This post by Ashley M. Coleman is a part of a special series in partnership with Permission to Write called Mom/Me: An exploration of motherhood and beyond. This collection of poetry, essays, and visual media showcase the many facets of motherhood and our relationship to it.
I sat in the nondescript exam room picking at my fingers while waiting for the doctor to enter. I was already annoyed because it took about a month and half to get an appointment that was due to the fact that I landed in the ER with a possible cyst rupture. I also had to wait close to 45 minutes when I got there because the doctor was running behind. And I had questions. Questions about these fibroids that the gynecologist in the ER mentioned might be fairly simple to remove.
I had routine banter with my gynecologist about how things were going and she did her exam. After, I remembered that I needed to ask about these fibroids that were becoming more of an irritant by the days. I literally lose the first day of my period. It knocks me out for the count even though I’m on birth control to help the symptoms. I swear, most days I look a couple months pregnant and I’m tired of having to pay the remaining balance on ultrasounds every six months. I thought maybe I would get some expert advice, but instead I left feeling despondent, hurt, and lost about my uterine health options.
“It would all be easier if you just had some babies,” she said in response to reviewing my options for treatment. The only real choice, a myomectomy, a major surgery that encompasses a 4-6 week recovery period and will probably cost me a pretty coin even though I have good insurance. All the other choices she discussed, uterine embolism and hysterectomy, would clearly affect my fertility.
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