When John was born, I had a hysterectomy. There's a lot to it, and that's a major surgery--my sixth cesarean planned as a cesarean-hysterectomy. It's rare, said my specialist. In a city of 250K, he sees this surgery only a couple of times per year.
I'm one of those rare women who can say morally and with certainty, before menopause, that our family is complete. I never pictured myself in this place. We will have no more biological children, and that's okay with me. It's such a complicated story. I almost do not know where to begin.
Sharing the details of my female- problems would be too much. I'm not a squeamish person and don't mind sharing these things in private, but I can't post them on a blog. It will be sufficient to say that my specialist agreed with me that I probably had adenomyosis. There's one cure for that: hysterectomy.
Two years ago during Lent, I was going through the crucible of testing, more testing, and yet more testing. It wasn't a new thing; I had gone through this several times before, between the births of my children. But this time it was different. No test, no medicine, nothing was helping with the problems this time and it was only getting worse. I knew that I was on the fast road to hysterectomy.
I had what I like to call a temper-tantrum one day while in the laundry room. I threw away all of my maternity clothes, my nursing bras, and gave away every piece of baby clothing I had, got rid of the baby toys and blankets and started to deal with the idea that Maria would be our last child. I am so glad that God had other plans.
Looking toward Holy Week that year, I anticipated starting the scourge of another period and tying into Jesus' suffering spiritually. Holy Thursday came and went, and when there was no sign of suffering on Good Friday, I took a pregnancy test even though I thought it would be negative. It was not. I was pregnant!
Seven weeks into this pregnancy, I bled. This scared me to death because it had never happened before. I was so scared that I would lose this child, this one last chance. But God had other plans, and we went in to hear Baby's heartbeat at 11 weeks. My Dr had not had problems finding a baby's heartbeat before, so as the clock ticked and ticked and he was starting to look worried, I started to feel panicky ... and then he found it. *sigh* I exclaimed, "This MUST be a boy because only a BOY would hide from his frightened mother." I was right about that, at least!
Now we were on our way to yet another cesarean birth and the dread began to set in. My Dr is a family-practice who offers OB care, but he does not perform cesareans. He brings in an OB/GYN to perform the surgery, though he is there. In September, I met with Dr. H and he--knowing what had been going on female-wise before this pregnancy--asked if I would be open to a cesarean-hysterectomy. I was elated and scared all at the same time. I wanted so badly to be healthy, but also knew the risks with this kind of surgery.
Obviously, everything went well. John and I are both here, to prove it.
The story of John's birth is a good story, but I will save it for another post. More later!



