Today I saw my GP for the first time since he told me to go straight to the hospital. I felt like someone was as frustrated as I am. He was furious with the hospital for discharging me without doing the ultrasound he had requested for them to do in his letter that he gave me when he told me to go straight to the hospital. He knew something was wrong, and they ignored him. They ignored me.
But today, finally, I got the ultrasound. And what they found both scared me and validated everything I have been feeling. A mass. Quite a big one. Solid and vascular. Hearing those words was like having the floor drop out from under me, but also like a cruel confirmation, I was right to know that my body wasn’t okay, that this wasn’t just “nothing.”
Since then, I have barely moved. I fell asleep around 2:30 in the afternoon and didn’t wake up for hours. My body feels heavy, drained, broken down from the constant fight. Now I am curled up on my couch, sipping water slowly, trying not to throw it back up. My stomach turns, my body aches, and every breath feels weighted with exhaustion.
And through it all, I keep fighting the urge to cry. Because I know once I start, I won’t be able to stop. The grief, the fear, the frustration, the loneliness… it would all pour out at once. So instead I just lie here, holding it in, because sometimes that feels like the only way to keep moving forward.
I keep telling myself the same thing over and over again: surgery isn’t far. Help is on the way. It’s the only thread I have to cling to right now. September 23rd feels both too close and too far, but it is the light I keep looking toward. The same surgeon who once gave me two years of pain free life will be the one to operate again. I pray, with everything I have left, that he can give me that relief again… maybe even more this time.
Until then, I am stuck in this in-between place. A place where my body screams and the system shrugs. A place where I am both seen and unseen, believed and dismissed. It is exhausting beyond words.
But I am still here. Still fighting. Still writing. And still holding on to hope, no matter how fragile it feels.
Because sometimes, hope is all we have.
The War Inside My Womb 
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