I spent years avoiding it. I tried everything else. You’ve heard me go on about my woo era: oils, rituals, acupuncture, herbs. Denial. But eventually, your body tells you the truth in a language you can’t talk over. It’s demanding and swift.
In 2018, my husband and I separated.
In 2019, I removed the problem.
This is the story of how I finally chose to have a hysterectomy, after years of resisting, detouring, excusing. And how it became the clearest decision I’ve ever made. Always after though, right. Lessons. Lessons to pass on.
I remember sitting in my doctor’s office as he walked me through the procedure.
“We’ll remove your uterus, your cervix, and your fallopian tubes,” he said.
And in my head, I thought, Oh wow, I guess I’ll never have a cervical orgasm…again. Then I immediately responded to myself: I don’t think I’ve ever had one anyway. Can’t miss what you’ve never had, I guess.
I’ll admit, I was worried. No one really talks about what it means to lose parts of your body that are tied to pleasure, to identity, to womanhood. Would I still feel desire?Would intimacy change? Would I be okay?
The fallopian tubes were removed as a precaution: cancer risk. I kept my ovaries. I kept my ligaments. But I knew something huge was ending. And something else, quieter, deeper, might just begin. I was hoping for a bloody miracle. Pun intended.
I remember being prepped for surgery. I was emotional. A couple of women were around me, nurses maybe, and I said, “I can’t wait to get back to exercise.” Anaesthesia administered. One of them smiled: “Oh wow, are you an athlete?”
I burst into tears.
“No, I’m just fat.”
And then lights out.
When I woke up, I was nauseous, I don’t do well with anesthesia. They wouldn’t release me until I’d eaten something and gone to the washroom. My mom was there, helping me try. But I couldn’t. The recovery area was closing, and because I wasn’t ready to leave, they wheeled me into a bed beside a woman who had just given birth.
I still don’t know what I would’ve done, if I had been able to have children. But that moment felt cruel. Tone-deaf. Insensitive.
Eventually, my mom shoved toast in my mouth, I managed to pee, and they got me out the door, no wheelchair available. I hobbled toward the exit. Got home. My mom stayed with me. Not for the full month I was told to rest, but long enough.
Recovery was smooth. No complications.
The gas they pump into your cavity caused pain the first night. Tylenol fixed it. I slept.
I followed instructions. No lifting. No overdoing it. I really took this serious. You do not want to enter back into a surgery site. It is not ideal. I have no words to share that really demonstrate the gratitude I felt for my team that stepped up and helped with my business.
The next day, after my surgery, I got a call. The anemia clinic. They’d seen my surgical reports and realized I still needed treatment. My doctor said they’d handle it. They didn’t. So there I was, the day after surgery, back in the hospital, receiving one last blood transfusion.
That was December 2019.
But it wasn’t the end.
Years later, my hemoglobin and iron were still low. My energy was flat. So I paid privately for two more iron infusions. And still… I didn’t bounce back.
I kept digging.
I had two colonoscopies. The doctor wasn’t expecting to find anything. But he did.
My colon was severely inflamed. “Localized colitis,” he said.
He also took samples from my stomach.
Result: H. pylori.
Not 100% confirmed, but likely. The acidity in my stomach was keeping me from absorbing nutrients. It was probably contributing to my long-term anemia. So I went on antibiotics. And I responded well.
I used to think chickpeas didn’t agree with me. Hummus would leave me bloated, cramping, doubled over. So I avoided it. Now? I eat chickpeas all the time. No issue.
My body feels different. Better.
I haven’t done a physical yet this year — the requisition is still on my desk. But I know. My body tells me when something’s wrong. And it’s telling me now — we’re good. But I will still get blood work done. Update, a new clinic in a very iconic space opened up walking distance from me: The old Garneau Pub is now Atlas Health complete with a pharmacy and prescribing pharmacist. My current GP is about to retire soon and it takes me 30 minutes to reach his office, not ideal. My preference is a female doctor, you know, menopause, but that’t not going to happen. So I will transfer to a young, male doctor who is likely ambitious and I will be his best patient ever! Let’s go vaginal cream. I will tell you what Vagifem did to me: systemic when it is not suppose to be.
Back to here:
Where did I get the infection? Who knows. I’ve traveled a lot. Could’ve been Egypt. Could’ve been years ago.
But it’s gone.
And I’m here.
After the surgery, when I finally came home, I bought a pair of white jeans. Because I could. Because I could wear white pants with no fear. I didn’t even need underwear. No leaks. No bleeding. No more backup pads, spare clothes, hiding in bathrooms.I wanted to celebrate. I wanted to wear white.
Turns out, I don’t like white pants.
They’re not my style. I returned them.
But the freedom — that stayed.
This is ELLASAID.
And this is where I’ll keep saying it.