Two weeks before my scheduled hysterectomy, I received a phone call that completely shook me. My OB-GYN had canceled the surgery. Just like that. No explanation, no “we’ll reschedule soon” — just a flat “it’s not going to happen.” I sat there in silence, trying to process what was happening, but it felt surreal.
This wasn’t some casual, run-of-the-mill procedure. I had cancer in my uterus, along with endometriosis, adenomyosis, and PCOS. Every single day felt like a battle. Walking hurt. Sex hurt. Peeing hurt. Even lying down was a challenge. And the bleeding—oh, the bleeding. I could never predict when it would start, so I’d had to wear a diaper just to avoid the mess and humiliation of it all.
For months, I had been trying to get the surgery scheduled. I wanted relief. I wanted the chance to live a life without constant pain. I had done everything I was supposed to do. Back in June, I had my pre-op appointment. I sat across from my OB-GYN, making sure everything was good to go. And I asked her the important question: “I had bariatric surgery five weeks ago—will that affect the hysterectomy?” I was worried that the timing might be too close, and I wanted to make sure it wouldn’t cause complications.
Her answer was reassuring. She told me the weight loss would actually help with the surgery and recovery. No problem at all. I left that appointment feeling hopeful, confident even, that the surgery would happen as planned. I could finally see a light at the end of the tunnel.
But now, here I was, two weeks away from my surgery date, and it was all falling apart. When I asked my doctor about the cancelation, she simply said she didn’t recall the conversation we’d had about the bariatric surgery. She seemed indifferent. She said that I had “a lot going on” with my care team, and that I wasn’t a priority. Not a priority. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.
I’m in constant pain. I’m living with cancer and all these other conditions that make every single day a struggle. And yet, I was told that I wasn’t a priority? That my health, my pain, and my very life didn’t matter as much as other patients or other things going on in her schedule?
I felt a wave of anger and helplessness. This was my life we were talking about. I’ve been through so much—physically, emotionally, mentally. And now I was left with no clear answers, just a phone call and a doctor who seemed to dismiss me as just another name on her list.
I asked her what I should do for the pain. The response was almost as if she hadn’t been listening at all. “Take some Tylenol,” she said flatly.
I was stunned. Tylenol? This wasn’t a headache I could power through with some over-the-counter meds. This was constant, debilitating pain. It felt like being told to just grin and bear it—like my suffering wasn’t significant enough to warrant a real solution. I tried to hold back my tears, but it wasn’t easy. The weight of it all hit me hard in that moment.
As I left the office, I couldn’t help but wonder how it had come to this. How could someone who was supposed to be on my side, who was supposed to help me, turn their back on me so easily? I had trusted her. I had believed in the plan. And now, I was left with nothing but uncertainty.
I know I need to keep fighting. I need to find someone who will listen to me, who will take my pain seriously, and who will help me find a way out of this nightmare. But it’s hard. It’s exhausting. It feels like I’m constantly pushing against a wall, always having to prove my worth, my pain, my humanity. And for what? So I can finally get the treatment I need?
I’ve been forced to face the reality that, for some doctors, their patients are just names on a chart, a list of cases to get through. I am not just a number. My life matters. My pain matters. I just have to find a doctor who will see that too.
I refuse to accept being treated this way, and I won’t let this setback define me. I’ll keep searching for answers, for compassion, for the care I deserve. Because at the end of the day, I know I’m worth it.
