Post hysto thoughts

It’s never going to bleed again. Never.

Kind of a strange wonder. There was always that threat it could happen, even when it never did for a long time.

I remember the last one. It was so hard on my spirit that I couldn’t even manage to put any products in place. I just slept on a very thick black towel and hoped it would be gone the next day. I wanted to crawl out of my own skin with horror and betrayal– how my own organs had turned against me to do a thing I had not consented to, had not asked for.

I have the most complex feelings about that uterus, since it was the birth home for my two children. I hate to mention it to anyone, except the children themselves. No more children now. They are the only ones.

I want to mourn. If it hadn’t hurt my soul so much to be seen as a woman, I’d have liked to have many children with my spouse.

I hate to mention it to friends, because they remind me we could adopt. That’s a different conversation. I wish I could have her children, or children related to her. Her cousin told us no, he would not help. So, I felt at peace letting my uterus go.

It makes me want to pray. Letting go of my uterus was bigger than me. I want to print the photo and burn it, then scatter the ashes.

It has been three months post hysto.

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