Literally! TW: fibroids and hysterectomy stuff

I have complicated feelings about these bikini photos. They were taken the day before I was scheduled to have a hysterectomy that in theory was to put an end to the fibroids that had been making my life pretty darn miserable for the better part of a decade. Yep you read that right – “in theory”.

On the sewing side of life, I was ridiculously super excited about the collaboration with Cashmerette. I was cutting it fine to get the pattern sewn up and pics taken before my surgery date but I was not missing that opportunity and stitched like a demon. I had to work around my PFH (Periods From Hell) to find a day when I was fit to take pictures (nobody wants the bikini model looking like she’s just been attacked by sharks in the sea 😀!) but I pulled it off with literally 24 hours to spare.

We’re being all honest and raw today so truth be told – I didn’t love looking at my body in the pics. No disrespect to the pattern (which I LOVED) but the body in them was heavier than I liked, not as fit as it used to be and it felt to me was visibly showing signs around the tummy of my bulky uterus.

BUT – I love the ethos of Cashmerette and fully support their brand values of body positivity and so was more than happy to take a stand and put my wobbly body issues aside to promote their vision of swimsuits for all.

And besides, these were to be “line in the sand” pics – the last ones taken before I got myself fixed. I had never wanted to have a hysterectomy (and had tried for a long time to avoid having one) but had finally accepted that it was necessary and my only remaining option. And my grand cunning plan was that by the time the pattern came out I’d be well on the way to recovery and able to look back at these and see them as a sign of how strong I was at a tough time, but one that was now over.

Whoopsie. Well we all learned in Blackadder what happens when you have cunning plans.

The surgery had complications – to cut a long story short my bowel got nicked and they had to abandon the hysterectomy, stitch my bowel up and close me back up again. No (lasting) harm done and a promise of a redo after a few months. The real kick in the teeth? I came on full throttle that night whilst still in the hospital. Still groggy from the anaesthetic and with none of my usual supplies as I wasn’t expecting to ever have another period. Fun times.

And since then? Oh since then it’s gone from (already pretty horrifically) bad to worse. I didn’t think that was possible. I thought soaking through a super plus tampon every hour was the epitomy of bad. Turns out it can be upped to every 30 minutes or my personal favourite peak frequency of every time you stand up.

Prior to the first surgery, I was at least able to sort of live a normal life for 2 weeks out of 4. Now I’m in a weird limbo. I’m permanently paranoid about coming on and keep a change of clothes with me at all times. I study my diary obsessively if I’m invited to anything to figure out if it’s a day when I’m able to leave the house. And despite all my plans and precautions I still got caught short in public in a cafe last week – the classic standing up to pay move. Awkward.

I’m not sick. I don’t feel sick and I don’t look sick but I’m not exactly well either. I know I’m weaker than normal. I can’t keep up with my running group anymore. I dread my next period. I’d sooner run another marathon than go through another of these super charged PFHs.

It’s an odd feeling living with something so debilitating. What do I call it? A chronic condition? But fibroids are super common, benign and in most cases, symptomless. It feels like a minor inconsequential issue that I don’t even really have a right to complain about.

If I do try to talk about it, the response is almost always some form of “not much longer to go now!” It’s true, I’m now 2 months post the first aborted surgery and a mere 4 weeks from the redo appointment. But I can also count it in terms of number of runs I won’t be able to join, boxes of tampons and pads I’ll get through, number of days I will be unable to leave the house or number of times I’ll have to stare at a toilet dark red with the blood that just, quite literally, poured out of me. Which doesn’t half take the shine off the anticipation. I want to be in Pollyanna mode and respond to their encouragement and positivity, but it is hard to look forward to better times in the future when you’re simply bracing yourself just to get through the next day. When you’re dreading going through yet another surgery and the long hard recovery period to come afterwards.

Why am I writing all this? 2 reasons: the first is that I’ve always been honest in this feed. Admittedly usually it’s about whether a particular pattern is a shocker that rides up where no fabric should be riding, but I felt uncomfortable posting these glorious photos showing this body confident beach babe whilst knowing that’s just the Instagram face and not at all the full story.

And the second reason is I would love to see us normalising these sorts of conversations. I’m tired of using coy phrases like “women’s things” to vaguely explain why I’m cancelling. I’m too pathologically honest for that! I mean, I’m not saying we should enter “I was up at 4am mopping my own blood off the bathroom floor” into the Gently Brought Up Ladies Book of Polite Excuses but I’d like to be able to use a more scientifically accurate phrase than “rough night”.

So if you’ve read this, please take this as an open invitation to talk freely with me about anything going on with you. Nothing is off the table – no war story too grim or gory to share. Tips for where to find the reeeeally big tampons, getting blood out of clothes, carpets and car seats especially welcome 😀 Sometimes it’s just nice to know that you’re not alone.

And if you haven’t gone through something like this yourself and don’t know what to say? That’s ok. “Wow that sucks” is always appropriate. And any sort of joke about it is guaranteed to raise a giggle, the more terrible the better. No joke is offensive to someone cleaning themselves up a dozen times a day – finding ways to laugh at it is how we ultimately get through them all.