Private – Grief

October 24, 2012 § 13 Comments

Two years ago on this date, I had exploratory surgery for cancer. Four hours in surgery and three in recovery. They told me that among other things, my cervix was ruined and my uterus would never hold a child.

When you wake up from surgery you never know what they will tell you. You can’t ever know how your heart will break and never heal. I know that there are people waking up in a hospital right now that are being told that their family is all dead, or their legs were removed. And you just have to deal with it.

I have to pretend it never happened because there is a constant scream in my head. I can hear it and it has the power to drown me. A siren call for my ears alone. I grieve.


§ 13 Responses to Private – Grief

  • pivoine68 says:

    It’s terribly inadequate but I’m really sorry. I guess grieving is like dying, you are fairly alone while doing it. We are here though.


    • *Thank you* Whenever I think I am doing better, I congratulate myself for a half second before the very reminder sets me off crying again. Don’t think about it, don’t think about it – one breath – waaaa…. This is just a bad, bad day for me. Thank you for saying hello. This is an exclusive group, the only other person I told was my best friend her last month in hospice. But I couldn’t speak, I just showed her my scars and she knew. I am glad I was able to give her that trust. Thank you for letting me tell you too.


  • 40ouncestofreedom says:

    One day, I’d like to know your story and the events that led to such grief. I can only say that my heart is with you.

    • Similar to your story, likely.

      My bathroom would look like a murder scene, I’d step into garbage bag and hold it up nd slosh, to get to the car.

      All I would want was to live out the week. If I could do that, I was convinced I’d be okay. So I would quietly lay in bed and tell myself I was not going to die that day. I did that every day, and every week for months at a stretch.

      Some of my worst bleeds were when my family wanted food made for a party. There are people that ate a layered 30 inch cake that I whipped the whites by hand, and I went to emergency the next evening because the bleeding never stopped. Or all the times my sister invited herself and her friends to my tourist city and I had to get the house ready and the rooms made up.

      I stopped asking my dad to take me to emergency, when I was bleeding in a steady stream and he told me he was on the telephone and he would finish his visit and then decide if he would take me or not. When my mom then started taking me, he’d show up with his bible. He’d be mad at the drs that insisted I was in a dangerous situation, because god would look after me alive or dead. What was the difference? Well, one important deference, if I was dead he had added stature as a minister. He could be someone then. I didn’t guess this, he told me so.

      That is why I had an exploratory surgery. That is my story. I didn’t want to live my life hoping I wouldn’t die each day.

      • Oh, after “the whipping egg whites by hand cake,” my family paid for half of a Kitchen Aid for me. I paid the other half. My mom tries, but she is wrapped in her own grief. Perhaps it wouldn’t all hurt so much if I was able to go to these parties. But, I was too sick, so I couldn’t go. So I made huge cakes and trays of lasagna, that I didn’t get to have. They brought me home cookies and BBQ potato chips on a paper plate. And I kept the cordless phone by my pillow and tried not to move.

        There is a party in a few hours today that my mom and I have been invited to. She baked the pies. I say no, now (mostly). But I can’t stop crying enough to get ready. I haven’t told my mom because she’ll be upset. She doesn’t like to go to places by herself.

    • I don’t worry about dying everyday anymore. But the surgery tore up my emotional heart.. That day I stopped dying, but that was the day I did die inside. And I grieve.

  • Fatal says:

    I know your pain, at least in part. And I wish I had the words to comfort you or to make it better, but I don’t… not even close. But my thoughts and my heart are with you.


  • Thank you, Fatal. Yes, I think you would understand. I have one working ovary that might even have eggs. But, I need a surrogate. I have no hope of finding one and no hope of getting a husband. I feel that that day I had my surgery, by killing my chances of pregnancy, I killed my future children too. And I feel so guilty. I survived, but my children didn’t, and my heart dies with them.

    I know my words aren’t logical, but I don’t think you will mind… <3

    Thanks for the comment, and thank you for listening,

    • Fatal says:

      I’d like to say to you all the wonderful, hopeful things they told me, but I didn’t believe them, and have resigned to the fact that I cannot have children, even though the desire to have them was never really there until I was told it was an impossibility.

      Instead I’d like to say… that the children that may have been… I don’t believe they are lost, at least not forever. Call me a neo-spiritualist hippie child… but I don’t think they are lost.

      I don’t give a fig for logic. Your heart is bleeding and I’d do what I could to stay the wound.


  • workspousestory says:

    Oh sweetheart this is so sad, my heart and thoughts are going out to you… I will not pretend to understand your pain but I can stand by and offer my arm to cry on if you want it….

    • Oh, India, thank you!

      The hardest thing for me to do is accept this reality and figure out a new future. For years, I thought I was really just months away from meeting someone and getting pregnant. I will confess that that future was so real to me that I bought and took pre-natal vitamins. Because you are supposed to start them before the pregnancy. I tell myself the reality that it wasn’t the surgery that took my choices away, the choice had been taken away years ago, I just didn’t know it. I need to adjust to that.

      You have so many sources of joy, and really, it is a privilege to read about your life. You really are doing well, you are using your opportunities, you are *living* and growing. Thanks for sharing your words in your posts and your words in your comment to me. *hugs you tight* Have a great day, India.

  • Butterfly Joy says:

    I watched a friend experiencing this last year. I can’t imagine what you or she have been through, but I am here for you, whatever little I can do, I am here.

    • *hugs Joy*

      Thank you, Joy. When I went through this two years ago, and the years before that, I didn’t tell anyone. I was my sister’s favorite gossip material, so I couldn’t talk to her or anyone else. She always had to make the gossip more interesting, so she would add to whatever information she had. I’d hear back wild accounts of what she had told people.

      So…writing what I have these past months, talking and sharing with all of you has been wonderful. That I receive positive feedback…commenting bloggers…caring words…is so immensely healing.

      Thank you, Joy.

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