Empty

In early February 2020, my husband and I checked into a quaint condo in New Orleans’ French Quarter. We needed a break from our usual lives: My husband worked as a psychiatrist, listening to his patients’ stories of trauma and pain; he was exhausted. I too am a physician; I felt burned out by my administrative job, where I was regularly yelled at and insulted by other physicians.

We hadn’t been coping well. Every evening we sat in front of the television to numb ourselves and quiet the stress enough to go to bed and fall asleep. Gradually, over the years, almost without our noticing, physical closeness had faded from our marriage. We wanted, needed something to change—and New Orleans seemed like a possible remedy.

The trip started well enough, with some extravagant meals, luxurious naps and long walks hand in hand, accompanied by buoyant jazz pouring from every club and bar. After a couple of days, we started looking good to each other again.

That is, until I went to the bathroom and saw blood on the toilet paper.

I stared at it, tore off new toilet paper and wiped again. Still there. I was sixty-four years old. I should not be bleeding.

I explained what was going on to my husband. His face blanched. He nodded. We both knew that in a woman of my age, bleeding means cancer until proven otherwise. Our romantic vacation dissolved.

Back home, I saw my doctor, had tests and made an appointment with a gynecologist for a biopsy. The results: well-differentiated endometrial cancer.

I was referred to a gynecologic oncologist for a hysterectomy, but because of COVID, the hospital had closed its doors to all non-emergency care. It took four months to get the surgery I needed.

I remember how nervous I felt about the cancer, the surgery, the pain and the embarrassment of being naked and restrained on the operating table in front of students, nurses, residents and doctors. My surgeon cut out my uterus, cervix, tubes, ovaries and lymph nodes, severing nerves and blood vessels along the way, until I had nothing female left inside me. I pictured my pelvis as a vast, gaping space filled with pain.

The first three days at home were rough. By day four the pain went away—but the sense of emptiness did not. Even though I had a 96 percent chance of cure, my fear of recurrence persisted. Realizing that I needed to jettison my work stress, I decided to quit my job and retire.

I’m going to get healthy, I told myself.

What I actually did, though, was sink into my recliner chair and stop trying. I ate comfort food, watched TV, read novels and tried not to snap at my husband when he came home with a litany of reasons why he hated his job. He felt unhappy; I felt empty.

After about a year of emotional paralysis, we tried to be physically intimate for the first time since the surgery. I could tell that my husband felt as nervous as I did. We cuddled, then tried to go further—but it didn’t go well.

“Things are different down there,” he said. “Your anatomy is different.”

I didn’t tell him that I couldn’t feel much of anything. Nothing excited me anymore; I felt lacking. I’d never thought that my uterus would define me, but in a way, it had. Without it, I felt defective.

As time went on, I felt mired in sadness and disconnection. I knew that I had to make some kind of change.

It occurred to me that, when I was young, listening to music had quelled my anxieties and helped me get through troubled times. I went in search of new (to me) music.

I stumbled across an Irish musician named Hozier, whose songs I’d loved years before. I listened to all the music he had put out. I liked his voice. I liked his interesting mix of old-timey blues with rock and folk. And I liked his recurring message that sex and love can be redemptive and should be celebrated. In his lyrics, I found stories about how closeness between two people can get them through terrible things.

I stared at photos of him with wonder: He was tall, bearded, with glorious long hair and kind eyes. I felt like I was falling in love.

He reminded me of my husband when we’d first met—tall and slim, with dark hair and beard. I remembered my husband’s smile that day, the feel of his hug, how well we fit. How we knew right from the beginning that the many parts of us belonged together.

I listened to Hozier’s music over and over, analyzing every line of every lyric. I told my husband that I had a crush on the guy. He laughed.

“Whatever works,” he said. It turned out that he, a classical music connoisseur, liked Hozier’s music, too.

With Hozier’s unwitting encouragement echoing in my head, I decided to take a risk one night. I moved the cat off the bed, snuggled against my husband’s sleeping body and put his heavy arm around me. I slept there, cradled in his breathing. When he woke up, he found me—and embraced me. He remembered this body of mine.

I knew that I wasn’t the same as I used to be; I still felt defective much of the time. My husband, for his part, repeatedly spoke about feeling and looking old. Nevertheless, we realized that even though things don’t always work the way they used to, we still love each other.

I pulled myself out of my stupor to complete a book-length memoir, which helped me to better understand how I got to where I was and why I deserved to forgive my failings. My husband decided to retire, which helped him to relax and regroup. We started going out on dates again, working together in the yard, talking over family issues and dealing with stressors together.

Over the years, like the characters in Hozier’s songs, we have weathered difficulty and found that kindness and gentleness have persisted in our relationship. We recognize that despite our imperfections—or maybe because of them—we fit. As long as we talk and hug and are intimate once in a while, we are solid. And we listen to Hozier once in a while, too. His duet with Barbra Streisand, “The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face,” always brings tears to my husband’s eyes.

We are grateful that despite the difficulties we have endured, we’re still able to be moved by music.

And by each other.