My Reproductive System… O U T ! I’m fine, fit as a fiddle! It’s been 3.5 days since I have been out of the hospital, and I am already on my feet… “On my feet” – ppffft! I was on my feet on day 0.5 and doing a jig and inventing the “Hysterectomy Hula”! Not being able to stand upright due to some GNARLY slices and dices and bruises, instead of walking like an orangutangue, I twisted and shuffled in my footy-pajamas with band-aids! It’s all the rage! Yes, I twisted and I shuffled and I had lovely visitors… and I was bedridden the next day. “Heaven” said she was concerned that I was jumping up and down when she was here visiting. I have no recollection of this alleged “jumping up and down”. BUT I DO have proof that Jesus was on the ceiling of my hospital room. I’ll show you!
Today is Thanksgiving and I was just in the kitchen with “Auntie” and “PB”, as they were making a colorful and marvelous dinner that would bring the Pilgrims and **Indians to their collective bare or knickered knees. I don’t know what that means. I think a lot of things would bring them to their knees. Like marshmallows on candied yams. Like marshmallows period. Like canned cranberries. Like cans. Anyway, my culinary acumen ends at spaghettios and a can opener, so I was/am useless in a kitchen, so instead I was waxing gratitude to them and reminiscing about my life of the past 3.5 days. I was telling them that here I was on a sunny Thanksgiving morning having tea with my loving aunt and uncle, getting texts from my loving friends, surrounded with lovely flowers, and that these past 3.5 days have been the most peaceful 3.5 days of my life in memory. In no particular order, here’s why I am Thankful this year:
* I woke up from anesthesia and in my enormous and posh (who’s behind this?) hospital room were Jesus (in the light fixture) above me, my mom, my Nelissa, my Sheh Nay-nay, and my “Darlie-like-Darling”.
* Auntie and PB have the most bitchen 1950’s museum – yet welcoming and cozy! – home, and this is where I am convalescing. I’m surprised the furniture has not formed a coup and thrown me off the deck and into the Atlantic. (I am also on the beach). I’m far too frizzy and messy. Bad lines. Sock puppet socks don’t cut it here, kid.
* I get to use the word “convalescing”.
* OPI makes a shade of green nail polish that perfectly matches the IV bruise on my hand! You betcha that’s the color I chose!
* The aforementioned flowers are from friends from all eras of my life! Not “just” AA friends (one of whom DID offer me her uterus — thank you, Dandelion! But I think you’ll need it some day — when I asked for lady organ donations, btw) but friends who stuck by me when I was hanging on by a thread. Leads me to believe that I’m not that bad. Leads me to know I am very blessed indeedily-dee.
* I have painkillers because I just had a hysterectomy. I had a hysterectomy and I need painkillers. I hate them both. Nothing more to say about that.
*Speaking of painkillers, this is terribly personal. Seriously, talking about most body functions makes me stutter and blush. I really do not understand how people over the age of four do it.. and some quite comfortably! Must be because I’m Catholic therefore ashamed of having a body in the first place. Did you notice any Quilted Charmin in The Garden of Eden? No. Neither did I. Back to subject, I feel obligated to give an update on something terribly personal. Terribly personal. SOOO many friends and family were very concerned about my bowels.. or as I like to call them “why-do-you-hate-me-so-much-can-we-please-talk-about-something-anything-else”? Everyone straight-faced and with such genuine concern asked me in advance what my plans were for my pain maintenance and for my constipation. The importance of both have been duly-noted and addressed with many thanks. Both are totally fine. Seriously. I’m changing the subject now.
* Well, now I can’t change the fucking subject but now I’ll be convinced that every time you see me you’ll be envisioning me sitting on the toilet reading “Cat Fancy” magazine. Great. How about this? If I catch myself thinking you’re thinking of me sitting on the toilet reading “Cat Fancy” magazine, I’ll starting doing the Hysterectomy Hula! If YOU catch yourself thinking of me sitting on the toilet reading “Cat Fancy” magazine, YOU have to do the Hysterectomy Hula! Yeah. No one reads this. I’ll just sit around looking self-conscious wondering if anyone in the group is constipated.
