I've spent the last few days in an opioid-induced haze, slipping in and out of slumber to laze around the house. Despite the bitter cold, I strap myself into my abdominal binder and insist on taking a short walk around the block to expedite the healing process somehow. (I’m told walking helps with circulation but also mitigates anesthesia gas through toots or burps.) For the next month and a half (most likely longer) under no circumstances am I to bend down, lift anything heavier than 10 pounds or have penetrative anything while my wounds heal. The sacrifices I must make in order to recover are surprisingly challenging for a person who thrives on constant stimulation—but I’m being mindful of my surgeon’s warning to mitigate stress.
Those of you who were around last year might remember that I went through a similar laparoscopic procedure around the same time. Though I didn’t receive a diagnosis of endometriosis, my physician informed me that my “uterus looked mottled,” and that “it’s likely adenomyosis, which is the evil cousin to endometriosis. The endometrial lining grows into the uterine muscle, which makes it hurt more.”
This year, I finally yeeted my uterus.
When I tell people this, they either stare at me like I am disturbed (I am! You would be too if your insides wanted to kill you!) or they laugh along (while silently judging me because my language is so crude.) But my life over the last four years has revolved around worsening medical symptoms and debilitating pain. I tried to run away from my health, and that’s just not possible in order to…well, actually live. I know my choice to have a hysterectomy at 33 comes as a shock to people—but I’ve never aspired to motherhood, and if the only way to a diagnose and cure my mysterious ailment is to serve the troublesome organ(s) an eviction notice? It was the correct decision for me, someone who genuinely loves socializing but cannot because I am afraid of leaving the house in case I throw up. For the fifth time that day.
When I woke up in the recovery room post-op, the nurse sent to babysit me kept yelling, “Take a deep breath, sweetheart. When you go to sleep, your oxygen level goes—deeper if you can!” My right thumb and wrist throbbed in pain. I couldn’t make out anything beyond general shapes or blurs, but they shoved a cannula in my thumb as a safety precaution—and attempted two stabs at the wrist. All for the sake of my uterus, and my ultimate quest to get rid of it. I am tired of writing about the procedure, and I’m certain you will all hear about my experience, but I will always send gratitude to my doctor (for believing me) and to those who continue to pull through as support. It means the world to me. Last year, I was going through a breakup on top of my first surgery since 2009! A bitch needed a medical-induced ketamine trip to deal with the reckoning and grief that entire experience entailed. This procedure feels less fraught—more like I’m shutting the door on a painful chapter of my life and finally entering a new one.
but it forces me to ~rest~
In my recovery, I am move slower. Physically, I feel as healed as someone who got stabbed in the abdomen less than a week ago can be. I stopped taking the last of my opioids (beat that, physician father who told me to tough out the pain because oxycodone is "addicting," I don't give a shit! I will not suffer! I have suffered enough!) and I am going through the baby steps of stretching, *lightly* bending over to reach for things (I have a little grabber tool just in case it's too much for me) and walking my way through it (and also, as mentioned previously, farting my way through recovery too.)
It's been challenging for me to get back on a normal sleep schedule, so I've allowed my body to tell itself when it should start slowing down. While I neglected to go to bed last night, I ended up spending the entire day resting, loafing on the bed to read or play video games, and shuffling around the house. I've finished the majority of the work due for the rest of the semester, my commissioned essay about workshops was sadly killed due to editorial changes (though yay, we'll keep that connection and it'll help me process that horrible workshop that isn't Tin House, but we won't talk about it because it's cursed!) so I literally have nothing to do.
It's awesome.
I hope you're giving yourself some time to recuperate as we approach the holidays and the end of the year. I hope you're giving yourself time to ease into this new season of hibernation and I hope to hear from you all soon.
Announcements + Housekeeping
A couple housekeeping items, because I'm in my ~*szn of rest*~, I'd love to announce a few projects I'm working on and events that I'd love for you to attend!
On December 6th, 2025, I'm co-hosting a Zoom reading with MK Zariel, where they'll release and read an excerpt from their newest publication, Boy Apparition, and I'll be reading a soon-to-be published poem called Soft Places, from deep in my writing archives. It's a donation-based reading, but if you can't give anything, just join anyway! We'd love to have you there.
Another cool thing happening is that I'm working on edits, as well as wondering if you'd join me for a cool community offering?
For what it's worth, the donation based portion would cover: 1) Costs of food (I'd cover groceries and each of us would have to volunteer to cook/clean for mealtime and dole out chores); 2) Transportation (if not taking public); 3) Renting the house. I would take no money for organizing as this is a beta offering. Let me know, and again, I'd love to hear from you!
If I were to run a writer's retreat upstate in late winter/early spring, would you be willing to go? (QT+BIPOC centric, and QTBIPOC prioritized) and how much would you be willing to spend for
