Wow! Powerful wordsmithing. The strength of some words and the juxtaposition next to soft words. Words such as fragmented, splintered, violation with "this pining of tenderness," closely following the harsh words. Powerful, beautiful, poignant writing, Jeannie. And a standout sentence that pulls it all together, "A river of life, this womb, sheds an outpouring of grace, of catharsis, of anointing." Wow, wow, wow.
Thank you so much, Nancy! I worked hard on this piece, because it is considered flash at just 500 words. I struggle to condense the depth of what I want to convey in so few words. It means so much to know that you found power in what I shared and in the language I chose.
Jeannie, I found this line particularly profound: "The wound is the gift. My scar holds memory and story. Without it, no love exists, no sacrifice." This is such a powerful reframe of pain and trauma. It’s easy to see scars as just marks of damage, but you highlight them as markers of life, love, and sacrifice. It shifts the perspective from something to be ashamed of to something to be honored. Each scar, each “fissured soil on dry earth,” tells a tale of resilience and survival. It reminds me that our vulnerabilities and imperfections are what make us human and connect us to others.
This was a beautiful, heartfelt, inspiring piece. Thank you for sharing with us.
Oh, yes, Alex, I am so glad you saw that! It was precisely the effect I was going for—that we don’t need to hide or be ashamed of our scars, but in fact they are indelible marks of love. They signify who we are and what we have been through, I think.
Thanks, Eileen. I’m glad it spoke to you. Yes, my hysterectomy was the turning point in my adult life. Afterwards, I began nurturing myself in all the way I’d neglected during those ten childbearing years that were so hard on my mind and body. It’s a large portion of my (unpublished) memoir.
Written with such heart. Thank you. I had a lot of surgery a number of years ago (in my next post) .Absolutely nothing like yours but you have made me realise that the scar that nobody sees has left more of a scar within me than I have admitted to myself
Oh my gosh, so powerful. I relate to this on a deep, personal level. As you know, I had a mastectomy, and I never had a chance to say a proper goodbye to my breasts. I still grieve for them. I've learned that gratitude and grief can and do co-exist. It's why I wrote and shared the poem in my recent essay.
Due to my BRCA2+ status, it was recommended that I have a salpingo-oophorectomy and a hysterectomy as well. In some ways, saying goodbye to those organs was harder. Those were the parts involved with my precious babies and all that. Some might think giving up internal organs would be easier than giving up breasts. In some ways it was, and in others, it was harder. We women are complicated in our feelings, that's for sure!
Anyway, this really struck a chord. Your writing is like poetry. The juxtaposition of words and feelings. Thank you for a stunning, elequent essay.
Lastly, I love the title of this piece. My scars hold both memory and story. How perfect.
Wow, Nancy, thank you for all that you shared here. It means a lot to me to know more of your story. I am thinking about the grief related to losing your breasts and the different sort of grief related to losing your internal reproductive organs. I can see how these would involve different, but overlapping, feelings of loss. Breasts have such a connotation of femininity—sexually and also because of nourishing little humans. And the female reproductive organs are the ones that create and house a human inside the woman’s body. Those are the invisible parts of us but the ones that are very much like a cocoon. I know when I had my hysterectomy, I absolutely felt the chasm inside my body. The emptiness. The space where my uterus had been and was no longer.
So much to unpack with this topic, Nancy. You are helping me to think about all of this in a new way. I’d love to hear more if you ever write more about your personal experience related to losing these parts of your body.
A lot to unpack indeed. Since you asked, I wrote about it in my memoir in chapter 40 titled, "Another Hurdle."
It's not easy sacrificing our female body parts. Even as in your case, and as you wrote, it was also a gift. Both can be true. Too often these surgeries are downplayed, or rather their impact is. I appreciate you bringing the topic into the light.
"I perceive the vacancy—the presence of an absence, or the absence of a presence, I’m not sure which"
This line stuck with me, not just for its meaning and connotation, but for its sound and rhythm. the repetition of the p, s, and n sounds....all soft lingering sounds...makes me wonder if the sound of the womb, once its holding "w" and nurturing "m" are gone...all that is left is the softness of p, s, and n. Is that the grief moan, or the relief sigh? probably both.
