Gold Medal Uterus: Getting a Hysterectomy Was My Olympic Event 

Our writer’s uterus caused her nothing but pain, so she had it removed—and recovered watching her favorite sporting event.

It was a sunny summer morning in Boston when I had my uterus taken out of my body at the age of 45. By the time a friend drove me home from the hospital that afternoon it was already evening in the UK, so the opening ceremony of the 2012 London Olympics was just underway—exactly as I had planned it. I laid on the couch, hugging a pillow to my belly as I watched the debonair Daniel Craig parachute into the Olympic Stadium alongside Queen Elizabeth’s stunt double. With my lack of a uterus, and a little help from my trusty Percocet, I was right where I wanted to be.  

I scheduled my hysterectomy so that I could sit at home for two weeks and watch every minute of my favorite sporting event while I recovered. After the procedure, I thanked my doctor and told her I was off to spend two weeks enjoying the Olympics, like a great vacation, except with slits cut into my abdomen and horrible pain when I sneezed.

I remember watching the Olympics for the first time—the 1976 Games held in Montreal—when I was nine, but the only thing that stands out is a man running naked through the closing ceremony. Streakers were big back then. Such innocent times. And ever since, and not because of the nudity, I swear, I’ve been crazy about the Olympics.

Something I have not been crazy about: my uterus. I never wanted it in the first place. Did not ask for it, did not put it on any wish lists. If I got it for Christmas, I would have taken it back to Macy’s. I never had any use for it. In fact, my uterus did nothing but torture me for years. 

Of course, from around the age I watched those first Olympic Games, I was all, Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret, waiting and hoping to “become a woman” (thanks a lot, Judy Blume). Until I actually got my period when I was 14, and I was like, wait, hold on, now I have to sit in a bloody diaper once a month while in agonizing pain? No thanks. And all so I could give birth to a baby, like some type of mammal? No thanks to that, too.

I hated babysitting; I squeal in delight when I see a dog (or cat, horse, rabbit, squirrel, chipmunk), not a baby. But unfortunately, no one gave me an option with the whole uterus thing. No returns with credit to my Amazon account (or a refund to my credit card if I insist), no check box to choose my “reason for return.” Reason: “Never plan to create life within my body.” Yup, that’s the one!

Then there’s the fortune I had to spend on Advil, tampons, and maxi pads. I’d like a refund on 30 years of that, please! Those goddamn maxi pads… try sleeping while clutching one of those in your undies, guys. The thing slips away and there’s blood everywhere. Yeah, apologies about your sheets, dude. I’m so sorry you’ll have to go to Target and buy another set. Hey, it’s natural! I’m just one of God’s creatures. Except I was never one of God’s creatures. I was a sinner who didn’t wait to get married to have sex (and in fact, never got married!). I was a bloody demon who lost track of a Stayfree that stayed free. 

My period was always a drag, but the first sign of big trouble happened when I was 32 and I doubled over in pain in the bathroom of an optometrist’s office. The panicked staff called an ambulance as I lay on the floor groaning. I’ll never forget these words from an emergency room doctor: “I’m going to do a transvaginal ultrasound.” I’m sorry, a trans WHAT? The diagnosis, or rather, best guess, was endometriosis.

My uterine lining had fled my uterus and wrapped around my ovaries and tubes and whatnot. The next step was to cut me wide open to get a good look; that was the only way to get an accurate diagnosis at the time. This was just before medical science shifted to doing laparoscopic procedures, or else the OB/GYN I was sent to was a sadist. In any case, I ended up with a giant scar, ironically, like the one you have with a C-section.

I did indeed have endometriosis, stuck to just about every organ that’s crammed into that confined space. Later, after the doctor explained that he had removed as much of the endometriosis as he could, he was eager to show me pictures of it. I said no thanks. “Looks like chocolate,” he said. Seriously? Don’t ruin hot fudge sundaes for me, dude.

I had two more surgeries to remove this sticky goo from inside me, both done laparoscopically and both performed by my new OB/GYN, a lovely woman who saw more of me than any other human being before or since. The next time the pain grew worse, she said, “I think it’s time to consider a hysterectomy.” I raised my hand and said, “Where do I sign up?” Maybe I should have felt sad about it, but I didn’t. Getting rid of that uterus is on my top ten list of “Best Things I’ve Done in Life.”

And then there I was, uterus-free, watching Olympic fencing. Ever since I took six weeks of fencing in college (under duress and to meet the P.E. requirement), I’ve fancied myself an expert. I watched synchronized swimming. I watched the one where people throw stuff and shoot stuff and run, like Caitlyn Jenner, going all the way back to ancient Greece.

What I love most about the Olympics is the individual sports, when there’s nobody to help these athletes. They must rise or fall alone. There was Michael Phelps winning more medals than any Olympic athlete ever, Usain Bolt running like the wind, and Gabby Douglas, the first Black gymnast to win gold.

I was inspired. Watching these people overcome obstacles and grab glory made me wonder what I might achieve. A gym teacher once told me I had “untapped athletic potential.” Was it time for me to find my inner (and outer) strength? Now that my uterus was gone, nothing was holding me back!

My doctor told me that there were four different things wrong with it when she hauled it out of me. And I mean hauled. The thing was described in the surgical note as “10 to 12 weeks size,” meaning it was as large as it would have been if I was 10 to 12 weeks pregnant. In addition to the endometriosis, my uterus had fibroids on the inside and the outside (making it “distorted” and “bulky”), polyps, and adenomyosis, which is when the uterine lining grows into the uterine wall and makes the whole thing as large as a fetus. Was there a gold medal for that? Worst Uterus Ever?

Good riddance, I said! I felt nothing but relief. Maybe now I could fulfill my lifelong dream of being an Olympic athlete. Surely it was only my wonky womb preventing me from dancing on a balance beam, swimming 200 yards, or running a marathon, and not my total lack of grace, ability, or discipline.

After the London Olympics, I really thought I would focus on training to win a gold medal. All I needed was to pick the right sport. I thought about learning archery, like Geena Davis did. We’re both tall. Why not? I had tried it once, at a Renaissance fair, and I felt that I might have some talent. But post-hysterectomy, I went back to work, and continued with my true favorite sport: watching TV.

Now that the Paris Olympics are about to start, I must confess I failed to make the Olympic team. But my calendar is marked for those two weeks, and I can’t wait to watch! Hmm…maybe it’s time to say goodbye to these pesky ovaries.

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