Woman: An Intimate Geography (18 page)

Read Woman: An Intimate Geography Online

Authors: Natalie Angier

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redemption. As long as we're performing major surgery, let's make it a little more major, eliminate the risk of ovarian cancer, and put the woman on hormone replacement therapy afterward.
But the prophylaxis argument for ancillary organ removal is a dubious one that has outraged many. Unnecessary ovariectomy is rank castration, they say. What is the point of taking out healthy body parts on the small chance that they'll turn cancerous in the future? You might as well take out one kidney before it goes bum, or the 85 percent of the liver you don't need or, to return to the principle of genital equivalence, the testicles to prevent testicular cancer. Horbach had told Phillips during their consultation that she was strongly in favor of leaving the ovaries and tubes behind, and Phillips saw no reason to disagree.
Before they start removing the uterus, Horbach uses a wire to ligate off the major blood supply to the organ and thus cut down on bleeding. The surgeons scrutinize their target and soon realize that the operation will be more complicated than expected. The main fibroid is very large, and it has grossly deformed the uterus and cervix. It also has grown a big, parasitic blood supply to keep it nourished. Cancerous tumors do the same thing, inveigling the body to sprout new vessels to sustain them; all tissue, whether healthy or malign, needs blood to survive. The surgeons decide they will perform a partial myomectomy, cutting down on the fibroid in an effort to collapse the uterus and make the hysterectomy possible. They discuss how best to ligate and sever the tangle of fibroid blood vessels to prevent hemorrhaging. They find other, smaller fibroids stippling the uterus and making a mess for them. Horbach asks for an injection of vasopressin to constrict Phillips's blood vessels and further diminish bleeding. The doctors reach into the abdominal cavity practically up to their elbows and work with a concentration so palpable that I hold my breath in sympathy.
Ninety minutes pass. The surgeons are not tired, but I am tired for them. Finally they get to the point where they can start removing parts. The pieces are placed on a metal tray, and the nurse holds each one up for me to see. Phillips's cervix: a shiny, taffy-colored tubular structure that reminds me of the head of a penis. The fibroid: it is so big and purposeful in appearance that I can't believe it wasn't a functioning part of Phillips's anatomy. It looks like a turnip, a tough swirl of purplish tissue that Horbach says reminds her of brain tissue. The body of the

 

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uterus: at this point, not exactly photogenic. It is an unremarkable pouch about the size of a child's fist, a timorous adjunct to the fibroid that it sustained for so long.
With the cervix and uterus gone, Phillips's vagina now opens directly into her abdominal cavity, so the surgeons stitch it closed. The vagina may not be as dirty as legend has it, but it is an orifice, and you don't want it to serve as a gateway between the public and the personal. Horbach makes sure there is no "schmootzy tissue" left behind, fibroid remnants that could serve as a source of infection. Finally the doctors irrigate the excavated site with sterile water. Over time, Phillips's other viscera will reposition themselves and fill in the space where her reproductive organs once dwelled. The surgeons are ready to close up. Somebody changes the tape and the tempo. "Jazz is for opening, rock is for closing," Horbach says. The song that drifts out from the stereo is a lilting number called "Woman in Chains," which seems almost too blatantly appropriate. But is Phillips in chains, or is she being freed? The surgeons stitch up the layers they cut, working with firm delicacy. One of the residents does most of the stitching, and she clearly loves what she's doing. Her fingers fly. She looks like she's playing an instrument of sutures, fascia, fat, and skin. When the top layer of skin is sewn shut and the body restored to its preferred state of solitary confinement, Phillips's stomach looks surprisingly tidy, with no sign of the recent assault beyond a thin dark line. "We like to make the sutures as cosmetically good as possible, because that's what patients judge us on," says Horbach. ''They never see all the hard work we do inside." See, no, but feel how could they not?
The womb does not define a woman, philosophically, biologically, or even etymologically. A woman does not need to be born with a uterus to be a woman, nor does she have to keep her uterus to remain a woman. We don't want to fall into the trap of womb-worship, or hope that men suffer from womb envy. Very few of them do, and when they are around pregnant women, none of them do. And yet most of us have grown up with the familiar medical image of the female reproductive tract, the O'Keeffeian ram's head, its face the body of the uterus, its beard the cervix, its horns the fallopian tubes. We see this image and we think of the female pelvis, how fine the fit, triangle within triangle.

