My First Fibroid Surgery

Close your eyes, walk with me, through this faint memory.

Go with me and imagine the feeling of cheap linoleum, under your sock-less, cold feet. The leftover grit stuck to the cracks in the floor. The cold porcelain of which lacks a complimentary cushion. Imagine sitting for over 45 minutes. Your legs numb. You find something, in the small room to focus on.  Fearful of leaving the 8×10 bathroom. Leaving will only guarantee a return visit. Additional padding, possible washing. You finally call out to your cousin, “I need to go to my doctor’s office”. The two of you share a one-bedroom apartment, in the Northern suburbs of Chicago. But yeah, at least the couch is all yours…! Calling out to her over the 710 sq. ft. apartment, felt like I was yelling across a busy intersection.

Thoughts swirl in my head: This can’t be right. What will the doctor say? I have never gone to the doctor and left with a good report. What if you have to drop out of school? I have big plans for next semester, I have to go back!

She contacts my mother. At this point I found the strength to leave the bathroom. I spent 30 minutes, searching for the nearest and most comfortable pair of sweats, socks, shoes, and a hoodie. After cleaning myself up, I hear a knock at the door. My mother appears calm yet concerned.

On our way to the doctor, she bombards me with 21 questions. Afraid of her wrath, I sugarcoat the truth.

“Sandra when did this start? How long has this been going on? Did you see the doctor at your University? What have you been taking for the pain? What’s wrong? Why didn’t you tell me? “

Sensing her fear, I tell her bits and pieces of the truth.

“Mom… I didn’t want to worry you. I also didn’t want to come home. I’ve worked so hard, to get into this school. Coming back home, was not an option. Not to mention I need a certain GPA, to get into the sorority, of my choice. I just couldn’t risk telling you. I knew you would make me come home. I worked out, and slept over 10 hours a day. I did what I had to do in order to finish out the semester.

Coming to a red light, she turned to me with anger, in her eyes.

Did a boy do this to you? Is there something your father and I should know about? What is so alarming that has stopped you from telling me, the truth? Are you pregnant? You are too young to raise a child. And best believe you are coming back home!

I knew then I would need to come clean. She appeared to be spiraling with assumptions. Waiting for a break in her one-sided questions, I continued.

Mom, I’m not pregnant and there is no boy. I think something is wrong with me. I’ve been on my period since October. This is not normal! It’s summer, I don’t know how much more I can take. Once my period lasted the entire month of October, I thought it would lighten up, over time. Then it came back in November, continued throughout the month. Each month the same thing happened. I would be kinda off for a couple of days and then on for the rest of the month. I figured it had something to do with stress, drinking or what I was eating. I thought if I changed my diet it may level out. I just wanted to finish semester. Please don’t be mad at me.”

The look on my mom’s face was priceless. She radiated heat birthed by anger! Listening to her scold me, during the ride there, goes in one ear and out the other. Holding on to every ounce of energy I have, to get through this is my main focus. The doctor’s office seemed like a vortex tunnel at a cheap haunted house. Sitting in Dr. Lee’s office he looks at me while shaking his head.

“You need to go to the hospital NOW! From the looks of you, there isn’t much time. You have lost a lot of blood. I will call my partner ahead of time and tell her you are on your way. You must go into immediate surgery. “

Hearing him go on and on about his medical confusion, regarding my uterus, grew old really quick. Quicker than a three-year-old attention span, at the movies. I just want all of this to stop. I want life back. Within minutes we were back in the car and headed more than 30 minutes away. My mom phoned my dad to inform him of my secret and transition to the hospital.

The ride to the hospital is a distant memory. It’s as if I blacked out. The next thing I remember, I was sitting on a stretcher and listening to my parents to negotiate with the medical staff.

“She is type O-, by the time we take your blood, clean it and prepare it for transfer, she will be in worse shape. Your daughter’s best bet is to use blood from the blood bank. If she waits, she will get worse and lose more blood.”

My parents, eyes, posture, and tone of voice screamed FEAR, FAILURE, PANIC, CONFUSION, and DESPERATION. Still in the dark as to what’s causing these issues, they listen with caution. The doctor came in and asked to speak with my parents, alone. I could hear parts of the conversation, happening on the other side of the curtain. At what point would they tell me? After all, I’m the one in the hospital bed!

Returning to my side of the curtain, with one look, I knew something was drastically wrong. That’s when I knew the cause of my consistent bleeding had come to light. The look in my father’s eyes, made me regret keeping such a huge secret from them. If they knew I was experiencing so much pain, they would have pulled me from school. I had big plans! Going away to school and graduating, was a goal no one would take from me. Stretching my eyes from my father’s head to his feet, deepened the feeling of regret. He’s no small man. Watching his shoulder fold like a cheap plastic picnic chair and his head drop and back torn, hit me from my chest and down behind my gut.

My parents finally agree to the medical staff’s recommendation and they prepare for emergency surgery. The medical staff swarmed in like mosquitos at a back to school barbecue.

“Ms. Campbell in case of emergency, please sign this form. This form gives your parents permission to make a decision, pending you are unable. While in surgery the option of taking out you uterus may come about. We are preparing for the worst and hoping for the best. There are several reasons you have bleed as long as you have. However with your small history of fibroids, this is more then likely the cause. Depending on where they are located, a full hysterectomy may be the only option. If you want to bare children, we will do our best to leave the muscle, in tact.”

It was as if my dream of being a mother was stripped from me. The only thing I heard was “HYSTERECTOMY.” How could I be so STUPID? It was at that moment I realized my uterus was not your normal uterus. It would be difficult for me to bear a child. It would be difficult for me to have “normal” menstrual cycles. My life would never be the same. I couldn’t help but wonder if my stubbornness encouraged my issues. Puzzled and confused I stopped listening, signed the paper and tears fell like a broken faucet. Quickly whipping my face, I tried to stay strong and act as if this would be an easy fix. Deep down inside I was filled with fear, doubt, and uncertainty.

I run my fingers through the thread of the hospital blankets. At this point, there are five blankets on top of me and I’m still shivering. My left arm is extended and the “happy” juice begins to flow. My parents pray and say their “See You Laters”. They roll me down the wide hallway, full of exhausted nursing staff and hallway monitors. My eyes search for a focal point.

WAIT! Is this really happening? What’s the recovery time? Will I be able to return to school? I only came home for summer break. This isn’t fair!!!! The squeaky wheels hit the linoleum floor, the fluorescent lights, surround me.

They ask me one last time, “Ms. Campbell please tell us your name and birthdate. Are you comfortable?

That must have happened 10 times. Like, people I know you’re doing your job but there is nowhere I could go. Let alone mustered up enough energy to leave this bed. It’s me! Me with the broken uterus. Me with the broken family. Me with the heart of regret, stupid mistakes, and a mountain of worry.

“Okay you will fill a little burning sensation, as the rest of the medicine moves through your veins. Ms.. Campbell, please count backwards from 100”.
“100, 99, 98…..”