I love learning about this from you, Teri Leigh! It deepens my understanding of the words I selected here—almost like it was an unconscious decision, but you are explaining the phonetics and their meaning: the grief moan, the sigh of relief. For me, yes, it was absolutely both.
What a powerful, amazing piece! I admire your candor. Losing a body part is significant, but of course losing a uterus has so many meanings. After all, it gave your children life and nurtured them. The double side of the coin is how you have come to your realization that a hysterectomy was both a wound and a gift. Beautifully done and memorable.
What a powerful yet beautiful story. After my 3rd child, I told the Dr. to cut, tie and burn my tubes. It wasn’t because I did not love becoming a mother but the pain of birthing the last one made me sure that was what I wanted.
Thank you for having a safe sharing your story and a safe place to share…
I hear you. I think we can love our children while also wanting to be done giving birth. These are legitimate and often culturally dichotomous perspectives. I so appreciate you sharing this Trae Lynn. It means a lot that you feel safe and welcome to open up in this way.
My youngest, who will be 5 tomorrow, was a BIG surprise when I was 41. She then decided to be her stubborn self till the very end and ended up being a scheduled c section. When we were scheduling, my doctor asked, “Should we just take your tubes while we’re in there?” Like hell yeah, YES! 🤣❤️
Haha! Thanks for sharing that, Stephanie. I wonder sometimes how many of us women are reminded of our intimate, personal, and sometimes traumatizing pregnancy experiences when we hear someone else’s.
There are no words to express what I felt reading this very tender yet painful peace about losing a part of yourself. I too have had the same surgery, but was never able to verbalize the loss of that part of me the way you have. The clarity and depth and language you’ve used to express such a personal loss really touched my heart.
Your work is inspiring, and I am happy to sign on for an annual subscription.
Wow! Powerful wordsmithing. The strength of some words and the juxtaposition next to soft words. Words such as fragmented, splintered, violation with "this pining of tenderness," closely following the harsh words. Powerful, beautiful, poignant writing, Jeannie. And a standout sentence that pulls it all together, "A river of life, this womb, sheds an outpouring of grace, of catharsis, of anointing." Wow, wow, wow.
Thank you so much, Nancy! I worked hard on this piece, because it is considered flash at just 500 words. I struggle to condense the depth of what I want to convey in so few words. It means so much to know that you found power in what I shared and in the language I chose.
Jeannie, I found this line particularly profound: "The wound is the gift. My scar holds memory and story. Without it, no love exists, no sacrifice." This is such a powerful reframe of pain and trauma. It’s easy to see scars as just marks of damage, but you highlight them as markers of life, love, and sacrifice. It shifts the perspective from something to be ashamed of to something to be honored. Each scar, each “fissured soil on dry earth,” tells a tale of resilience and survival. It reminds me that our vulnerabilities and imperfections are what make us human and connect us to others.
This was a beautiful, heartfelt, inspiring piece. Thank you for sharing with us.
Oh, yes, Alex, I am so glad you saw that! It was precisely the effect I was going for—that we don’t need to hide or be ashamed of our scars, but in fact they are indelible marks of love. They signify who we are and what we have been through, I think.
My heart goes out to you, Jeannie. A powerful piece. Thankyou for sharing, what I sense, is a prelude to invaluable self care.
Thanks, Eileen. I’m glad it spoke to you. Yes, my hysterectomy was the turning point in my adult life. Afterwards, I began nurturing myself in all the way I’d neglected during those ten childbearing years that were so hard on my mind and body. It’s a large portion of my (unpublished) memoir.
Written with such heart. Thank you. I had a lot of surgery a number of years ago (in my next post) .Absolutely nothing like yours but you have made me realise that the scar that nobody sees has left more of a scar within me than I have admitted to myself
Would you share your post with me? I would love to read it.
Hi Jeannie,
Oh my gosh, so powerful. I relate to this on a deep, personal level. As you know, I had a mastectomy, and I never had a chance to say a proper goodbye to my breasts. I still grieve for them. I've learned that gratitude and grief can and do co-exist. It's why I wrote and shared the poem in my recent essay.
