After I was diagnosed with uterine cancer, I thought I could march into the hospital the next week and have surgery. Ha! There were many pre-surgical tests to schedule, some designed to make sure my body was healthy enough for surgery, and others intended to give doctors a better idea of how far my cancer had already spread. I had plenty of time to realize that cancer is a physical, emotional, personal, yet social experience.
While Instant Menopause is no joke, I was extremely lucky that I no longer needed my uterus for having children. People also frequently reminded me that if I was going to get cancer, endometrial cancer (cancer growing in the lining of the uterus) was a good type to get. There is no such thing as a good cancer, but what they meant is that some types of cancer, such as uterine or thyroid, are easier to manage than others, such as esophageal or ovarian. The wonderful thing about the uterus is that is has thick walls made to stretch around a growing baby. The same walls also contain any malignancy growing inside, helping to keep rogue cancer cells away from the healthy parts of your body. If you discover your endometrial cancer early enough, your cancer might be completely contained, and you might win the cancer lottery by being able to avoid chemotherapy and radiation.
When I was having a pre-surgery MRI - the kind with the injected contrast dye - the procedure did not go smoothly. Several different technicians had trouble finding my veins, and after being punctured many times I began to silently cry - sideways, my tears falling down the sides of my face onto the narrow MRI table. A nurse held my hand and leaned down toward me. My mother had just what you have, she said quietly, looking me directly in the eyes. I want you to know she had surgery, and she walked out of that hospital cancer-free. She smiled encouragingly. Cancer-free, she repeated. After the procedure was finished, she spontaneously gave me a huge hug. She was like an angel sent to reassure me. I found other angels in unexpected places, like the baker down the street who made a peach pie just for me - for free. I made new friends in the Cancer Club, like the manager at the bank who had lost his young wife to cancer, and the local store owner with ovarian cancer who had the same surgeon I did. The nurses at the cancer center - and later, in the hospital ward - were miraculous. When you have cancer, you find out who your friends are. While some people disappointed me greatly with their lack of understanding, others responded with more kindness than I ever would have imagined possible. My friends sent food, and cookie batter, and teacups, and cards, and flowers. It was fabulous.
The kindness of both friends and strangers kept me afloat until the day of surgery. We got lost trying to find the hospital, and when we finally arrived we found out my surgeon was running two hours late. Finally I kissed my husband, gave my children the special guardian angel necklaces I'd been holding for them, and was wheeled off to the operating room.A hysterectomy is major surgery. I naively believed it would be comparable to a caesarean section. It is not. This time body parts were removed, not a baby. Hundreds of stitches were sewn inside, where it takes longer for them to heal. Because I was having a hysterectomy for cancer, I also had a long abdominal incision on the outside. The pain was absolutely excruciating until my night nurse - another angel - realized I needed to be switched from morphine, which wasn't working, to a different painkiller. My day nurse was a tough cookie who demanded that I follow a schedule of getting out of bed and sitting in a chair, walking the hall several times a day, even taking showers. None of these things seemed remotely possible at the time, but I was stronger than I realized. I used the pain pump sparingly, afraid I would run out of medicine right when I needed it to go to the bathroom. Apparently one lady up the hall only asked for a couple of Motrin. I hated her.
After I got home, it took longer than I expected, at least two months, to get back to normal. To complicate matters, my incision opened up the day after the staples were removed. I had something called a seroma, which I certainly wish someone had warned me was possible beforehand. I was in bed talking on the telephone when I suddenly discovered I was sitting in a lake of bloody fluid that had leaked like a geyser from the incision. It would be another six months under the watchful eye of a visiting nurse - another angel - before the incision finally healed. I was one of the lucky ones. I, too, walked out of the hospital cancer-free. I was extremely fortunate in not requiring chemotherapy or radiation. I am grateful beyond measure for that, and I can even say I would not erase the experience of having cancer. But once you have it, the shadow always remains. I still have to go for regular check-ups to make sure it has not returned. It is always in the back of my mind.If you have a hysterectomy, for whatever reason, tell yourself to be strong. Know that there are angels on earth who will help you. Be 100% secure in the knowledge that what you are about to go through is going to help your body and help your life. Your mental state beforehand has an effect on your surgery and recovery, so expect the best possible outcome, and focus on how grand it will be to have your pain or bleeding or other problems behind you. And please, above all else, don't be a hero. Pamper yourself. In the long run, you'll feel stronger and heal better. About the Author: Nellie Sabin is the author of many books on a variety of subjects.Have you had a hysterectomy? Share your experiences. Comment here.
