I was mad at myself for even growing a fibroid in the first place and madder still that I had ignored it for a year. And now, it was the size of a ruby red grapefruit. For some ungodly reason, I thought committing to my regular practice of self-flagellation was an excellent way to calm my body before a laparoscopic myomectomy. Because being cruel to oneself before anesthesia definitely lowers the blood pressure.

What I wanted was a boyfriend who would drop me off at the hospital entrance and park his shiny car. He would remember my favorite book, water bottle, and slippers. He would have already had flowers and food waiting for me at home to return to after surgery. Beneath the bright lights, he would walk with me to the admissions desk; he would deal with the insurance and speak kindly to blue-haired Becky in her Snoopy scrubs. She would look at me and nod in approval, and we would understand I had finally, after all these years, not settled and picked a loving one. What I wanted was to be taken care of rather than be the one caretaking. I wanted to check out. I wanted to not have to process everything about being an organ donor or if I had DNR on file as a solo mama.

To get what you want, you have to be willing to ask. Closed mouths don’t get fed, is what he would say to me. At this point in my life, I would not have let my boyfriend—no, the situationship—the man who taught me love came with conditions—even close enough to hurt me. He was allowed inside of me, yes, but not close enough to hurt me.

My armor was thick. I’d make any whale shark jealous with its measly 10 centimeters. My epidermis was easily 11 centimeters. I had been burned by too many pretty boys who didn’t know they were supposed to take you to the hospital. Or maybe I was more of an armadillo who knew when to jump into the air at the first sight of a predator and fold herself into an armored ball with her eyes closed on the daily. Yes, the armadillo.

I was mad as fuck without saying a word when my situation-ship didn’t drive me to the hospital. He was a post-operative nurse, but of course, he was; I had chosen that subconsciously. He took care of people all day long for twelve hours, and the last thing he wanted was another patient. I have never really been one to lie down on a bed and close my eyes, whether I was resting or being seduced.

Instead, I asked my daughter's godmother to drive me. And she was kind. But I didn’t share my fear with her either. I thought if I didn’t speak it, then it would disappear. We talked about cake recipes in the lobby while I waited for Becky to call my name. When she did, and I clicked on the white bracket with my last name and date of birth, I knew it was all me.

We are all headed for the graveyard or the oven. I was not ready to bend over for heat or dirt. But I would be lying if I said I was calm and collected. My neck was sticky, and my blood pressure was bouncing. I squished some orange plush ball in my hand that the godmother had handed me.

In the prep room, behind the curtain, I heard other families console each other. It will be alright, they said. It’s an easy laparoscopy. You will be home by dinner, they said. I was eavesdropping, husband shopping perhaps, as if their sentences were for sale, or able to slip underneath the curtains that kept us apart. Sentences that I wanted to hear whispered. I thought of texting him, but I was damned if I would while he was on some island with his girlfriend or at work or wherever he was or even that he would be the last text before I closed my eyes. Fuck that. I wanted to pray. I was not sure how.

The room was spinning a bit, and my hands were shaking. It had been hours since I had been given any food or water, so I texted my daughters to tell them I was good all systems go, even though the surgery kept getting delayed hour by hour. The nurse came in to find me with my legs tucked in, lying on my side, in my hospital gown, the pillow wet. I didn’t understand the parts of the surgery, but I knew it had to happen.

Weeks before, I had been in the shower trying to calm myself. I had been bleeding for 18 days straight. I had become an expert at hiding. I thought if I took a shower, got a pad and some tea, it would all be fine. When the first clump came out in my hand, I searched for a spine, even though I knew I was not pregnant. (Miscarriage recall. I was in the basement and six weeks pregnant, holding a wet clump of cells. Mouth open. Stomach turned. Blood will do that to you- it will change the clocks, the season, the year—especially menstrual blood.)

I called for my oldest daughter in the shower because I felt shaky and lightheaded. She shuffled in with her armadillo pajamas, her hair matted from sleeping—she was maybe nine years old. She tells me now how I scared her, how she was so freaked out. I had asked her to help me step out of the shower. I was hunched over one moment with a red streak down my legs and stained cloth in my hands, and the next moment, I was on the floor by the toilet. I don’t recall passing out before or since then. When I woke up, she was on the phone with 911, and an ambulance was on the way.

