;)
Friday
Nov052010
Finding My Way To Mariana
Friday, November 5, 2010 at 12:50AM
Surfing is not a team sport. Sure, you can have surfing teams, but ultimately, surfing is the sport of you and nature, tangled up together, limbs intertwined, riding on top of and against and through each other. Out in the sea, encapsulated in the grandeur of tidal pulls and gravity and water and earth, your ears are full of the the whole of creation roaring at you, perched and ready to strike. You tether your sliver of control to your ankle and attempt to find your god in your absolute mortality. It's a solo endeavor, finding your rhythm in time with nature, learning that you'll only dominate once you surrender, realizing that your power is completely perceived and contingent on your willingness to let that same power completely go. You ride the wave, the wave rides you.
It was September 20th, mid afternoon, when they told me they were going to have to take my uterus.
Every morning since, I have woken up, waxed my board, strapped it to my foot and walked headfirst and alone into this swell. My team paddles alongside me, but inside the tube it is me and my mutilation, pitted singularly against each other, timing a collapse against an escape in defiance of gravity along-side sanity within the swell of the natural order of things.
I do not know how to navigate through this, and so I choose most days to ebb out with the water, thoughtlessly allowing me, myself and this to drift lazily out to sea. When I try to speak of this, the waves come crashing down around me faster than I can navigate through them. They constrict with each undulation until I am drunken and suffocating inside an impossible tunnel.
Everything holding the core of me in place disintegrated. I am no longer able to create life.
It is hard, surrendering to this. I don't want this, and I don't know how to talk about this. I know how to mock this, to be sure, but I don't know how to honestly say that I cannot handle what just happened to me any more than I knew how to say I couldn't handle what was about to happen to me. And so I don't talk about it, except in very specific terms. I am healing fine and I can start washing dishes in a few days and driving in a few weeks and maybe by Christmas, I'll be able to give my husband a "present". I listen to the advice I am given and I accept all the support I am offered and I tuck all of that away in my pocket for the time I know that I'll be able to unwrap it and use it and I continue ramming my head into this thing alone, because I don't know how else to do it.
I keep riding this wave, it keeps riding me.
I dream of tiny fingers wrapped around thumbs, of suckling and sleeping, of the things I thought I decided years ago I didn't want anymore. I'm jolted awake in the mornings by the reality of stitching that spans the height and breadth and depth of everything I used to need to make that dream come true, everything that has been carefully reconstructed with biological mesh and re-purposed ligaments and tethered expanses of skin and muscle.
I am the accumulation of 35 years of surface friction, mounting itself over and over again until at last, the base could hold me no longer and it broke against itself.
This wave of mutilation is still roaring around me, blocking sun and sound and earth and heaven, and I am tethered to the sliver of control I've convinced myself I still have left. I am trying to let this go, to rest upon the foundation that was surgically implanted into my body ten days ago and stay ahead of the wave that wants to come crashing down on me. I am reconciling the singular mortality I was forced to face against the three embodiments of my immortality that greet me each morning, and I am riding the wave.
And it is riding me.
It was September 20th, mid afternoon, when they told me they were going to have to take my uterus.
Every morning since, I have woken up, waxed my board, strapped it to my foot and walked headfirst and alone into this swell. My team paddles alongside me, but inside the tube it is me and my mutilation, pitted singularly against each other, timing a collapse against an escape in defiance of gravity along-side sanity within the swell of the natural order of things.
I do not know how to navigate through this, and so I choose most days to ebb out with the water, thoughtlessly allowing me, myself and this to drift lazily out to sea. When I try to speak of this, the waves come crashing down around me faster than I can navigate through them. They constrict with each undulation until I am drunken and suffocating inside an impossible tunnel.
Everything holding the core of me in place disintegrated. I am no longer able to create life.
It is hard, surrendering to this. I don't want this, and I don't know how to talk about this. I know how to mock this, to be sure, but I don't know how to honestly say that I cannot handle what just happened to me any more than I knew how to say I couldn't handle what was about to happen to me. And so I don't talk about it, except in very specific terms. I am healing fine and I can start washing dishes in a few days and driving in a few weeks and maybe by Christmas, I'll be able to give my husband a "present". I listen to the advice I am given and I accept all the support I am offered and I tuck all of that away in my pocket for the time I know that I'll be able to unwrap it and use it and I continue ramming my head into this thing alone, because I don't know how else to do it.
I keep riding this wave, it keeps riding me.
I dream of tiny fingers wrapped around thumbs, of suckling and sleeping, of the things I thought I decided years ago I didn't want anymore. I'm jolted awake in the mornings by the reality of stitching that spans the height and breadth and depth of everything I used to need to make that dream come true, everything that has been carefully reconstructed with biological mesh and re-purposed ligaments and tethered expanses of skin and muscle.
