Two men walk into a sauna

AKA a lesson in giving zero f*cks about all the wrong things.

Their round, hairy bellies entered the sauna before their booming voices broke through the dense air and interrupted my thoughts. The two men spoke in a language I didn’t recognise – something Eastern European? – and when they laughed, their old bodies shook rapturously with them.

I looked up from where I sat on the top wooden bench closest to the stove – the hottest area in the compact six-person sauna in our apartment complex – met their eyes and nodded hello. They settled on the bottom bench at the opposite end and returned to their conversation, the deep cadence of their voices mingling with the thick heat, leaving me alone with my thoughts once again. And, as it tended to do at seemingly inconsequential times in my life that later turned out to be pivotal, it was that elusive, wise part of me that spoke up.

Well, this is a bit ridiculous, isn’t it?

I suppressed an annoyed smile.

Yes, brain. Yes, it is.

Only moments earlier, I’d been alone yet self-conscious, uncomfortably hot in the shorts and shirt I’d worn to hide my bloated stomach, which on that particular day had expanded beyond my usual threshold for tolerance. I’d gone into the sauna desperate for relief. My inappropriate clothing choice meant I was punishing myself instead.

I was annoyed that in my effort to cover up my pregnant-looking belly, I was suffering. I hated how I looked. I hated that I was spiralling when I objectively knew that feeling inadequate because I didn’t have a flat stomach was absurd, stupid, and entirely unmotivating, which is why I’d been preachy about having non-aesthetic health goals for years, so why hadn’t I just gone into the sauna in my bikini as normal?

Now, here I was with all the sanctity of a self-flagellating nun, sharing a sauna with two old men in their tiny short-shorts, and their big old bellies, who gave zero fucks about how they looked. These men were compelled to hide shit-all. They took up space with the entirety of their glorious selves when I felt like I had to do the opposite.

That was the last time I went into a sauna dressed like that.

I’ve been thinking a lot about bodies since that day. About how easily it could have been to go down a route of restrictive eating and punishing exercise in the pursuit of a body ideal that’s been lauded as the picture of health but rarely is. To finally get rid of the “mum pouch” as one fitness influencer disappointingly puts it, as if it were an offence to humanity that the female form changes after growing and giving birth to a child.

I’ve been thinking about how the whole body love ideology had failed me too. How for years I’d lived with the constant, growing discomfort – punctuated by heavy and painful periods – as something completely normal. That was just the way my body was, right? Love it as it is!

That day in the sauna was my breaking point. When I returned home and peeled off the heavy, wet clothing, I decided I’d take care of my body better than I had before. My workout choices became more nuanced. I made an effort to eat more vegetables, drink less booze. I slept through my 5am alarm when I needed to; went to the sauna when I could. But the biggest change came when I finally listened to what my body had been trying to tell me for years.

And it’s led me to this moment where I’ve been confronted with a decision I didn’t think I’d ever have to make – to have a hysterectomy.

I sat stunned in the hospital’s gynaecological clinic as the words, “strongly suggest”…

“in your situation”…

and “remove the uterus and cervix”…

left the doctor’s mouth.

I’d arrived at that appointment anxious at the prospect of needing an operation – I was still scarred by the caesarean I had three years earlier. But a hysterectomy? It wasn’t what I’d expected to hear that day, and I told the doctor so.

Part of me felt validated that someone had finally recognised the seriousness of what I’d been feeling for so long. But a greater part of me felt pissed off that I’d minimised my own experience for years only to end up here.

Here, in this place where I have no idea what to do next.

But what I do know is that I’m more resolved about this than ever before: I’m not fucking hiding anymore. No one should feel like they need to.

Until the next 3am Huddle,

Lizza x

Photo by HUUM on Unsplash