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I sat in that cold, vinyl chair and stared at my legs stretched out in front of me. They were covered with a rough textured blanket. My feet, poking out slightly from the bottom, were being hugged by a pair of kacki booties embossed with the hospital’s name in non-slip decals. I sat there. Alone.
I could almost hear the clock ticking away the minutes. I knew the nurse would be back momentarily to take my blood and administer a dose of something meant to calm my nerves. I looked down at my hospital gown. It resembled some color of grey with a tiny design that wove together two colors that didn’t seem to coordinate and didn’t seem worthy of remembering. One of the buttons on the shoulder was broken. It allowed my left arm to remain a little more exposed than the right. This made sense to me considering the left arm was outstretched, supporting what seemed like a massive IV system, and quickly absorbing whatever fluid was in that bag.
The curtain to my small, outpatient, pre-surgery room was left open just a crack. I could see nurses, doctors, and several other hospital staff walking by quickly. They spoke in normal tones about other patients, some of whom I remembered from the waiting room. They talked about family waiting, doctor instructions, bathroom habits,and what needs they happened to voice. I listened to all of it. I listened as a way to distract myself from my own fate. A fate that I had chosen and a fate that was no more than minutes away.
At that moment the nurse entered the room escorting my anesthesiologist who took just a moment to explain his role. I nodded my head, not really listening because I figured I had already signed some form or another explaining all this and then some. I told the man when he was finished that he was the same doctor that administered the epidural that helped me bring my daughter in to the world just eight short months ago. I knew I liked him for some reason. He excused himself and told me he would see me soon. The nurse checked my fluids and told me my husband would be back in a minute.
He pushed the curtain aside and I immediately smiled. My husband. He instantly smiled back and quickly moved to the small chair positioned near my vinyl seat. He took my hand in his and looked right at me. I felt safe. I felt calm. This man, this wonderful man that chose to take his life’s journey with me; this man that eagerly fathered my three, beautiful children was with me. I didn’t need any medicine to calm my nerves. My mate had calmed my soul.
Then it was time to go.
The nurse came through the curtain and informed my husband that the waiting room was down the hall. She untangled my IV cords from the armrest of the chair, removed my blanket, and helped me stand. It was immediately crowded in that tiny room. The nurse moved out to the hall first. I followed, more for the fact that she was maneuvering the IV drip stand that was attached to the stick in my hand than for the fact that I wanted to go with her. I turned to my husband, kissed him,smiled again, and told him I would see him soon. He said that he loved me and, as I turned, I knew he was watching me walk away.
We took an immediate left through two large, double doors and began the long walk to OR#4. The nurse was silent. I wasn’t sure if she was expecting me to carry the conversation, but all my thoughts were focused on what was about to happen to my body. I was twenty-nine and about to lose my ability to menstruate. I was having a hysterectomy.
Just days before the scheduled surgery I started my period. It was heavy and it was painful. I almost felt as if this was Mother Nature’s last hurrah before I went under the knife. Having one last period certainly did nothing to remind me what I would be gaining by having the hysterectomy. But, it did everything to remind me exactly what I would be losing.
