Yesterday while watching Pretty Woman and contemplating how screwed up that movie really is. Seriously that movie is no fairy tale. I started to ponder how much therapy I would need to feel some what normal again. Coming off the initial high of just being happy to be alive I have enjoyed an onslaught of various emotions. Mostly anger.

I am angry that something was taken from me violently and traumatically. Yes I know women have hysterectomies every day. They sit down with their gynecologist and determine it is the best course of action for their ailment. Yes I know I have lots of children. Yes I know I could have none. And hey fuck you that doesn’t make it sting any less. My uterus and I have had a love-hate relationship when it comes to baby making. Sure it is only fitting the bitch would try to do me in. Please pardon my foul language. I am angry.

I was sliced open hip to hip, my uterus and cervix were cut out of me. You had a c-section you feel my pain, physically sure. Mentally no. See they took a baby out, not your womb. My scar is not a happy scar. I look down at it and see my husbands face as they wheeled me out of the delivery room. I think of the words I mouthed and how I thought they were my last.

I can’t pick up my children because my bowel might spill into my vagina. I can’t have sex too soon because they stitched the top of my vagina shut, oh and my bowel and bladder may spill into my vagina. The twins shun me, mommy can’t pick us up, mommy can’t play. Mommy sits and cries. And the pain. How about the countless hours I have spent on the bathroom floor from the pain. Sure I can eat but I can’t digest it. Every time I take a bite of food I think about the fire and searing pain that will rage through my abdomen later. What’s two months right? What’s two months of pain? What’s two months of your babies crying if you try to hug them, refusing to come to you? Really just a drop in the pan of life right? Quit being a baby Sam.

Oh and the helpful commentary about how you will never be the same again. You won’t like sex, the pain won’t go away, well this happened to so and so. Shut up, you are not helping. My husband who already feels a million miles away, too scared to hug me. I’m too fragile. Also with preconceived notions on how I may be.

How I may be?

I’m angry with myself for being alone. For being antisocial. For being pretty friendless and real limited with family. Here’s a clue Facebook is a joke. Interaction in real life is how one fosters relationships. Okay I have 6 kids, it’s hard to have friends. In the end maybe that’s why we have 6 kids in an effort to not be alone. No one wants to come hang out with me and listen to stories on how Penelope flung crap at her sister. They want to see shows, have a drink, enjoy life. I get it. It still stung when I sat in the hospital for a week and the only faces I saw were doctors, nurses, and my husbands. My husband who couldn’t look at me without crying or himself being angry. I’m angry that my husband had no shoulder to cry on, no one to lean on. The stark realization that we were really an island.

On the flip side thank goodness for the kindness of strangers. Women I barely know who have taken time, money, and energy out of their lives to help. It is pretty crazy how a casserole can make you feel less hopeless.

I have beautiful children. I have an amazing sleeping baby boy next to me while I type this. Who’s here by the grace of God. I am blessed.

I’m also human, made up of complex emotions that I can’t begin to fathom or understand. I’m healing, we are healing. I know this takes time. It doesn’t make the toll any less though.

What’s next bargaining, denial? I don’t know I’m thinking whatever stage is eating an entire carton of ice cream.