Exalted and hallowed be Surgery’s great name
in the world where none of my gynecologist’s earlier ideas—
not the differently-dosed birth control pills, nor a specific intrauterine device,
nor a D&C—put an end to the mischief of those four fibroids,
to a daily life constrained by the mess, the pain,
the sheer weariness of endless blood and clots.
May Surgery’s majesty be proclaimed all the remaining days of my lifetime,
to which I say: Amen.
Blessed be Surgery’s great name.
Equally blessed, praised, honored, and exalted
be my gynecologist’s skill with a scalpel
once she yielded to my entreaties and accepted
that even if I met my soulmate the very next day
(which was unlikely, given the percentage of my waking hours
spent trapped within the four walls of my bathroom)
I’d long since passed the point
of seeking to preserve my fertility, such as it may yet have been,
my having already crossed the rubicon into my fifth decade
without any concerted effort to make use of it.
May there be abundant gratitude, too, that I opted for
the old-school, traditional approach.
Not for me the ultra-modern robotics, or something called “morcellation,”
the cancer-spreading and other consequences of which
you can read about these days in The New York Times.
May the freedom from those four freakingly frustrating fibroids,
the immeasurable improvement in my quality of life after Surgery,
bring peace to me, my loved ones, and everyone else with whom I interact.
To which I say: Amen.