Goerwitz

Written for other men with women in their lives who are going through a similar experience (note: if you are one of the many sad cases who found this page because it uses words like pubic hair, breast, and sexual, don't even bother reading on; this page is for men with real lives—and real women)

The Discovery

At my wife's last annual exam our family doctor noticed that her right ovary was enlarged. To investigate why, she sent her for a pelvic ultrasound. The ultrasound revealed a mass growing inside her about the size and shape of a small pear. Since our family doctor was a generalist, and didn't handle specific problems like this, she referred my wife to a specialist—in this case, to a gynecologist.

The Specialist

When my wife first told me about the mass, I recall having a number of concerns. The biggest concern was the obvious: that she might have some serious form of cancer. I remember also being a bit overwhelmed at at all the pictures, charts, and assessments being done on my wife's private parts. Fortunately for her, both her regular doctor and the gynecologist were female.

As an aside: I frankly can't imagine how any woman with a choice could put herself under the care of a male gynecologist. Males as a group just don't listen well, and the way the US healthcare system currently selects and trains physicians assures us than many of them will be arrogant A-types. Also, men undeniably commit nearly all violent/sexual crime, and virtually all women have had to deal (some regularly) with unpleasant things men do and say to them sexually. So while I'm sure most male gynecologists are competent professionals, if I were a woman, and I had a choice, I'd frankly rather take my chances with a female than a male gynecologist. They're just more likely to listen and empathize. (I've found as I've gotten older that I've also come to prefer female physicians, especially smart, middle aged ones. I have more to say about this elsewhere.)

Anyway, after two visits, with tests and ultrasounds, my wife's gynecologist concluded that her mass was probably a thing called an endometrioma. But the only way to know for sure was through surgery. And, since the mass would need to come out whether or not it was an endometrioma, there didn't seem any other option but to go under the knife.

What Is an Endometrioma?

Every month, when your wife has her period, her uterine tissue bleeds. Sometimes small amounts of this tissue can migrate to places outside the uterus. When it migrates to other places it doesn't just stop bleeding. It bleeds wherever it is. And if it becomes embedded in the tissue it has migrated to, this bleeding can create a slowly growing balloon-like structure. This balloon-like structure is called an endometrioma, otherwise known as a chocolate cyst, (so called because that's the color the blood inside the "balloon" turns after it's had a chance to sit there a while).

Although my wife's chocolate cyst didn't hurt, after the surgery she told me that she had long felt a dull thud inside her during sex. I was left kind of wondering whether she actually hadn't been enjoying sex—which most guys secretly worry about anyway from time to time (at least those of us who saw Meg Ryan in When Harry Met Sally).

Meeting the Surgeon

When my wife met with the gynecologist to talk about her condition and about surgery, I went along. The gynecologist said that she would try to do everything through three small incisions, one in my wife's belly button, and the other two below her pubic hair line. If necessary (e.g., if the cyst was too big), she said she would switch, in midstream, to a more invasive procedure called a laparotomy.

I squirmed a bit while she explained these options. The surgeon barely looked at me the whole time, and I felt like an outsider. In retrospect, I don't see why she should have taken any notice of me. After all, it wasn't my innards that were going under the knife. But at the time I felt out of the loop; useless.

Really, though, I played a critical role. My wife needed me there to give her a second point of view—when and if she wanted one. She also needed me to let her know that I saw the gravity of the situation, and that I would be willing to do a lot of extra work while she was recovering. The last thing she needed right then was to be stuck alone in a surgeon's office, imagining herself lying in a hospital room (and later in bed at home) with nobody to help her, while an unconcerned mate let her home and family go to pot.

The Surgery

From the time I went to see the gynecologist up until the week before surgery I pretty much put the whole thing out of my mind. That last week I started sleeping roughly, worrying about my wife. The night before the surgery was a mess, and I don't think I slept more than four or five hours. When it came time to get up, I was tired, but aware enough to be helpful, and to reassure her that I would take care of anything that came up. When we got to the hospital, she had to undergo some tests and do some waiting, and I found myself getting impatient towards the end. I sat with her, held her hand, made small talk with the people who were sticking needles into her, and helped her any way I could. As they wheeled her into the operating room I thought, "This can't be actually happening." I then went down to the hospital lobby, and waited some more.

