NOTE: I write about things that affect me, whether difficult or hopeful. In all that I am going through or experiencing, I try to find humor. I do this for me more than for you. So, with that, and in honor of International Women’s Day, I give to you “A Letter To My Uterus:”
Lately I’ve been thinking that I’d like you better if you stored bees that I could shoot out randomly at people… machine-gun style. Or, if you were a locker that I could keep items in that I use on a regular basis such as my checkbook, car keys and bubble gum.
As it stands now, the only thing you are housing is a slew of fibroid tumors that range in size from that of a cantaloupe to an orange. A cantaloupe?
Holy crap! That’s just fantastic! I leave you unsupervised for a short time and you go and turn my womb into a walking fruit basket? Well, that’s a fine how-do-you-do! Remind me to name my first-born “Chiquita” in your honor.
In the meantime, you’ve gone and swelled up the size of a five-month pregnant woman and have the doctors a bit unsettled and concerned. Me? Nah. I just love that I can no longer suck in my stomach and I get to sport this rock-hard gut luggage until I am able to afford the surgery to evict your new wombmates and get back to being high school skinny…my previously svelte and sexy self! Yes please!
Don’t worry, Ute, you’re not going anywhere. I’d no sooner allow the doctor to remove you and wave you around like a hand puppet than I would permit a drunken blind man to shoot an apple off my head (or orange out of my uterus for that matter!)
But did you really have to pull this shenanigan while I am without medical insurance? That was pretty damn insensitive of you. And yeah, I’m sure that this is no summer picnic for you either, and I appreciate your noble attempt to have company, but you must agree in retrospect that your new tenants are making things a tad bit cramped in there (yes, pun intended).
At any rate, the next step is an MRI – a medical term for paparazzi – where they will snap some photos of you to confirm that the company you’re keeping is not malignant. So please, have your best Red Carpet pose all ready to go. Or just be boring, AKA benign! Look pretty, but please don’t try to be particularly interesting. You’ll have plenty of time to shine in a month or so when the doctors hold your very own open house and remove your roommates one by one.
Until then, do what you have to do – yoga, meditation, vodka martinis, whatever! I don’t care. Just keep it orderly. And please, moving forward, try to refrain from leaving me feeling like an over-tapped keg.
Thanks in advance,