I had my ablation and all went well. It’s been oddly normal. I’d equate it to waking up on your 18th birthday expecting to feel like an adult and it not actually working out that way. I still don’t feel like an adult and greatly appreciate the transformation of “adult” into a verb. Anyways, it was painful, but Sara kept me so doped up on the pain meds that I ended up sleeping for most of the 2 days she was home.
I really expected to feel different. Like I had suddenly become less of a lady because I’d had my girly bits microwaved. For the most part, I feel like me. I’m curious if I’m gonna end up still bleeding, but mostly I’m just hoping this means the end for all the trouble and I won’t have to face a hysterectomy.
The reason I posted about this -inarticulately – is that talking about vaginas, cervixes (cervices?), uteruses (uteri?), and ovaries are such taboo topics. Obviously, because I wasn’t absolutely positive on what the plurals are on the two words that frighten people the most in my experience. These aren’t horrible places, yet we use words like, va-jayjay, poonani, girly bits, or, my personal favourite, the lady garden and we sanitize a place where we’ve all been. A wonderful place that makes babies on its best day and literally can kill us on our worst days. If we can handle commercials about a man needing Viagra or some other testosterone frenzy to ensure lasting virility, I think it’s high time we discussed the lady gardens and helped our daughters and nieces feel better about their womanhood. I also would advocate for a more Sisterhood-esque way of treating one another, but it’s so idealistic. Regardless, women need to come together and love one another and fight together for our words to be normalized and our bodies to be far less taboo.
Having a 13 year old is hard. The moodiness, the drama, the feeling ways about stuff. Then throw in mental illness and it’s a minefield. This past month the trout (Liam) has been dealing with some PTSD crap from his narcissist father, so we’ve tried to be more gentle with him, but the ODD has decided to make him milk it for everything it’s worth. I’m trying to stay loving and caring, but last week was the last straw, so Sara and I dumped him with our friends along with Princess Clara and ran away to Kansas City.
Living in Des Moines, a lot of my friends were shocked that I’d never been down there, but honestly, who really goes to Missouri unless it’s to buy copious amounts of fireworks (totally kidding, it’s a really pretty state)? My first impression was “what a dump.” but to be fair we were driving through the industrial area at the north.
It was a lot of fun though. We went to the aquarium and did a little shopping, stayed at a hotel that made me feel poor AF, had an amazing dinner, and I got to go to a 4 story Barnes and Noble. It’s not really as big as the one in Madison, WI, but holy hell, 4 stories of magical books was enough to make me squee.
Sunday morning, we headed to an exhibition on Pompeii. Seriously, if you live in or are going to KC any time soon, go see it. It’s phenomenal. Then go to the aquarium and Legoland to make the kids jealous. 🙂
Running away from our problems was the right call this weekend. I can handle the trout’s teenager-ness better and things aren’t nearly as bad. Whenever possible, run away.
Reader beware, this post will be about a vagina, a uterus, and an unrealized dream. If any of those things offend you, move along….
When I was in high school, I wanted 6 kids. I don’t know why… maybe because of the Anne of Green Gables series. Probably. Then I had a baby and within hours decided I only wanted 4. Then I miscarried a baby and I said I only wanted one or two more. Then I married Sara and it was still one or two more. Then my uterus started acting up.
Over the last year, I’ve gone from regular 7 day heavy periods to 14-20 day heavy periods. I literally just ended a period today that started on January 16th. Naturally I went to an ob-gyn and now I’m scheduled for an ablation. I watched a video of the procedure on YouTube and it literally looks like carving a pumpkin. Which made the procedure at least funny looking. Unfortunately, it also means, I get no more babies. Yes, I have a spare uterus in Sara, but she never wanted to carry and our first pancake is 13 and almost done.
Only one person has offered their condolences for my fertility and for the babies I still desperately want. We were going to shoot for two. We had names. I had dreamed up their personalities. I imagined a little girl and a little boy so sweet and perfect they could have been real. I laughed at the idea of a little sister wrapping Liam around her pinkie finger and him teaching a little brother how to play football, soccer, baseball, and basketball. These children were real to me and now they’re lost in the ephemera of my imagination and it hurts. It hurts that no one wants to talk about it. It hurts that I don’t know how to talk about it.
I’m looking forward to the possibility of no periods, but my fertility was not something I expected to lose. I can’t look at the babies on facebook or the pregnancies because I want to be a part of it. I’m happy for my friends, but I just can’t be there for their happiness. My grief is just too strong. I really hope this goes away over time. It has to.
It’s been an awkward few days. You know when you were once friends with someone and you drift apart and then you run into them and it’s just painfully awkward? That happened to me twice on Sunday. Then yesterday I basically did the polka with some guy on an elevator because he couldn’t figure out if it was his floor or not.
