[flickr id=”7034055449″ thumbnail=”small” overlay=”true” size=”small” group=”” align=”left”]On December 9th, 2006 I had a full hysterectomy of my remaining reproductive organs.  This happened 7 years after a right ooferectomy (let’s loosely call it an ooferectomy as technically there wasn’t any ovary left).

This was not voluntary. It was classified ’emergency’ – and happened just 10 days after the ultrasound revealed what I suspected, I had another non-functioning cyst.  It had happened before – to my right ovary.  A non functioning cyst that had been discovered in April of 1997 grew into a 5lb mass that completely obliterated my ovary.  So when this cyst first appeared we treated for it, but instead of shrinking it grew.  The emergency hysterectomy was scheduled.

By that point I had my 3 children. All that I ever wanted. I was ready to stop being surprised by pregnancies – and to stop that other regular hassle that all women have. My regular visitor had always been a painful mess, even when in peak health. I sure wouldn’t miss that (or the expense of it).

I was fine with it.  Menopause? Pshaw. I’m ready. Sign me up for that surgery.

I’m still okay with it.

I have random bouts of hating menopause. What it’s done to my body. The hot flashes, oh the hot flashes.

Still, I’m good with it.

But every once in a while.

On the days when I see how big my girls are now. On the days when I see how removed my teen has become.  On days when I see a tiny baby, so small and sweet.  Or I remember the feeling of being pregnant.

Then, in the quiet moments – that is when I mourn.

Not because we could have had more (we couldn’t – not financially feasible at all). Not because I wanted more.

Because the choice is gone.  The days are passed.  I miss the days when the possibility was there. I miss the wonder, the joy.

We are set, our family is complete. We’ve known it all along.

Yet in small, almost infinitesimal doses, I mourn.