I flew back to Sweden for my second surgery that January. To say things were strained does not even begin to describe the situation.
The day arrived. Same hospital. Different surgeon. The idea was do another laparoscopy to see if the medication had restricted the growth of the endo.
It was a bit calming to already know the drill. Knowing the surgical protocol. Knowing where I would be staying. What my care would likely be like. How my body would feel afterwards.
The surgery was short. The surgeon, blunt and to the point.
The shots hadn't done a thing. Everything was coming back. I was free to go.
That was all? No game plan? No next step? No referral? No...nothing?
My husband doesn't remember it so bluntly. All I heard was The medicine didn't work. It's all coming back. There is nothing we can do to help you.
I had gone through all of this...for nothing? It hadn't made any difference at all? What was I supposed to do now?
We left the hospital with no answers. I had a condition with no cure. The prescribed treatment hadn't had any effect. I was given no direction as to where I should seek help. I was told I probably couldn't have children.
Good night and good luck.
I left for the States barely a week later. I was in no shape to fly, but I had a family commitment I did not feel I could miss.
I should have stayed with my husband and worked things out with my new family.
I didn't, though. I nearly killed myself getting on that airplane. The people in the seats around me looked scared. They knew something was wrong with me. You could read the fear in their eyes and their silent prayers that I wouldn't collapse because they didn't know what to do.
I made it home to my parents house. I convalesced. Physically.
Spiritually and emotionally, I was in crisis. My husband and I had married after eight years of dating with the intention of starting a family. Now, the likelihood of that happening was minimal. I no longer felt like a woman. I was unfit to be a wife.
I felt my body had rejected me. That maybe I was not fit to be a parent. My body had failed me; and I, in turn, had failed my husband. In my hormonal and grief-stricken state, I rejected him before he could reject me.
My husband, on the other hand, had other ideas.
Two months passed, and my birthday rolled around at the end of March. I had gotten a job to stay busy, and I had started taking a yoga class in an attempt to heal myself.
I was trying to leave for my evening class, but my dad kept stalling me. Until my mom came home. She walked through the garage door. With my husband walking in right behind her.
Tuesday, September 16, 2008