Fallopian diagnosis: Clamped (Pt. 2 of my Journey)

As many of you know, yesterday was the day I went in to get my tubes "tied". I didn't sleep well the night before; my anxiety levels were high. I'd never been put under anesthesia before, and I was worried about it going wrong.

Both of my parents accompanied me to the hospital and waited with me until a nurse called me back to get me ready. When the nurse had checked my vitals, inserted my IV and had me undress and redress, my mom came back and sat with me. I had an incredibly wonderful and personable nurse, for which I was grateful. Having my parents come with me greatly decreased my stress levels.

My surgeon came by and once again gave me all the warnings he's required to give and asked me if I was sure I still wanted to go through with it. I said that I was and then I asked if it would be possible for him to take some pictures of my guts while I was unconscious, because I love guts. He totally didn't even hesitate when he said he'd make sure to do that. I almost cried I was so excited. GUTS!

Everything happened as efficiently and promptly as they'd promised, which I definitely didn't expect. Hospitals tend to be notorious for having people wait due to a high traffic volume of patients.

Surgery itself I obviously can't tell you much about, since I was asleep for all of it. I remember the staff chatting with me and telling me exactly what they were about to do. I remember the first medicine administered through my IV to make me start relaxing. I remember an oxygen mask, and that was that.

The first thing I asked when I woke up was, "Did I pee?" (I'd been very concerned that I might do that and how embarrassing it would be.) Then I rolled over slightly and tried to throw up (probably due to the nausea and the tube they'd just removed from my throat.) Lastly, I said, "No more miscarriages ever," cried a little, and passed out again. I don't know if this is a normal thing for people coming out of anesthesia, but no one said anything.

I spent the rest of yesterday drifting in and out of sleep at my parent's house and making sure not to rip the gauze off the two incision sites. I'm still pretty groggy, light headed, and disoriented today, but I'm overall quite pleased with how everything went.

Originally I was going to use this second blog as a way of further explaining my choice, but I've decided it's not necessary. The majority of my friends and family have given me their support, even if they don't fully understand. I think that's the best I can ask for, and I realize that it's been mostly just a difficult concept for a lot of people to grasp. It's unconventional, which coincidentally is the one word that I find best describes me.

After all is said and done, I'm so grateful to all of you who prayed for me or sent me good vibes and texts. I'm humbled to have received so many messages from women who felt my story was something they could relate to.

Lastly, I think I should clarify that "fallopianologist" isn't actually a word. I just made it up and liked the sound of it. Sorry if I confused anyone. :)

ALSO I GOT TO SEE MY GUTS!

What Does it Mean to Be a Woman?

In an age where gender has become fluid and specific to each individual's needs, it's hard to know how to define what being a "man" or a "woman" really entails. As today is International Women's Day, I'm left wondering what it means to be a woman. While I feel like there's a woman inside me eager to express herself, I never know if the things I do or think are because I'm a woman, or just because I'm me.

Growing up I was raised during the day by my father while my mother worked full time. If you were to affix labels on them, then, my father would have been "The Nurturer" while my mother would be "The Breadwinner". Yet I never felt that I lacked nurture from my mother, and I never found it strange that my dad was the one who stayed home. It was the way I was raised, and I've never been displeased with it.

My dad, to break another stereotype, was the 1st feminist I ever met (and he remains the most prominent one I know today). Throughout my childhood he was a psychotherapist who specialized in working with victims (and often perpetrators) of Domestic Violence. He also visited Africa a handful of times and spoke out against female circumcision (a barbaric mutilation at best) and violence towards women in tribes where men felt they were somehow entitled to mistreat their wives. He made sure I knew from an early age that women never deserve to be treated this way and that no man has "the right" to be a batterer. Ultimately, of course, he taught me that these weren't just lessons he was spreading far away from home - he was applying them to me. My father always knew that I would grow up one day and be outside his protection, so he gave me the tools early on to protect myself. He showered me with respect (and more than a little spoiling - I am still a daddy's girl) and love, because he hoped that when I grew up I wouldn't settle for anything less in my potential partners.

