I have the right to be seen

The morning I wore my hospital gown and I learned what it really means to be heard.

546 days.

That’s how long I waited. Almost two years of carrying something I didn’t talk about. Something deeply personal. A woman’s secret. The kind that doesn’t come up in casual conversations or get shared around the office coffee machine. Uterine and bladder prolapse. Words that make people uncomfortable. Words that tend to fall into silence the moment they’re spoken.

The burden of silence

They say one in three women is affected. And still, most of us endure it in silence, standing tall, holding it together, pretending. We adjust. We cope. We carry pain that’s invisible to others. And often, we carry shame. Shame for having a body that no longer holds. Shame for something we were never taught to name, let alone talk about.

That morning, I was anxious. My heart raced. I had read the studies, I knew that more than 80% of women who undergo this surgery feel an improvement in their quality of life. But numbers don’t always ease fear. Fear isn’t logical. It lives in your chest, your breath, your belly. Especially when it’s your body about to be cut.

And then something shifted.

I arrived at Royal Victoria Hospital and from the moment I walked in, I felt it. The difference. No glazed-over eyes. No rehearsed lines. Every staff member I encountered moved with intention, not rushed, not detached. Their words landed. Their gestures felt real. It was as though they had been trained not only to treat but to care. Not just to heal bodies, but to see people.

Even in that paper-thin gown the one that leaves you exposed in every way, I didn’t feel reduced. I didn’t feel like a file or a bed number. I felt like a whole person. Seen. Held. Respected.

And then came THE nurse.

She walked in to review my chart. I had questions. Small requests, the kind we often swallow because we don’t want to seem difficult. My voice trembled, but I asked.

And she listened. I mean really listened. She looked me in the eyes. She didn’t type. She didn’t glance at the clock. She was there, fully. Her presence wasn’t hurried. It was human.

When I told her how hard it was for me to even ask for what I needed, she paused. A real pause. The kind that says, “I’m with you.” And then she said, gently and clearly:

“Ma’am, I want you to remember something: every time you come to the hospital, every time you go to a clinic, every time you speak with a doctor, you are the client. You have the right to ask questions. You have the right to understand what’s happening to your body. That is your right.”

And something in me melted.

I cried. Not because I was afraid, but because I felt seen. Because I remembered I had the right to take up space.

We forget that, don’t we? We shrink inside the system. We become so grateful for basic care that we silence ourselves. We say thank you quietly. We apologize for needing help. We try to be easy, polite, low-maintenance.

But that day, one nurse reminded me I was still allowed to be whole. That I had agency. That I had a voice. And that my voice still mattered.

She saw me. And in that moment, I remembered I mattered too.

She gave me more than medical care. She gave me dignity. She didn’t just treat a body, she honored a human being.

So if you’re reading this…

If you’re living with prolapse, If you’ve felt alone, embarrassed, unsure , please know:

• You are not alone

• It’s not your fault

• There are options

• And you deserve to be heard

And if you work in healthcare, you carry more power than you realize.

Your words. Your presence. Your care. They can restore what someone thought they had lost.