The War Inside My Womb

I thought the hardest part would be the excruciating pain, the excessive bleeding, the mysterious mass that no one seemed to take seriously, and the endless waiting for surgery. But now, on top of all of that, my body has decided to throw one more challenge at me: a chest infection.

It feels like the cruelest timing. My body is already so weak, so worn down, so vulnerable to any infection, and this is the last thing I need with my surgery only days away. Every cough rattles my ribs, every breath feels heavier than it should, and the fear creeps in: what if this pushes my surgery back? What if the 23rd of September, the date I have been clinging to as my lifeline, is suddenly out of reach?

I have been holding on by a thread, telling myself: just make it to Brisbane. Just make it to the 23rd. That is when help comes. That is when relief might finally be mine. To imagine that being delayed, even for a little while, feels unbearable.

What makes it harder is that my body cannot seem to take in the things it needs to heal. I cannot keep many fluids down. Last night I tried to eat one sausage, desperate to give my body something it could use, and I threw it up instantly. It feels like a betrayal to feed myself and have my body reject it so violently.

So here I am, in excruciating pain, dizzy all the time, exhausted, broken, and now struggling to breathe under the weight of this chest infection. My body feels like it is failing me from every angle: crippling pain, excessive bleeding, constant nausea, the lump that I am still waiting for results for, and lungs that ache with every breath. It is the last thing I need, the last obstacle I wanted, and yet it is here, demanding more strength from a body that feels like it has nothing left to give.

It is exhausting, this constant war with my own body. Some days it feels like I am being tested beyond what I can endure. But even in the darkest moments, I remind myself that I have survived every flare, every dismissal, every setback so far. And I will survive this too.

The surgery is close. Relief is close. And until then, I will keep holding on, not just for myself, but for everyone who has ever felt invisible in their pain. We are not weak. We are not alone. We are still here, still fighting. And that means something.