On Monday, I kept myself busy. I did every stich of laundry in the house, went grocery shopping, and bought some junky “mom’s not here!” snacks for the kids to eat while we’d be gone. I did the dishes, made a meal, and just attended to all the daily activities of my “normal” life, knowing that I won’t be seeing normal again for a while. It was a long day.
But Tuesday morning flew. Even though I checked in at the hospital an hour and a half before my surgery appointment, there was such a barrage of paperwork and forms, and new people to meet, and new information to register, that there was no time for thinking. Probably the strangest part was when the admitting nurse asked me for urine for a pregnancy test. My last pregnancy test.
I actually felt a little nervous while she dipped the stick, though there was virtually no chance of a positive result. Old associations die hard.
Before I knew it I had an IV and though, yes, I did shed a few tears while talking to the anesthesiologist, I barely had time to register the fact that oh-my-god-this-is-really-happening before I found myself getting loopy. I don’t even remember separating from Jon – one minute I was talking with him, and the next minute I was waking up in recovery.
Yesterday I dozed on and off most of the day, ate a light dinner and then devoted myself to my biggest pre-op priority: figuring out how to pee again so that I wouldn’t face a catheter. I spent a lot of time sitting in the bathroom waiting for my muscles and brain to get in sync again, which meant I had a lot of time to think.
And at some point it just occurred to me: I no longer have a uterus.
I can’t get pregnant again no matter how much I might want to (or, more likely in my case, do NOT want to.)
So, this kind of moment? Will never happen again.