A Dear John Letter To My Uterus

Rachel Langer
Oct 5, 2018 · 4 min read

Dear My Recently Ripped Out Uterus,

I have a box of your stuff. Pads, tampons, a few random boxes of Cyclen you left here. I know it’s awkward, but it’s probably best if you’d come and pick it up so I can move on.

The month since you and your posse “the ovaries” have been gone has been a bit of a roller coaster. I want you to know I’m doing well though. Super well. I don’t even think about you (except every day all the time) and I totally don’t cry in public a lot as I attempt to level out and to fill the void you’ve left. To that end, I should probably tell you that I have someone new in my life. In fact, I’m playing the field. I’m seeing this cute little red head named Premarin-Estrogen. She’s great. Maybe a little dramatic, but nothing I can’t handle. Then there’s this silver fox named Teva-Progesterone. What a stabilizing force he’s been in my life. We hang out every morning over coffee and make sure the day is going to go as planned. Yep. I’m on top of the world here without you.

I mean, sure, sometimes I spiral a bit (usually when the Always commercial comes on. You know the one, white pants blue liquid?) I end up asking myself if I’m as much of a woman as I was before I evicted you. Of course I know it’s bullshit, but between your years of bad behaviour and society’s staunch biological imperatives, I’m still pretty messed up, you know? But that’s totally normal right? I do miss you, though. I hate myself for it. But sometimes I can’t help but wonder if we parted ways unnecessarily. Maybe I didn’t try hard enough to make things work. I mean, sure you landed me in the hospital multiple times, and frankly, I’m convinced that you were plotting my inevitable demise. And yeah you had an endometriosis problem, and became the primary supplier for your whole posse, even dragging our poor bowel down with you. And let’s be honest, those medical interventions with all the hacks that suggested we “just get pregnant” to solve all our problems were ridiculous. But what if we were meant to be together? I mean, maybe if I’d just ignored the fifteen years of excruciating daily pain you caused me, or maybe if I’d given in to your monthly tantrums gas-lighting me into thinking it was still possible to procreate, we could have made it work. Some of my friends think if we’d meditated together more, or I’d been willing to cut out gluten, dairy, sugar, and soy like you’d asked you would have been satisfied. One of them even went as far as to suggest that those who yoga together stay together. I still don’t know.

No you know what? I do know. You were a raging asshole the entire time we were together. When I tried to give you the mirena coil as a peace offering, you physically rejected it. When I took you in for multiple surgeries to try and renovate our space and fix our problems, you refused to change, in fact spiralling faster back into your destructive patterns. You ruined any chance we had to have a child, and you laughed in my face when I cried about it. Now that I think about it, breaking up with you might just have been the best thing I ever did. Really, you forced my hand. I’m only just starting to accept that it’s not my fault, it’s yours. You are the one that left me barren in my late 20s. You are the reason I will never poop comfortably again. You are the one who forced me to explain why I have to write on the floor of my office to deliver my scripts on time. I didn’t choose any of that. You did it to me. And you know what? It’s really nice waking up in the morning without feeling the constant internal hangover from your scar tissue raves, and your destructive and kinky relationship with your pals the Fallopian tubes — who by the way were SO kinked by the time you finished with them that they were beyond help. Did you know I can now go for walks without sitting down halfway through to let you have a rest? That I can stand up without worrying that I’m going to wake you up and have to dodge your fiery adhesion darts? That I can actually think about what it might mean to have a life without your dominating every second of every day? So what if it takes some getting used to. If I still feel a bit hollow. It may take some time for me to stop crying over you every day. I’m okay with that. And you know what? I’d kick you out all over again, and sooner, if I had the chance. Goodbye, Homicidal Uterus, and good riddance.

All my very best,
Rachel

*This was originally written as a comment on Hannahwhitton.com in response to a request for stories about women’s health, but so many people have been asking how I’ve been feeling (which is lovely) that it seemed like a good time to share.

Rachel Langer

Written by

Screenwriter. Canadian. Wordsmith for The Order, The Bletchley Circle San Francisco, Ghost Wars, and This Life. Loud about endometriosis and women’s health.

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