It feels like people are waiting for one big announcement from me.
The day I say, “I’m finally having surgery,” so everyone can breathe a sigh of relief and believe that’s the turning point.
But here’s the truth no one really talks about: a hysterectomy is not the simple fix people think it is.
My cancer isn’t neatly contained in one place.
It’s invasive, tangled, and spread throughout my abdomen. It’s wrapped itself into areas where it doesn’t belong.
Removing my uterus wouldn’t be like cutting out one bad part and moving on.
For me, that surgery would almost certainly mean multiple additional surgeries — including ostomy or colostomy procedures that would permanently change how my body works every single day.
It’s not just “getting rid of the cancer.”
It’s changing the way I live, eat, and function for the rest of my life.
And even if I went through all of that, surgery alone wouldn’t be enough.
Chemo and radiation are just as critical in my treatment plan as any operation.
Surgery without those treatments would be like fixing one leak while the rest of the house is flooding.
There’s another layer people rarely consider: my body right now.
I’ve been in consistent treatment for a long time.
My immune system is already compromised.
My strength isn’t what it was before cancer.
Surgery when you’re healthy is one thing.
Surgery when your body is already fighting to keep you alive is something else entirely.
The risks are higher.
The healing is slower.
Complications are more likely.
And major surgery while weakened doesn’t just take weeks to recover from — it can take months, and sometimes your body never fully bounces back to where it was before.
I’m not ignoring surgery because I’m scared of it.
I’m considering every angle because I have to.
If I go into the OR too soon, when I’m already depleted, I could be setting myself up for more harm than help.
People see surgery as action — as “doing something.”
But not having surgery right now is also doing something.
It’s making a choice based on what gives me the best chance, with the least unnecessary damage to my already fragile body.
At the end of the day, it’s my body, my risk, my recovery, my decision.
I know it’s hard to sit in uncertainty.
I know people want the clear, obvious answer — the dramatic before-and-after moment.
But there is no easy fix here.
There’s only the path that gives me the best shot at more time and more good days.
And right now, that path isn’t as simple as booking an operating room.
To the girl who’s facing her own hard medical decision:
I know what it feels like to sit in the quiet with your own thoughts, weighing every possible outcome, knowing there’s no option that comes without risk.
I know how exhausting it is to live with malignant cancer — how every decision feels like it carries your whole future in its hands, how every choice comes with trade-offs you wish you didn’t have to make.
There’s no easy path when the disease lives inside you.
Every option asks for something from you — your time, your comfort, your energy, your body.
Sometimes the “right” choice isn’t clear, and sometimes it’s just the one you can live with today.
Whatever you choose, you are doing the hardest thing: making a life out of something that’s trying to take it from you.
Mojo’s POV:
I don’t know what a hysterectomy is.
I don’t know what chemo or radiation are.
I just know my person is tired.
Some days she talks to me a lot, other days she’s quiet, staring at nothing, thinking big thoughts I can’t understand.
I don’t need to understand them to know my job.
I stay close.
I follow her to the couch. I curl up against her legs. I nudge her hand until she pets me, even if it’s just for a second.
I can’t weigh her choices for her, but I can make sure she never faces them alone.
And no matter which path she takes — surgery or no surgery — I’m walking it with her, every single step.
-Mojo
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