I forgot to tell you, I have gas! I have gas!
I haven’t been so excited to tell the world I have gas since three days after my womb-ectomy when the nurse asked me for the billionth time if I had passed gas and I was finally able to tell her I had. And tell her I did. I shouted it as she walked into the room. “I DID IT! I FARTED! I PASSED GAS!”
Boy, was that a brilliant moment of pride for me.
Not really - but the drugs were really good. Along with taking away my pain and making my big bloated body feel as tiny and floaty and delicate as a dancers body, the drugs made my shame disappear. And as my shame went away, I was happy to share all my intimate body issues with whoever walked in the door. “Hey, random stranger? Wanna see my stiches?” “I'm not wearing underwear. Check out this bruise on my hip. Isn’t it pretty?” “Come on touch my belly. It’s all water and it squishes.” All my friends and relatives were terrified to come into the room. The nurses thought I was hysterical. Husband horrified. It was awesome.
I'm not kidding. Husband was unsure how to handle me, what with all the giggling, the sharing of all my feelings and, in particular, telling everyone about my body functions. And this is the guy who LOVES to talk about gas. Here is a sample of my conversations with Husband more often than I care to admit -
ME: Did you fart?
HUSBAND: No. Would you like me to?
ME: Did you fart?
HUSBAND: Yes. Would you like me to do it again?
HUSBAND: Did you fart?
HUSBAND: Were you thinking about it?
I could go on. You see why we’re perfect for each other.
Anyway, here I am again, two years later, excited to have gas again. This time though, it is the good gas, the kind you can share with strangers and not be ashamed. This time, the gas is firing up my pretty stove and I can finally cook fancy dinners. Of course, I need to learn how to cook those fancy dinners while following all of Husband’s “I can’t eat…” rules. I guess what I really what I should say is I can now fry an egg! I won’t mention that Husband asked me to sniff for gas before turning on a light the very first morning we had it. Nothing like the fear of explosion to make you choose cold cereal over fried egg for breakfast.
Here is a picture of my – our – lovely kitchen.
And here’s a picture of my womb.
Kidding! I have one and I do pull it out and show people but I think I’ll save it for the book.
My 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