Our Ovaries: A Girl’s Best Friend?

Well, it depends on what you think is your best friend or not. PMS, cramping, bleeding, mood swings and just plain old hell, is what I call it. I could sit here and tell you all the benefits of having your ovaries but I’m not going to bore you with that. Instead, I’m going to talk about the wonderful world of being a woman. I was diagnosed with HPV, which is a disease that causes cancer. At thirty-seven, I was walking around with my worst fear realized cancer of the cervix. I went to a woman gynecologist, who told me not to worry that it wasn’t that bad and I was making more of it than I needed to. Ok, correct me if I’m wrong, but hello, this is my life and body we are talking about here. Who are you to tell me how I should react or think of the matter? And, you are a woman!

Anyway, I went into the office and had a procedure, called a colposkpy. It is where they shave the portion that is diseased from the cervix. Lucky me! She then asked me what doctor I wanted to see for a follow-up. I thought that strange since she was my doctor. So I asked her what she meant, and she stated that she was going on vacation and I had to see another doctor. I was pissed off! How could she tell me I had this disease, say it was no big deal, and then hand me over, like I was a piece of property for someone else to deal with? So I fired her! Then, I went to another doctor for a follow-up, and he shared with me that I had a lot more wrong than was told to me initially. Poly-cystic ovaries, endometriosis, a uterus tilted so far back that it could guzzle a beer in one shot, and to top it all off, that my earlier concerns were all in my head!

I’m a telling you, it is a hard thing to be a woman. You come into the world; you deal with the hypocrisy of “its a man’s world” “know your place” “please don’t make your father angry” “and for Gods sakes, don’t be a burden”. Go figure! You then reach the age of womanhood, which is considered to be a blessed passage in life, get married, birth your children, rear them, become a raiders of the lost ark adventurer for all your husbands’ and children’s misplaced items, have your boobs smashed every year, a duck billed platypus device inserted into your womb and peered at, then told you need birth control or a surgery to prevent you from having kids, and then thank your lucky stars that you are treasured as a woman.

Your ovaries are men’s excuse for why you are upset, crying, angry or just not in the mood to play. Why is that? “Honey, why are you so upset? Are you on your period?” I mean, is every reason that I am upset due to the fact that I have a period? I guess so! Women throughout history have been doomed to carry a stigma of impurity, sin, and a lesser than value. Girdles, bras, pantyhose, and any other torture device that a man has created to keep us bound have been the norm. I mean, come on, chastity belts? What is that all about? Protecting the mans ownership of our ovaries? It cracks me up when I hear these kinds of property of ownership that men speak of. When in fact they couldn’t even handle labor, much less childbirth.

To me, a girls best friend is a little piece and quiet, a good book, a delicious giggle with a girlfriend or two, and it has nothing to do with whether I have ovaries or not. You hear lamenting from women that feel, “I won’t be a woman anymore” when you are forced to do away with that part that makes you a woman. If that isn’t the kettle being called black, I don’t know what is. So, we come to the question, “What makes a woman a woman?”

That which is opposite of man is a woman. We carry children in our wombs, have breasts that produce milk, long, drawn out periods with premenstrual syndrome, emotional roller coaster rides, and if that isn’t enough the role of housekeeper, chef, chauffeur, coach, nurse, counselor, sex goddess, and all around doer of all things.

My feelings on the matter are this; “I am a self contained person, who has knowledge of most things relevant in the world. I can be anything I want to be and that includes nothing if I so choose. I am allowed at least one major nervous breakdown a year, with four or five emotional episodes that are spread out. I am allowed to look through you any time I want and not feel guilty about it. I don’t have to make you feel special, appreciated, or otherwise secure. My only job is to be here and have you like it.” I mean, how many of you have so often wanted to shout this at the top of your lungs? You hope that someone will wake up and pay attention that the world doesn’t revolve around only them. And the thing that makes you a true woman is the knowledge that you get it. And then we have the media, with all of its commercials about how wonderful your period can be. From new products, like comfortable tampons, pads that do everything but make dinner, new and improved designer drugs to help you manage the day.