I am the accumulation of 35 years of surface friction, mounting itself over and over again until at last, the base could hold me no longer and it broke against itself.
This wave of mutilation is still roaring around me, blocking sun and sound and earth and heaven, and I am tethered to the sliver of control I've convinced myself I still have left. I am trying to let this go, to rest upon the foundation that was surgically implanted into my body ten days ago and stay ahead of the wave that wants to come crashing down on me. I am reconciling the singular mortality I was forced to face against the three embodiments of my immortality that greet me each morning, and I am riding the wave.
And it is riding me.
Reader Comments (46)
You know that we'll paddle out beside you every damn day if we need to, right? Because surfing may be a solo sport, but it's a lot easier to face the fear of crashing if you have people there to put you back on your board when you fall off.
(How's that for grossly extending a metaphor?)
*insert words here*
I love you.
I got a puppy. It helps. I'd recommend it. Although, they just suctioned mine out. Removal is far more harsh.
But! You're in good company -- @queenofspain & @Califmom have both had hysterectomies. :(
Gentle hugs, boob grabs & carresses my love.
Ugh. I've missed you. Missed your latest posts. And here I come barging back in reading about how a decision like no longer being able to create life was taken away from you rather than you making it for yourself... I can't imagine. But I can lend an ear. A shoulder. A hope.
you know what that first paragraph evoked for me? Birthing.
You are creating new version of yourself from within. Your within is describing a new version of itself to you. Ride the waves. Birthing is never an easy thing.
You are no less and no more than everything that brought you to this shore. Hold on.
(You know there is an outfit up here the furthest edge of Canada & the Pacific's roll and crash? It is called Surf Sisters. You have many scattered across the swell of the internet. I wish them for you. xo)
Finding my way to Mariana http://www.whiskeyinmysippycup.com/2010/11/05/hysterectomy-plus/
My heart is in my throat, and I don't know what to say.
I don't have the words. I'm so sorry your choice was taken away. I do hope this decision that was made will keep you with the children you do have for many extra years.
I've never been where you are, never had my fertility taken away before I was ready to surrender it. Thinking of you.
I never thought I would bear children, so I never came to view my uterus as the seat of life. I did eventually use it for that purpose, but it took me by surprise and almost killed me, so I still have a love/hate relationship with that organ. I voluntarily disconnected the plumbing when my son was delivered, as I didn't want to risk my life again, but I am not sure how I would feel if they removed it altogether. I know my aunt, who brought 8 children into the world felt exactly as you do when she went through this. It was her identity, being a mom, being able to make new babies. So while no one can take this journey FOR you, you are so not alone while you are out there.
Beautifully written post.
I've met your kids, so I can say that your uterus left a shining legacy. Also, most brilliant blog post title in the history of the internet.
The beauty and pain and poignancy of your words is scraping through me, leaving my soul raw and vulnerable. May you find your way back to the centre of yourself soon...
Love you, bb. Tuck that in your pocket.
I am so sorry that you are are in such a dark place right now. I went through the same thing at your age. I know it doesn't feel like you'll ever be yourself again, but you will. You have to give yourself the gift of time, and everyone else can give screw off. I know this sounds stupid but try to find something else, other than writing to help occupy your hands and you mind. It will help. Make some pot holders, anything, just stay busy and give your body the chance it needs to heal.
Sending you love & gentle hugs. I can only imagine how I would feel in your place. I'm also 100% mom, it defines my being. The ability to create life is who and what I am so although I know we're done having kids, having that ability taken away from me would knock me to the ground. So no advice, just love.
Every wave reaches the beach at some point.
*hugs*
I've been where you are and know that Mariana is within reach of all of us.
Keep getting up every day my darling, you'll get there.
My friend just forwarded this post to me. After having the same experience one (short) year ago, I haven't yet been able to fully come to grips with it and despair often catches me unawares. Thank you for voicing my feelings when I have been unable to articulate.
P.S.
And forgive me for dwelling only on myself and failing to ackowledge YOUR pain and heartache. I'm sending healing thoughts and prayers your way.
pshaw. You don't need no stinkin uterus.
I'm sure you're tired of hearing all of the advice everyone is giving you but if I could offer you any advice at all (I had a complete hysterectomy at 29)...take all of the time that YOU need to deal with tihs!! No one knows what you're going through except you! Hugs boo!
Beautifully written. I know a version of your pain, but we are all different. I never got the chance to be pregnant before i lost my uterus but I have 3 beautiful children.... 8 years later I still yearn to feel a velvet soft cheek against mine.
It's a loss that must be grieved - don't let anyone tell you otherwise.
