Last week, the cyst was the size of a walnut. Today, it was the size of a lemon. And somehow, in the hours between an ultrasound and an operating room, everything changed.
If you read my last story, you know where we were.
The hospital.
Again.
And now it's 12:40 in the morning, and I'm sitting in that same hospital recliner typing this.
My daughter is finally resting.
The room is quiet.
And I think this might be the first time all day I've had a second to actually process what the hell just happened.
Because this morning I was worried.
Then I was scared.
Then there were decisions to make.
Then surgery.
Then waiting.
So much fucking waiting.
And now that she's here, she's safe, and I can finally look over and see her sleeping, everything I held together all day is starting to catch up with me.
What. A. Day.
That's the thing about having a child with chronic illness.
You wait a lot.
You wait for appointments.
You wait for test results.
You wait for doctors.
You wait for medications to work.
You wait to see if the pain gets better.
You wait to see if the cyst gets smaller.
You wait to see if this treatment will finally be the one.
And today?
We waited some more.
Except today ended very differently.
AT 11:00 THIS MORNING, SHE HAD AN ULTRASOUND.
At 11:30, her doctor came in.
By 2:30, my 19-year-old daughter was being taken into surgery.
Just like that.
Last week, the hemorrhagic cyst on her left ovary was roughly the size of a walnut.
Today?
It was the size of a lemon.
A fucking lemon.
And I know those are just words on a screen.
Walnut.
Lemon.
But when it's inside your daughter's body and you've been watching her double over in pain, suddenly those words feel very different.
This thing had grown.
Quickly.
And after years of pain, surgeries, medications, appointments, ultrasounds, and trying to preserve as much as possible…
today there was another decision to make.
THEY HAD TO REMOVE HER LEFT OVARY AND FALLOPIAN TUBE.
She's 19.
I keep coming back to that.
Nineteen.
At 19, you're supposed to be making plans. Going out with your friends. Staying up too late. Laughing until your stomach hurts. Figuring out who you are and what you want your life to look like.
You're supposed to be thinking about the future because it's exciting.
Not because a doctor just told you they're removing part of your reproductive system.
You're not supposed to know hospital rooms this well.
You're not supposed to recognize the routine of pre-op.
You're not supposed to have a surgical history that takes time to explain.
And you're definitely not supposed to be sitting in a hospital bed wondering what losing an ovary and fallopian tube at 19 might mean for your future.
But I knew that fear.
Because I've been there.
Years ago, during my own battle with endometriosis, I had an ovary and fallopian tube removed too.
I remember the questions.
What does this mean?
Will I still be able to have children?
What happens now?
Those are huge questions at any age.
At 19, they're enormous.
But I also knew something else.
I went on to have two more babies after losing my ovary and tube.
Two.
So, when all of those fears started filling the room, I could look at my daughter and tell her something I didn't read in a pamphlet or find on Google.
I could tell her from experience.
This does not automatically take motherhood away from you.
It doesn't answer every question about her future.
It doesn't guarantee what that future will look like.
Nothing can.
But I could give her something real to hold onto.
I had been where she was.
I knew what it felt like to wonder.
And then I had two more children.
One of whom was now sitting in that hospital bed in front of me.
There's something almost impossible to put into words about that.
My own history with endometriosis has always made watching my girls deal with women's health issues harder.
I know too much about the pain.
The surgeries.
The fear.
The frustration.
But today, for once, that history gave me something useful.
I could give her hope I had lived myself.
THERE WERE TEARS.
Of course there were.
Hers.
Mine.
The kind you try to hold back because you're the mom and she's looking at you to see if everything is going to be okay.
And that's such a strange part of motherhood.
Sometimes you're just as scared as they are.
You just don't get to look like it.
You smile.
You tell her you love her.
You tell her she's going to be okay.
You tell her the doctors are going to take care of her.
And somewhere inside your own head you're screaming:
Please let her be okay.
Because once they wheel that bed away from you, there's nothing left to do.
You can't go with her.
You can't take her place.
You can't fix it.
So, you wait.
Again.
I HAVE DECIDED HOSPITAL CLOCKS ARE BROKEN.
There is absolutely no other explanation.
Five minutes lasts approximately three business days.
You look at the clock.
Then you look again.
Surely an hour has passed.
Seven minutes.
Cool.
