at 6 am for a 7:30 a.m. surgery. I only spent a few minutes in the waiting room before being taken back for prep. The nurses inserted my IV, went through a series of questions, and then they brought Drew back. Drew and I maintain a fairly constant banter between us but we were both short on words that morning. I think we both had a lot of unspoken fears to which we couldn’t give voice.

Woman takes smug selfie prior to surgery

The nurse anesthetist arrived and went over my history. She was followed by the anesthesiologist who covered the remaining questions. My doctor (a resident) arrived with her supervisor (the attending) and confirmed what we were doing and asked for questions. The OR nurse arrived and let us know that the entire group would return in a few minutes for a pre-op huddle.

When the surgery team was assembled, I looked around and smiled. The only male on the team was a medical student who was there to observe. I said something to the effect of, “I’m so moved to have an all-female team” and there were a few mentions of “girl power” from the group. Drew said that he had never felt more helpless in his entire life.

I was whisked away to surgery promptly at 7:30 a.m. and I am happy to say that I don’t even remember being moved into the OR. My next memory was a nurse in the recovery room telling me that my only job was to breathe. Mercifully, there is no sense of time when you are waking up from anesthesia. In what I assumed had been mere minutes, I went from eating ice chips to drinking Pepsi and eating cinnamon graham Goldfish (a perk of sharing recovery with pediatric patients). In reality it had been two hours. Everything else happened quickly. Drew came back, I said I needed to pee and the nurse escorted me to the restroom. When I returned, my clothes were on the bed and a wheelchair awaited my woozy self.

I’ve always been a worst-case scenario type of girl so I was fully prepared for lots of pain. Surprisingly I haven’t had a lot of that. I took one oxy when I got home. For the first couple of days I tag-teamed the hospital grade ibuprofen with Tylenol but, six days out I’m just taking ibuprofen. I have twinges of pain throughout the day but most of what I’ve been feeling is what I would describe as pressure. If I sit in one position for too long, or twist a certain way, what’s left of my innards, asks me to knock it off and I do. I spend most of the day in a semi-reclined position which seems to make my insides as happy as they can be at the moment.

Tiredness is the one thing that I had not accurately accounted for. I mean, everything I read said that I would be tired but this isn't your regular “I think I’ll go to bed at 9:00 instead of 9:30” kind of tired. It’s the “I took a shower and now I need a nap” kind of tired. It’s the “I walked up and down the stairs twice and now I need a nap” kind of tired. On Sunday after lunch, I told Drew that I needed to lay down for a few minutes. The next thing I knew it was 6:00 p.m.!

This was, strictly, an elective surgery and right up until the drive to the hospital I was wondering if I had made the right decision. After reading the surgery and pathology reports I no longer have any doubts.

In addition to my large fibroid, Julius (he was the size of an orange), I had so many other fibroids that they didn’t even bother enumerating them. We knew that I had at least nine but the final count was likely more. My uterus measured the size of a 14-week pregnancy due to Julius being attached to its wall. I also had Stage 1 endometriosis with a lesion on my right uterosacral ligament. That was precisely the spot where I had been experiencing stabbing pain off and on for more than a year. I did a 6-week round of pelvic floor therapy last year to deal with the pain but it didn’t help. Now we know why.

The pathology report noted that I also had adenomyosis, an ovarian cyst, and a large nodule on my cervix. Basically, my reproductive organs looked like a cucumber that gets tucked away in the back of the crisper drawer and you find it only once it has moldy spots and is oozing.

For a year, I have moved through life with symptoms that can all be tied to the surgical and pathological findings. I’ve missed work because of cramps. I’ve left work early because of cramps, nausea, and bloating. I’ve stayed home from events because of nausea. I had to stop lifting weights three weeks before my surgery because I got nauseous each time I worked out. I’ve belched like an animal both at home and work. I’ve been miserable.

At my pre-op appointment, my doctor warned me that the surgery might not relieve all of my symptoms. What I can tell you today is that I feel better nearly a week after my hysterectomy than I did the week before it.

I’m so glad that I chose the surgery. I’m so glad that I had a choice! I can't say enough good things about my medical team at the University of Michigan Von Voigtlander Women’s Hospital. They were amazing. Then there’s my husband. He patiently watched over the last year as I’ve needed naps, nights with the heating pad on the couch instead of concerts, and days with little or no exertion. Over the last week, he has been there every step of the way, holding my hand, rubbing my back, making meals, and making sure that I don’t “overdo” it. He carries my rocks. He is my rock.

