Four years ago, I decided to end the battle with the tumors in my womb and get a wombectomy– and yes, that’s totally a medical term for what I had done. A celebration was had, especially for my bank account for no longer having to pay the damn luxury tax on tampons and the like every month – AND YES, THAT’S A THING! Anyway, ever since my wombectomy, my lone ovary pitches a fit every once in a while to let me know it’s still there and still thoroughly pissed I took out all its friends.
It’s not a totally productive fit, like in the old days with its bloody scourge and week long of suffering for all around me but it’s pretty damn debilitating. Because, every month or every other month or on a Tuesday when the temp is below 30 and it’s snowing and the moon is hiding from the cold – whenever Lone Ovary decides it would be most inconvenient for me, it gathers its remaining hormones into the most obnoxious form possible; Mr. Migraine. And for three days, I moan and whimper and try not to wake the monster or move my face or my eyeballs or breathe, for Mr. Migraine is evil and vicious and cares not if I have things to do. Once, it attacked me in Scotland and stayed around taunting, spitefully disrupting plans in London and preventing a daytrip to Paris. Once, it knocked me down on the only pretty day in winter, forcing me to lie prone on the couch attempting to remove my eyeballs with my fingers. It is evil and rude and I am not a fan. And the medication I could take to shut the sucker up, to make it useless and ineffective is just as destructive to my system. As it beats the migraine senseless, the caffeine and whatever else rushes around my body sending my heart into dancing palpitations, tremors to my fingers, waves of nausea to my tummy and an unfocused squirrel to my brain. My dyslexia flares up to an almost hysterical stutter; I cannot spell a word let alone make a sentence and talking, well, it’s a feat best left to others. If it weren’t for spellcheck, this post would be a mass of consonants and vowels at an electronic rave. And, as I lie awake at 3am, every thought, fear and worry spins around the revolving door in my totally stoned brain. For four years, every month or every other month or on a Saturday when the temp is above 70 and the sun is shining and I have plans to play outside – whenever Lone Ovary decides to send me Mr. Migraine, I am forced to choose between lying comatose on the couch moaning and slowly dying or medicating my brain and body to an utterly useless state of stupid. Lone Ovary wants me to regret celebrating the wombectomy with such ferocity and joy. To feel guilty about every giggling fit I have had in the period paraphernalia aisle as I danced on by without opening my wallet. And that smug little smile that I cannot hide from my face when I see them pouring the blue liquid onto a pad on TV, I am regretting that. Lone Ovary and her friend, Mr. Migraine have a way of making me wish my womb back in me. Almost. Because when Lone Ovary is sleeping in her dark deep cave, life is good. So what if I’m a chipmunk on crack or a whimpering dying mess of pain for three days? At least it’s only three days every month or ever other month or when the sky is blue in January and I have to work. That’s better than seven days every month of throbbing bellyaches and worrying about leaks and the emotional roller coasters of tears. Or, as it was for me before the joyous wombectomy, a gruesome bloody battle with my body every single day for months on end. Today I am fragile, still dizzy from the drug, still worried that the cloak of pain from Mr. Migraine will cover my jittery brain.
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AuthorMy name is ej. I'm a girl. I say that because with the short hair and the short initials, folks aren't always sure. More brilliant insights to who I am in About me Archives
April 2019
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