My Pelvic Floor’s Personal Soap Opera (In other words, avoid this if you don’t want to know about my ladybits.)

Awhile back I wrote this list.

Since then:
~I’ve had two cats sneezing blood all over the house (oh that kitty cold the kitten brought with her from the shelter? was calicivirus. Because of course.)
~I’ve had an injured wrist which hurt so badly I could not wash my hair (or anything else).
~I’ve been dealing with an unpleasant situation at my son’s school that wasn’t resolved the way I’d have hoped and resulted in his withdrawal of all but one short class.
~The cats both STILL have fleas. You know worms are coming next. FUCK YOU, FLEAS.
~And now my uterus is definitely falling out. Or maybe just my vagina. Hell if I know.

I was feeling so renewed and hopeful after I decided to start a new round of Happy Things, but now I’m super low again. Because of course that’s why.

I’m at the point where I am fairly certain life will never just be normal again. I’m not asking for it to be easy, even. Just possible.

But here’s the actual point of this entry: sometimes vaginas fall out.

My first thought when I realized what was happening was pretty extreme embarrassment. I didn’t want anyone to know ever. I felt almost like I was bad at being female. And I was glad I didn’t have a boyfriend right now. And then I realized how fucked up those thoughts and feelings were and that’s when I resolved to talk about it loudly and often.

You’re welcome.

Originally I was waiting to get it confirmed by a doctor (because it would be a little embarrassing to cry rogue vagina over nothing) but then I canceled the appointment I had scheduled last week. Partly for lack of a babysitter, partly for lack of money just at this moment (I should be covered by the Affordable Care Act in January to which I give a very legitimate THANK YOU, OBAMA!). And canceling that appointment is a decision that I made rationally and based on facts and that I completely regret today. Because I don’t know how long I will wait for another appointment at this point.

At this particular moment I am merely in mild discomfort unless you count my emotions which are hovering the edge of full blown breakdown at the moment. Not because of the prognosis – because I know I’ll live a long and happy life. But because I cannot handle bodies being broken. Anything beyond a simple cut and I lose my shit. I mean. A couple of days ago I posted a panicky picture of my injured wrist on Facebook because it looked weird. The idea that my body parts are not all in their right places is extremely upsetting to me. And that is an understatement.

I also feel extremely fragile right now. Like if I do strenuous things like standing up or coughing or pooping I might make it worse all of a sudden (because it did get worse all of a sudden). I feel like I’m walking on eggshells. Only I am also made of eggshells.

So now my uterus is trying to take a quick vacation. Maybe she’s not really understanding the ramifications of this, but if she leaves my body, she doesn’t really get to enjoy her vacation. The thing is, though, that I’d wish her good riddance if it were the best choice for me right now. I’m done with babies. I’m BEYOND ready to be done with having periods. And I know it’s not the “right” thing to say in hippie circles and that I should just be happy with her for doing her job so well all these years or whatever, but at this moment, my uterus and I are not really on speaking terms anyway so she can fuck right off. But surgery is the more invasive and expensive option with further health ramifications that might not outweigh my current situation. And also that thing about broken bodies. I would likely need some heavy psychotherapy to heal from surgery (pretty much any surgery, really).

Anyway. I will, against any sense of decency, be updating here about my pelvic floor’s personal soap opera. FOR FEMINISM!

Because when it rains, it rains internal body organs. From your body.