Due to my BRCA2+ status, it was recommended that I have a salpingo-oophorectomy and a hysterectomy as well. In some ways, saying goodbye to those organs was harder. Those were the parts involved with my precious babies and all that. Some might think giving up internal organs would be easier than giving up breasts. In some ways it was, and in others, it was harder. We women are complicated in our feelings, that's for sure!
Anyway, this really struck a chord. Your writing is like poetry. The juxtaposition of words and feelings. Thank you for a stunning, elequent essay.
Lastly, I love the title of this piece. My scars hold both memory and story. How perfect.
Wow, Nancy, thank you for all that you shared here. It means a lot to me to know more of your story. I am thinking about the grief related to losing your breasts and the different sort of grief related to losing your internal reproductive organs. I can see how these would involve different, but overlapping, feelings of loss. Breasts have such a connotation of femininity—sexually and also because of nourishing little humans. And the female reproductive organs are the ones that create and house a human inside the woman’s body. Those are the invisible parts of us but the ones that are very much like a cocoon. I know when I had my hysterectomy, I absolutely felt the chasm inside my body. The emptiness. The space where my uterus had been and was no longer.
So much to unpack with this topic, Nancy. You are helping me to think about all of this in a new way. I’d love to hear more if you ever write more about your personal experience related to losing these parts of your body.
Hi Jeannie,
A lot to unpack indeed. Since you asked, I wrote about it in my memoir in chapter 40 titled, "Another Hurdle."
It's not easy sacrificing our female body parts. Even as in your case, and as you wrote, it was also a gift. Both can be true. Too often these surgeries are downplayed, or rather their impact is. I appreciate you bringing the topic into the light.
I appreciate being in conversation with you about this, too, Nancy. You’re right: both can be true. :)
"I perceive the vacancy—the presence of an absence, or the absence of a presence, I’m not sure which"
This line stuck with me, not just for its meaning and connotation, but for its sound and rhythm. the repetition of the p, s, and n sounds....all soft lingering sounds...makes me wonder if the sound of the womb, once its holding "w" and nurturing "m" are gone...all that is left is the softness of p, s, and n. Is that the grief moan, or the relief sigh? probably both.
I love learning about this from you, Teri Leigh! It deepens my understanding of the words I selected here—almost like it was an unconscious decision, but you are explaining the phonetics and their meaning: the grief moan, the sigh of relief. For me, yes, it was absolutely both.
Hi Jeannie,
What a powerful, amazing piece! I admire your candor. Losing a body part is significant, but of course losing a uterus has so many meanings. After all, it gave your children life and nurtured them. The double side of the coin is how you have come to your realization that a hysterectomy was both a wound and a gift. Beautifully done and memorable.
Yes, Beth, you summarized this so perfectly—”the hysterectomy was both a wound and a gift.” Thank you!
What a powerful yet beautiful story. After my 3rd child, I told the Dr. to cut, tie and burn my tubes. It wasn’t because I did not love becoming a mother but the pain of birthing the last one made me sure that was what I wanted.
Thank you for having a safe sharing your story and a safe place to share…
Trae Lynn
:)
I hear you. I think we can love our children while also wanting to be done giving birth. These are legitimate and often culturally dichotomous perspectives. I so appreciate you sharing this Trae Lynn. It means a lot that you feel safe and welcome to open up in this way.
My youngest, who will be 5 tomorrow, was a BIG surprise when I was 41. She then decided to be her stubborn self till the very end and ended up being a scheduled c section. When we were scheduling, my doctor asked, “Should we just take your tubes while we’re in there?” Like hell yeah, YES! 🤣❤️
Haha! Thanks for sharing that, Stephanie. I wonder sometimes how many of us women are reminded of our intimate, personal, and sometimes traumatizing pregnancy experiences when we hear someone else’s.
There are no words to express what I felt reading this very tender yet painful peace about losing a part of yourself. I too have had the same surgery, but was never able to verbalize the loss of that part of me the way you have. The clarity and depth and language you’ve used to express such a personal loss really touched my heart.
Your work is inspiring, and I am happy to sign on for an annual subscription.