In January 2005 I was diagnosed with uterine cancer and quickly/uncermoniously relinquished all my reproductive organs, every lymph node in my lower body and my genetic future. I was told that my 40 year old eggs were old and probably weren't viable, dried up shreds of DNA that had seen better days anyhow. Apparently, only movie stars like Geena Davis have babies at 45, and she probably had to have an egg donor. And they say you don't really need lymph nodes, they're just there, like little sink drains. I imagine my poor uterus, ovaries and such went into a surgical container for proper disposal. I admit that I prefer to imagine that my eggs have instead been taken for a hush hush and very illegal experiment (a la X-files) by a crazy Dr. who is breeding them to create a new strain of humanity that --well if it has anything to do with my DNA--can be convinced of almost anything with a promise of pizza or oreo cookies. I love to think that in some corner of a research center, my eggs are growing babies like secret african violets perched alongside a very sunny window.
The time it took to read my last sentences might have been longer than the whole process took. Diagnosis to "good to go, just have to wait five years to be out of the woods" took about six months. I compare it with being shot out of a cannon in the nicest possible way.
I used to read obsessively about cancer during that period-- how cells proliferate, the odds of dying, how treatments make you puke, how radiation works, that you should stop eating crappy food and learn what a vegetable is. I have a huge box from that period with tons of articles and books about all that. I researched menopause too, while the estrogen evaporated from my body and my skin dried. But nobody talked about what I call "the great what now." I inferred from the lack of discussion that if you have a good prognosis, and the treatment works the way it should, the emotions should take care of themselves--they should be something like "gratitude," stupid! They sent me to a young male social worker when I started crying uncontrollably during my last radiation treatment. He explained that it's normal to miss your uterus no matter what age you are, but I was worried about OTHER damage the radiation might do. And who told them they miss their uterus? I wasn't going to say that, even though he had a degree from Columbia on his wall. I'm crying now as I remember this moment and write this four years down the road, with the edge of the woods clearly visible. Too much doesn't get said. Nobody tells you about "The Great What Now."
