Barren woman
i've never felt so free
Hi friends,
The weirdest thing about having surgery is that you blink and six (seven? eight?) weeks go by. That’s what happened to me, at least. So hi, hello, I survived my hysterectomy. I meant to write so much sooner than this, but my life became almost entirely about recovery and then I returned to work (easily a week too early) and I found myself struggling to balance the obligations of the every day with my ongoing efforts to heal. It has not been an uncomplicated equilibrium to maintain and I am certain I have failed a least a few times along the way. But if I’ve learned anything from Marge (ICYMI Marge was the very large fibroid I recently evicted from my body, alongside my uterus, fallopian tubes, and cervix), and from her removal, it’s that if everything is a priority nothing is a priority, that most things aren’t urgent, and that working beyond your capacity a) serves no one and b) always, ALWAYS catches up with you.
It's possible I would have grown Marge — who, by the time she was extracted, was the size of a very large grapefruit or the equivalent of a 4-5 month pregnancy — in the absence of all the stress I have been under these past three years, buuuut I kind of doubt it. And it’s not just the external events of my life (when I rattled them off in chronological order during my last therapy session, both my therapist and I could not keep from laughing on account of the sheer absurdity) it’s the fact that after each subsequent physical, emotional, or psychological hit, I refused to take time off to recover. I’m not blaming myself for Marge, but I am acknowledging the role I played in creating the conditions for her to develop — and to thrive — at my expense.
After my mom died last May, I took exactly no days off to grieve. ZERO. At the time, I quite honestly didn’t know what else to do. Who am I if I’m not working? Who am I if I’m not taking care of others? Who am I if I’m not being a productive member of society? I did not know. (Internalized capitalism, anyone?) And I couldn’t bear another layer of identity loss on top of the crisis my mother’s death ushered in. I know I offered great care to many folks in the days and weeks after my mom died — in a certain and beautiful way her death actually enhanced my capacity to be present for others. But I also recognize my compulsion to return to work immediately following her passing is not necessarily a healthy response to such a devastating, life-altering loss. I still don’t really know who I am outside of work, outside of being useful, outside of the performance of productivity, but — thanks in large part to Marge — now I do know I want to find out.
When I was scheduling myself time off for post-hysterectomy healing, I remember feeling like two weeks was being indulgent. Two weeks. To recover. From having multiple organs removed from my body. This, my friends, was not indulgent. It was the bare minimum. It was, in truth, most definitely not enough time. I kept telling people I couldn’t afford to take more days off, but you know what? Fuck that. I could have. I would have been fine. The truth is, I was terrified. Of the surgery, yes. But also of losing myself entirely in its aftermath. I wrote about this a bit back in June, about my concerns I would spiral into a deep depression on account of the physical limitations I would be facing in the weeks — and potentially months — following the procedure. If I couldn’t run and jump and lift heavy things, how would I — as a lifelong athlete — have any idea who I was? Work. Work would keep me anchored, would remind me I mattered, would provide me with evidence of my utility in the world.
I’m lucky. I set my own hours. I do work I love, work I find genuinely fulfilling, and with people I wholeheartedly adore. But I also know it is all too easy to over-identify with your work when you a) work for yourself, b) do work that feels meaningful, and c) care deeply about those your work seeks to serve. Working in a caretaking profession also presents certain pitfalls in this regard — namely, the pervasive pressure to adopt your profession as your entire personality (this feels especially true in the acupuncture/Chinese medicine world), the hustle culture that permeates the field (so many of us are self-employed/small business owners), and the sense that if you are not self-sacrificing to some extent you must not be adequately empathetic for the role.
(There are also the realities of capitalism to consider, of course. We must make money — or have it, at the very least, which most of us can’t unless we’re working — to survive. The idea that we must earn to live sits less and less right with me the older I get, and yet it’s the truth with which the majority of us must currently contend. But I digress.)
I once heard renowned trauma therapist Gabor Maté on a podcast (which I cannot, for the life of me, find now) speaking about his history of overworking, about how much of his life he missed out on due to his (as he described it) unhealthy dedication to his work as a clinician earlier in his career. He said he now recognizes this younger version of himself was using his work as a means to “validate [his] existence.” He was doing undeniably excellent and important work during those years and helped countless people along the way, but at a clear cost to himself and to his personal relationships. And I think part of what I heard him wondering is this: was it necessary for him to overextend himself to the degree he consistently did? Were the sacrifices he made worth it and — even more so — did his work truly demand that he make them?
The answers can’t be known, of course. But the questions are absolutely worth asking.
My first two weeks at home post-hysterectomy were challenging, but — to my great surprise — the spiral I expected to go down never fully materialized. I had my moments (i.e. the first time I tried to walk a mile and had to turn around after four blocks I BROKE DOWN), but the experience did not obliterate me in the ways I worried it might. If anything, those fourteen days of focusing almost entirely on my recovery helped me locate myself in my life for the first time in a long while. Years, for sure. Decades, perhaps. I didn’t work, I walked more and more every day but otherwise didn’t exercise, I took naps and read books, I saw my friends (thank goddess for those who came by with food or hugs or just to sit by my side), I connected with and felt cared for by my partner, I shared a meal with my sister and her kids, I felt useless at times but those times were rare. More than anything, I realized there’s more to me than what I can produce or provide, more than the external markers of so-called success in which most of us were taught to heavily invest.
I love my work but I am not my work. I love moving my body, I love lifting heavy, I love being active, but my value is not determined by my ability to do so. And neither is yours.
I recently (pre-surgery) told my therapist I’m not always certain I actually exist. She said this is not uncommon for folks like me, whose childhood homes were similar to mine. Close your eyes. Can you find yourself? Most of the time I can’t. Or I couldn’t. Until recently. And now I can. Not always, but sometimes. More of the time. And that, my friends, is changing everything.
Shout out to my therapist, who has quite literally saved my life while simultaneously modeling healthy boundaries and showing me your work can be deeply impactful without eclipsing the whole of who you are.
And shout out to Marge, I suppose. I can’t say I’m happy I grew her, but I can say I have no regrets.
If you’ve read this far, THANK YOU. I know I say that every time, but that’s only because I mean it.
xoxo
Cayly
P.s. I thought about writing a detailed account of my surgery, but a) that seems kind of boring and b) it feels like the time for such things has passed. Also, I am lucky enough to have had a relatively uneventful experience in the hospital. My surgical team was wonderful, every nurse I encountered was kind and compassionate and skilled (like every nurse I know in my real life), my post-operative pain was taken seriously and medicated adequately (turns out I process opioids VERY QUICKLY, just one more thing I inherited from my mom), and I even shared some jokes with my anesthesiologist.
That being said, if you have more specific questions about my surgery, please don’t hesitate to ask. I am happy to talk about all of it. Especially if you are facing something similar in your own life and want to discuss it with someone who’s been there. Reaching out to friends and acquaintances who’d already had hysterectomies was incredibly helpful in preparing for my own. I’d love to pay that generosity forward in whatever ways I can.
❍ What if people simply DO NOT WANT to have kids?
❍ Becoming Little Shell by Chris La Tray — I learned so much from Chris’s book and you will, too. I promise.
❍ Beware hetero-exceptionalism by Tracy Clark-Flory
❍ The Tail End by Sloane Crosley (I cried, I dare you not to)
❍ Gone Commando by Molly Rosen
❍ Stop spreading lies about abortion by Lyz Lenz (paid)
❍ Reveal podcast — there is some excellent journalism being done here. A few episodes I recommend:
❍ The Red Car by Marcy Dermansky (I love everything she writes)
❍ Cow Moms vs Cat Ladies by Amanda Montei