I cannot wait to take this post-menopausal body out for a metaphorical spin! Until then, you can find me propped up on pillows binge-watching series and working through my TBR pile. Oh, and I’ll be cuddling the cat a lot too. After all, she started me down this road.

Tara is my guardian cat

I’m Yeeting My Uterus Thanks to My Cat

 

I’m having a hysterectomy and I owe it to my cat.

Two years ago at my annual checkup I mentioned to my doctor that my periods were getting gruesome. The cramps were worse than ever. The bleeding was heavier than ever. And, occasionally, there were what I can only describe as “clumps.” The doctor smiled knowingly and said that I was likely approaching menopause and that it was all very normal.

Last year, after cleaning up cat puke, I took a nasty fall and landed squarely on my tailbone. The pain was so bad that I went to urgent care. The xrays didn’t show a break and the PA sent me home with some pain meds.

This all happened while I was under the care of a Rheumatologist who was trying to figure out if I had a sneaky form of inflammatory arthritis. After x-rays on knees and back, she needed more information so she ordered an MRI on my cervical spine.

She called the next day and said, “You have a fractured sacrum. Did you know that?” I laughed and told her about the fall at home and that I wasn’t surprised. What was surprising is that, in addition to the fracture, I had a sizable fibroid and it had at least nine other fibroid friends.

The Rheumatologist paused further diagnostic work on the arthritis front until the fracture had time to heal. In the meantime, she asked me to follow up with my primary care physician on the fibroids. My primary care doctor sent me straight to surgical gynecology and I had to wait two months for an appointment. 

When I finally got to see the gynecologist she recommended that we stop my period with progesterone, hopefully eliminating my period and the terrible symptoms attached to it, and then wait for menopause.

The progesterone did all sorts of fun things to my body. My hunger went through the roof. For the first three months, it was not at all uncommon for me to wake at 3:00 am so hungry that I couldn’t fall back to sleep. So, there were lots of 3:30 am snacks. There were also nights when I couldn’t sleep at all. I gained a quick 10 pounds and was exhausted. 

After some back and forth with the doctor she suggested that I cut my progesterone dose in half. The hunger subsided a bit and I slept better but I still had light periods. I also had cramps about three weeks out of the month and when I wasn’t having cramps, I was so bloated that I supported my abdomen when I walked, like I was pregnant. I spent most evenings with a heating pad on my belly and even considered purchasing a USB-powered heating pad for our recent trip to the UK. 

I recently reached out to my doctor and asked what she could recommend for relief. She had some temporary options that were similar to an in-office surgery without anesthesia. She also recommended a hysterectomy. 

After a few days of thought and research, I opted for the hysterectomy. At 50 (and three quarters) I didn’t want to bother with temporary solutions that may or may not work or that would need to be repeated in the future. 

A few days later, the doctor messaged and said that she could do the surgery on September 17. When I turned 50, I (sort of) jokingly told everyone that all I wanted was cake and menopause. I only got the cake. It occurred to me that I would get my birthday wish, just one year late. 

At my pre-op appointment, my doctor asked if I wanted to have my ovaries removed, forcing me into menopause. I said yes. 

All of this feels a bit surreal. I was pregnant once and had an early miscarriage. My child is adopted. And, yet, at this very moment, I have an orange-sized (headed for grapefruit) fibroid sitting on my uterus that causes my uterus to measure the size of a 12-week pregnancy. I also have frequent bouts of nausea, gas, and bloating that mimic pregnancy symptoms. 

On my way out of my child-bearing years, my body seems to be serving up a top-ten list of “look what you missed.”

Do I have regrets about anything? Not one. Adoption brought me the greatest gift I’ve ever received. Had it not been for that miscarriage, I don’t think I would have even considered adoption. 

It never bothered me that I didn’t experience a full pregnancy. I understand why women want it but it was never a huge thing for me. I would trade nothing for the 9-month old dynamo that I held for the first time in November 2005. 

Do I mourn the impending loss of my reproductive system? Not a bit! Would you mourn the loss of an inflamed appendix or a defective gall bladder? Of course not! When the parts go haywire, it’s time to yeet them. 

While I can’t blame/attribute this all to the cat, I do believe that it was the MRI that sped up the process. It would have probably been another year’s worth of painful and hemorrhage-like periods before my primary care doctor referred me to a specialist based on what I’ve learned from other women. 

So, thank you Tara for putting me on the fast track to yeeting my uterus. Sorry though kitten, my belly is going to be off limits for biscuit making for a few weeks.