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The Grief and Relief of Having a Hysterectomy in My 30s After Our Surrogate Had a Stillbirth
The Batter Will Be Thick
I twirl the loose curl dangling behind my ear and poke it back into the cap. The blue mesh feels like it’s slipping from my forehead from the weight of my hair. I stiffen as if to prevent it. The morning light is barely warming the hallway. I don’t want to see any equipment or cold metal tools. I turn instead to the framed photos on the wall, my back to the other two patients whose names were called with mine. I know this gesture reveals to them that I’m anxious, especially when I fill my chest with one long breath that I’m reluctant to exhale. But I don’t owe these strangers bravery. My eyes dart from landscape to landscape of Nevada or Utah or whatever other arid place houses these arches and valleys of reddened rocks. I study the strata of the cliffs closest to my nose; incredible how a rock keeps the score, like a body familiar with grief.
I’d been in Mallorca when I’d gotten the call. I’d felt a world away from the voice at the surgical bookings desk, which meant my vacation was doing the trick. Moments before the call, I’d scooped out the hot sand under my beach towel to carve a crater for my belly. It had been heavy and hard for months without reprieve, and I’d decided I was finally done hauling this ache. The…
