Here is a list of things I would rather do than carry a human to term in my battered uterus, which I imagine at this point looked like one of those purplish beefsteak tomatoes that has rotted and been left in the compost bin under the sink for weeks:
take a soupy diarrhea shit in the middle of the floor in a public place, then eat it
listen to a man’s jokes
let city rats crawl on me and stick their rotting teeth in my eyeballs
take a five-hour Amtrak ride without headphones in the summer with broken a/c
post all the pictures of my nine greasy chins I’ve accidentally taken with my front-facing camera
let a million bees sting me, one at a time, while watching my body swell like an infected water balloon
remove a Cuterebra from a fractious dog
tweet something politically spicy, then engage with every robot who responds
ask a young person to explicitly describe their favorite meme to me using only words
work as a bill collector for a predatory lending agency
let a grown man named Chip try to sell me a car
eat soft cheese, then play toilet roulette while running a bunch of errands on the bus
ask a new mom to give me her stance on vaccines
put money in my mouth after watching three cars run over it in the rain
print my last hundred Google searches and hand them out to strangers
try to get an unregistered firearm through TSA at a busy airport
clean a public bathroom with no gloves on, with my tongue!
have a wildly uncomfortable menstrual cycle for approximately 6,570 days, the eighteen years that I would be legally mandated to be responsible for my child
Here’s the thing: if I had walked into the doctor’s office on that bright sunny morning, brimming with joy while excitedly rubbing my hand over my belly, thrilled to share the news that I was going to have a baby and asking for a blood test to confirm its staking a claim on my uterus, that dude would have shit his pants and sat me down for a Very Serious Conversation about why embarking on the journey of motherhood at my advanced age and in my current state of advanced corporeal decay was a Very Bad Idea. I’m an expert in going to the doctor, man. The only thing they ever want to hear from me is “I’ve lost weight” or “Do you think you could tell me how to lose weight?” It’s probably against some code of conduct to admit it, but he knew and I knew and he knew that I knew that if I’d said, “You know what sounds like a fun party we could throw? A high-risk geriatric pregnancy,” he would have been on a conference call with both Mister Blue Cross and Mister Blue Shield, calculating whether or not they could afford to pay out the lawsuit my family would undoubtedly file after he threw me down several flights of stairs.
The last thing he wanted to hear is that this sick, old asshole was going to ruin his pre-retirement months by forcing him to coach me through a difficult pregnancy. Why not just yank this gooey, unpredictable blood bag out of my body so I can get on with living the rest of my godforsaken life? I’m sure there were practical reasons for denying my request, but who cares about menopause or fluctuating hormones or postsurgical complications? Twenty-eight years of a contentious relationship with my uterus had been long enough to come to terms with the fact that neither of us was going to change and maybe a conscious uncoupling would do us both a world of good. We still loved each other, of course, but the time had come for us to part amicably and maintain mutual respect.
Just kidding—I wanted the doctor to hit me in the head with a brick and cut this traveling uterine circus out of my body, then toss it in the trash and keep it moving. But he couldn’t do that, the insurance was like “lmao sorry” despite it begging to be jumpshot into the nearest biohazard receptacle, so we did the next best thing: a whole bunch of snipping and scraping that took all goddamn day and for which I had to be anesthetized and after which I had to wear a diaper for a while, which I hoped was to catch my uterus in case they accidentally dislodged it and it fell out but joke’s on me it was only for DISCHARGE.
THE BALLAD OF MY ABLATION
No food. I had to fast the night before, which is fine, whatever, I love Sprite, but I had to very specifically clean all my parts while practically starving. The stress of this just made me want to fucking eat. I often think about what a gross monster I am, but never in as much detail as when confronted by the thorough methods I need to use to go about cleaning myself per a doctor’s instructions, methods I definitely do not employ on a daily basis. Am I just disgusting?