You check your phone even though nobody has texted.
Walk around.
Sit down.
Stand back up.
Try to talk about something completely unrelated.
Check the clock.
Check your phone.
Think about every possible thing that could be happening behind those doors even though you absolutely should not be thinking about every possible thing that could be happening behind those doors.
And wait.
Today feels like it's currently 28pm on the 49th of August.
I have no idea what day it is anymore.
This morning feels like it happened three weeks ago.
THEN THE DOCTOR FINALLY CAME OUT.
She's okay.
There are few combinations of words in the English language more powerful than those two.
She's okay.
I think my entire body exhaled.
But even then, we couldn't see her yet.
So, guess what we did?
We waited.
For another couple of hours.
Because apparently today hadn't quite reached its quota.
And knowing your child is okay but still not being able to physically put your eyes on her is its own special kind of torture.
I needed to see her.
I needed to touch her.
I needed to hear her voice.
I needed that irrational mom confirmation that yes, everyone has told me she's okay, but I will personally be determining that, thank you very much.
AND THEN I FINALLY SAW MY GIRL.
My free-spirited girl.
The one who should be out living a big, messy, ridiculous 19-year-old life.
Not planning her life around pain.
Not wondering when another cyst is going to show up.
Not scheduling another surgery.
Not recovering.
Again.
And again.
And again.
This has become a cycle I desperately want her to get off of.
Surgery every year.
Then every eight months.
Then every few months.
Recover.
Hope.
Pain.
Doctor.
Ultrasound.
Medication.
Surgery.
Repeat.
Enough.
I know today doesn't come with guarantees.
I know removing one ovary doesn't magically erase everything she's been through or promise that she'll never hurt again.
I wish motherhood came with those kinds of guarantees.
It doesn't.
But tonight I'm allowing myself to hope.
MAYBE THIS IS WHERE SOMETHING CHANGES.
Maybe we're finally putting this cycle of surgeries to rest.
Maybe her body gets a break.
Maybe she gets a break.
Maybe there are fewer hospital bracelets in her future and a hell of a lot more concert bracelets.
Maybe there are trips.
Music.
Nights out.
Time with the people she loves.
Spontaneous plans that don't have to be canceled because she's hurting.
Mornings where the first thing she thinks about isn't pain.
Days that aren't organized around medications, appointments, doctors, ultrasounds and surgeries.
Life.
That's what I want for her.
I don't need some extraordinary life for her.
She's already had enough extraordinary medical shit for one lifetime.
I want ordinary.
I want boring.
I want Tuesdays where absolutely nothing happens.
I want her biggest problem some days to be something completely stupid and insignificant.
I want her to get to be 19.
And 20.
And 25.
And 30.
And every version of herself that comes after this one.
Without constantly waiting for the next time her body interrupts her life.
TONIGHT, I'M FEELING EVERYTHING.
Relief because she's okay.
Sadness because she had to go through this.
Anger that this has been part of her life at all.
Gratitude for the people who took care of her today.
Exhaustion unlike anything I can explain.
And hope.
A whole lot of hope.
Motherhood is strange that way.
You can be incredibly grateful and completely heartbroken at the exact same time.
You can know something needed to happen and still hate that it had to happen.
You can be relieved that the surgery is over while grieving what your daughter lost in the process.
Two things can be true.
Today was necessary.
And today was fucking hard.
I'm sure there will be appointments after this.
Follow-ups.
Recovery.
Questions.
More things we'll have to figure out.
But those are tomorrow's problems.
Because tonight?
She's okay.
She's here.
And for the first time in what feels like the longest day of my entire life, I don't have to wait for someone to come through a set of hospital doors and tell me that.
I can see her myself.
She's right there.
Sleeping a few feet away from me while I sit in this chair and type all of this out at an hour when I'm not entirely sure whether it's technically today or tomorrow anymore.
So tonight, that's enough.
Tomorrow, I hope we start something different.
Less surviving.
More living.
Go be 19, baby girl.
Go to concerts.
Make plans.
Stay out too late.
Laugh until your stomach hurts for the right reasons.
Go make memories that have absolutely nothing to do with hospitals.
You've got a whole lot of life waiting for you.
And after today, after all of it,
I'm going to sit right here beside you for as long as you need me.
Even if it is 28pm on the 49th of August.