 

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Aesthetically, at least, we own the uterus; we feel comfortable about it. For about thirty-eight years of our lives, from age twelve to age fifty, we experience the customary tug and flow of the uterus in the form of menstruation. So what is the uterus, and what is its essential geography? Why is it so temperamental, prone to spawning growths that look like tubers dug up from the garden? Let us be appreciative and precise but not obsequious. The nonpregnant uterus is the size of a small fist; let us see how much punch that fist can pack.
In a sense, evolution adheres to the classic twelve-step program: it takes things one day at a time. It does not strive for perfection; it does not strive at all. There is no progress, no plans, no
scala natura
, or scale of nature, that ranks organisms from lowly to superior, primitive to advanced. A fly is brilliant at flydom, and wouldn't you love on occasion to see as a fly does, in all directions? If mammals strike us as higher and worthier and more compelling than insects, it helps to recall that this bias too is the result of evolution by natural selection. We tend to like that which seems most like us, because resemblance implies genetic relatedness, and we like our genes; they have given us us. The tendency to favor our personal gene pond over foreign waters is called kin selection, and it extends into many areas of our lives. It means that we will more readily help a relative than a stranger, and that we feel greater fellowship with a chimpanzee, or even a lion, than with some alien-looking organism that has an external skeleton, a segmented body plan, and appendages that bend backward. But just because we identify with hairy lactating warm-bloods doesn't mean that the mammalian order is any closer to the goddesshead.
Having said all that, I will now argue that the uterus was and is a magnificent invention, a revolution in physiology. I mentioned earlier that an internally conceived and gestated fetus is a protected fetus, and a protected fetus has the luxury of developing an elaborated central nervous system. The uterus and its attendant placenta mother the offspring as it will never be mothered again, not even by its own mother postpartum. The more mothered the animal is, the more apt it is to dominate its environment. At the moment, we placental mammals, we Eutherians, define the mammalian calling. Marsupial mammals certainly do a reasonable job of nurturing a larvalike fetus in their external pouch. Kangaroos are the deer of Australia, koala the squirrels. Here in

 

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the United States, opossums are a suburban staple or thorn and they are marsupials. Nevertheless, there are far more species of placental mammals than there are pouched ones, and Eutherians have populated far more habitats on earth. Could a humanlike brain have evolved in a species gestated in a pouch, or for that matter in a shelled egg? Probably not. The uterus in its bony and ligamentous pelvic cage is incomparably secure, and the placenta is incomparably nourishing. The womb may have nothing to do with the intellect of the woman who bears it, but it has everything to do with the brain of the fetus it bears.
A fetus certainly knows how good its life is. It does not leave the womb until forced to do so by the gradual retrenchment of the placenta the mother's body deciding, Enough, enough, we've done enough, out out damned tot! Sensing an impending drought, the fetus releases a series of biochemical signals that result in its expulsion from the only Eden it will ever know.
The geography of the uterus, then, cannot be disengaged from the organ's role as primal mother, fetal tent and fetal supermarket. Consider the contradictory features the womb must embody. It must be labile yet stable. It must be rich yet affordable. It must be capable of growing in adulthood as no other organ grows. It must communicate with the rest of the body, to discern where it is in the do-si-do between ovulation and menstruation. The uterus is a part of the endocrine system, the macramé of glands, organs, and brain structures that secrete and respond to hormones. It is enmeshed biochemically with the adrenals, the ovaries, the hypothalamus, and the pituitary. At the same time it is a privileged place, a dome apart, where the fetus will not be ejected by the body's xenophobic immune cells.
Structurally, the uterus is not complicated. In an adult woman who is not pregnant, it weighs about two ounces and is roughly three inches long. It has two parts, each making up about half its length: the body, or fundus, in which the fetus develops, and the cervix, which projects down into the vagina and opens slightly for the release of menstrual blood and more gapingly for the birth of a baby. If you look at the cervix from a gynecologist's-eye view, it resembles a glazed doughnut. A doctor who worked in a woman's health clinic once said that doing pelvic exams made her hungry, and she wasn't kidding or being lewd; she just liked doughnuts.