Now, despite my father's great love and respect for women (or what I now realize is because of), my family was very anti gender stereotypes. My dad put pants under my dresses when we went to the park, because I was a born climber. He would put me on top of the monkey bars and let me scramble around, and he put pants on me because they were comfortable and obviously more decent than having nothing on underneath while I'm above everyone else. I loved messes (and still do), and this was also not discouraged. I had very few Barbies, maybe 3 or 4, and I was never forced to wear pink. I was not told I wasn't allowed to do something due to the fact that it wasn't "lady like" to do it. The only two times I can ever remember my gender playing a role in a decision my parents made for me were when a) I became too old to start having co-ed sleepovers (which I respect), and b) when I wanted to join the wrestling team in middle school. My parents didn't like the idea of me wrestling with only boys, especially if they were boys going through puberty. I was furious about it at the time, but now I'm 100% grateful they made that choice.

Additionally, me being able to rough and tough with the neighborhood kids did not warrant me being labeled "tomboy" by my family. Nor did I have to suffer inquiries (from my parents at least) about whether or not I'd grow up to be a lesbian just because I wore my hair short and preferred activities that may have appeared not feminine. My peers at school were obviously a different matter, and I was teased mercilessly for a myriad things, most notably my short hair, straightforwardness, and (I'll admit) a bit of a "fuck off" attitude. Because of my parent's solid affirmations that I could do anything a boy or girl could do, however, I continued to do what I enjoyed and did my best to ignore the haters, even when it was an immense and lonely struggle.

Given all this, you'd think I'd know how to stand up and say I know exactly what it means to be a woman. I don't, though. I know that gender is such a sticky subject, and I don't want to make the mistake of saying "all women are like this and not like this". What I can do, however, is try to express what being a woman for me  is.

I am a nurturer - I love the children I work with more than anything. They brighten my days, warm my heart, and teach me what it feels like to be maternal.
I am empowered - I know my choices are my own to make, but I also know that many of the choices I make affect those around me, so I accept responsibility in trying to do what's best for myself while trying not to hurt other's unnecessarily.
I am curvaceous - No, this does not make me more of a woman than someone who is thin, someone who is perfectly fit, or someone who is obese. I accept my body, though, and embrace it, loving it as much as I can while living in a culture that tells me I shouldn't.
I am outspoken, sarcastic, opinionated, honest often to a fault, passionate. Sometimes I mistake them for being the same thing.
I am flawed.
I am capable of bearing children inside my womb, but I am confident enough to decide that I won't.
I am a reader. I also love to play video games, watch movies, crochet, hike, teach myself art.
I am a Daughter of Eve ("To Narnia and the North!")

At the end of the day, are these the things that make me a woman? I don't know. But when I think about them, something inside my gut tells me that I'm being a woman the best way I know how to. Namely, without thinking about it. I'm just being who I am, and I think that being proud of who I am is one of the best characterizations of my womanhood.

Lastly, and I hope you aren't sick of this poem (I'll just put the first part) by Maya Angelou, because I can never get enough of it:

Pretty women wonder where my secret lies.

I’m not cute or built to suit a fashion model’s size   

But when I start to tell them,

They think I’m telling lies.

I say,

It’s in the reach of my arms,

The span of my hips,   

The stride of my step,   

The curl of my lips.   

I’m a woman

Phenomenally.

Phenomenal woman,   

That’s me.

So happy International Women's Day to all the amazing, wonderful women I know, and to the men who appreciate and cherish us for being that way.

My Visit to the Fallopionologist - Part One of my Journey

2/20/15

I have been anxiously awaiting this appointment since I set it up a month or two ago. I am nervous that I will have to argue my case to the doctor, because I’m young and I’ve heard that it can be hard to convince someone to do this operation without some haggling. I’ve been suffering a heavy depressive episode for a solid week now, however, and I think that fact alone will be enough to push my case in the right direction.

I sit in the waiting room at the Women and Children’s Pavilion and take glances at the other patients. I wonder if some of them are here because they’re already planning their families. I’m almost smug as I think to myself that I won’t have to worry about starting a conventional family – that I have decided to take this step and define my own version.

After I’ve been called in to the doctor’s room and had my vitals taken, I sit alone staring out the window. I wonder if I should be staring at my phone when the doctor comes in, or if that makes me look like I’m too immature to make adult decisions. I’m not sure if this is an irrational thought or not, but I pull my book out anyway. I want to appear educated, well informed, capable of making such a big decision at a young age.