For the first hour I sat. Then I paced. By the time the surgeon came down to tell me she was finished (two and a half hours later), I had pretty much lost interest in everything but the elevator door I knew she'd be coming out of when she was through.

Days later my wife said that the two and a half hours had seemed like moments to her.

Recovery

The surgeon seemed pretty pumped about the surgery. Euphoric almost. She showed me pictures of the blue-tinged endometrioma she cut out while I feigned interest. I like her a lot, and respect her skills. I'm also as curious as the next guy—and I like surgeons who keep us patients informed. But at that particular moment all I wanted to know was why the surgery took so long, and how she expected my wife to do. The bottom line was that the surgery took a long time because she'd had to do a laparotomy.

My wife was fine, but she was going to be groggy for several hours, so the doctor told me to let her be until that evening. My son was in school (and had been shielded, to some extent, from the potential seriousness of the situation), so I didn't take him out of school or anything. Actually, I went into work and busied myself with trivial things for an hour and a half. Then I went home and told my son, fresh home from school and seemingly unruffled, that his mother was fine, and that we'd visit her that night.

The Hospital Stay

I called my wife later that day, and visited her, with my son, at 6:00 PM that evening. When I first saw her, I was surprised. She looked pale and unsteady, and her abdomen had swollen up so much that she could hardly bend. I just smiled, gingerly hugged her, and tried to cheer her up. We played cards while my son and I nibbled on her dinner leftovers. Despite her discomfort (and her pain medication), she had her wits sufficiently about her to clobber us both at hearts. One game was enough, though, and my son and I (though wishing to stay longer) really didn't have much choice but to leave her around 7:30 and let her go back to sleep.

The Next Few Days

Although my wife hates lying in hospital beds, she stayed there for three days. I might have been inclined to worry about the medical bills, but we have a very good medical plan through my employer, Brown University, and we were therefore able to concentrate on getting my wife well.

I'll never forget pacing slowly around the hospital with my wife, as she struggled to walk. She was singularly unprepared for just how uncomfortable and disfiguring abdominal surgery could be. I reminded her of what she knew already, namely that the doctor had said that six weeks wasn't an uncommon recovery period for such operations, and that nobody seemed concerned about any lack of progress.

I hated the thought of her being in the hospital, and although I knew she wouldn't be much help to me at home, I was very, very happy when her doctor said I could take her away.

Recovery at Home

The first week of recovery at home went about how we expected. My wife did a few things around the house, but mostly took it easy. One of her big frustrations was that she was just too tired and sore to do much (stairs, e.g., were a problem), and that she was unable to fit into anything but sweatpants and loose skirts.

Over the next month, things slowly returned to normal. After two weeks she was allowed to start driving again. Somewhere in there we also started having sex again—I think even enjoying it. By four weeks, she was still feeling pain now and then. But by six weeks, she had recovered almost fully.

Reflections

Really the only advice I can give other men in this situation is to be helpful and confident, and to prepare yourself to take care of things so that your wife doesn't have to worry. (She will, anyway.) Try to be the hero, even if your inclination is to feel sorry for yourself for having to carry a bigger workload at home. Take a look also at the story of these same events, written by my wife; try to see things through her eyes.

To women my only comment is that, to us men, women's private parts are sometimes pretty mysterious. We ourselves generally don't get to see them as often as we'd like. And in situations like my wife's endometrial ordeal we end up just waiting, wondering, "What are these strangers doing to my woman?" Also, "Will she want me when they're through poking and cutting?" And, the usual self-centered, "Just how much more housework am I going to be doing now?"

I don't expect that women will fully understand the workings of the male mind. In our own strange and imperfect way, though, we love you—probably more than you know.

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Amy and Richard Goerwitz
Amy@Goerwitz.com
Richard@Goerwitz.com