Paperwork. At the hospital, they hand you all these forms and papers to sign prior to surgery and, come on now, I’m not reading that shit. It’s early in the morning, and the only thing on my tongue is the memory of a pizza I ate two days ago. I’m not wasting my time with this contract. Besides, what am I going to do if I have a dispute? Get a lawyer on the phone?! Can you even imagine being the person who holds up the Outpatient Surgery Conga Line trying to argue about clause A in subparagraph twelve on the hospital liability form while the tired and overworked desk lady sighs exasperatedly at you? Yeah, right! I signed fourteen pieces of paper that probably said “grants permission to harvest any useful organs” and you know what? Fine! They can have a kidney if it means I don’t have to actually read about them taking my kidney.
Apparently, there was a fire drill in the surgical unit while I was waiting for the anesthesiologist. So I was alone in this little holding pen after the nurse came in, put in the IV, gave me a sedative, made sure I was dressed properly and had the little surgery bonnet on, just staring at the pain chart on the wall because it’s not like they let you read or mess around on your phone, when I heard this loud warning siren blaring in the hall outside the room. My first thought? ACTIVE SHOOTER. I’m a dramatic little bitch. The lights started flashing right before a deafening alarm sounded, and then a disembodied hand reached inside my cracked door and silently pulled it shut. Maybe it was the Ativan talking, but my brain was like: “Oh my god, they obviously don’t want the gunman to know I’m in here.” I kept looking down at my ashy hands and feet—because you’re not even allowed to use lotion after all that fucking bathing—wondering if I could fight off a dude trying to shoot up a hospital in southwest Michigan.
My boring, studious wife came in the anteroom and was actually asking my doctor serious questions while I was just trying to pal around. I like to joke and be fun. I don’t want to wreck a chill vibe with questions about “recovery time” and “success rates.”
If this is what death feels like, sign me up. One nurse put microwaved blankets on me, then another nurse pushed my bed through the halls to the surgery suite. And because my brain is a nightmare, I kept thinking, “Is this bed too heavy for her to push? Is this the heaviest bed she’s ever pushed? Is she going to need help to take that sharp right corner? Maybe I should just get up and push her in the bed instead,” and thank goodness I signed that DNR because what is the point of living like this? Anyway, we made it to surgery. I made awkward small talk with a roomful of people who were about to see and move and manipulate my big, naked, unshaven body that probably wasn’t as clean as they would’ve hoped as I lay there unconscious; then I had to move to a flat bed with a hole in it for all my fluids to drain through and wait for McDreamy to gaze down at me with his kind eyes, the lights creating a halo around his tousled brown hair, and tell me to count backward as I drifted peacefully to sleep. In reality, a faceless man in a green paper cap with a mask obscuring his features said, “You’re going to feel some heat in your IV.” I did. And then my brain exploded into a bunch of needles, and everything went black.
Hysteroscopy. The doctor dilates the cervix, inserts a hysteroscope (that’s going to be the name of my submarine when I start my own navy) through the vagina into the cervix, then adds a liquid solution into the uterus and shines a light through the hysteroscope to look at the uterus and fallopian tubes. Honestly, I’m not sure what this is for, because clearly I have those things, as
they are the cause of my unending torment. I guess he needed to make sure.
D&C. Also known as dilation and curettage, it’s a minor procedure where the doctor takes a suction device or scraping tool and clears out the lining of the uterus. I was 100 percent asleep during this, but I’m sure the doctor did a great job.
Endometrial Ablation. I can’t remember the exact kind I had. Sometimes they use microwaves (?) or they use hot water (??), but am I really a scientist? I told you I didn’t read the paperwork! Plus, did you know that when they try to explain complicated surgical shit to you after your brain has been chemically asleep for an hour, the information doesn’t always stick? Also, you don’t care about the specifics. All you really need to know is that the doctor burned the lining of my uterus to a crisp, and I haven’t had a menstrual period since. No longer having to carry around a diaper bag every time I go to Trader Joe’s or the movie theater is priceless.
