HYSTERECTOMY || TOTAL LAPAROSCOPIC HYSTERECTOMY

Tunney
May 9
5 min read

Warning: This post contains TMI. Like… a LOT of TMI. Proceed at your own risk (or curiosity).

Let’s be real — if you’re here, you’re either about to have a hysterectomy, know someone who is, or you’re just nosy (welcome, friend). Either way, buckle up. I’m about to overshare my uterus’s entire exit interview.

“It’s just part of being a woman”

Growing up in an Asian household, I was told painful, heavy periods were normal. “All women go through this; you’re no different.” Spoiler alert: I was very different. By 16, the pain was unbearable, and my mum (finally) took me to the doctor. Cue: birth control pill (to my mum’s horror). It helped regulate things but didn’t exactly fix the crime scene that was my uterus every month.

At 18, I switched to the Depo shot. That’s when things got wild: I blew up like a pufferfish, and acne moved in like an unwanted houseguest. Meanwhile, the government had just missed giving my generation the free cervical cancer vaccine, but my doctor insisted I get the three jabs anyway. (Cheers, doc.)

Post-vaccine, my Pap smears started coming back with “irregular cells.” Thanks, cervix. I had to do them yearly… then six-monthly… because, you know, cancer runs in the family. Thanks, Mum’s uterus.

TMI TIME: The Demon Days

When I married Bazz (who’d had the snip), I ditched birth control. My periods stayed regular but… let’s say they were still a thing. First day? Heavy AF with stabbing demons. Second day? Even heavier — like Mordor decided to rain hellfire. Day 3 and 4? Meh.

After my latest Pap, the doc suggested a Mirena to lighten the flow. But first, an internal ultrasound to check if my uterus would accept it (never had biological kids — so yay, extra painful).

TMI TIME: Enter the Probe

Before the ultrasound, they made me chug 2 liters of water for the external scan. Sitting in the waiting room, desperately texting my mate about how they forgot to tell me this beforehand, I was basically a human water balloon.

Then enters this tall, young (probably African?) technician who calls me in. Poor guy had no idea what he was in for. I warned him: “I get nervous and say weird sht. You’ve been warned.”*

He asked if I wanted a female chaperone. Nah, mate — I didn’t need extra people gawking at my bits for free. Gown on. External scan done (how I didn’t pee on the table, I’ll never know).

Then he prepped the internal scan. He held up what can only be described as a giant white dildo. Slid a condom on. Lubed it up. “Would you like to insert it yourself?” he asked.

Cue me: “Where’s the fun in that? This is the most action I’ve had in a while.” (WHY, mouth… why?)

He tried to keep a straight face. Failed. He asked if I thought there was enough lube. I replied: “We’ll soon find out, hey?”

When he said, “Take a deep breath and relax,” I said: “Easy for you to say — imagine someone shoving something up your peepee!” (Again… WHY, brain?)

As he struggled to insert it: “You’re really tight…” Oh no. Bad choice of words, mate. My response? “My husband says that too — it’s the Asian genes; it’s the only Asian part of me.” At this point, he was losing it, shaking with laughter.

Afterwards, he thanked me for being the funniest patient he’d ever had. Glad my mortifying filterless moment made his day.

The Diagnosis

A few days later, the doctor called me in. “You’ve got four large fibroids and a cyst on your left ovary.” With my family history and my zero-interest-in-kids status, the gyno said: “Hysterectomy’s your best bet.” She wanted to book it ASAP, but Bazz had surgery scheduled, so I had to wait eight weeks.

The Night Before: Panic Mode

On April 27, I got a call — it was the anesthetist telling me they’d be doing an epidural for pain control. THE NIGHT BEFORE. I spiraled. Full panic. Told Bazz, who said “I’m just gonna lie down for a bit”… and promptly went to sleep. Meanwhile, I was mentally writing my will, packing my bag, doom-scrolling hysterectomy horror stories.

Surgery Day: Game On

April 28. Messaged the people I love. Checked in at noon. Bazz wasn’t allowed upstairs. They checked my meds, my vitals, my sanity (jury’s still out).

I told the anesthetist: “No epidural, thanks.” He hurt me with the cannula anyway. I half-threatened to punch him. His response? “Nighty night.” Next thing I knew, I was waking up at 6pm with Bazz beside me.

Blood pressure? Tanking at 80/50. Pain? Like period cramps and diarrhea teamed up. Throat? Felt like I’d deep-throated a cactus. (Bring throat lozenges, people — lifesaver.)

When the doctor finally came and saw me on Tuesday, she said that the fibroids were bigger than they originally anticipated, and they also found the start of endometriosis.

Hospital Life

The hospital menu was fancy… but only available at certain hours. Thankfully, I brought snacks: jerky, Haribo, pork crackle, Pringles. 10/10 recommend.

First night? Nurses confiscated my pill box (thanks, ADHD meds). Then refused to give me my meds because they couldn’t identify them. “They’re literally labeled,” I argued. Nope. I had to pay full price for hospital pharmacy meds or get Bazz to bring my stash.

Meanwhile, a woman in the next room had her phone on LOUD with a giggling baby ringtone. Every 10 minutes. I swear I nearly threw my slipper at the wall.

Oh — and shoutout to “Thomas” for surviving about 600 Code Blues announced overhead. Hope you’re okay, buddy.

Between the beeping machines, chatty night-shift nurses, and sensory overload, I barely slept for three days. I begged to be discharged early.

Recovery: Not As Bad As I Feared

Honestly? I braced for the worst, but recovery’s been okay. Sore, yes, but not unbearable. Been walking around fine. Not supposed to socialize for 4 weeks… lol, we’ll see.

My stitches come off Sunday. I’ve had light bleeding (possibly not helped by Bazz pretending he’s in Fast & Furious with his Z4… no thanks).

Haven’t tried singing yet — next week! But I’ll probably need a little trolley to lug my gear around. Suggestions welcome!