WARNING: This post contains explicit language. Not George Carlin’s “Seven Dirty Words You Can Not Say on Television,”(though I have been known to use and even love some of his words.) [Oh, here is a link, if you need a good laugh and can handle a little profanity https://youtu.be/kyBH5oNQOS0] No, I mean explicit as in proper terminology, not slang. But for some of us it feels like slang. And yet this “explicit language” contains words that reference every day existence, at least for women.
The following body words are simple. Say them with me: face, hands, feet, lungs, hearts, medullas, amygdalas, toenails, hair. See? No problem.
But THESE words, I could never say them without embarrassment and shame. I still have some shame with them, but it’s lessened with practice.
Repeat after me if you wish. I will go from easiest to most difficult.
Fallopian tubes.
Ovaries
Uterus. (Ok, it’s getting more difficult.)
Cervix. (ouch)
Labia. (ewe)
V…V…Vug… Vagina.
There are hundreds of slang names-some endearing, some disgusting, for vagina. I am ashamed to say that all of them are easier for me to say than vagina. We have:
Va-Jay-Jay (which is kind of adorable)
Coochie
The “c” word (it is so vulgar and abusive; I refuse to say it.)
Pussy
Hoohah
Golden Palace
Venus Butterfly
Pooter
Beaver
Kitty cat
And the one I have used most of my life… “Down There.”
It is much easier to say “penis” than “vagina.” Once when I was doing my chaplaincy residency I went to visit an older gentleman in his room. He excitedly exclaimed to me “You should see the giant scar right next to my penis!!” And before I could respond “No, I shouldn’t,” he flung open the sheets and there it was. Friends, you can never unsee that sort of thing.
I have never heard a woman say, even after giving birth, “My vagina hurts,” or “Look what happened to my vagina,” or anything about her vagina at all. It’s like some unwritten code, women do not talk about their vaginas.
I forgot the point here.
Oh, that’s right. I am having a hysterectomy. Tomorrow. I have severe endometriosis, always have, and the pain has recently become unbearable. I can no longer spend half of my days curled up in a ball, sucking my thumb while calling out for my dog Agnes. Which is the weirdest part, because I do not have a dog.
I am not freaked out about the possibility of getting cut open. I find that fascinating. I am freaked out about them not cutting me open. They will try to begin robotically, with a couple tiny incisions. And if they can get the tools in there, they will clip away at things, and then go up my vagina and suction everything out. They will go up my vagina and suction everything out while I am not awake. THEY WILL GO UP MY VAGINA AND SUCTION EVERYTHING OUT WHILE I AM NOT AWAKE DO YOU FUCKING BELIEVE THIS SHIT?!?!
I need a break. Hold on. Here, look at this cute kitten video my therapist introduced me to.
I’m back.
It’s not like my vagina hasn’t seen a lot of traffic. Before I was married it resembled a drive through for Chinese take-out. And when I was using and drinking, I didn’t know what was going on down there. Much of the activity was unwanted, forced. I felt like my choice in the matter was gone. It wasn’t a part of me anyway. It was foreign. I didn’t care what happened, I told myself. You deserve it.
We won’t discuss my experience as a child. There aren’t enough cute cat videos for that one.
My therapist suggested that I envision something less invasive, or maybe even silly. Like a Muppet Show episode, with The Swedish Chef as the surgeon and Waldorf and Statler (the balcony judges –remember them?) as narrators. One friend informed me, assuredly, that they will find Amelia Earhart up there. Another friend suggested the lost jewels from the Titanic. Personally I think it would be cool if they found a teratoma – one of those growths, usually benign, that can have hair, teeth, eyes, even a jawbone. A friend of mine had one years ago. She was freaked out, I was psyched out. Her coolness factor skyrocketed in my eyes that day.
My uterus and ovaries have been operated on three times. They have never found anything cool, gross, or extra-terrestrial. Each ended with “It’s a mess down there. I don’t know if you will be able to have children.” After my first surgery, where they thought they could go in laparoscopically, but had to cut me open, they put me on Lupron. I was 26, and wanted children. If they used Lupron, maybe it would clear up the endometriosis, and I could get pregnant. After six months of living in a state of mock menopause, I had doubled over in pain. They performed another surgery and removed a huge cyst. I was on Lupron for five years, terrified that the lining of my uterus would take over my entire body and choke me to death. We tried over the years, to get pregnant. We did hormones, the family planning method, homeopathy, and voodoo stuff. About every six months, the pain became so great that I had to go back on the pill and stop my periods altogether.
I remember my first period. For 3 days prior to its glorious entrance, I obsessed about killing myself. And when it came, I felt like a grizzly bear was about to burst out of my belly. It was hell. (And we called it “my friend?” WTF?) Every period was a reminder that I was bad, somehow morally corrupt. And ALL-every, ALL of my suicide attempts happened just before my period. When I got sober at 16, I became anorexic. Not only did it make me less attractive to the men I had been with, but it stopped my periods. It kept me in a state of amenorrhea. I did not like being “woman.” “Woman” meant powerlessness. I needed power. If my period was gone, I felt power. I was safe.
