It's time to say goodbye, old uterus. We've never been particularly good friends, and you won't be missed. Oh we've had some fun, but there will be more fun without you. And let's be honest, the cervix and I have shared the most jokes anyway. So here's to you old cervix, because you're getting the heave ho too.
I remember years ago, when we were both young and perfect, how the gynecologist would peek in and exclaim "What a cute cervix"! You were perfectly shaped and petite, something I always aspired to myself. And when we adopted the cervical cap as our birth control method, it fit like a glove. The gynecologist said she'd never seen such a perfect fit before and we wouldn't even have to use spermacides to keep it effective, we could use it "the European way". That's the closest I've ever gotten to Europe. Well, those days are gone. Now you're drooping like the rest of me, hanging way below your once perky perch. But we still have our laughs, don't we? Every time a new gynecologist take's a first peek, she stammers and rushes back to the chart, flipping pages and mumbling something about not remembering cancer notes. Cancer! Ha ha ha! No, not cancer, we tell her...just a single very difficult birth experience. You were a stubborn cervix and my baby boy had no choice but to rip you asunder in order to get out into the world. He finally won his battle after 34 long hours, emerging hand held high and grasping a bloody chunk of you for a trophy. At least that's how I remember it, but I was pretty drugged up at the time. Yes, we always chuckle at the poor shocked gynecologist as she makes notes about your appearance, now shaped something like a drunken letter C.
But you, old uterus, my feelings have been mixed about you over the years.
There was the bleeding during that first trimester. There were pronouncements of miscarriage, to be confirmed by ultrasound, and the ultrasound instead confirming my baby boy was still safe and snug as a bug in a rug inside you. I thought you were torturing me. In retrospect I think you were protecting him against all odds, modeling for me the fiercely protective nature of the mother I would become, in stark contrast to the mother who never ever protected me.
And then three weeks early you began pushing that baby out. I wasn't ready. The cervix wasn't ready. It wasn't easy, but you insisted. You knew it was early, but it wasn't too early; he was big enough to make it outside. And he had a kidney defect. I thought you were bowing out early on a job poorly done, but you knew he needed help greater than you could give. You let him go and entrusted him to hands that could help. Again you modeled for me that which I would have to do again and again, entrusting him first to doctors for kidney surgery at 4 months, then gallbladder surgery at 5 years, brain surgery number one at 12 years, and brain surgery number two at 17 years. You showed me how to trust that our greatest creation will be safe and cared for when we can no longer harbor him in the safety of our embrace.
Goodbye old uterus. The date has been set. Your days are numbered. You've slipped off your footings and slid down the hillside like an old tool shed that no one's set foot inside for years. It's best just to tear it down and plant some nice clover.