I’m not really a fan of people. Anyways…
The book is coming along, but I’m at a point where it’s all plot. I hate writing plot. I know where I’m headed. I know how it ends. I know the action sequences. I just hate the walk it takes to get there. It’s like walking to Mordor, but less scenic. So instead, I’m drinking cup after cup of tea, ordering Doctor Who funkos, and procrastinating.
Thankfully my procrastinating is pretty. And since I’m procrastinating, I’m gonna have to post a picture of my Valentine from Sara. It’s epic guys. Seriously.
I named her Jessica and she’s amazing. Lol
Yeah, I said it. And no, I am not screaming from the rooftops that we need Emma Watson, Olivia Coleman, or some other actress to take up residence in the TARDIS. Quite the opposite, actually.
For 50+ years, The Doctor had been male. He’s had companions of both sexes and I think he even had an Android or a robot or something in there. I love the dynamic between the almost god-like timelord and his (more often than not) female companions. This ancient man comes whipping through time and space, arrogant in his self assurance and commanding in presence, walks around like he owns the place and STILL gets schooled by a human girl who is more clever than him – exception being Rory Williams, who always asked the good questions and knew when to move.
The major point is, that bringing in a woman to be The Doctor isn’t equality. It’s women wanting a chance to have an amazingly well written and we’ll respected character who is strong and vulnerable all at once. We don’t need The Doctor for that. We need more Jessica Jones, or even a Shonda Rhimes character (just please, less sex). We don’t need a lady Bond. We need roles that are so good the men want in on them too. But jumping into a traditionally male role and claim it equal is bullshit. It sets us up for failure because of the mindset of “if a man can do it, so can I”. While true, for the most part, we don’t need their sloppy seconds roles. We need to write our own heroines and make them the badasses we dream of or the caring wise diplomats. Write about a McGonagall or a piratess. Make her indestructible. Make her fierce. Make her vulnerable. But make the sexiness optional. Let the actor bring that in if she wants.
Equality isn’t just taking up the controls of the TARDIS in a magical sex change. Equality is having a role that is equally awesome. It’s easy to settle and say that a tiimelady is enough, but it’s not and what’s worse is that if it fails, it only fuels the patriarchy’s ability and tendency to say “I told you so”.
Leave that delightfully grumpy, kind, loving, self righteous Timelord alone. Demand better roles or write them yourself.
Adulting… that wonderful adjective my generation has turned into a verb. I’m not good at it. Really not good at it. I’ve been trying this whole bullet journaling thing – basically I’m really crap at acknowledging my accomplishments and the journal is supposed to show me I’m doing a good job – but I’ve already lost the journal. Is that an accomplishment? Do I get a gold star? Probably not. It’s probably more like losing my homework. Regardless, I’m having so many problems with motivation, focus, and just general apathy. It’s basically a household of struggle, but I’m really okay with that overall. I get to love them all harder and while I’m not usually the caretaker, I get to try.
The kiddo has been struggling with his teenaged angst and thusly acting out, making my life so much fun. Honestly, the lie I caught him in the other day was just beyond lazy. He rage-quit a paper he was writing and deleted the whole damn thing. Then he tried to tell me his teacher did it. I managed, heroically, to wait until later to laugh at him, but seriously man. The only way I could envision that scenario had his teacher dressed all spiffy, wearing a suit with a cape, monocle, top hat, and an evil, but wispy curled mustache. Which, if that actually did happen, the teacher deserves to win. Not even lying.
My wifey is, of course, struggling against the corporate structure. That lovely girl needs to find a job with a non-profit or something that lets her help people. She used to do social work, but one client managed to get her to leave the whole sector because of the constant harassment. I was honestly impressed because prior to that Sara had dealt with a client who found a dead body on his couch and another who stole her dealer’s meth, smoked it, and had a hit out on her. I admire her ability to sigh, shake her head in frustration, and then help these special kitties. Especially since she comes home and cuddles me as her own little special kitty.
My adjustment to Trumplandia has been difficult at best. I’ve watched my friends lose hope, march, and become incensed by the swift changes surrounding us. It only took 2 days in this new world before I ended up in the “Mental Health Access Centre” in a local ER because I just couldn’t stop the panic attacks and I just wanted to die.
Before I went though, I had the foresight to shut down my Facebook. It’s been difficult to not see the posts of people I care deeply about, but the drama is so triggering and everyone is either telling me to “get over it” or that the world is about to explode into Nazi Germany and because I am in multiple targeted groups it is my absolute duty to fight.
No. It isn’t. If I were emotionally strong enough, I would fight. The rage I feel could power a thousand suns and I know that, but I am not emotionally capable of this fight. It’s the reason I need others to fight for me. I need people who aren’t emotionally unable to fight and who have the strength to fight to actually protest. I need to avoid the news because it frightens me. I need to be reassured. But mostly, I need people to stop demanding my presence in the rebellion. I feel guilty for not fighting, but I read and I share my ideas and I silently fight in my own way and through others.
I am not okay, but I am okay with that… for now.