Friday, March 15, 2013

"...Like I'm Never Gonna Heal"



I know it has been some time since I have posted a blog.  I have been working back to health both physically and mentally after major surgery.  I have been doing a lot of introspection, indulging that part of the darkness of bipolar that gives me laser insight and clarity into life aspects.  Ironic isn’t it?  The darkness renders viable fruit.  Always been that way.  It is a perk, and as there are so few with this illness, I go with it.  

“Me and Mine” have been through a rough month.  As per usual, so many issues intersected to create a Bermuda Triangle experience.  But miraculously, through it all I have mostly maintained a philosophical perspective.  Maybe it was all the narcotics post op.  I have never weathered such a physical trauma.  What was supposed to be a relatively uncomplicated hysterectomy that so many women have, turned into a four hour battle followed by infection that just kept battering away at my body’s attempt to heal.  The surgery, for me, and the process prior was really very easy.  I was treated so well by the “Same Day Surgery” staff.  And, honestly I weathered it all very well in terms of mental health and emotional acceptance.

There was really only one moment I was stopped short.  Now, this surgery was necessary.  I have been wanting such a thing to happen for some time.  My quality of life is improved exponentially as a result, but the bottom line is that I have never had children.  Chris and I decided some time ago that we just don’t want that path for the duration of our lives.  But as I sat in a little cubicle, signing papers, the paper that I had to sign granting permission for sterilization was like a slap in the face.  I nearly handed it back to the lady, telling her it didn’t apply to me.  Duh.  Of course it did, I realized.  I was forever sealing my fate with that signature.  I looked over at Chris, who was sitting next to me, made some flippant comment about making it official, and signed the paper.  But I have to say, somewhere in the depths, a part of me broke off and officially lamented such a loss of inherent nature.  

I always figured I would have children when I was younger.  But as I got older and battles with mental illness made me cynical and old before my time, I began to see that practicality should win out.  Me, having a small child that would drain me of energy and deprive me of carefully established sleep patterns that keep me on track, simply was not a good idea.  My head always grasped it, but my heart didn’t always comply, and as I went through my thirties, the desire to be a mother increased.  But as one long term relationship ended, and I found myself single once again at the end of my thirties, I began to realize it just wasn’t in the cards for me.  And, honestly, intimate relationships are hard for me to maintain.  It’s not that I’m not good at them, they just exhaust me.  There is so much control required with bipolar in order to have relationships that I just don’t see a successful outcome to having a child and a relationship.  It would have been too much.

So at the end of my thirties, I married Chris, and he had children.  I am now a stepmom, and it’s good.  I love that I get to be a part of Conner’s life and help shape him.  But it’s not the same as having one’s own child.  It just never will be the same, and while I’m grateful I get to play a role like that, I just plain missed out on something big.  It is what it is.  I had a miscarriage once, so if it was going to happen, it would have.  But as I was being wheeled into surgery, under all the medication for pre op, there was clarity as all the above thoughts scurried through my mind. 

At some point, at least for me, there comes a time where I hit resolution, and even if I don’t actually have closure, I make a decision and step into it, consequences be damned.  I had a dire need for the surgery, physically. I had committed to it and signed the papers.  I was going to do it.  There would be no miracle of life for me, no babies growing to individuals with my features.  I would have to find meaning and purpose elsewhere.

After surgery my doctor came in to check on me and asked if the resident doctor who was in attendance for my surgery under her guidance could come in and ask me some questions.  I was fine with that.  Honestly, I was so doped up, I would have acquiesced to about anything.  Both the resident doc and I were to discover pain medication makes me extremely candid.  More so than usual. 
 
He came in and we exchanged pleasantries.  I told him he could ask me anything, and I think he really just asked basic questions.  My surgery was unique because it was complicated and I had tumors larger than any they had seen, so I was an anomaly, and as such, a person of interest.  When he finished he asked me if there was anything I would like to add.  I responded accordingly:

“I hope that if this is what you want to do, take uterus’ from women, that you remember to really think about what you are doing (His eyes widened).  You are not just taking something that needs to go.  When you take out such parts of a woman, you are taking away any possible ability for her to bear children.  You are taking away the foundational physiological aspect of significance that is uniquely woman.  Now, I went with a woman surgeon, because she is the best, but more so because she appreciates what she is doing when she takes my uterus, and when I tell her to save my ovaries, she is going to try her best, because she has been through menopause and she knows I’m too young to have to start that.  I can trust that she appreciates she is changing my physiology, my biological purpose in life forever.  I cannot say that I could trust you with that.  You are a man, and whether or not you are great at what you do is irrelevant.  It is about whether or not you can somehow empathize with the different species you are altering, that concerns me. So, I would say to you that if you want to have worth as a surgeon, you remember what you are taking when you open up a woman and go after her reproductive system.  Remember that she will never again have the ability to have a baby, that even if doing such a surgery will save her life,  she is going to have to come to terms with what you took from her while she was sleeping. If you can remember that throughout your career, you will be the best surgeon you can be”.  

He sat stock still staring at me from the end of my bed.  I smiled and said, “Bet you didn’t think you would get that coming in here.  I’m drugged but not retarded...and you maybe picked the wrong room...I’m a psychologist.”  He smiled and thanked me for my candor.  We exchanged a few pleasantries, and he went on his way.

For me, the experience with that young surgeon gave meaning to something that cost me dearly.  I suppose it may be arrogance on my part to think that with every experience I have to have a deeper meaning in order to accept it.  But you know, whenever I ask Abba for rhyme or reason for an experience, he always answers me by providing me with a lesson for someone else, and by sharing it with them, I’m the one who truly learns.

“Sometimes I feel cold as steel, like I’m never gonna heal...I see a little light, a little grace, a little faith unfurl...all the empty disappears, I remember why I’m here...just surrender and believe, I fall down on my knees”  (Hello World...Lady Antebellum).  I’m not sure where I am in the sequence referenced above.  I think I’m healing both physically and emotionally.  I was off lithium for a few weeks, longer than I have been in over 20 years, so there has been damage done mentally.  Lithium is hard on kidneys, so urinary tract infections do not allow for its use.  I am now trying to get it back in my system.  I’m amazed at how I’m managing, considering there is nothing to corral the errant brain chemicals.  I just keep going through each moment of the day, telling myself with every mood storm that it will pass.  I clench my teeth and try not to talk or move until the chaos subsides in my mind, and I keep telling myself it was worth it.  The loss of purpose, the loss of mind, the loss of health, and the loss of goals I had nearly accomplished before the surgery.  I am paying into the future.  That is what it was for.  And so I trust Abba to get me to that point.  I surrender any fear or confusion and I just believe...come what may.  I may never give birth or hold a child of my own, but that is just the way things turned out, and as I told my niece the other day, one must let go of the past and firmly march into the future.  So that is what I’m going to do.

Blessings,
L

*Blog title from Lady Antebellum's "Hello World"

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