Advocating for Myself- Years in the Making

When Tony and I met almost 24 years ago, we were two wild and free beach wanderers, spending every free moment surfing and soaking up life with friends on the beach. Children? That was never part of the plan. Our freedom meant everything, so we agreed to wait ten years before revisiting the question—just in case one of us had a change of heart.

Those years flew by in a blur of adventure, road trips to surf in Mexico, backpacking, music, and endless ocean sunsets. Then, one night in the Santa Rosa Mountains, huddled in our two-man tent during a fierce windstorm, we finally had "the talk." Over Mountain House enchiladas and a little red wine, we sat on a knoll overlooking a dry creek bed, both secretly hoping the other hadn’t changed their mind. Turns out, we hadn’t. No kids in our future. With a sigh of relief, we embraced the wild night, knowing we were exactly where we wanted to be.

It was really windy! 

By the time I reached my 40s, things started to change. Heavy, debilitating bleeding became a monthly battle, but I wasn’t surprised. The women in my family—my mom, aunt, and sister—had all been through this, each eventually needing a hysterectomy. Wanting to stay ahead of it, I went to my doctor for options.

Her response? “Welcome to your 40s—this is just something you have to deal with.”

All my tests came back normal. There was nothing to be done, she said. Besides, she said that I "might want to have kids," so nothing drastic should be considered.

That was laughable. Tony had a vasectomy years ago—having kids wasn’t even on the table. But still, I trusted the doctor and carried on.

Year after year, the bleeding worsened. When I finally went back for another check-up, I got the same response: “It’s normal. There’s nothing we can do.”

So, I believed it. For seven years, I sucked it up. Month after month, I suffered in silence, believing there were no options. Until it got so bad I couldn’t leave my house for days at a time. I called the nurse advice line and the nurse told me I was losing so much blood, I should be getting transfusions.

That was when I had it.

I refused to accept that this was just how it had to be.

Finally, a doctor took me seriously and scheduled me for a uterine biopsy to rule out cancer. It was excruciating (0/10 recommend), but the worst part? It was unsuccessful and I would have to do it again.

Frustrated, I demanded a new doctor—and requested they must be a woman.

A month and a half later, I walked into my appointment, ready to finally be heard- and then a male doctor walked in. I was so shocked and almost stormed out, but I was so desperate, I stayed.

Lucky for me, I did.

Not only did he actually listen, but he had a plan. If nothing else worked, a hysterectomy was finally an option. For the first time, I felt seen, heard, and validated.

Another excruciating biopsy (still 0/10 recommend) later, I was scheduled for an IUD and hormone replacement therapy (HRT)—a last-ditch effort before surgery. I was hopeful.

The biopsy came back clear, and I got my IUD and HRT.

Then it all got even worse.

I bled for two months straight.
My entire body ached.
My emotions spiraled out of control.

I felt like I was dying.

I was done and  my doctor agreed—it was time for surgery.

He warned me it could be three to six months before I got a surgery date. I braced myself for the wait, horrified at the thought of enduring this for up to half a year longer.

Then, 1.5 weeks later, I got a call:

A cancellation.

If I could be there in two days, the spot was mine.

I didn’t hesitate.

It was a whirlwind. I had to scramble to hand over my work responsibilities, make last-minute arrangements, and prepare myself for a surgery I barely had time to process.

I had no time to research. No time to overthink.

I didn’t care.

Relief was finally coming.