Kicking Mother Nature to the Curb

Finallly! All these years, I thought the only end to my worrisome and bothersome uterus would be to have the damnedable thing removed. Like taken out. No, I am not one of those feminists who are attached to their “womanhood.” I say rip the sucker out if the time is right. Heck, I would have done it myself years ago, except I am not too good with pain and don’t have a very sharp knife. I have no use for Evil Witch Uterus. She brings me nothing but pain, loss of iron, and a mess in her monthly “gift.” Another weird-o remark from the 50s that I never agreed with. Ever.

I’m one of those people who have always actually been quite embarrased about my monthly “friend.” (She’s not really my friend, and anyone who thinks she’s a friend is just glad she’s not pregnant.) A friend doesn’t show up unannounced, like at a Christmas gathering with your entire family when you’re 14. A friend doesn’t cause you pain and agnony once a month. If you have a friend like this, ditch her or him, NOW. A friend doesn’t make you want to vomit every morning for three days because you feel like your insides are being ripped out without anesthetic. A friend doesn’t ruin your liver because you have to take so many Advil to get rid of her. A friend certainly doesn’t stain your clothing, your bed sheets, or your towels, and a friend most certainly doesn’t cause embarrassing accidents at work or social events. Again, if you have a friend like this, she or he isn’t your friend. She or he is your enemy.

I went for my yearly fun and exciting for all to be had visit to my gynecologist last week. Don’t get me wrong – he’s the bomb. He talked me into getting the BRAC test done (negative!), which honestly changed my life. He is one of the only men I have ever met, other than my Sweetie, who actually feels sorry for me for having to deal with my monthly friend. This time, I finally confessed that my friend had been very unpredictable and ingratiatingly persistent at times. All these years, I have been dealing with this. Sometimes hoping beyond all hope for early (like in my 30s) menopause, hot flashes be damned. Although I never hoped for a disorder that would cause the actual removal of all that useless plumbing, I certainly would have sacrificed my uterus to be the guinea pig for the new laporoscopic machine test at any time. Sign where? Yes, yes, I will.

So this time, he said something to me, and I swear I heard angels signing. He mentioned “ablation”, “outpatient procedure” and some other fancy words, but all I heard was a 70% chance that my monthly friend would never, ever make her appearance again. I was immediately sold. Again, sign where? Yes, in blood if required.

I had to have some blood work done. Not a needle fan, I was still game. Then came the super fun “internal” ultrasound. I’ll just let you fill in the blanks on that one. Suffice it to say that all was well. Scheduling was next, and I wanted the next plane off this unmagical island. Next Tuesday is the day that I pack this beatch’s bags and send her away to never never land forever. I already have them sitting by the front door, along with all the unused accoutrements I’ve bought over the past few months. She’ll need them where she’s going, to dry her tears of missing me I’m sure.

One thing I know for sure, though, is that I will never miss her. 30 years is far long enough to have put up with her unwelcome visits. It’s been a terrible run, and I love you and all (not!), but I gotta go.

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