I remember having the same feelings when I had to have my hysterectomy about 4 years ago. I have two daughters- 21 & 18, and also a 14 year old son. Both of my daughters are married and I have a 1 year old granddaughter. I knew that I didn't want anymore children, but the idea that I couldn't have anymore children left me feeling so "unwomanly" for so long. I ended up having to talk to a counselor, too, because of the sudden grief you feel.
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A Surprising Grief
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That night I was alone after visiting hours. I went downstairs to the chapel and asked the Great One for courage, strength and guidance. When I got back to my room there was a familiar figure sitting in the chair, waiting for me. Nancy was my spiritual sister—we'd lived in the same town four years prior. She was an aging hippie who had graduated with honors from the school of hard knocks. Nancy sat with me and guided me through a meditation in which I visualized myself waltzing in my favorite meadow of wildflowers in dazzling Technicolor. She did a laying on of hands that was supposed to distribute my energy where I most needed it or some such thing. As I closed my eyes to sleep, Nancy kissed my forehead, or maybe it was my third eye, and said, "Good night."
Early the next morning the nurse who got me ready for the surgery said in a kindly, thoughtful, almost reverential voice, "Honey, you look so peaceful. You have a glow about your face and head." We stared at each other with no need for explanations.
It was about 5:30 a.m. I had been transferred to a gurney and was about to be wheeled out of the hospital room and down the hall to the elevator marked "No Admittance." At that moment of no return my daughter appeared, followed by her dad. The night before she had asked him to drive her to the hospital so she could see me before the operation. And when he tried to talk her out of it, saying that the staff probably wouldn't let them in, that it was not hospital policy, and they might be too late to see me, she countered, saying she'd get a friend's mother to take her. Apparently that shamed him into driving her. She told him in the car, "Dad, Mom needs me."
Lying on the gurney, traveling down the hall with her holding my hand and bending down close to my face, I gave up the battle, with sweet assurance that I was victorious. I had my daughter; she was all the children I needed.
Barnes lives in Kensington, Calif.
© 2007
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