* OK, for someone who is mortified by potty humor, I sure am in pain over here. Laughing HURTS. Really, I’m waiting for a gall bladder to fly out of my navel, which incidentally, looks like a worm-hole – “worm-hole” as in “Star Trek,” not as in Oscar the Grouch’s pet “Slimey”. No one mentioned the hazards of laughing or avoiding laughing during recovery, so I guess I’ll carry on on my merry way and not worry about it. DLD did in fact point out the other day that I laugh a lot… wellllll Helllloooo, my funny recovery, how I love thee! But let’s give credit and recognition to some tears of agony for the next few weeks. You say something funny, a stitch screams the sweet scream of joy of freedom from my belly-button!!! “MMOOTTHHERLLLOOOVVEERRRTTHHAATTTSSFFUUNNNNYYYYY!!!!!!” I am so thankful for laughter this year. And always.
* I am thankful for a new understanding of acceptance, a new lesson from my uterus, may she RIP. Acceptance doesn’t need to be surrender to a beast I can’t conquer. If my life of the past four years had a theme song, it’d be “Baby Mine” by Bette Midler mixed with “Fucking Hostile” by Pantera. I’ve written and talked about my thoughts on possible motherhood so many times, so I’ll keep it brief. When I came into AA 19.29 months ago, I was seething hysteric with one ovary shy of a pair, furiously desperate to reproduce. It was nearly all-consuming and certainly ALL miserable. But over the past 19.29 months, I’ve softened (to put it mildly). I learned or realized that I did not want children for the right reasons, not to be confused with not wanting children. I was gentle with myself (thank you so much, sobriety) and made the decision that I did not in fact want kids. Imagine that! All that in just 590-days’ work! I was at peace, albeit a sad peace, with the decision but there was not much I felt I needed to accept. Barring any of my numerous IBs suddenly deciding they NEEDED my child, it was not going to happen and it was OK. And then I got the sudden news I physically could not have kids. I felt a cornucopia (‘tis the season!) of emotions, but mostly, or finally at least, I feel content. I feel pain – let’s not forget searing pain in my belly-button. But I feel at peace. I accept this Gift, and it is a gift. It’s not surrender I feel, but acceptance and Love. I wanted a kid because I wanted a curly-haired mini-me that I could dress funny and love impossibly and make forever happy. News Flash Thanksgiving 2012 = I have a full-sized curly-haired me already; I do dress funny already; I am learning to Love impossibly and be Happy forever already! And to beat a metaphor to death: I can still play but play in a better playground and with much better playmates… friends, soulmates I believe they’re called. Acceptance of this de-wombing has allowed me to understand this “end” I haven’t been able to articulate. There will be no lasting sadness because this is a very good thing, at very least in the fact that I don’t have cancer. I want to say I’m not sad anymore – because I actually don’t feel sad anymore. But it’s all new and my body still hasn’t realized it’s missing a few parts. “Yooooohooooooo! Cervix!!! Where are yoooooooou???”. I kid. I am happy. Sunny days and lots of friends forever! I can accept that.
* I am thankful I did not just burn down Auntie and PB’s house. I’m sorry, Auntie and PB, I didn’t mean to leave the teapot on so long, and sorry it smells like flaming nail polish remover in here.
Happy Thanksgiving to you all, my darlings!
** “Indians” = “Native Americans”. I have a funny story of my very first days in San Francisco. I was sitting in a bar (go figure) with my friends one afternoon, and this dude walked by with nothing on but a loincloth, war paint, a Mohawk, and a spear. Just walking down the street. No one turned around. Nothing to see here, people. I was like “WHOA! DID YOU GUYS SEE HIM?!?!?!?” And they were like, “Yup! Welcome to Haight Street!”.. and I knew I was home. WELL, I told that story the first time I shared at a meeting and I referred to the guy as an “Indian”. It was the FIRST time I had ever shared and was shaking and terrified. Some PC dickhead in the meeting CORRECTED ME!!!! “Your story about the man dressed as a Native American…”. WHATever! Now I am all self-conscious and worried I am going to offend someone by not being PC. He loses though. Now I am deliberately offensive. Fag.