Damn Ovaries!

All men and other squeamish people, avert your eyes. You don’t want to be reading about my female problems. Really you don’t. But I want to talk about them, and since this is my space, I will.

So I went to the gynecologist the yesterday (men, if you are still reading this, you really don’t have a comparison experience. You think you do, but you don’t. Try having a conversation with a woman while she has a finger stuck up your penis and your ass. Yeah, it’s not a pleasant image, is it?). Since my periods have been heavy and erratic (and since Poetroad will not do the deed with me when I am bleeding – it’s rather traumatizing for him, really), I had to do something. Of late, my periods are lasting a full two weeks (and sometimes I will have another little period in the three week off time). A full two weeks without sex is pure torture. Yes, I am spoiled because I get to have a lot of sex otherwise.

The great news is that there aren’t any overtly physical indications for my symptoms – this means there are no fibroids and that it’s probably not cancer or endometriosis. The bad news is that due to the lack of physical evidence, it means my ovaries are just not working correctly.

In order to fix the bleeding problem (and I might add here that Poetroad suggested I am now very Biblical since my problem sounds very similar to the woman’s problem who reached out to touch the hem of our Lord’s garment in order to be healed; that’s a very pastorly response), I have three options: option one, do nothing and bleed most of the month; option two, have a surgical procedure done in which the lining of my uterus is basically scraped away to prevent me from ever having a period again; and option three, start taking birth control pills in order to get my progesterone levels up to counter the excess estrogen in my system which stimulates my uterus to excessively line it’s walls each month.

None of the three options sound like fun. Doing nothing means I bleed all the time. Having a surgery means that I would have to “go under” with anethstisia (and if I am going to have any surgery that requires total anesthesia, I want to wake up with slimmer hips and bigger boobs). Taking the pill means that I have to, well, take a pill every day. I am not a good pill taker.

The hilarious thing about option three is that I had a tubal ligation after my last birth in order to avoid having to worry about birth control ever again. It is highly ironic that a very viable option to control the bleeding would be that I may have to take birth control pills to control a uterus that, quite frankly, will never house a baby again.

I laughed out loud with my doctor at that thought.

My gynecologist is lucky I like him. Not that my non-working ovaries are his fault, but when people go to doctors, they want easy answers. And it was probably nice for a change for him to not have to tell a woman that she needs a total hysterectomy or that she has cancer. It was nice that we could sit there, me with my nakedness covered with a sheet, and him with his young looking face, dyed hair (except for the white side burns – not sure what that look is all about), and quiet, matter of fact tone, laughing about all of this.

All in all, I definitely have some serious thinking to do.