I’m having surgery tomorrow. Nothing major, nothing life threatening. But, still, surgery. Even though this surgery is not my first rodeo in the ER nor does it possess the same emergency circumstances as the ones that came before it, surgery is still scary as shit.
I’m not so scared of the surgery itself. The risk and downtime both pale in comparison to having my organs removed when we were living in NYC and, after having given birth three times, physically speaking, there isn’t much that scares me.
And, yet.
I’m scared.
It seems silly to worry so much about such a supposedly routine thing— a thing that countless women before me have had with much success and I’ve been reassured repeatedly by my surgeon, internist, and OBGYN of the commonality of this particular surgery. I had no idea so many women needed their internal bits repaired after labor and delivery have had their wicked way with their bodies, giving a pregnancy has the very last laugh— one whose echo can be heard for years as it has in my case. Three years, to be exact. Minus a few days. And, to be honest, I’ve actually looked forward to this surgery. I’ve anticipated this moment for over a year now— the moment that gave me permission to fully reclaim my body back as my own. Three pregnancies, nursing three babies, the loss of SO MUCH SLEEP, the postpartum hell, the physical and mental healing, two emergency surgeries triggered by my first pregnancy, the births, the repetitive gaining and losing of weight, the lack of autonomy. On their own, the work my body has put in doesn’t necessarily amount to much but, cumulatively, they have taken a toll. And after not having it for so many years, I have come to believe that there will be immense power in regaining full agency over my own body again— even if that agency is as basic as not peeing oneself when one doesn’t intend to.
And, yet.
I’m scared.
I remember sitting in the ER on a Saturday night in NYC and then, eight months later, on Mother’s Day in Brooklyn. Those surgeries were, to put it bluntly, necessary in order to not die— a truth I did not not fully comprehend until much, much later. This surgery, while very medically necessary, isn’t being performed in haste or under the looming tick of an expiring clock. This surgery is one being chosen by my own free will. This is a surgery I have willingly agreed to put myself through in order to gain full control over my entire body again, to no longer feel a full range of mild discomfort to unrelenting pain when attempting to do normal things like work out, jump and play around with my kids, sneeze, cough, laugh until I cry, go on an impromptu run, dance around the living room, and— yes— even have sex.
And, yet.
I’m scared.
Maybe it’s all the what ifs and the uncertainty and triggering memories of previous experiences getting the best of me. Then again, maybe it’s completely reasonable to feel this way if only for the simple fact that there are real risks involved no matter how common this procedure is. I just know that I can’t stop myself from intensely watching my kids in all their insanity, letting my eyes linger at each of for for a few seconds longer than I normally would and I’ve fought the urge to burst into tears with each glance. Am I positively crazy to take such consequential and unnecessary risk when I have so much to lose? Is my refusal to accept my body in whatever state it currently rests in inarguably selfish when my body is merely a direct result of having given me what I love most in the world?
And, yet.
I’m scared.
I suppose feelings aren’t always reasonable nor do I believe they always should be. That’s the difference between I FEEL and I KNOW. I know I have every right to do this for myself and to feel comfortable again, both literally and figuratively. We shouldn’t be forced to walk around with our bladders and bits nearly falling out of our vaginas in the name of maternal martyrdom. I mean, I’ve already lost two organs against my will which would lead me to believe that not letting one just fall out of me willingly is a reasonable battle to want to pick. I’d like to think that it’s rational to want my organs to stay INSIDE of my body, regardless of whatever gift they may have given me on their way out.
And, yet.
And, yet.
See you all on the other side of yet another one of the best naps of my life.