It would be just like any other yearly exam. As my doctor shined the light on my cervix, he seemed concerned and went to get his partner for another opinion. They both repeated “It isn’t cancer—it looks like a fibroid.” Being a teacher, I pressed to remove it over the summer. Within one week, I was in surgery to remove the 2-3 cm mass of tissue bulging out of my cervix.
The pathologist report turned into a dreaded phone call asking “talk about my results” in person. My heart pounded while hearing the words “adenocarcinoma cervical cancer…radical hysterectomy...chemo…radiation… sudden menopause…” I had entered a dark tunnel where my perfect life turned into an uncertain nightmare. The next year would be heart wrenching (physically/emotionally).
It’s estimated 20 million people in the U.S. already HPV. Most haven’t heard of it and are a symptomatic. With the recent HPV vaccine for girls aged 9-26, thousands of girls will be protected. It’s a controversial issue—however, HPV happens to ANYONE! Vaccinating your daughter doesn’t mean you are telling them to have sex. It’s preventing them from losing their fertility or health. This form of cervical cancer hadn’t definitively been linked to HPV (human papilloma virus) until recently. Pap tests are not faliable (mine were always normal-even with the cancer inside me). Had I chosen to skip my annual pap/pelvic exam—my young children would not have their mother today. And I would not be here to spread this important message.
From where I sit things are never what they should’ve been. I didn’t want to be the 34 year-old fighting stubborn menopausal belly fat, limping around with adhesions in my pelvis, sweaty hot flashes, chronic radiation induced bowel problems, mood instability, suicidal thoughts, a dead libido, vaginal atrophy, and an absent zest for life. I loathe all of her and “damn her for being this way”.
As I shop for a swimsuit, my handsome husband jokingly comments, “you don’t care which suit I like”. He prefers the 20 year-old version that doesn’t allow for the extra 30 pounds of weight I have put on due to hormonal fluctuation. He claims the ones I am looking at make me look like and “old lady”. Just what my fragile sense of self esteem needs to hear. Thoughts of him hooking up with a “younger model” fill my head and I secretly wonder if that would make him happier. It may be the opportunity for him to heal his wounded sense of desirability and perhaps he would restore his broken spirit. The same spirit I destroyed in my selfish attempt to get “better” if that is possible. I am learning that “getting better” may be equal to reinventing myself. Or maybe it means to bury the old me and allow her to “die” so the new one can emerge.
Being married to a 34 year old trapped in a 50 year old body was not his game plan. When we met I was skinny, vivacious, optimistic, and I had the possibility of staying that way for years to come. As we are driving home from our date last night I feel a million miles away. As I sit beside him listening to 1993’s November Rain by Guns and Roses it reminds me of the younger me
that once was. I can feel my entire pelvis throbbing from the latest pains I am having in my upper leg. It is as if my entire sexual existence is on the side of the road like the road kill we are passing on the high way. Or are my atrophic insides like hamburger in the meat department? All I know is that my entire pelvis feels forsaken and on life support. As is our broken marriage.This man I “love” in “sickness and health” is sitting beside me looking every bit as beautiful on the outside as he did our wedding day. On the inside he is bitter, resentful, and disappointed in the train wreck of a wife he has endured. It is dark outside and I once again face the fact that the area in my body that God has designed to solidify or consummate the bond between husband and wife, is lacerated in several ways. Maybe the connector that runs from my “female parts” and my heart/soul no longer exists. I am so very sad that I can’t be that warm safe loving beautiful place for him to find refuge. It would take too much planning and hoopla for the “deed” to successfully execute. It wouldn’t be fun and spontaneous. It wouldn’t be like the movies. It wouldn’t be as it is “supposed to be”. It would take as much planning as a NASA launch and it would probably be as disastrous as the CHALLENGER mission. It would be what it is and we all know that it is not what it could have been if not for this $#$@ cancer that has stolen way too much. It wasn’t just my insides they scraped and threw away. It took my life and displaced it. Nobody can understand this sadness or God forbid, allow it! That would be feeling sorry for myself and “living in the cancer”.
I feel the mascara clumping from the tears. I wish I could meet this cancer in person and tell it just what it has done to me. I try to “beat the cancer” on a higher level. I survived in the sense that I still have the same name and social security number. But the person I was is just the shell. I am rebuilding the insides to create a new me. I am very tired of trying to understand the whole thing. And I know everyone else just assume I stop wallowing in my self-pity. I want to say “Excuse me, I have to mourn the loss of me! I died on some level! Please let me have the funeral and grieve the loss of me!” I will come out of this on the other side of sadness. If only I am not standing there alone when I get there.
