“So, Mrs Schellekens, I assume you have very high expectations of this exploratory surgery?” The gynaecologist looks at me intensely from behind his green surgical cap and vigorously rubs his hands together. He continues by explaining the adhesions that may grow back again and tells me that, based on what he has seen on the MRI, there appears to be very little endometriosis. So little that I probably won’t notice any difference.
I feel my throat tighten and my eyes fill with tears. Today, I am voluntarily allowing myself to be cut open for nothing. Well… nothing? Over the past few years, I have been in so much pain that several days every month, around ovulation and menstruation, I am completely unable to function. I am not lying on this operating table because of a little bloating.
I notice the gynaecologist is slightly startled by my tears. He takes a step back and places his hands behind his neck. He stops talking, bites his lip, and a female gynaecologist takes over the explanation. I think he regrets his direct way of communicating. And honestly? I found it incredibly liberating. Even though I am lying there processing his words through my tears, he is the first doctor who has spoken to me clearly and honestly. My tears tell the story of years of suffering, and he understands that without needing any further explanation.
He takes my hand and tells me that he will do everything, absolutely everything, to find out where my symptoms are coming from. For the first time in this process, I feel truly understood. Thank you, Mr Straight-Talking Gynaecologist.
I close my eyes and try to think about our last summer holiday in Thailand. My children Julia and Berend, snorkelling in the sea. They are my everything and so much more. Juul and Beer look at me with their snorkelling masks on their cheerful little faces. The sun reflects on Julia’s tanned skin, and there are still streaks of sunscreen visible on Berend’s shoulders.
They are perfect, inside and out. Completely and utterly wonderful. These two beautiful souls once lived inside my uterus, and I could not have wished for anything better, more beautiful or more loving.
“Mrs Schellekens, the surgery went well.” A young woman with green eyes and black hair tells me that nothing was removed and that the procedure was finished very quickly.
I feel my throat tighten again. Tears stream from the corners of my eyes like little rivers. I cry silently. Nothing was found. The words echo through my head. I am exaggerating. My pain is normal. I just have to live with this.
I cry for at least another three hours, and the room full of women leaves me alone. Every now and then, a nurse comes by to check on me. “Just let it flow, sweetheart. Tears are a form of healing,” whispers a blonde-haired nurse.
That evening, my gynaecologist calls me. He has diagnosed me with an adenomyosis uterus. My uterus has to be removed. A major abdominal surgery is waiting for me.
I cry. And I laugh.
