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Tick. Tick. Tick.
The clock in my OB-GYN’s office was taunting me.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
Any moment, I thought, this could kill me.
For more than a year, I knew something was wrong. Crippling migraines radiated through my skull, I would get dizzy standing up, and I felt like I was being ripped apart from the inside during my period. Every month, my husband offered to take me to the emergency room after I doubled over in pain. I usually objected, convinced I’d be brushed off because, well, periods are supposed to hurt.
As it turns out, periods aren’t supposed to hurt that bad. A cyst the size of a peach was growing in my ovary, and they found an even bigger fibroid was on the back of my uterus. An urgent care doctor said I had to find an OB-GYN. I likely needed a hysterectomy, she said.
[In the Texas Panhandle, nurses make home visits to new moms in need]
“You’re done having kids, right?” She asked.
I had told her 10 minutes before that I didn’t have any children yet.
I’m 33. My husband, Johnathon, and I married in 2022, after five years together. The doctor’s words cut especially deep because this was the year we wanted to start a family.
My body was frozen, but my mind was racing. What does this mean? Am I in danger? She said hysterectomy. I have to be in danger.
That was January. Yesterday, we published the second story in a series dedicated to maternal health in the Texas Panhandle, in partnership with the Journalism and Women Symposium. My reporting paints a bleak picture for women who live north of me in and around Amarillo, where health care is difficult to come by.
The same can be said around Lubbock in the South Plains, where I’ve always called home. As I was working on that project, I was on the brink of an emergency with my own reproductive health.
My experience showed me a little bit of everything wrong with our health care system, including the high costs and how hard it is to see a doctor. Conditions like uterine fibroids, tumors that grow in the uterus, are common — 26 million women in the U.S. are affected by them, women of color more. And up to 77% of women develop fibroids during their childbearing years. And yet, many go undiagnosed because of a lack of public education and research.
The rest of that day, my phone was hot from calling nearly every OB-GYN in Lubbock. I told them how big both masses were and cried while I waited on hold. Some weren’t accepting new patients, some said it wasn’t severe enough, and others had waitlists as far out as 2025.
[As a Texas city debates an abortion travel ban, maternal care is scarce in nearby rural counties]
I didn’t have that kind of time.
I finally found an OB-GYN’s nurse who could see me, then refer me to the doctor if needed. It was an extra step, but I just wanted to get in the door. From the time I was diagnosed to when I met my new doctor, a month passed; it was the end of February. Every day felt like a day too long.
She got straight to the point — the cyst was dangerous. At any moment, it could flip and twist my ovary, which could make me lose the ovary or, in rare cases, cause infertility. It had to be removed.
Then there was the fibroid. It was closer to the size of a grapefruit but I could live with it. If we took the cyst but left the fibroid, there would be no guarantee that my pain would go away. This option meant a more extensive abdominal surgery, paired with a longer and harder recovery.
I booked the surgery to remove both. My doctor had an opening six weeks away — an eternity handcuffed to my cyst. Intrusive thoughts swirled around my head: What if the cyst flipped? What if it popped? My internet search history reflected my anxiety: “Can a cyst make my ovary explode?”
Words like “common,” “harmless,” and “without treatment” weighed heavily. My assailants were huge. I was part of the 8% of women who develop large cysts that needed treatment.
I won a lottery I never wanted to play.
I scrolled social media endlessly for other women’s experiences. Some women with more fibroids or bigger cysts than mine commented that they couldn’t afford their surgeries yet. It gave me a small taste of survivor’s guilt. For so many people, medical care is a matter of debt or health, and some don’t have the option to choose. I could split the $2,600 I had to pay upfront between two credit cards, and suffer with interest later.
A few days after scheduling, my doctor’s office called and said my surgery was moved up to the following week. Someone else had canceled, and I was their first call.
I wasn’t even close to coming to terms with my body betraying me. And I was frustrated with myself. I have reported on health care for years, and yet I fell into the same trap as so many of the people I’ve written about.
An urgent health issue caused by ignoring routine care? Check. A long wait because patients outnumber providers in my area? Check. Sticker shock from what it would cost to return to a clean bill of health? Check.
It was a cycle I couldn’t escape. I was stuck in anger, close to depression, but far from acceptance.
By the morning of my surgery, some of my anger was replaced with resolve. I checked in, begrudgingly paid $100 toward my growing hospital bill, and tried to stay calm while my husband, parents and sister distracted me. My doctor stopped by my room to remind me that she’s done this hundreds of times. She was confident. I was terrified.
Bright bunnies for Easter led the way along the walls of the hall toward the surgery center. I wondered if it was too late to turn back now.
Then, as my eyelids grew heavier from the anesthesia, I finally felt calm.
I woke up a few hours later. A little blue pillow, sewn by a local church, was on my midsection. I moved it and felt the bandages covering the seven-inch cut along the bottom of my stomach.
The surgery went as planned. She got everything, didn’t find any more growths, and took photos in case I wanted to see, which I did. The fibroid looked like an anatomical heart. The cyst that I was so afraid of, was like a water balloon. Nurses warned me I would feel sore as the shots to numb my stomach muscles wore off.
I told myself to breathe. It’s over.
But, the truth is I’m not sure if this is ever actually going to be over. Depression hit when I had my first period post-surgery — it was the most painful in my life. My body ached any time I got up, walked around, or even coughed. I wondered if the surgery and all the pain from recovering was even going to be worth it.
Then there’s the scar. It’s different from the one on my arm when I scraped it against my car’s trunk as a teenager. It’s not like a scratch from my cat. It’s dark and sensitive to the touch. I see it and relive the whole experience all over again.
Months later, it’s a good reminder of how I survived something that could have destroyed me.
I think back to the eight weeks between my diagnosis and my surgery, and I’m proud of how I managed to keep it together and write and prepare, knowing what was growing inside me. My friends, who know my love for horror movies, joke that I’m a real scream queen now, since I’ve been sliced open and lived to talk about it.
The price of everything does frustrate me when I look back on it. Some charges included $37 for inserting the needle in my vein for a blood sample or $11 per ibuprofen pill. After the first 30 minutes of my surgery, I was charged for every minute I was on the operating table. In the recovery room, I was charged per minute after the first 15 minutes while the anesthesia wore off. Before insurance, the surgery was nearly $31,000. My share after insurance was nearly $5,000.
There is something surreal about knowing the faults of our health care system first-hand now, instead of through collecting other people’s stories. I still feel random rushes of pain, though not nearly as powerful as they were before. I’ll probably always be worried that any little sign of change in my body, like my hair not growing or the return of my dizzy spells, means something is growing back.
All I can do is go to my annual screenings and stay ahead of it.
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