It’s been three blissful, period-free years since I had a charcoal grill shoved into my vagina. I’m looking forward to living the rest of my life like I’m in a tampon commercial: recklessly wearing white linen pants, jumping into a crystal-clear cerulean pool while a camera zooms in on my spotless mons pubis as I balance at the edge of the diving board, soaking up puddles of blue food coloring with a plug of absorbent cotton, laughing wistfully with other emotionally balanced women over salad. My breezy new life is filled with earnest conversations atop light-colored couches, complicated yoga positions with my legs spread across a baby-pink mat, and carefree swimming in shark-infested bodies of water.
lesbian bed death
Sure, sex is fun, but have you ever accurately predicted when your period was going to start?
Sure, sex is fun, but have you ever been properly fitted for an orthopedic shoe?
Sure, sex is fun, but have you ever pooped on a reliable schedule?
Sure, sex is fun, but have you ever cried inconsolably at one of those ASPCA commercials?
Sure, sex is fun, but have you ever enjoyed eating a Brussels sprout?
Sure, sex is fun, but have you ever shared an electronic calendar with another human adult?
Sure, sex is fun, but have you ever pretentiously carried an NPR tote bag?
Sure, sex is fun, but have you ever changed out of one cozy shirt into an even cozier shirt?
Sure, sex is fun, but have you ever gotten your inbox down to zero?
Sure, sex is fun, but have you ever had a preferred tea?
Sure, sex is fun, but have you ever sat through an entire concert?
Sure, sex is fun, but have you ever found a really good hand cream?
Sure, sex is fun, but have you ever declined an invitation to a boat party?
Sure, sex is fun, but have you ever been to an Eileen Fisher outlet?
Sure, sex is fun, but have you ever listened to two perimenopausal women murmur indecipherably, handing each other sections of the newspaper while reading over the tops of their glasses?
Sure, sex is fun, but have you ever fought for a majority share of the electric blanket on the TV couch?
Sure, sex is fun, but have you ever clapped your hands with delight at the opening of a brick-and-mortar Bath & Body Works?
Sure, sex is fun, but have you ever watched PBS?
Sure, sex is fun, but have you ever gotten up early on a Sunday morning to beat everyone to the car wash?
Sure, sex is fun, but have you ever lain really still in bed after your alarm has gone off three times trying not to move because you don’t want your pets to know you’re awake?
Sure, sex is fun, but have you ever spent an entire afternoon looking for a misplaced library book only to realize you returned it two days ago?
Sure, sex is fun, but have you ever accidentally tried to put on your partner’s bra in the dark?
Sure, sex is fun, but have you ever not invited one-half of a gay couple to ladies’ night just to set some shit off?
Sure, sex is fun, but have you ever been to the wine store at 4 p.m.?
Sure, sex is fun, but have you ever eaten dinner in a restaurant at 4 p.m.?
Sure, sex is fun, but have you ever texted while driving and not crashed your car?
Sure, sex is fun, but have you ever googled a popular meme?
Sure, sex is fun, but have you ever spent several days meticulously menu-planning your book-club brunch?
Sure, sex is fun, but have you ever taken off your bra at the end of a particularly grueling day?
Sure, sex is fun, but have you ever argued about whether generic Advil is as strong as the real thing?
Sure, sex is fun, but have you ever “winterized” your car?
Sure, sex is fun, but have you ever accumulated nineteen different personal water containers between two people?
Sure, sex is fun, but have you ever debated takeout options for thirty-seven minutes?
Sure, sex is fun, but have you ever lit four different kinds of incense at the same time?
Sure, sex is fun, but have you ever passionately defended the purchase of an overpriced hand soap?
Sure, sex is fun, but have you ever owned more than two cats?
Sure, sex is fun, but have you ever had a favorite contestant on Top Chef?
Sure, sex is fun, but have you ever timed a pharmacy pickup just right?
Sure, sex is fun, but have you ever slept in a bed with both a mattress pad and a dust ruffle?
Sure, sex is fun, but have you ever brought two cardigans to the movie theater? Sure, sex is fun, but have you ever set a reminder that Survivor is coming on?
