Disclaimer: This is neither a medical endorsement nor a recommendation. It is merely my personal account of why I am grateful to have discarded the center of my wombiverse.
We are expected to speak about it in hushed tones, especially among mixed company. Uttering the simple statement of "I'm menstruating"--or the detailed, "I am currently shedding the bloody lining of my womb through my vagina"--may summon the full wrath of the curse. All females are conditioned from prepubescence to speak in code when talking about the monthly sloughing of excess uterine baggage. My favorites include:
Bitchy Witchy Week
Code red
Crimson tide
On the rag
Red badge of courage
Shark Week
Taking Carrie to the prom
To appease the sensitivities of readers who have a hard time discussing such delicate feminine matters, I will use the vernacular adopted by my friends and I when we joined the hematic sisterhood: Aunt Flo. The following are the 10 reasons I chose to renounce my membership in the menstrual sorority:
- Barren economics: No supply = no demand: Aunt Flo insisted on luxurious accouterments when she visited: super cotton plushness delivered in a pearl case plus a scented, winged pillow on which to rest her head. Not to mention the numerous pharmaceuticals required to keep her from descending into a hysterical rage. Estimated yearly savings: $1200.
According to my pathology report, the largest had begun to rot from the inside. Like a piece of fruit that has been left on a tree too long, it most likely would have soon burst from the heat of decay. I threw up a little in my mouth when I heard that.
For decades, I bowed to the assumption that I was less of a woman because of my faulty reproductive organs. Yes, I have been blessed with two wonderful children, but getting pregnant was clinical and far from romantic. Months of testing were initiated by the humiliating post-coital exam to determine if my vaginal canal was a "hostile environment." (It was quite welcoming, actually.) Music and candles were replaced by the whir of a sperm washer and the glow of a lighted speculum. My husband joked frequently that he would like to be in the room when I conceived. (He wasn't.) Eventually, fifteen months of carting his dutiful contributions to the doctor for repeated artificial insemination treatments produced our first pregnancy.
Even after our family was complete, I bought into the stigma that I would abandon my femininity if I had a hysterectomy. Why do we feel pressured to continue to harbor an organ that has betrayed us? Much like an inflamed appendix that served no purpose except to produce debilitating pain, it had to go.
It only took me 17 years to accept the notion that I was more than the sum of my procreative parts.
I am by no means a physician or medically trained. I am an ordinary woman who chose to pull the plug on the malfunctioning menses dispenser that shackled me with agony. Gone are warily counting the days until the next gut-wrenching onslaught. My body, my calendar, my life has been emancipated from the commands of an estrogen-fueled, traitorous goddess. At long last, I am free.
Source for both photos: Flckr Commons
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