In a little more than 30 days I’ll lose the ability to have children ever again. I haven’t talked about this much, and it’s probably because I haven’t wanted to take the time to dwell on the subject.
I didn’t expect to be facing this in my 30s. I suppose I always assumed I would have a more textbook journey through motherhood, and into this phase. But, my life has continued to view more like a dramatic saga, than it ever has a textbook.
This means the closing of a chapter, the chapter that grew and birthed my 4 beautiful babies. The chapter that created a child who now sits in an urn on my dresser.
A hysterectomy is a finite shift of identity. One that is difficult to accept for many women I’m sure. It’s a struggle that is incredibly exacerbated when you’ve lost a baby. In many ways, it feels like the further you get from your child bearing years, the further you get from the baby you lost, and the woman you were when they lived.
He grew in my womb. He existed in my womb. 10 months of his 17 months of existence, were inside my womb. As a bereaved mother, a hysterectomy feels like I’m losing another piece of my dead child. While I know I don’t have another option, while I know I urgently need this surgery, I am very much grieving the process, what it all means, and the void it will forever confirm.