“So who’s going to your hysterectomy party with you?”, my favorite asshole bestie texted.
“Brenda and Jalyn, you asshole lol.” I replied.
What followed was a series of texts that included a picture of a super-sized bottle of lubricant. “Will that dry your yoni out?” And we also discussed funeral colors for some twisted reason.
I truly have the best friends walking the face of this vast ole earth. Those bitches are perfectly ruthless. These are the same friends who make you a birthday boxes filled with affirmations like, “I’m choosing to be fucking ok today.”; the same ones who show up on your doorstep unannounced with piles of shrimp and bags of steamed crabs, because “you ain’t acting right.” The same friends who thought it would be a great idea to take shots of tequila, straight out of the half-gallon bottle, every time we saw a charter bus, while driving to New York (did I share that story already?? Oh well!). The same friends who in the most beautiful act of love that I’ve ever watched; helping my daughter during her struggle to breastfeed my grandson bring a tear to your eye. I saw the most gentle side of my girlfriend that day.
My Golden Girls. And we are indeed entering the golden era. When one gray strand turns into a few dozen. When kids leave home and parents leave earth. When girls night out looks more like, “Whatchu cooked? Imma come through and grab a plate but I need to be home in time for Dateline.” When we go from sending pics of what we’re wearing to the club and dick pics that we found in an x-rated Facebook group to pictures of breasts with biopsy marks. I need them, like I’ve never needed anyone before in my life.
I need all of that right now because truth be told, I’m feeling a little down about this upcoming hysterectomy party. Granted, my tubes have been tied for over twenty years; and I haven’t had a period in over fifteen years so when I found out about the quadruplets growing in my uterus – four fibroids – a hysterectomy was a no-brainer. At first.
And then I started thinking, very superficially. I said to my doctor, ‘Look Dr. Nardone. I’m going to ask this at the risk of sounding very superficial but I need to know. Will my hoo-ha still get wet?’ She said, “You are such a crazy lady. Yes ma’am, you will. Your ovaries are perfectly intact and I see no need to have them removed.” She then explained that she no longer did surgeries and would refer me to a phenomenal surgeon. It was my consultation with him that sent me spiraling into a pity party. I appreciated the care and time that he took to explain everything in detail; he’s actually the first doctor that I’ve ever visited who used the anatomy chart to point out each and every step. “I’m removing this and that, and right here I have to be very delicate but once we’re done, I’ll have removed your uterus, your cervix and your fallopian tubes but here’s your vagina right here and none of that is anywhere near your vagina so sexually, you won’t notice any changes. It may actually be more enjoyable.”
He was wrong about one thing though. That part about not noticing any changes. As I walked to my car, I tried to think of a word to accurately describe whatever this was in the process of brewing in my spirit in such a funky way. Empty. Ahh. I felt like I was going to be empty.
Let me let you guys in on a secret. There are two things that I pride myself on: mothering and sex. I’m a good gotdamn mother. This I know for sure. And I’m a good gotdamn lover. This I know for sure as well. I’m not perfect in either space, but I’m confident. I know how to raise kids, even if it appears to be unconventional. I know how to make love to a man, and in most cases it’s pretty unconventional too. I’m not a cookie cutter mom or sensual lingerie wearing, acrobatics performing lover, I’m just a women who takes the time to learn and love and it works for me.
My youngest child will be twenty-one in two months. I ain’t having anymore babies. But there was always this little, crazy part of me that imagined myself meeting the love of my life at 45…50.. and having him say, “I know this sounds crazy. I know it does. Let’s make a baby.”, only for me to say YOU MUST BE CRAZY! I HAVE GRANDKIDS! But what if we’re active and young in spirit and life is good and we decide, hell yes let’s have a baby. I don’t have that option anymore. And what lies beneath the grand craziness of that thought is this: I carried all five of my children in that uterus. They traveled down those tubes into it, and through my cervix. So I feel like little pieces of their spirits are still stirring inside of me. Well, as of March 6th I can no longer cottle myself with that thought. It’s the end of an era, officially and I don’t expect for anyone to understand.
Then, there’s this part.
