Ode to my womb

I'm terribly sorry, I seem to have neglected you slightly since the non-Rapture non-event. It's not that I wasn't thinking in a blog-like fashion - au contraire! As always, my brain has run itself ragged over the last 48 hours forming bloggy topics and conjuring hilarious bloggy subplots...such as when my darling children received their dinner tonight. Jack ate his valiantly until he put his head in his hands, sighed, and said, "Mummy, I'm sorry, your dinner is very nice but it's nearly going to make me vomit, I think." Phoebe took her cue to add (in the sweetest, little-girl, dripping with syrup voice), "Mummy, please, could you please make something nice for dinner next week?" Meanwhile, the Mouse devoured hers and then tipped the bowl on her head. Wise child, the Mouse.

So anyway, I've been a bit preoccupied over the last couple of days, not to mention having a yucky little head cold. Tonight I am propped up in bed with my beloved hot water bottle and the telly, as I was last night. A little luxurious for this mama? Well, yes and no. For you see, tomorrow I am saying goodbye to a piece of myself. It's a little part of me that is tied very closely to my heart, and the thought of saying goodbye is just a weeny bit sad. And even though this is something that will benefit me in the long run (without a shadow of a doubt), being the emotional blubber that I am, I'm taking my time to say goodbye.

We know our babies grow in our hearts and minds long before they are conceived. That our uteruses will play such a central role in our quests to become mummies doesn't really become obvious until you're in the thick of growing (or attempting to grow) a baby. I know I never really thought about my womb except for being a pain in the proverbial. Our wombs tell us so much, especially for a piece of anatomy that is never seen. If it is healthy, it's a pain in the backside for about a week once a month. If it's not healthy, it's a pain in the backside for a lot more than a week, or alternatively, it's a silent stranger sitting mutely behind our belly buttons.

I've given my womb a lot of grief over the years. She never missed a beat before I got pregnant with Jack. She grew three rather spectacular babies (if I do say so myself), all with lovely healthy birth weights. What I didn't realise during my first pregnancy was that my uterus was all tangled up in a web of scar tissue from previous surgeries. Jack's growth and constant kicking meant that my poor womb was being pulled and constrained in ways she should never have been...which ultimately lead to threatened premature labour. During my pregnancies with the girls, old scar tissue constantly snapped and re-formed, which meant that by the time the Mouse arrived, pretty much everything in my abdominal cavity was stuck together with scar tissue (I'd make a fascinating cadaver, right?)

A sensible person would have stopped after one child. I would be insulting the lot of us if I even pretended for one minute that I was sensible!! But both my obstetrician, and my husband, put their feet down before Maisie's birth and decreed that this would be my last baby. To that end, I had a tubal ligation during my last caesarean. Unfortunately, that did nothing to help my poor, limping uterus, whom after almost 30 months of faithful service, was a little worse for wear.

Being ineligible for a hysterectomy due to the scar tissue (it would most likely be fatal to try it, so I said we might give that one a miss), my only option is to have a uterine ablation. Which basically means that tomorrow, all going well, my womb will be filled with acid and burned from the inside out. The benefits to my health will be enormous (obviously after the pain stops!!) and I'm sure the drugs tomorrow will be marvellous.

So why am I a bit sad to say goodbye? Because my babies had such a cosy little house in my womb. It was the only place that they were completely mine - protected, warm, nourished. Only I could feel their kicks and rolls in their entirety, only I could be absolutely certain that they recognised voices and songs. The three of them are all getting so big, so fast, that the thought of burning the place where they began hurts a bit. Silly, I know. But that's how I feel.

I have time for one more cup of tea before beginning the fasting period. And with any luck, by the time you are reading this in the morning, I shall already be enjoying the wonderful, dark, velvety sleep of the anaesthetised. The bit I'm looking forward to is when I'm home again tomorrow night, surrounded by children with tales to tell of their busy days. I will scoop them up onto my lap and snuggle them in, inhaling the sandy boy-scent of Jack after a day at school, the paint and play-doh girly-aroma of my Phoebe after kinder, and the sweet, sweet deliciousness of the Mouse. After all, I don't need a womb to cuddle them on the inside anymore. Cuddling them on the outside is magic enough for me.