Pop-culture Lucidity
I need a new topic. I fear that my utero-centric writing has just empowered the uterus and it's now acting out just to get attention and to remain the topic of my blog. It's like a child star who may lose the sitcom and doesn't know how to get validated anymore. It's causing me so much pain right now, it's demanding that I take drugs, just like Dana Plato and Todd Bridges. Yes, I'm showing my age with references like that....
Speaking of, I had an epiphany the other day. I realized that I am as pop-culturally literate as I'm ever going to be because the people that are writing and producing all that crap right now are my age. They make references to the Banana Splits, Tootie, and Dee from What's Happening and that means something to me. I remember being a kid and not getting jokes on TV that my parents laughed at. It's because at that time, the people that were writing the crap were my parents age and had the same experiences and memories as they did.
So, I'm going to ride out this wave of pop-culture lucidity for as long I can because then it's a really fast sliding slope to ignorance. I rue the day when nostalgic references to Yu-Gi-Oh become part of adult pop-culture. I'll have no idea what's going on at that point.
I recently saw a movie that signifies I'm already on that slippery slide. It was Napoleon Dynamite, and I absolutely hated it. I'm pretty sure there was an age thing and I just couldn't find it funny. Yet, the soundtrack resonated with me. It was a perplexing mix.
The good thing is that with age comes a nice inverse proportion: increased wisdom with a decreasing sense of self-consciousness. It's quite a nice blend.
P.S. My uterus still hurts. Dammit.
My New Friend, the IUD
I have the pleasure of being on prescription pain killers right now. However, I had the displeasure of "skootching" to the end of a table, hanging my bare ass off the end of that table so a doctor could clamp my uterus with a medieval device and put me on the road to sterility with my new friend, the IUD.
What is most bizarre about today's events is that I elected to have this done. By "this" I mean one of the most painful things I've ever had done in my life, and keep in mind that I have broken 13 bones, suffered a severe gallbladder attack, and watched the movie "Anchor Man."
My husband and I loathe children and wish to do everything in our power to keep my egg from meeting his evil swimming soldiers. So, this is our first step toward that end. I knew this would not be a walk in the park, but what I encountered on that table today exceeded my expectations. Let's relive this journey together. It will help with my healing process.
I was told to undress from the waist down and read some literature before the doctor came in. Sounds like a perfectly normal request for a Tuesday afternoon. I read all about the IUD and had to sign this piece of paper that says I voluntarily let the doctor do this to me. They should have included the line, "I hereby declare I am not only a masochist, but an idiot as well." I was then waiting so long in there, sans pants, I read the doctor's instructions for inserting this device as well. There is such a thing as too much information, by the way.
For something that is the size of a quarter, the box the IUD came in was 12 inches long, by 3 inches wide, and about 2 inches deep. The box included a whole device used for implantation. It had a handle and a long speculum with the IUD at the end. It was a little intimidating to say the least. If I rested the bottom of the handle at my crotch, it was long enough to almost reach my boobs. That was a little too long for my liking.
Finally the doctor comes in and I skootch on down and now the fun starts. The foreceps are cake, the swabbing to clean the cervix was okay...just a little pressure. Then he says something that disturbed me. "I'm going to clamp your cervix now," which was followed by a screaming sharp pain. I cursed many deities and asked if it was too late to get a prescription for birth control pills. Sadly the answer was yes.
Then the doctor said he was going to insert the IUD now. It seemed simple enough. However, apparently my cervix defends her territory like an ancient Roman soldier. Good for her, I thought, but holy Christ, this was no time to be hostile. I tried to mentally tell my cervix to relax, but she was embattled with this clamping device and a speculum. She did not hear my cries. (Yes, my cervix is a she and I'm as uncomfortable as you are referring to it as that.)
Anyway, finally he declared my cervix as "uncooperative." I felt like a parent with an unruly child at a bad parent teacher conference. I wanted to defend it, but I really just wanted this to be over. He then said, "We need to dilate you with sound." With sound, I thought. I asked, "Are you gonna sing to it or something? She likes jazz." He said, "No, with a metal device." Wow. I really wish I hadn't asked that. Here is where the pain really kicked in. The nurse just looked on as I winced, cursed and wished that during my internet research on the topic someone had written more than, "It was uncomfortable getting the IUD put in." Uncomfortable? This was the kind of pain you only wish on your mortal enemy who slaughtered your family as you watched. Some metal device was then inserted and proceeded to cause searing pain in my internal organs.
The doctor looked at my crotch with concern, which is never a good sign. He said, "This is the most difficult one I've done all year." And it was August! I deserve a freaking discount then, a medal of honor, or at least a nice plaque with my name on it, I wanted to say. But then finally he said, "It's in." He removed the metal prying device, the speculum, his hand and the foreceps. Yes, all that was in my crotch. Honestly, no more than one thing at a time should enter there.
So now, I'm back at home where my husband is treating me like a queen, as he should. Sterility is a tough road, the cervix a harsh mistress, the IUD my new friend, despite our rough beginning.
Here's to you sterility!
Shaft got the Shaft
I have some bad news to report. My beloved fish, Shaft, lost his battle with....life, I guess. I don't think it was his swim bladder that killed him, but I suspect it was Mrs. Plum with a wrench in the billiard room. I have no idea what killed him. I am saddened by this loss, but instead of dwelling on the bad, I will celebrate the good times. I had a nice peaceful ceremony in the Ladies Room with him and had this to say:
"You fought a brave battle, my friend. Men feared you, women loved you. You've lived, you've loved, and you've swum. A fish couldn't ask for more. However, seeing how you're dead, I can see how you'd think you got a raw deal out of this. Just remember that you will live on in my heart. I salute you, my friend, my soldier, my fish. Goodbye, Shaft." (Insert flushing sound here.)
I kindly ask that everyone who reads this takes a moment to think of Shaft. He'd appreciate it.