I’m just getting comfortable in my sexuality. You all have been reading my blog for awhile so you’ve read my stories of disconnect and reconnecting. I missed years of sexual pleasure because I never knew that it was something that I was supposed to enjoy. It was all about my partner – which is why I’m probably so good at it. But, when I started digging deep and pulling out years of junk and blockades and getting to know that sweet, little treasure chest between my legs… things became M A G N I F I C E N T. I love sex. I mean, like really love sex. Because, I really, really love me. It’s enjoyment, it’s satisfaction, it’s an experience, it’s transcendental, it’s beautiful, it’s fun, it’s amazing, and I’m afraid that instead of receiving a sigh of satisfaction; c’mon y’all know that groan and lip bite that I’m talking about. I worry that instead of receiving that beautiful reaction of pleasure, I’m going to be asked if I have any KY jelly.
And if I’m really being honest, I might as well admit that I’m fearing inadequency and rejection. Two things that I’ve been running from for a very long time. Will I still feel desirable? Will I still satisfy? I’m use to figuring answers out and moving accordingly but this is truly one of those wait-and-see type things. My doctors have assured me that I’ll be as good as new but they don’t understand that the person their communicating with still has a pocket full of fear because for as cool, confident and in control of her emotions as she claims to be, she’s still hears whispers from that little voice telling her that she’ll never be good enough.
I can’t keep owning that shit. You guys have read about my mental attic and how that’s where I store the shit I ain’t quite ready to face. Well, guess who’s going to spend some time in that attic pre-surgery? I don’t want to take these thoughts and fears into the operating room with me. It’s been hard but when you’re surrounded by people who don’t let you take yourself too seriously and slap your hands whenever they get to toying with those mental compartments, you better be thankful.
I told one of my girls that it’s going to be a good while before I have post-surgery intercourse; that six weeks would probably turn into six months because I’m dreading my “first time remixed” and she laughed. She said, “If that’s all that it took to calm your hot ass down, we could’ve arranged this years ago. But good. Cross those legs for awhile, maybe you’ll uncross that heart.” Ooh, she got me. Made me think too.
Maybe a sexual hiatus is exactly what I need? That and a lifetime supply of Xanax to get me through this path of extra-ness and drama that I’m clearly embarking on. But I shared a few posts ago that I am still very afraid of commitment. I was just kind of hoping that I was long-term commitment to someone before going through these life hiccups. I love my family and my girls but I’m really ready for a supportive man to rock with me through these hard parts. I need some big wide shoulders in my life to help balance some of what I’m carrying. And I feel like if I don’t reel him in sexually, there’s no other spark that’ll make him see me. There. I shared my darkest secret. I am still hiding behind sex and waiting for it to be the bait to reel love in. At almost 45 years old.
I have to release that mess before it makes me crazier than I already am. I can’t roll into that operating room retaining all of this mess in my spirit. I can’t cling to this darkness. So maybe that’s what this is all about. The universe moves in some mysterious fucking ways. All this blogging and carrying on about pussy and healing, maybe this hysterectomy is symbolic of the clean up I’m past due to do. Could these fibroids be a manifestation of some metaphysical backup within me? Probably so.
I don’t know but I’m asking myself a lot of questions and paying attention to the answers. And when I don’t have the mental capacity to do either of those things, I’m thankful for the arms of support that my girlfriends keep wrapped around me. They make me feel eternal and infinite. And while they won’t ever let me get too full of myself, they make sure that I’m never empty.
I shouldn’t be focusing on emptiness and loss. Especially with all of my gains. I’m just learning to understand that healing is never quite complete. It really is a forever process. One that doesn’t get any easier by hiding from your own truths. Into the attic I go.
In our most recent group text, I sent a pic of myself in a superman leotard that I had sent to Mr. 51. I asked them what they thought and one of them respond, “Bitch you looking slim, whatch sick? Nah, you look hot AF and you know I’m not lying because if you didn’t I would’ve just complimented the color.”
Ruthless bitches hosting my hysterectomy party, and being my love fillers, keeping that space nice and warm. For somebody. Someday. I’m not empty.