I know I haven’t written in a while.
In early October, I found out I had endometrioid endometrial cancer. Thankfully, it was very treatable with a full hysterectomy, as long as it hadn’t spread outside the uterus. On October 28th, I went in for a robotic-assisted full hysterectomy.
My gynecologic oncologist said everything went perfectly. I had done some research on what life after this surgery might look like, but what I didn’t fully understand was how abruptly my hormones would stop — and how deeply that would affect my body and emotions. I also didn’t realize they would wait until my post-op appointment to give me anything to help replace what was suddenly gone.
The first week after surgery was fairly easy. The only real pain I had was in my right shoulder from the gas they use during surgery to see inside the body.
The second week brought more gas pain, mostly in my abdomen. But toward the end of that second week, heading into the third, something happened that I could have never imagined. I cried constantly — more than I ever thought possible. I felt overwhelmingly sad and emotionally fragile.
At the end of my second week, my doctor started me on Effexor, an antidepressant that helps with symptoms of surgical menopause. Around that same time, I received the good news that the cancer had not spread outside the uterus, meaning I would not need chemotherapy or radiation. I will, however, have surveillance visits every three months for the next three years, and then continued monitoring for a total of five years.
Over the next several weeks, I remained extremely emotional. There were days I wouldn’t leave the couch except when absolutely necessary. I was lucky if I managed to shower once a week. Sleep was difficult, and when I did sleep, I often woke up drenched in sweat — as if I had run a marathon in my sleep. I would swing from hot to cold, back to hot again. I can honestly say this has been the hardest experience of my life so far.
Now, at seven weeks post-surgery, I’ve started to have more good days than bad, which I’m grateful for. Sleep is still a struggle, but what I’ve noticed most is how much my tolerance has changed.
Before surgery, when I was healthy, I considered myself a strong person. I loved deeply. I showed up for the people I cared about — whether that meant helping financially, being a shoulder to cry on, or offering encouragement and motivation.
The day of my surgery, my husband, my preacher, and my youngest sister were there to see me go in. After I came home, I had my two sons who still live at home, my husband — my rock — who barely left my side except to go to work after the first week, and my middle son.
But beyond that… no one came knocking on my door.
No visits.
No cards.
No one stopping by just to lift my spirits.
And seeing that absence — especially from people I had freely given my time and energy to — left me feeling incredibly alone. I wasn’t alone in my home, but I was alone in ways that are harder to name.
Now I find myself grieving not just what my body has gone through, but the realization of how much I truly meant to some people — and struggling to understand how to move forward with those relationships in my life.
I don’t have all the answers yet. I only know I can’t be the same person I was before — and maybe learning who I am now is part of the healing.
#BrokenButBelieving#LifeAfterCancer#GriefAndHealing#StillBelieving
