Well, I thought I was pretty invincible. I thought I had enough positive little grey brain cells to overcome such paltry things as pain and my body being traumatised. I thought I was Wonder Woman.
However, it has dawned upon me, instead of a gorgeous super heroine, who is capable of overcoming all, that maybe I resemble that estimable whinging, whining, whimpering character from Lost in Space, Doctor Zachary Smith.
I wasn't sure if I sure if I should write this post, because one doesn't like to share too much information online. But saying that, really, how many people are out there reading about little ol’ me, and ultimately, there is no shame in having an organ ripped from your body, except in this case it as my uterus, and growing up, these things were never talked about. They were whispered, mind you. “Women’s problem’s” the ladies would say behind their hands, nodding feverishly and somehow communicating telepathically with their eyes.
One farmer bloke explained his wife’s absence to me by, “She is getting her plumbing fixed.” Obviously I, as a woman was supposed to know what that meant. However, even as an adult, and growing up with whispers, I was ignorant enough, and the explanation was so bizarre, that I had no idea what he meant, and just nodded dumbly.
So I state it boldly, I have had my uterus removed! I refuse to explain it as a hysterectomy. It is such a vile word, harkening back to the times when women were sent to mental asylums for gynaecological problems and where the uterus was thought to wander throughout the body. Also, when do people describe other surgeries by their correct name? Tonsils are removed, appendics are removed, hearts are bypassed, bones are set. Is it because it is taboo to say the name of sexual organs out loud?
Anyhoo, before I get too political, let’s bring it back to moi.The Pain! The Pain!
|This toy was recalled as the ovaries could be removed...beware!|
Maybe I had watched too many movies, read too many books, where people tend to bounce back very quickly from stab wounds, gunshot wounds, and being thrown from high places. With this virtual way of thinking, and with the memories of my younger self bouncing back very quickly from similar operations, I was in a word, SMUG! I thought nothing would touch me. I scoffed at the six weeks recommended recuperation, and made a mental note to only spend two weeks. Everyone else was a whoose, (not sure of the spelling there) and I would raise above any adversity, and smite it with the strength of my mind and superior genetics...
|Uterus vase here|
Yeah right! And to boot, I am the worse patient imaginable, insisting I can do such things as, making a bed two days out of surgery, going into town for three hours of walking one week from surgery, ironing for two hours nine days from surgery. These ultimately sent me to bed for a couple of days, flat on my back with increased pain.
To make things worse I have just discovered this juicy bit of info that I am sure I read before, but refused to acknowledge on Wikipedia.
Depending on the definition of "full recovery" 6 to 12 months have been reported. Serious limitations in everyday activities are expected for a minimum of 4 months.
Isn't that just Jim Dandy! Oh Boo Hoo!
Oh, I am such a whinger! This is the last you will hear of it. I must unburden my whines and then move forward. The good thing is, I am slowly getting better. As a new found friend in Utah wrote to me today:
"Barn's burnt down
Now I can see the moon"