(Writing from February 15, 2011.)
Yesterday was Valentine’s Day. Also known as Monday, if you were me.
I’ve never liked the holiday. I am extremely, stubbornly, almost comically averse to all forms of manipulation, which made me a willful, hellish nightmare of a child for my poor mother. So the idea of a holiday that forces people to show their emotions to each other really gives me a case of the ass. I don’t even like greeting cards.
I also don’t like the idea of “being romantic.” It sounds smarmy and false, like saying “making love” instead of “having sex” or “fucking.” It gives me the willies when women talk about wanting their guy to bemore romantic. It’s like saying you want him to not be a guy anymore or something. Which is fine. But, like, you chose him, so it’s kind of unfair to change your mind this late in the game.
I know I should probably be a smart girl and use any excuse possible to receive chocolate and flowers, but I’ve never felt it. I also dislike red roses and diamonds because they are as unoriginal as it gets, so maybe that has something to do with it; I just really don’t like unoriginal displays of affection. I have no idea.
I am aware that by being too outspoken with my Valentine’s Day disdain, I am being a downer, and ironically enough, not terribly original, so I usually just keep my mouth shut and ignore it until it goes away. Kind of how I deal with it when someone is trying to talk about their version of religion with me.
My husband has been forbidden to partake in VD, and obliged me once again yesterday, bless his patient soul. I am oblivious to the date nowadays, and if it weren’t for Facebook, I wouldn’t have even realized it was a holiday.
I have wanted to write lately, and have been itching inside to write, but I have been unable to write for two reasons:
1. We were snowed in where I live, in Tulsa, Oklahoma, for two weeks. I’m kind of done whining about it because honestly, after two weeks trapped in a house with me, I’m sick of listening to myself. So let me just say that it snowed a lot, the kiddo was out of school for two weeks straight, and we couldn’t drive anywhere. This meant I was trapped in a small house with my husband and son, and that meant I really didn’t get a chance to write. Or to be alone for two seconds. Or to not feel trapped in that chewing-off-your-own-leg sort of way.
2. One of the things stressing me out lately, that I really want to talk about here, is too gross for sensitive ears.
I’m having girl troubles. Trouble with the plumbing. Female issues. Pick your polite-company euphemism and run with it. (I’ll just sit here with the heating pad clutched against my abdomen and watch you run, thanks.)
But it’s making me mad that I’m afraid to write openly about what’s happening to me in my own piddly little blog that maybe ten of my friends read.
It’s making me mad because it’s stupid that we act like a part of the body that 50% of the population possesses is too disgusting for discussion, despite the fact that the male equivalent is talked about all of the time. We can talk about penises, dick size extension, erections, pills for erections, with no trouble at all, but you mention your period, and half of the room groans. Never mind that every one of us is brought into the world by a uterus.
That’s right, my squeamish little chickens. A uterus grew you. Eeeeeew. You’ve touched an icky uterus. But seriously. Show some fucking respect. Your mom gave up ten months of drinking alcohol and her cute figure to bring your punk ass into the world, and all you can do is act like a little pussy over some menstrual blood? You should be raising a toast to your mother’s blessed vagina every time you drink a beer, and pouring out a little on the ground in honor of the dead pre-pregnancy wardrobe she’ll never fit into again.
So as you’ve probably noticed, I’m done with the whole not-talking-about-it thing.
Because maybe if people were allowed to comfortably talk about things like this, I wouldn’t be desperately searching the internet, trying to figure out what the fuck is wrong with my body. Nobody talks about this shit, and it makes me angry.
About six months ago, I was at my yearly gynecological “well woman” exam, and I mentioned some odd things my body was doing for which I thought perimenopausal hormones might be responsible, like sweating, mood swings, and sleep disturbances.
My doctor scoffed at me, telling me I was too young to be starting perimenopause, despite the fact that all of the women in my family finish menopause earlier than average. (We all get our periods at 11, so it kind of makes sense.)
He even invalidated my concerns by joking to me, “Well, you’re too young for that, but you can blame your mood swings on that if it makes you feel better.”
Hardy fucking har.
When I told my mom what he’d said, she was indignant.
“Did you tell him that your mother was completely finished with menopause by 43?”
“Yes, Mom. I told him.”
“Did you tell him that all of your aunts did the same thing?”
“Yep. He just made a lame PMS joke about my symptoms.”
So of course, a few months later, my periods just stopped. Nothing for two months.
Five pregnancy tests later, I realized that ha ha ha, the universe ishilarious, and there would be no second child that I’ve always wanted magically growing in my womb, somehow defying the odds of my husband’s vasectomy a few years ago. (He quickly realized we couldn’t afford another child and got it done as soon as possible. He has more sense than me.) (I just want to buy tiny leopard skin coats and My Little Ponies for a baby girl. Is that so wrong?)
Nope. Not pregnant, just old. Oh, so very old.
After two months of nothing, my period started again on January 3rd, and hasn’t stopped since. I’ve been heavily bleeding for 45 days straight and counting.
I have always had really mild, regular, four day periods. I sometimes would feel crummy and crampy on the first day, but otherwise no big deal. But whatever is happening to my body right now is worse than any period I’ve ever had, and it’s been happening for 45 days in a row. It’s wearing me out. I spend days in bed when my kid is at school because I’m always exhausted.
If I sound dramatic, imagine yourself leaving a toilet bowl full of blood every single time you go pee, and you’ll understand why I’m so tired. It’s unnerving and scary, and every time I go to the bathroom, I have a minor freak out. I’m starting to wonder why I’m still alive, because the life is quite literally draining out of me. I’m relieved that my husband is the same blood type as me, because I think I’m going to need to borrow a pint soon.
I was supposed to have a sonogram/ultrasound two weeks ago, but then the snowstorms hit our city and shut everything down, so my appointment got canceled and moved. Now it’s coming up this Thursday, and I am relieved that we will hopefully figure out what’s causing this, but scared of the possibilities. It could be just hormones causing the bleeding, but it could also be cysts or fibroids.
If it is just hormones, then I qualify for a procedure called Novasure, in which the doctor will insert a rod in through my cervix out of which opens a mesh device that conforms to the shape of the uterus. Radio wave technology is then used to cauterize the walls to prevent them from rebuilding, hopefully ending my periods forever.
If I have fibroids or cysts, or if the Novasure procedure doesn’t work, I will have to get a hysterectomy.
I really don’t want a hysterectomy.
So that’s what’s happening in my life, and why I’ve been lame about writing lately. Snow and blood. Lots and lots of snow and blood.
Happy Valentine’s Day!