SLIGHT DETOUR AHEAD. When my mother was pregnant with their fourth child, my seven year old self pestered her with the most craziest, wonderfullest, awesomist possibility ever in the universe or anyplace else: “Hey mom, what if you had the baby, and then that baby had a baby, and then that baby had a baby, and then THAT baby had a baby—you would be a mom, grandma, great grandma, and GREAT GREAT GRANDMA all at once!” I knew this was going to happen. It had to happen that way. Babies were perfect. I thought the angels flew from heaven and placed them in mommies’ bellies. I had no idea that something so beautiful was made by such…blech. And worse, that it came out of that dirty place.
Sigh. Time for a break. Here is a Zen Koan for you to ponder: What is the sound of one hand clapping? When you have an answer, let me know.
RETURN
I want something good to come from…all of that…down there. I longed…Someday, some beauty will come from the ugliness inside of me… my shame will birth joy.
Oh…
This is a painful, wounded place in me. I cannot be here long before I float away. And I must acknowledge these parts, these states of mind. They hold tremendous shame, grief, fear, memories. As I go there now I feel the wound open, I hear her weeping – her tears salt my face, turning the numbness into a breath, a tingling, rolling, breathing shape of ash and glitter. The loss of innocence. The loss of expectation. The hope…hope…where is the hope…
I used to hate my uterus, my ovaries, my cervix, and certainly my vagina. In the last few months I have felt a sense of forgiveness. They didn’t start out with great chances. She did the best she could. There was so much happening. It wasn’t her fault. It wasn’t your fault, Erliss. Now I don’t want to say goodbye. But it’s been like hospice care for the last several years. It’s time to let her go. She wants to go. She is ready to go. Say what you need to say.
What do I need to say?
Yesterday a friend threw me a “Farewell to My Uterus” party. It was hilarious. She made head bands and slippers with panty-liners. She gave me chocolates and a stuffed uterus – like a stuffed animal, only it’s a uterus, with fallopian tubes and ovaries, and a great big smile. Another friend gave me yellow roses, and another a cute little pumpkin and some lavender. I collected donations for the local battered women’s shelter- crayons, coloring books, nail polish, maxi-pads and tampons. Of course a couple of months ago I ordered a bulk supply of tampons and pads, so this shelter will be set for a while.
We sat in a circle, talked about life. Our cycles. The moon. We did some art prayer. We wrote affirmations and smudged them with sage. It was healing. Hilarious healing. Hilarious hysterialectitious healing.
I am ready for tomorrow. I would rather be awake, of course. I would like to perform the surgery myself. You don’t want them all “down there” doing their business without your supervision.
Slow down, Erliss. I thoroughly back checked these guys. They are kind, well trained, and do this all the time. You even liked the surgeon’s voice, remember? You told him if he sang during the surgery, your uterus would float out? Remember?
I could not have the surgery. No one has forced me into this. I am not being violated. This is my choice. The doctors are my choice. The procedure…well…I want them to NOT touch my vagina. I want them to cut me open completely and take everything out the old fashioned way. God, I hope my abdominal cavity is in such disarray and disorder that the robot won’t fit, and they will STAY THE FUCK AWAY FROM MY VAGINA!
What a thing to wish.
Breathe.
Last week my surgeon asked me “If I see a really good ovary…” then he paused. I responded “Are you gonna ask it out on a date?” My poor ovaries. I do have empathy for their suffering. I am not angry at them anymore.
I usually hold immense self-hatred and anger. I don’t feel any of that right now. I feel…I feel…pity? Sad? Numb? Separated? Lost? Confused?
In the deep shadow behind my mind, I hold her. I hold she who tried… to survive, to be born, to hide, to be loved.
I hold her.
I hold her.
I hold her.
I fade.
It’s hard to say goodbye to a dream. Even when the dream is a nightmare. Even when the dream has surpassed its viability. Even when the dream should have never envisioned itself. You should have never wandered in desire, in longing. You should have never let them…never let them inside…never…never…
Erliss, honey, you did nothing wrong. It will be all right.
This…hurts…so…deep…
It’s hard
to say
goodbye.
My final words? What needs to be said? What am I afraid to say?
Thank you for always being there with me. I am sorry I hurt you. I am sad to see you go. I love you.
By this time tomorrow, my uterus, fallopian tubes, cervix, and ovaries will be gone. It will just be me and my vagina. It’s getting easier to say… my vagina. My vagina.
MY vagina.
Much love to you all, and thank you for trudging this way with me.
Erliss
Afterthought…I wonder if it’s OK for me to ask the surgeon to talk to me during the surgery? Maybe say “OK, Erliss, now we are going to make an incision here…” or “Erliss, we are about to go up through the vagina to take out your uterus.” Or “Don’t worry, about a thing. ‘Cause every little thing’s gonnna be alright.”
Cue Bob Marley.
Here is a link. https://youtu.be/EYi5aW1GdUU
“Danger danger DANGER!” My brain is freaking out. I am alone in our house high in the mountains, light years from human civilization, waiting to be digested by some barbarous mountain man. [Narration break: Dear Erliss is prone to exaggeration from time to time. She lives in the foothills, and there are other houses around containing civil human beings – one of whom gave her car a jump the other day when she left the lights on overnight. Still she feels lost in a sea of poisonous reptiles, carnivorous cacti, feral humanoids, and the Ents of Fanghorn – you know, those tree creatures in Lord of the Rings. Erliss is scared to be alone. We will let her be there for now.]