She helped me sit up with the back of the bath behind me. It was wet and cold. She grabbed a new T-shirt—ice cubes. My little one came in and placed her four-year-old head on my lap. I didn’t want to get blood in her hair. I remember going in and out of the moment. My ex-wife walked into the apartment, looked down at me, shook her head, didn’t speak, snatched up the girls’ hands, and walked out. She had been stepping around me for years. Even when we were married, and the current custody battle only served to increase the distance. She was more like a scorpion, and I had learned to roll up and out when she might sting. The next thing I remember was the EMT asking me if I had been raped.

Not this time.

Then came the ambulance and blood on the white sheets of the gurney. I hated that my ex-wife didn't speak and didn’t wait for me, and I was grateful that, at that moment, she was not too drunk to drive them home. The way things ended between us had been so bad, I didn’t expect her to wait.  In the ambulance, I closed my eyes and tried to remember I was forty and not thirteen—between the stench of dried blood. I am so sorry, I said again and again. I just wanted to clean myself up. They didn’t ask what I was apologizing for.

In the ER at Cayuga Med, they ran tests and gave me some kind of medicine to slow the bleeding. I curled into a ball, like the armadillo I was —too tired to jump. I called no one. The doctor found the fibroid on a transvaginal ultrasound and knew I would need surgery within a month. The problem was my white blood cells were so low, and at that point, I was anemic.

Finally, I was resting at St. John’s Hospital before surgery; all I could think of was my girls and how I didn’t want to miss them growing up. I wanted to keep my uterus; I had planned to have more children. We make plans, and God, wherever He is, laughs.

The nurse who saw my wet pillow asked if I wanted to call someone. I thought briefly about ringing the post-op nurse/situationship, but I had never cried in front of him; armadillo leather doesn’t soften, and I knew that help was not a word I could pronounce. When they wheeled me into surgery down the long hallway, I want to tell you I called on my faith. I want to tell you I begged God to hold my hand. But I didn’t. I recited Dickinson in my head. Because I could not stop for death, he kindly stopped for me because I could not stop for death.

I didn’t know the doctor would insert small instruments through my abdomen to remove the fibroid from my uterus. I knew I was not ready to give up my uterus. I woke up screaming, having no idea where I was, and completely freaked out. The IV in me was cold on my arm, my eyes were itchy from the tape that had been placed on me. I couldn’t sit up. Next to me was another patient, also crying. The nurse told me I would scare her, so I was to take a deep breath. There were five texts. One from my daughters asked if I had made it out of surgery, and four from the situationship. He was picking me up as soon as I could walk and pee.

I asked to take a shower but was handed a bedpan and a washcloth. I was mortified. I waited till the shift change and then asked the second nurse–-I had never been so happy to see scrubs with whales to help me to the shower. She had six earrings, a nose ring, and a half-shaved head. She had a tattoo of a killer whale on her wrist. She kept telling me I could return to my knees for my man in no time. That my ass could still go up for him. This made me laugh.

I sat in a cold chair with the water pouring down my face—the IV in a bag. I didn’t want to be ugly for the situationship... I was still bleeding. No one told me I would bleed for three weeks after. Dizzy. I had to ask for help to go back to bed. In the morning, I forced myself up and washed my face. I chewed on some eggs and showed the nurses I could walk down the hall without grimacing. I am an expert at showing you I am not in pain. Pain is a bitch I have shackled.

When he arrived to pick me up, they made me wait in a wheelchair. I was prideful and appalled. I wanted to sit on a bench. Sitting was not exactly easy. He helped me into the car, and I fell asleep. I woke up in a Walmart parking lot where he had stopped for groceries and again at my apartment. I knew I wanted to lie down. He kept telling me to lean on him. I wanted to, but I didn’t know how. He stayed with me for three days. It was the first time in a year we were together without fucking. I didn’t think he could be affectionate. But he was. More than he had ever been.

I kept trying to hide my blood. As if the metallic smell was not a dead giveaway. As if he hadn’t seen it before. I want to tell you he made me breakfast and was super kind, but I still got up to cook. I felt like I was supposed to do something to thank him, and I couldn’t—

On the third day of my recovery, I went to work as a tutor. My daughters came home. Money and single motherhood do not wait. Rest was a stranger. I had no idea it would be a while before I felt anything near normal.

Last week, I had another transvaginal ultrasound, and they found a fibroid the size of a nickel. We will watch it to see if it grows. I am not bleeding like I used to. I am not anemic. The situationship long done. The ex-wife, too. My children are nearly grown, bleeding on their own in that regular way teenagers do.  I will not pass out in the shower. I have yet to make friends with blood.