A Surprising Grief

I was going to have a hysterectomy, that was clear. I had had a biopsy that revealed cervical cancer, and there was no other option. And with the operation just days away, I was having a prickly time dealing with the prospect of having no more children. This shouldn't have been a big issue: our only child, a daughter, was in the sixth grade, my husband had had a vasectomy, and I was 44 years old. But as irrational as it seemed, I was fuming. I shared this with female friends and colleagues, who, though sympathetic, did not quite understand my feisty reaction to the situation.

Neither did my minister husband. Twenty-three years later I still remember how I seethed when he gently suggested, in his most sympathetic manner, that my issues with mortality were the real cause of my anger, not the idea that I could never have another child. I was in no frame of mind to have him tell me what I was feeling. I said I needed him to be my husband—not a minister.

I hadn't gotten the answers I needed at home, so I called my friend Terri, a therapist. When I told her I was having trouble letting go of my uterus, she said, "Meet me in my office tomorrow at eight o'clock." I felt better already. Terri listened to me in a way that no one else had, as I dealt with the emotionally overwhelming thought that my daughter would never have a sibling.

The day I arrived at the hospital I was functioning as a defeated but reasonable warrior, until I was given one of the last papers to sign, and it said, in effect, "As a result of this procedure, you will be sterile." The escalating emotions at the absolute impossibility of birthing another child, along with a feeling of helplessness, shattered my composure. My tears turned to sobs and my self-control dissolved right in front of the admitting person, my daughter and my husband.

I ran out of the room and through the waiting area and made a turn away from the open lounge, where families waited near massive closed doors marked "No Admittance." On my right were elevators to the hospital rooms—not a good choice. Further along was the cafeteria, also not an option. My only alternative was the door on my left, marked "Chapel." I hurried in, sat down and cried with abandonment. It felt good to grieve for the children I wouldn't have. My responsible self knew that at some point I had to surrender, but for now, in this empty, dark, womblike room, I let my sorrow flow.

My daughter and husband had scampered after me and now stood in front of me, dumbfounded. My daughter looked deeply concerned and sad. My husband looked frightened. When the flood of tears subsided, I said, "I'm sorry." Which was untrue. But my good-girl script was strong, and I felt that I should apologize. And now my daughter and husband were soothing me. My daughter even asked me if I wanted to go home. "What a gal," I thought.