My life has been a series of hospital visits and tears lately. For a while I even lost my sense of hope for a new day, but when I gave up, hope found me.
Three strikes and you're out - that's what happened with my left ovary, though it's waiting on the bench at the moment to meet a specialist from Vancouver who will cut it from the team.
I've had cysts rupture three times now on that less-than-perfect ovary. While I was writhing in pain on a hospital bed at about 4 a.m. on Oct. 7, the doctor decided it was time for surgery.
I agreed, while assuring myself anything was better than the pain I'd been in.
I'd been trying to hide that pain from my two-year-old daughter who believes a kiss makes everything better. I love that about her, but it's hard to smile and stop the tears even after a sloppy, open-mouthed toddler kiss.
I felt like an inept mother, a worthless wife Ñ and I was sure I'd lose my job after I heard it would take about four weeks to heal from surgery.
The plan was to take out the cyst, sew me back up and send me home to heal, but that wasn't possible. There was too much scarring and inflammation, and the best the doctor could do was drain the cyst and cauterize it.
When I came to, I was told I'd need another surgery in Vancouver with a specialist at the UBC Centre for Reproductive Health where the offending ovary would be removed.
My mind was reeling. Can I have more children? When do I have to be cut open again? How long do I have to stay in the hospital? How do I tell my boss? What am I going to do?
That's when I started to cry, that hopeless sobbing I hadn't felt since the grip of postpartum depression had left me about a year ago.
In that hospital bed I gave up. I didn't have any strength left and I figured life as I knew it was over. Seems melodramatic I know, but I could barely move, and just going to the washroom by myself was cause for celebration. I had never felt so useless. I couldn't do anything but lie there and wait to heal, or die. I didn't care.
But that's when hope found me. My mom, who lives in Calgary, showed up at my bedside and took over for me while I lay incapable of doing all the things I needed to do.
I never would have thought I needed my mommy at the age of 27, but it turned out I desperately did.
She cooked and cleaned and helped me sit up, stand and walk. She made tea when my friends came over, and she listened to me ramble about how my life was changing and how I had no control over anything.
She assured me things would get better and she prayed with me when I didn't believe her.
As it turns out, Mom was right about everything. I did get better. I didn't lose my job (in fact, my co-workers rallied around me and put in huge amounts of overtime at the paper) and my family didn't think I was useless or plot to trade me in for a newer model.
People still loved me even when I felt I had nothing left to offer them. And my hope for a better day, for a better life, was restored.
Love has a way of lifting spirits, overcoming obstacles and even healing pain. Thanks, Mom, for all the love.