We had a good second meeting with the surgeon yesterday afternoon. The release form has been signed, the pre-op history appointment has been made, and as soon as next Monday afternoon I could be in the rotation for a hysterectomy.
It's out there.
This will, seemingly, fix my "two steps forward, one step back" struggle with anaemia. Enough, after all, is enough, and over a year of low iron, fatigue and borderline depression is taking a toll.
I found it interesting, though, that after all my "talk" and "wishful thinking" to this end, I was a little discomfited by the reality of the surgery.
I've concluded that facing the prospect of a hysterectomy means facing my mortality again.
If I hadn't had that brush with it that resulted in a partial thyroidectomy nearly 2 years ago, I'd say this is probably the first time I'm having to consider that I won't live forever. In this bodily form, at least.
I think the thing with "ending it all", futuristically, maternally speaking, is that although I KNOW that having a baby at 47 years old would be unwelcome madness in the extreme, it is making me face the fact of my age.
This procedure can finally be done because I have reached an age of maturity that deems childbearing complete.
Once one comes to terms with that finality, the next step is to realize that it's all downhill from here.
I'll be 47 this year... next year I'll be 48... you see where this is going?
My hope is that the 6-8 week waiting period (no pun intended) will be significantly shortened by a cancellation, and that I'll be in and out in no time at all.
But my internal monologue has been interesting to me. I will be very glad when it's done. I'll be very glad to catch up on my iron and energy.
I'll be very glad if I can slide gracefully into mature middle age.
Without feeling as Old as the cessation of "all things womanly" might cause one to feel.