 

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In other ways the uterus is a sandwich, a muscle hero. The cervix and fundus are both composed of three tissue types. The meat in the middle is the thick myometrium, built of three interwrapping sheets of muscle. On the outside of the myometrium is a slick covering, the serous membrane, which is similar in texture and function to the sacs surrounding the heart and lungs. Like those sacs, the uterine serous membrane keeps the organ wet and cushioned.
On the other side of the myometrium is the uterine lining, the endometrium. The body likes to work in threes, and so the endometrium is made of three layers of mucous membrane. Unlike serous membrane, mucous membrane breathes and snorts and secretes. It absorbs water, salts, and other compounds. It releases mucus, a mixture of white blood cells, water, the sticky protein known as mucin, and cast-off tissue cells. Menstruation is in part a mucus discharge. During menstruation, two of the mucous sheaths are shed, thence to be reconstructed when the cycle begins anew. Like one who has reached enlightenment, the third, deepest endometrial layer escapes the wheel of death and rebirth, and it is to this stable foundation that a placenta moors itself if a fetus should be favored with a home.
Hippocrates thought that the womb wandered, and he meant
wandered
, took a transcorporeal journey up to the breastbone, even to the throat, becoming particularly frantic when it wasn't fed on a regular basis with semen. (By Hippocrates' estimation, the uterus of a whore would be far calmer than that of a virgin.) He was wrong, of course, but that does not mean the uterus is an immobile stone. In fact, it is springy and fungible. It is held loosely in its pelvic girdle by six ligaments, flexible bands of fibrous tissue that offer support for the organ and also enclose the blood vessels that nourish it. The position of the uterus shifts in the pelvis depending on whether you're prone or upright, your bladder is full or empty, and other such unremarkable circumstances. If you're sitting down now, not particularly in need of a toilet break, and not pregnant, your uterus is probably tipped slightly forward, its fundus leaning toward a spot an inch or two above your pubis, that hard bone in your crotch. If you were to stand up, again with an empty bladder, and push your shoulders back with military crispness, your uterus would assume a nearly horizontal position, like a pear that's fallen over.
The uterus is at its most physiologically flamboyant when preg-

 

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nant. An organ that weighs two ounces before pregnancy grows to two pounds by pregnancy's end, a gain that is independent of the weight of the fetus or placenta. Its volume increases a thousandfold. No other organ undergoes such dramatic changes in adulthood unless it is diseased. Yet give it a mere six weeks postpartum, and it has retreated to its fisty proportions. In effecting the changes of pregnancy, the myometrium does most of the heavy lifting. The muscle cells multiply at the beginning of pregnancy and then enlarge, or hypertrophy, in the second trimester, just as muscle cells elsewhere do if you diligently subject them to exercise. In the final trimester, the cells neither divide nor hypertrophy, but the whole uterine wall simply stretches and stretches and stretches, until you feel, mama, as though you might burst. In fact, rupture of the uterus during pregnancy is surprisingly rare. Placental mammals, after all, have been around for 120 million years, enough time to work out the bugs of the distendable womb.
As happens so often in life, the problem of expansion is solved through harmonious apposition. The placid Madonna, ha! A uterus in pregnancy is an arm wrestle between two well-matched, muscled dames. One arm starts to teeter, it pushes back upright, the other arm flags, and oomph into verticality again. Consider this: the uterus grows because during pregnancy your body is flooded with estrogen. Four thousand years ago, a woman wanting word of her condition mixed her urine together with barley seed; if the barley grew faster than usual, it signified pregnancy. No one knew it at the time, but the test probably worked because estrogen spurs the growth of many cell types mammal, insect, grain. It is a potent biotroph, an ancient signal from organismic Babel, as I will discuss in detail later. For now, suffice it to say that estrogen stimulates myometrial cells to divide and enlarge.
There's just one problem with the scheme. The hormone also throws muscle cells into a state of electrical excitation. It makes them twitch. A uterus that twitches too much is a uterus that expels a fetus. Therefore, even as it is urged to expand, the myometrium must be tranquilized. That is the job of progesterone, the so-called hormone of pregnancy; progesterone means progestation. Progesterone inhibits the contractibility of muscle cells. Throughout the whole nine months of baby-baking, the negotiation between estrogen and progesterone is a dynamic one. Small, fleeting contractions pass over the swelling womb like lo-

 

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