I Had A Hysterectomy, Felt Like A New Woman, Then Tore My Vagina. Twice.

I got a hysterectomy last summer and let me tell you, it was glorious. Cue the triumphant music. Angels singing. Fireworks. A ticker-tape parade thrown in my uterus’ honor, because that moody little organ had finally packed her bags and hit the road. I thought, This is it. This is the life women talk about when they say their hysterectomy changed everything.

I’d been living with pelvic and back pain since I was 19. I just thought that was what being a woman was. Like: periods suck, cramps suck, back pain is forever, and if you ever feel joy you should probably check to make sure your tampon didn’t disappear into another dimension. Standard stuff.

But after years of pain and multiple ER trips — including one while I was on a work trip (because nothing says professional quite like curled-up-in-a-hotel-bathroom agony) — I decided I was done. Actually, my doctor decided I was done. Endometriosis runs in my family, and my body was waving all the red flags. I had the surgery. And at first, I felt amazing. I was walking around with ZERO back pain for the first time in over a decade, crying tears of actual joy. I wanted to hug every nurse. I wanted to send my surgeons cookies. I wanted to buy everyone I love a uterus-shaped pinata and celebrate.

And then I got the green light to have sex again.

Let me tell you something: I was so excited to have sex. I love my husband. He’s hot. He’s kind. He held and continues to hold my hand through this whole thing. But here’s the thing: I have Ehler-Danlos syndrome (EDS). It’s a connective tissue disorder that’s always made healing a little trickier, and a lot more dramatic. I was cleared for intimacy a few weeks post-op, and let’s just say my body had other plans.

I ended up tearing my vaginal cuff. Yep. That’s a thing. A vaginal cuff is like a sewn pocket inside of you where your uterus, cervix and fallopian tubes once were. It’s the gateway between your vagina and the rest of your internal body. Wild right? Held together by mere stitches during the healing process. Hope my stomach and intestines don’t just fall out!

The pain was a true 10 out of 10 and brought me to the ER, where I received awkward explanations and an all-too-familiar hospital gown. I was told to rest. Heal. Let my body do its thing. So I did. Until, surprise: I tore again after yet again being given the green light. Same place. Different day. Another ER visit. The reason for the tearing is due to the inability for my tissues to securely bond and heal due to the EDS. Think of using “off brand Elmer’s glue” vs “Loctite Super Glue;” it’s just not…effective.

At this point, my body felt like it was mocking me. I wanted so badly to move forward, to be intimate again, to feel like a whole woman after losing my uterus. Instead, I felt like Humpty Dumpty with a prescription. And it’s hard to talk about this part, not just the physical pain, but the emotional toll. I wanted to be a good mom, a good wife, and a good employee, who could more easily navigate the recovery period. But you can’t easily be all those things when you’re juggling so many hats and feeling like a failure. I felt like I was letting my house down; I couldn’t as easily clean our messy house, or interact with my kids, or fulfill my workday tasks because I was in pain. It just felt like my recovery brought on more chaos and exhaustion for everyone around me. I hated that so much. Anyone else hate letting others down?

But the thing is, I also needed to be human. A human whose body was healing on its own unpredictable timeline. For clarity, what was supposed to be a six-week recovery has turned into an eight month (and counting!) recovery. Just last week I was cleared to have sex again. And get this: I was told to make sure to have sex during the work week and not the weekend to avoid having to go to the ER should anything bad happen; you know, should my vaginal cuff open up and my intestines fall through. My doctor, who has been nothing short of amazing, insists he be called the day we have sex so he can know to be “on call.” I’m not one to drink too much, but with the way this next sexual escapade is sounding I might need several. I mean, what do I do? Leave a message at the front desk and say, “Please notify Dr-Fix-A-Coochie and let him know, Meg is about to get it on? All hands on deck!” Truly sexy. Wholly terrifying.

And yet, even in the train wreck of it all, there’s been grace. My husband has been patient and tender — the kind of partner who doesn’t flinch when things get messy, who holds space for both my pain and my healing. My colleagues have been nothing short of incredible, giving me time, flexibility and compassion I didn’t even realize I needed. They never made or make me feel like a burden, but have reminded me that my health comes first. And my kids? They’ve been little rockstars. We’ve had more movie parties in bed than I can count, complete with snacks, cuddles and the kind of laughter that makes everything hurt a little less. My body, though frustrating at times, is still fighting for me. I’ve learned — painfully, literally — that healing isn’t linear. It’s not always pretty. But it does look like I’m on a positive trajectory. And I’m not doing it alone.

So if you’re facing a hysterectomy or recovering from one and feel like you’re the only one whose “straightforward” surgery turned into a whole saga, you’re not. I’m right here with you. And honestly? I’d still choose this road, complications and all. Because for the first time in a long time, I see light at the end of the tunnel — even if I had to crawl through the ER and over 15 pelvic examinations to get there.

Meg Raby is a mom, children's author of the My Brother Otto series, and Autistic residing in Salt Lake City where you can find her playing and working with neurodivergent children as a Speech Language Pathologist and friend, or writing and planning big things in the second booth at her local coffee shop that overlooks the Wasatch Mountains while sipping on her Americano. Meg believes the essence of life is to understand, love and welcome others (aka, to give a damn about humans).