Oh, the Irony...

The word that encompasses my life

I was twelve years old when I sat on the toilet and found blood on the toilet paper.

I yelled, initially terrified. But as soon as my mum came racing in, the fear vanished, replaced by pure anger. It immediately sank in what this moment actually entailed.

My mum, with all her natural suave, just relaxed and tried to put me at ease. But I was furious.

'I don't want this, Mum.'

'I want it gone. Forever.'

'I absolutely don't need it - I don't want any kids, ever!'

Oh, the torment I felt about 'becoming a woman' and realising this was going to happen every single month.

'I want it out. Can we go to the doctor tomorrow?' I pleaded.

I'm not sure exactly when we acted on my demand, but I will never forget the doctor refusing to take a twelve-year-old seriously. 'We do not cut into healthy flesh,' those words were thrown back in my face. 'And you are a child. How could you possibly know you never want kids?'

As it turned out, I knew.

The Monthly Exile

That period went on to debilitate my entire life. Because of it, I made massive, sweeping life choices.

Every month, for seven days, I suffered. By day fourteen of my cycle, the dread would set in. On the first day of my bleeding, I would lie in the fetal position, biting through cramps that laughed in the face of painkillers. Yet, I still forced myself to cycle to school. I fought through various jobs and sports, carrying an extra layer of shame with me every month because I couldn't use tampons.

Wearing pads felt 'disgusting or weird' to the outside world, and since I already felt weird enough, it made me intensely self-conscious and plain miserable. (Mind you, wearing pads is absolutely normal and much healthier! But try telling that to a teenager's brain).

For twenty-three years, it was an inconceivable, painful inconvenience. Until my thirty-fifth year on this planet.

Meeting Katie

It turned out I had a massive fibroid inside my uterus. I only discovered it because I finally marched myself to the gynaecologist. I was peeing constantly, and I could actually feel a hard, distinct clump in my abdomen. When I sternly told my GP, they tried to dismiss it as constipation. I refused to be unheard, and a month later, I demanded a referral.

The ultrasound scan showed a uterine fibroid that was the size of an ostrich egg.

To ease the sheer weirdness of having a rogue entity growing inside me, my girlfriend and I decided to name her Katie. I was thinking of that bizarre character from the movie Horton Hears a Who.

'In my world, everyone is a pony, and they all eat rainbows, and poop butterflies!'

I have no sodding clue why my mind associated a uterine tumour with her, but I was clearly desperate to make light of it. I needed a reason to giggle, because otherwise, it felt like I was stuck in the movie Alien and Sigourney Weaver was about to watch a chest-burster emerge.

A few appointments later, a kind gynaecologist looked at me and asked what I wanted. What was my ideal outcome?

Hold on. You mean this time, I actually have a choice?

With tears welling in my eyes, I didn’t hesitate: 'A total hysterectomy, please.'

Here it was. My wish, finally coming true at thirty-five.

The Humbling Reality of 'Freedom'

Right now, I am writing this from bed. I’ve been here for over a week following major abdominal surgery. Biting through the pain day after day, celebrating tiny increments of recovery. Honestly? It has been hell.

If you think you know pain, a hysterectomy is a deeply humbling experience. You absolutely, defencelessly, cannot do a single thing for yourself the first week. And for the five weeks after that, you have to swallow your pride and ask for help with the most mundane household tasks. Consider this your official heads-up.

But after this... I will be free. Finally.

The freaky thing is, at the beginning of this year; as I was crawling out of my darkest mental health period yet, I chose a 'word of the year'. It’s something I’ve never done before, but the word came to me like a prayer, a dream, a deep longing:

Freedom.

Freedom of my mind. And freedom of my body.

I think parts of those wishes have officially come true.

I have been released from a severe layer of pain on top of my existing chronic illness. I have been released of a tumour. I have been released of the mandatory eight-day lockdown I had to enforce every month (and that’s not even counting the miserable PMS days).

I can plan events now without looking at a calendar.

I have control over my own anatomy.

I can spontaneously say 'yes' if someone asks me to go swimming.

And as a bonus: being a lesbian in a relationship where nobody or only one has a period? Absolute bliss.

A Blessing in Disguise

Beyond the removal of a rogue organ, I am finding myself becoming freer in who I am. I am discovering my purest self again, largely because I am being loved so genuinely and safely by a beautiful soul. I’ve regained my lost grace. My evolution gets to continue with a partner by my side; I no longer have to navigate this heavy life entirely on my own. I can finally share my darkest days, knowing they will be received with gentleness and consideration.

Even though this surgery didn’t cure the rest of my chronic health issues, that ginormous uterine fibroid - along with the tiny secondary fibroid we discovered, (turns out Katie had a baby) was a profound blessing in disguise.

Wishes do come true. Just sometimes, they take twenty-three years and a plot twist to get here.

P.S. A joke from my mum right before I went under anaesthesia:

'Well, this is the closest I'll ever come to a pregnancy with you.'

I snorted. First, because my mum never makes jokes, and second, because she absolutely nailed it. Mic drop, please.

P.P.S. I think this is officially the most iconic, ironic full-circle moment of my entire existence.