Where did you think you wanted to be at 33? A wife with a few kids, stay-at-home mom, dinner on the table every night for the perfect husband? Yeah, that’s what I wanted too. Only that’s not what my body had planned for me. My body decided to rupture a cyst attached to my left ovary so badly it almost blew up my ovary, cue emergency surgery after a large amount of internal bleeding. Then, six weeks and two days later, on September 1st, I was wheeled into a cold, sterile room to have my womb ripped from my body. Tears streamed down my face. The kind nurses holding my hand told me it would be alright, knowing I would never be the same. I was not ready for this. My arms were not prepared to be empty of beautiful, squishy babies.
The Struggle of Motherhood During Recovery
Here is the thing: I still had a beautiful little one at home. A 2-year-old who relied on me for everything, including life-giving milk and our beautiful breastfeeding relationship. She had never been away from Mama for five whole nights. She had always nursed to sleep. She had not snuggled into my warm body to drift off to sweet slumber. And to her shock, Mama was in the hospital for five days and nights. My poor husband stayed strong and did his best at home. He brought her to the hospital every day, where I had to force through the pain to get in the rocking chair to nourish her little body; she was too afraid of the hospital bed. She just clung to me for dear life.
Experiencing Premature Menopause: The Shock of Sudden Change
I went into surgery at age 33 and woke up in recovery with my body thinking it was in its late 50s. It seemed like I woke up to instant hot flashes. See, I thought I was ready. Being from the South and already being hot-natured, I thought I could handle them. Boy, was I wrong? It was unlike anything I had ever experienced. It was a fire lit in my soul that I could not extinguish. I wanted to roll in the non-existent snow outside. I had read all the natural books about menopause and was bound and determined to do this naturally—no artificial hormones for me. I purchased hundreds of dollars of herbs and vitamins.
I had a basket full little notes on the tops of them of when to take them. Guess how many days I took them? Maybe five days. I felt like I was losing my mind. The recovery was hell. It was worse than a c-section, or so I’ve heard. I could barely sit up, move, or use the bathroom. Breastfeeding after the surgery was so hard. The pain of just driving around was long-lasting. And anyone breastfeeding a toddler knows they aren’t the most still creatures. Thankfully, because she had seen me have surgery before, she knew a little, but there were some days when her little knees went straight to my scar. That’s enough to take your breath away in an instant, which would upset her, and then we would have to get in our grove all over again. It was a challenge, but we were going baby-led weaning and going to let her nurse until the need was over or until I had enough. My family didn’t understand while we still assisted after the surgery, but she was nowhere ready to give up this bond, and quite frankly, neither was I. It was something we both cherished.
This bond, breastfeeding, in a way, got me through the first part of it all. I still had my baby. I still had a little one to lay in my arms, and she was still just that perfect size. Granted, I couldn’t pick her up for six weeks. That was hard because we were used to baby-wearing, another way that we kept such a close bond. Knowing she was my last, I wanted to cherish every moment of that bond. She loved to be worn, either on my front chest, where she would snuggle down tightly and lay her head on my chest, or on my back, where she would lay her head down and caress my arm with her tiny little arm. I’ve said it before, and I will say it again, she saved me. She made me a better version of myself.
Mental Health and Menopause
Even though I still had that wonderful relationship with her, mentally, I was losing it. My existence was floundering in the wind. See, I’m already bipolar, then add in sudden, medically induced menopause; it was hell—the mood swings. The crying fits. The anger. This lasted months. There were so many more months that I lost count, probably close to a year before I began feeling some normality. The grief that I wouldn’t carry another baby in my body. We tried for ten years to have our miracle baby, and now, there would be no more miracles. That was probably the worst of it. That part still hurts. I still can’t look at new little squishy babies without fighting back tears.
Learning and Growing Through Adversity
What have I learned over the past few years? Grace. I have learned so much about grace.
Whether you are 33 or 53, it will sometimes be a bit brutal. There will be tears for no reason. There will be tears for every stinking Hallmark commercial that comes on. Don’t even get me started on the SPCA commercials. Just do yourself a favor and avoid commercials altogether. Remember when we all had a village when our kids were younger? Find yours again. Surround yourself with people who know you the best. Who can sit down and share a glass or even a bottle or two of wine with you? Cry about the hard parts, laugh about the parts only women can understand. The fuss about your husbands being irritating, then remember to give them some grace too; after all, this is new to them too.
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