After a hot weekend, it’s no surprise that there’s some residual heat gathering around my body. It feels odd because the air outside is reasonably cool. However, if I listen carefully to my thoughts (this is a pretty complex task in my chaotic mind), I think the heat I feel is the simmering anxiety of the operation I’m about to undergo.
I’m not sure how exactly I feel.
I know I’m a little anxious as the snappy edge to my words and thoughts has already burned people this morning.
My sister asked how I was feeling a few days ago, my response was cool pragmatism.
My mum asked how I was feeling about the operation yesterday and I warmly admitted I was not at all worried about the actual surgery but was ‘of course’ a little concerned about the consequences.
Then today, my daughter didn’t ask how I was feeling, she just said with a quick kiss and hug ‘I love you. I hope it all goes well and I’ll see you tonight’.
I said calmly, ‘Thanks, I love you too. Have a good day’. Then I felt that lump of stormy emotion building in my throat. The earlier simmering anxiety was now a cauldron of hot, bubbling tears threatening to explode at any second.
Truly, I’m not scared of the operation.
It’s only day surgery, a few little keyholes, and I should be recovered within 3 days and back to regular exercise and swilling wine within a few weeks. But I will admit I’m scared of losing a part of me that represents a whole lot more than a couple of little sacs filled with eggs.
Today I’m officially having an oophorectomy.
A procedure that surgically removes my ovaries and fallopian tubes. Unofficially, I have joked I’m becoming a eunuch. Hubby John jokes, no you are already unique (gotta love his wit). My womanhood is being removed as a preventative measure to avoid ovarian cancer.
This is not a plea to feel sorry for me.
This is a proactive and powerful tool of knowledge I get to use. Plus, this little diatribe is almost an ode to feeling sorry for myself. I, along with my dad, sisters, brother and cousins have the BRCA-1 gene mutation. This little mutant gene forgets to kill off cancer cells that form in breasts and ovaries.
I have previously had a preventative double reconstructive mastectomy (try saying that with a few wines under your belt). Mainly because I saw what my sister and dad went through with their breast cancer treatments and knew that I wasn’t tough enough to deal with that! So, I chopped my boobs off with no regrets.
I knew the ovaries were to be removed by the time I was 40, but for the last few years I’ve found excuses (usually traipsing around the world to different triathlon events) and avoided it.
As I write this, I have hot tears etching streaks down my cheeks.
I don’t really know why and to be honest think I don’t deserve to feel this way. I understand that it would be a big gamble to NOT do this surgery (40-60% chance of getting ovarian cancer). And, more than anything there are people who don’t have the choice, like my amazing sister Katie who had her ovaries removed while recovering from breast cancer. Guess I’m not so unique with my sisterly tribe of eunuchs?!
Maybe it’s my ovaries having a fireworks send-off with a rush of sad sac hormones sizzling through my body. Perhaps it’s the fact that I can’t eat pre-surgery (this is HUGE for me).
Or maybe it’s something deeper.
Apart from cursing my monthly bleeding, ovaries are not really something that I think of often. I mean they have been with me since I was born, seen me through puberty, made part of my babies, and regularly unleashed PMS that could slay a dragon.
So, I guess I’m mourning their loss because of what they represent rather than what they actually do. I mean, on the upside I won’t have to worry about forgetting ‘that time of month’, I won’t have to worry about accidental pregnancy (bonus for John too) and my mood swings may even improve with hormone replacement therapies. Although, in the words of the oncologic-gynaecological surgeon, “If you were a bitch before, you’ll still be a bitch after the surgery!”
Writing this stuff down is my way of tempering the simmering anxiety and drying the burning tears. But sharing this has a different purpose. I am far from an altruistic person (reminder: fiery dragon PMS) but my wish is that you check your breasts for lumps (MEN too) listen to your body when things just don’t feel quite right, and most of all fan the flames of knowledge.
If you’ve experienced something that could help just one other person, share it!
xk
Ps. I’m publishing this 8-weeks post-op…everything went really well! While I was initially feeling serenely ‘level’ and eunuch-like (I could easily guard a harem of women from leering fellas, lol), I’m not quite sure the hormone replacement therapy has strong enough shackles to smoulder this ladies inner fire-breathing dragon ;P
