You've got the limo out front

The key to recovery is Hannah Montana and plenty of water.

I’ve decided it’s time to get down and dirty and air my dirty laundry – although the other half will no doubt argue that it’s my time to do a wash – but I will probably retaliate that it’s his turn to buy the powder.

I digress. I’ve been on this weight fighting journey for as long as I can remember. I play table tennis with the same stone every month - up, down, back hand, front hand and then just as I get the hang of it - out! Usually it’s nil poi to me at the end of each weigh in.

Its not just lack of portion control, exercise blah blah blah that makes us heavy. I was diagnosed with Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome when I was 22 and even then that was after a five year fight. Back then it was merely a label, no one knew the effects, the cause, the anything. Packed off with a ten year supply of Dianette (a very strong and evil pill) I was more or less forgotten in my fog of blurry months and tearful tantrums. Cruelly PCOS can make you look pregnant and ironically it’s the biggest challenge for someone with that condition.

PMT? You have no idea. PMT doesn’t mean you will fight with the world for a reason, it means buy me the wrong chocolate and pay the consequences, give my sister more chips and watch me scream, tell me to do the dishes and then duck. Smile at the wrong time and woe betide you. But there is a rational voice inside wondering how to calm this monster and luckily it managed to move my legs in the direction of the bedroom to have a wee lie down and practice my breathing techniques.

Fast forward to 2009 and 38 years of age – the PMT is now so bad I can’t even argue, the foggy brain has given me a right glaikett look about me, the pain now lasts almost the full month, I can eat for Britain and the taste for wine is insatiable. Month after month doctor visits mean nothing and yet sleep is upon me like an enemy.

Finding some practical nous within I managed to pull together a diary that unbelievably revealed a pattern of events that would come to change my life forever. PMT was now with me for three weeks of the month, periods would last almost two weeks and the little relief I did have for a couple of days – well watch me go. I could climb a mountain, run a marathon, join gyms, walk miles each day and cut down my eating. The PMT was so unbelievable my life was in limbo, I wasn’t living at all. I barely existed and worse still I looked incredibly pregnant. In fact I looked overdue.

The outcome? Early 2010 brought about a hysterectomy and three months off work. I bet you read this and think how lucky – three months off work, well think about this – no chance of a family, the internal feeling that something’s missing, the knowledge that I’ll never need a pregnancy test ever ever again and yet the relief of it all can be uplifting when I let it.

I didn’t talk much during the first few weeks of recovery. Hannah Montana did the talking for me. Everyone should have a drop of Disney when they’re ill. I watched two full series on catch up and begged my friend’s four year old son for a shot of the film. No one gets upset in the world of Disney; I only got upset when series three wasn’t on catch up before I came back to work.

Just before the operation I read an interview with Danni Minogue in one of the big magazines. She said ‘I thought I was going to be that woman who couldn’t have children’ – no Danni that’s me and yet I wish her and all new mothers the very best with their little bundles when they turn up.

The joy of being a woman is never ending. I no longer take the pill but I do now take HRT and although one little white pill doesn’t contain enough calories to make me the size of a house; it doesn’t exactly suppress the appetite either. So now I walk two miles nearly every day, the gym ball that doubled as a laptop table has become my best friend and I’ve got sudden bursts of energy that make me want to run until my life is behind me, to run away from tomorrow, responsibility, to find a beach and cultivate my own land – the stuff dreams are made of.

Hysterectomy is still pretty much a hushed word with women, although like many other conditions, you only have to mention that you are having one when the flood gates, pardon that awful pun, open and its surprising how many women have gone through it, are in discussion about it and can fully empathise with you about the physical and psychological associations of one of Britain’s routine yet major operations.

The Hysterectomy Forum became an online bible to me during my recovery period. Every twinge was explained, techniques and remedies recommended. Before you can think up a question, there’s the answer in black and white telling you that your not alone – someone somewhere has been where you are now and they can help you get through it.

Can I have a bath, how do I get in and out of bed, how long do I have to wear the sexy hospital stockings they’ve given me? What can I expect afterwards, will I put on weight, sprout chin hair, cry with frustration, feel alone, and feel unattractive?

My life now divides itself neatly into before H and after H. Before H I was tired, tired of life, tired of me and definitely tired of everyone else. Glam turned to glum and my hair was always scraped back from my face in a ponytail. Make-up faded into my grey complexion and I couldn’t be bothered looking good.

Maybe it’s because I’m fighting to hold on to my femininity – my organs may have been removed but I’m determined to remain all woman. The straighteners have been replaced with heated rollers, jeans with skirts and pretty dresses, trainers with shoes I was keeping good. The constant strain has left my face and its feeling and looking softer than before and happiness is shining through.

I used to long for people to tell me I looked great again, yet now when they say it I feel it’s loaded with expectation. Although what I expect them to expect I really have no idea.

I’ve met women in supermarkets who feel inspired though that I’m doing so well and I’ve given them hope for themselves, that feels unbelievably good. Equally women I met who went through it before me inspired me to realise that life continues and in many ways its better.

Thankfully I have the wedding to focus on, but one things for sure, if I’m not supposed to give my life for someone else then I am damn sure I’m going to enjoy the life I have been given to the full.


Oh and did someone say cake?