When the Body Says Stop: A Personal Journey Through Womanhood, Surgery, and Strength
“There are moments in a woman’s life when silence becomes a scream. Not because she’s voiceless, but because the world forgets to listen. In those moments, I wrote. I wrote to remember, to heal, and to remind myself that my story matters.”
Memory Boxes by Yvonne Tomlinson
As women, we navigate a landscape of physical and emotional trials that are rarely given the recognition they deserve. We carry life, endure loss, reshape our bodies, sometimes repeatedly and face monthly battles with pain, bloating, and scarring. Our organs shift, prolapse, even collapse, and yet we keep moving. Where we can we find an inner strength, we get up, show up, and paint smiles on our faces.
I’ve spoken about these experiences in my book Memory Boxes, where I explored the complex tapestry of womanhood. But today, from a place of forced rest and healing, I return to the page with a different kind of story one of waiting, of frustration, and ultimately, of quiet resilience.
It all began in May 2022, when my body whispered that something was wrong. Never seeing my doctor but having numerous visits with a healthcare practitioner by the November I was referred to York hospital. Early 2024 I finally saw a consultant, her diagnosis was clear: I’d need a surgery similar to one I had at 38 (a story that also lives within Memory Boxes). After being told my operation would happen in 2024, I felt ready. But then, in April, a sudden call changed everything: the original team could only do half the work. I was faced with a choice settle for a partial fix or be referred elsewhere. I chose the latter, because what’s the point of halfway healing?
The move to Sheffield came with new challenges; lost paperwork, unanswered calls, and a disheartening message: the waiting list was 12 months long, and I was at the very bottom. I sobbed. Not politely. It was an outpouring of 2 1/2 years of tension, of plans cancelled and hope postponed.
Planning anything, work, golf, holidays became an exercise in futility. I lived on standby, one eye always on the mailbox. I rang the admissions team every two weeks, chasing a cancellation, grasping at any sign that maybe, just maybe, I could reclaim some control. Each vague reassurance (“maybe March… or April… or May”) gave rise to hope, which was inevitably followed by heartbreak.
When the call finally came confirming a date, it was like sunlight breaking through months of cloud cover. I threw myself into preparing, tying off loose ends at work so I could return with a clean slate. But something cracked under the surface. I became gripped by anxiety, not about the operation itself, but about what came after. The pain. The helplessness. The things I couldn’t do.
I've been here before. Twenty years ago, I had keyhole surgery for an anterior prolapse, a bladder sling, and a hysterectomy. I was told that one day I’d need a posterior prolapse repair too. Well, that day came only this time, my bladder had moved again, creating another anterior prolapse, along with the need for a sacrospinous fixation to support everything that had started falling. In my friend’s words, “your undercarriage is falling out” and honestly, it felt like it.
This surgery would be keyhole through my stomach, using mesh and intricate internal stitching to hold me together. It sounds technical, but for me, it was deeply human. I was confronting not just the repair of my body, but the exhaustion of waiting, the emotional wear and tear of feeling unseen, unheard, and in limbo.
One week before the operation, I broke. The simplest challenge unravelled me. I couldn’t stop crying. My partner held me as I collapsed in tears, unsure how to help but unwavering in his support. At work, I couldn’t face smiling through it anymore. I reached out to my MD, Sarah, and she was a godsend, reassuring, generous, and compassionate. “Take all the time you need,” she said, and for the first time in a long while, I allowed myself to breathe.
Three years is a long time to wait for anything especially when what you’re waiting for is the chance to feel whole again. But here I am. Resting. Writing. Healing. Still very much a woman, still whole in more ways than I thought possible.