I found out two years ago by pure chance that I had a tumor in my uterus.
“The position of the tumor is critical and we might have to remove the uterus,” the doctor said.
I was terrified.
It wasn’t that I was worried it would stop me from getting married.
To me, it was more about losing my sense of femininity and motherhood.
Even if I wasn’t a mother yet.

I decided to live with it and not undergo the operation.
The tumor kept getting bigger.
I told some of my close friends what the doctor said and one of them told me,
“Why don’t you just remove your uterus? Do you really think there’s still a chance for you to get pregnant?”
I was speechless.
I don’t know why she said that.
Her words were very blunt, even if she didn’t mean it.
She didn’t stop at that.
She went around and told everyone that I should remove my uterus.
My uterus became a public matter.
“Just remove your uterus!” everyone would tell me.
“Just let it go and remove it.”
I ignored all of that.

I was in a playback theater session once where people acted out the stories of other participants.
There was a beautiful girl that shared her experience with malignant tumors in the uterus.
The tumors were getting bigger and she had to undergo surgery.
The surgery was successful and they didn’t have to remove the uterus.
I was supposed to act out this story.
Act out my story.
I didn’t know what to do.
I felt anxious because this was the story I was trying to hide.
I was taken aback by how strong she was.
She acted out the story, and I have no idea how she did it.
I thought it was a sign.
I visited a renowned doctor and set a date for the operation.
Eight tumors were removed.

It felt like a dream.
I didn’t agree to see everyone who came to visit me.
I only saw my close friends who were there to support me.
They didn’t come to stare at me like I was an animal at a zoo.
Nor were they there to learn more about my condition and how to protect themselves from it.
They weren’t visiting me out of a sense of obligation.

One day, a relative of mine insisted on seeing me.
She asked me a lot of questions about the operation.
“How big is the incision scar? My cesarean incision was 15 cm.”
“Mine is bigger because I had a different operation.”
“It’s surely not as difficult as a C-section. Even its psychological impact is different.
We spend 9 months knowing that at the end we’ll have surgery to get the baby out.
But in your case, you spent two years for what? To get opened up and have some tumors removed?”

The doctor who performed the surgery provided me with emotional support.
“I’m proud of you. It was a difficult operation and you bled a lot. You’re strong for enduring the pain and refusing to be sedated.”
I refused to take morphine the day after the operation.
“How can you not take it?” the doctor asked in surprise. “The pain is unbearable. How could you endure it?”
She looked at me like I was a freak.
“The operation you had is a lot more difficult than a C-Section. Patients usually ask for a higher dose.”

I refused to take the drugs because it made me numb.
I felt like I needed to experience that kind of pain.
I wanted to be awake and in touch with my body, even if it was painful.
The pain made me feel like there was a child inside me who couldn’t get out.
A child that wasn’t allowed to cry or be sad or weak.
I decided to make peace with this child after the operation.
To make peace with myself and to love myself.
I’m telling my story to say,
“I’m here. I’m in pain and I’ll let the pain come out. I am strong.”