Much love to you my fellow hyster-sister.
Laurie
:(
October 2nd was the third anniversary of my hysterectomy. I'm thirty. Much love.
That lump in TwoBusy's throat? It's moved on to mine. Peace.
so sorry for your unease but so overawed at your writing no mutilation will stop that production .
Sending you love.
Concur.
This is what I was asking about, if this was coming, the other night. I'm here, when you figure out how to talk about with without sport analogies, when we can be sad together and no one has to crack a joke, and when you're ready to do that jello shot. At the very least, I'm here when you're ready to drink some tea out of an ugly mug and NOT talk about it at all.
My heart and thoughts go out to you. I have surfed similar swells. After the birth of my son, I awoke a couple of days later to learn the news that, happily, I would live, but sadly I would never have children again. Apparently shortly after delivering my son I delivered my uterus also. I'm told it took emergency surgery and 7 units of blood to save my life due to massive hemorrhaging. You'll get better on the board, and soon be dominating those swells, but it will take time. Mahalo.
Huge love out your way. xo
I'm a new reader here, but sending lots of good thoughts your way.
I'm sorry you're going through this. I hope the fact that you are fostering, inspiring, and encouraging new life through the family you already do have will help comfort you.
Sending you much love, mama. God Bless the Uterus, for it has served its purpose beautifully and now it moves on. What's still here, is you. That's what I care about most.
I am sending love.
I grew up surfing, and being landlocked in the midwest has left a hole in my waterlogged soul that no lake, no matter how beautiful, can fill. I don't know if I'll ever get back to a coast or if I'll feel good about getting back into the water when I do. I had a rough go of it the last time I was in Hawaii, and the claustrophobia of the water has affected both my SCUBA diving and my surfing in the past ten years. That's all just fear getting in my way, and I know that, but fear is a big and very hurdle sometimes. I don't know where I'm going with this, but I envy you your release. Ride the waves until you can't ride them anymore or until they don't provide you with an escape.
It was a good run. All surfers have to remind themselves of their good runs. You had a very, very good run, and there are many more ahead.
Much love.
So, my first thought was, "Adopt me!" but it would probably get kind of kinky if I had a bad dream and wanted to crawl into bed with you.
In all seriousness, I got nothin'. There isn't anything I can say to make this better, or easier, or less painful. I can, however, remind you of the poo and the crying and the cost of diapers.
Other than that, just know that I'm wishing you peace.
Ride the wave Mr. Lady. I had cancer 8 years ago and I just put my head down and got through it. Oh, and I drank tequilla. Tequilla and sheer will are a force to be reckoned with. I promise you that in a year or so you will suddenly be stunned by the clarity of each minute, by a wave of exhilaration that you are alive. That you will catch your breath and hold your children and that a lot of the terror and emptiness will subside. I'm so sorry you're going through this.
I wish I could hop in the car right now and rush to you to hug you. I haven't been through this, so I won't even pretend to know what it is like. Love you, Lady. I mean it.
You gave me a little ache.
Puppies are cute and if you miss cleaning up poop and stuff...
When I realized that babies were no longer on my life menu I was relieved and devastated.
I still get baby lust but mostly I am happy that the three I have are growing up and a new chapter of my life is in sight.
Wow!
I can not even begin to imagine the loss and pain (physical or emotional) of what you've just experienced... You know, 'cause I'm a dude.
And yet...
Your words are powerful and they strike so deep into my core. Feelings and experiences I can related all to closely to, the inability to articulate what you're going through, the inability to "go through" instead of "ride along". THAT I can understand.
And for THAT, you have my deepest sympathy and compassion...
God, I love how you write. i love your choice of words, the way you construct feelings and paint pictures, no matter how harsh, of everything you see and feel. Seriously phenomena;.
This is my first visit to your blog.... and I'm pretty sure there isn’t anything I can say to make you feel better, or your situation easier, or less painful. But I will say that I am absolutely blown away by your gut-wrenching honest style of writing.
It has taken me awhile to find the words to respond to this. You are honestly the best friend I have ever had (maybe the only TRUE friend) and I love you so so SO much, for so many reasons: your generous heart, your delightfully twisted sense of humor, your adorable children (particularly my future son-in-law), your mad hair-crimping skillz, etc...
But above all, I am in awe of your ability to emotionally process things so beautifully and eloquently. It's one thing to actually achieve mental health, but you do it with style. In my own trials, I never move much beyond the stage of mocking things. You truly are an inspiration, as sappy as that may sound. But I mean it. So hard.
Oh, sweetie, I hear you. Over 3 years ago, I had mine cut out, and the reconciliation has been a process.
Also, you just made me cry. A good cry.