I came out of it all right, the hysterectomy. The same fields where I had wept goodbye to my reproductive system in the dark on a murky Sunday night dog walk were waiting for me when I managed the walk six weeks later, shyly showing off their very early spring green clothes. The fields and I, we'd both had a long winter.
I feel like the land is there for me more than so called friends who are not. Maybe because I live a few miles out (7) I am forgotten unless I make the effort to socialise. Maybe I don't do well in groups, Mr. Mac doesn't, either
I question the amount of time I spend on bonfire during the season, if nobody cares during my rough season. I don't come up with any answers.
As for the rest of it, I'm glad I made hay whilst the sun shone.
The surgical menopause into which I have been plunged, headlong, is not so bad either. A few night sweats, a headache and minor flushes occasionally, but that's all. Hormonally I've always been on a storm-tossed sea, exciting adventures, glorious sunsets, thrilling beautiful and terrifying storms, but now its as though my vessel has landed in a calm safe cove. The water is rich with the mystery of the deep, there are cliffs and rocks, sand and caves, mountains beyond, and I have all the time in the world to explore.
Mr M has been there too, he would die for me, I know that. He's relieved that I don't need him to be around as much as we had both feared, because he is his work, it is his life, there's not room for too much else.
That's where I am this Mothering Sunday morning, as the yellow sun peeps over the neighbour's roof and I wait for my children to come, with their children, and cook. Let's just hope they wash up.