Sure, sex is fun, but have you ever tried to control your hormones with tinctures?
Sure, sex is fun, but have you ever gone wild in a candle store?
Sure, sex is fun, but have you ever declined an invitation to a white party?
Sure, sex is fun, but have you ever cleaned a dirty saucepan after soaking it overnight?
Sure, sex is fun, but have you ever earnestly watched the news?
Sure, sex is fun, but have you ever been on a first-name basis with the guy at the plant store?
Sure, sex is fun, but have you ever filled out a comment card?
Sure, sex is fun, but have you ever sincerely inquired: “When are we going to go back to Pier One?”
Sure, sex is fun, but have you ever met your state representative?
Sure, sex is fun, but have you ever been to a lecture that wasn’t for a class?
Sure, sex is fun, but have you ever wept openly while listening to Tori Amos?
Sure, sex is fun, but have you ever gotten your oil changed the day that sticker on the windshield says you should?
Sure, sex is fun, but have you ever charged your crystals under a full moon?
Sure, sex is fun, but have you ever folded your clothes on the same day you washed them?
Sure, sex is fun, but have you ever ordered Blue Apron with a discount code you got from a podcast?
Sure, sex is fun, but have you ever written a to-do list by hand?
Sure, sex is fun, but have you ever read a travel guide for a city you’re never going to have enough money to visit?
Sure, sex is fun, but have you ever declined an invitation to a holiday party?
Sure, sex is fun, but have you ever watched a television program then read no fewer than six think pieces about it to make sure you understood what you just watched?
Sure, sex is fun, but have you ever picked up when you could have paid three dollars for delivery?
Sure, sex is fun, but have you ever taken a trip to Target just to get your steps in?
Sure, sex is fun, but have you ever eaten soup as a meal?
Sure, sex is fun, but have you ever written a letter to the editor?
Sure, sex is fun, but have you ever had toilet paper brand loyalty?
Sure, sex is fun, but have you ever made the text font on your phone bigger?
Sure, sex is fun, but have you ever sneezed really hard?
Sure, sex is fun, but have you ever had f
lowers bloom on a plant you thought you’d killed?
Sure, sex is fun, but have you ever actually finished the book your book club was reading?
Sure, sex is fun, but have you ever successfully hidden a tub of ice cream from your wife?
Sure, sex is fun, but have you ever been to Big Lots?
Sure, sex is fun, but have you ever had to stop drinking coffee before 2 p.m. because you won’t be able to get to sleep later?
Sure, sex is fun, but have you ever put your bills on autopay?
Sure, sex is fun, but have you ever used a broom outside?
Sure, sex is fun, but have you ever sent an e-mail from your iPad with the signature “sent from my iPad”?
Sure, sex is fun, but have you ever eaten a weirdly misshapen tomato you somehow grew in the rancid patch of land on the other side of your garage?
Sure, sex is fun, but have you ever declined an invitation to a housewarming party?
Sure, sex is fun, but have you ever been through the Panera drive-thru?
Sure, sex is fun, but have you ever set a regular bedtime?
Sure, sex is fun, but have you ever voted for a contestant on The Voice?
Sure, sex is fun, but have you ever sorted your jackets by season?
Sure, sex is fun, but have you ever peed your pants a little while laughing?
Sure, sex is fun, but have you ever slept with a wedge pillow under your swollen calves and ankles?
Sure, sex is fun, but have you ever kicked a chunk of frozen gray snow off your wheel well?
Sure, sex is fun, but have you ever paid full price for replacement charger cords from the Apple store?
Sure, sex is fun, but have you ever cashed in a rebate?
Sure, sex is fun, but have you ever bookmarked a lasagna recipe?
Sure, sex is fun, but have you ever tried Lasix?
Sure, sex is fun, but have you ever been in McDonald’s so early you couldn’t get fries?
Sure, sex is fun, but have you ever watched a bunch of syndicated CBS comedies in a row?
Wow, No Thank You. Page 10