When the doctor – a man I chose specifically based on his experience in this field – walks in, the first words out of his mouth are, “I will do a tubal litigation on you, but…”

Although I’m listening to the rest of his speech, I’m so relieved that I won’t have to fight him to do the surgery that a smile begins to creep on my face immediately.  I pay close attention as he tells me all the things I’ve already heard and researched – this is an irreversible decision, I may come to regret it, and if I ever choose to get pregnant in the future it will cost at least $30,000 with no guarantee of success. He tells me that there are methods of birth control that I can use now that aren’t permanent, and they often have the added bonus of reducing my periods. I can tell that he is genuinely concerned, but I can also tell he knows I’ve already made up my mind – he only tells me the facts out of obligation, not as a means to persuade me to alter my decision.

He looks over my file and confirms a few things about me and we discuss which procedure we both think would be best suited for my body – a body that has never given birth to a live child and is now opting out of ever doing so.

I again find myself staring out the window. I’m looking at the trees and letting the weight of my decision sink in again. I look at the trees to ground myself. I have always thought trees to my closest connection to God. I let all the thoughts and doubts tumble around in my brain. I see those trees and remind myself that there is beauty in the world, even when I can’t see it. I think, “Is it selfish to not produce a child to experience this beauty?” I think, of course, of the traumatizing and brutal miscarriage I had 7 years ago. I think of how I’d always yearned, ached to give birth to a child of my own. I think about how beautiful and humbling it would be to let God place a human inside me, let it grow, and birth it into the world.

And yet…that is what I can’t do. This world is the reason I can’t do it. While part of me will always grieve the fact that I won’t experience the miracle (and oh, it’s such a beautiful miracle!) of childbirth, I know in my heart that wanting to birth a child is not enough reason to have a child. Because when you have a child, it’s a living, binding contract with that human for the rest of your lives. And I’m not prepared to make that commitment. I will never be prepared. There are too many factors involved in raising a human being, and I respectfully acknowledge that this will not be my lot in life.

I think again about the world, and it confirms my decision again. I think about the depression and anxiety I have lived with all my life and I think about how selfish I would be to pass that on to my child. I think about the way I was treated by my peers when I didn’t fit their standards, and I know how helplessly heartbroken I would feel watching my offspring experience the same. I think that, even if they do fit in with the world, is that really what I would want? Do I want to have a child who submits to peer pressure, follows the crowd into potentially dark territory? Do I want to watch from the sidelines as my child grows up and chooses a path that may lead it away from me? Do I want to watch a human being that I created and love experience heartache, fear, anxiety, seclusion?

This may sound harsh, and I know that not everyone will understand or agree with me. I know they will tell me that there is also so much joy and beauty in the world. I know this to be true, 100%. I won’t dispute that. But we live in an age of terror, and I genuinely fear things will never get better. We live in a world where people kill each other over race, religion, and sexuality. We live in a world that produces “role models” in the form of pop singers and misogynist celebrities. We live in a world where people hide behind their keyboards while going out of their way to ridicule, shame, harass, and torment their online peers.  For as much chance as a child has of experiencing joy in this world, I do not believe I will ever be ready to take that chance, especially if it is born with the same mental darkness that I've been plagued with.

There are many other reasons, of course. I like to sleep in. I love to travel. I hate being tied down to anything. I like to know that I can, at any moment, uproot myself and move onto something new. Additionally, I’ve worked with children for over a decade. I love those children endlessly. I have loved many of them as if they were my own. At the end of my life, I can happily say that I played a positive, influential role in their lives. So even without producing babies of my own, I have still impacted the lives of many. This brings me satisfaction and I am eternally humbled to have been entrusted with the care of other people’s treasures. The loves of their lives have also been the loves of mine. I have done my best to guide them, protect them, and teach them as I would had they had been mine. To have been able to share my heart with them is something I will always be grateful for. I believe God gave me the gift of compassion to care for many, even if it means sacrificing caring for just one.

All these thoughts enter and exit my head slowly and methodically. I don’t realize until later, but this is my way of grieving what could have been while also fully embracing what will be. When I leave the doctor’s office, the delight and relief I feel is the happiest moment I've had in weeks, and I know I’m doing the right thing.