I went to my first post-op appointment and saw the inside of my body.
They’d taken pictures of my ruptured fallopian tube, of my ovary, of the blood pooled around it, of my uterus, of the clips now sealing it closed on one side. It was the first time I’d ever wondered what it is they do with organs once they’re removed. This red tube that had provided balance and a literal path to life within my body for 32 years – had they disposed of it in a plastic bag? Was it unceremoniously incinerated?
I stared at the image of it and mourned. I’m sorry I didn’t know you were holding a baby. I’m sorry I didn’t catch it until it had broken you. Thank you for being a part of my womanhood. Thank you for doing your best for so long.
These images of my insides brought with them the realization that, even though I thought I’d known my body … and was sure I knew it well
from its skin
to its shape
to its strengths and weaknesses
and perceived beauty and flaws
But no THIS. Underneath. This was my body.
These pink organs and tissues sitting just beyond sight, thanklessly performing their function without needing my permission, without my cognizance, without my judgement. Safely resting below the protective layer of skin/muscle/fat that’s borne more judgement or praise for its form than its function.
My incisions are small and healing, proof of any intrusion mainly visible in the slight bruising across my abdomen. The same abdomen I thought I knew – the soft one with the extra skin folds, bearing all the evidence of the 3 children it’s grown, and now the evidence of the things that it’s lost.
Under its folds and its new scars is a place that now feels to be, even more *my body* than the surface I can see. The parts that allow my life to happen. The parts that beat and pump and bleed and heal and keep my soul securely connected to it by some power I don’t understand. The parts I can now put my hand over and say, truly and sincerely, thank you, I love you, I forgive you, let’s keep going.