Let me tell you what a manageable day really is, wake up and have coffee, fix breakfast for the family, and hope that they don’t complain that it wasn’t what they wanted, have yourself dressed and ready to go before they are, kids and husband dressed, get them off to school and work, on time, do the grocery shopping, pay bills, clean the house, do a load of laundry, pull something out for dinner. Then get yourself off to work, come home, do homework with the kids, fix dinner, bath time for the kids, placate your husband about how his day was, and hope to God that you heard enough of it so that when he asks you if you understood, you can say with some clarity, that you understand that the boss was being a complete jerk about whatever, and finally get to bed with a couple of hours to spare before you have to get up and do it all over again with much enthusiasm. Now that doesn’t leave a whole lot of room for your nervous breakdown or even a small emotional episode. Sound the horn; we now have a reason for panic! I mean real anxiety. Your constantly praying for a hold button on your life or a receptionist that can take a message from beyond and hope like hell that there is some omnipotent, cosmic answer in the form of a burning bush. Something you could hardly miss, like a Mack truck bulldozing every effort to maintain a sense of reason.

Up Against the Wall

OK, now that surgery is over, and your home, the healing time begins. And oh my God! No one prepared me for this! The constant fluctuation of hormones or lack there of is quite shocking. I never knew that I could cry, laugh, and rage in five minutes all the while feeling like I am being doomed to a torturous existence and looking into the mirror to check to see if my head is actually in flames. Then, having my youngest child come in to check on me and say hi and I turn on him with the ferociousness of a hell hound guarding Satan, to ask him why he snuck up on me like that. Fortunately, he was very understanding and just shook his little head and patted my arm as if to say, “It is ok that you act like a demon, because you’re still my mom, and I love you”. Now that is unconditional love.

When a woman is going through all this, it is important that her family be extremely understanding and patient. After all, you have to live with her or hope that you can find some way of disposing of the body without people questioning about where she went. The healing process takes several months if not longer for her to adjust to the wackiness of all that is going on in her body, not to mention, the complete lack of brain function during this time. She has just been through an ordeal and unless you have vacation property somewhere, then you need to be as supportive as you possibly can.

My family has been wonderful during my long process of having to “find myself” again. Let’s face it, I did lose myself and got smacked up against a brick wall. I didn’t have the luxury of easing into this state of being. The fading into a “mature woman” is a passage in a woman’s life and you don’t expect for it to be ripped from you all in one and a half hours while lying on a gurney. And yes, you do feel loss. You talk about it with humor to other people and convince them that it is the most wonderful thing that has ever happened to you, no more periods or mood swings, but truth be known it is terrifying.

Especially, when you look into the mirror, and ask yourself, “Do I look any different?” “Oh my God, I see more chin hairs than I ever did before!” “What’s that above my lip, a mustache?” “Oh for Pete’s sake, my eyebrows resemble Groucho Marks!” It is only when you feel up to it and venture out in public, that you get a sense of relief when you are seen by the people that knew you before the episode and they tell you that you look great and ask you what you have been up to. My fear was that I would all of a sudden be a mean old, grouchy woman that no one wanted to be around anymore. My kids would ask for asylum in another country and my husband would fake his own death just to escape the horrors of living with me.

You think that you have nothing to offer anyone anymore. Yes, you still function with a daily routine, work, social events, school, etc., but just beneath the surface, there is this doubt of self worth.

You question yourself about everything, I mean more than usual. Then work yourself into frenzy about whether you are crazy or not. Well hell, I have no problem admitting that one. I was crazy before the hysterectomy. I just didn’t know how crazy until afterwards.

Lucky for me, I had a wonderful support network of girlfriends that saw me through the first couple of months, until I could swim on my own again. I don’t mean to discount my husband and children, but let’s face it; they did not have the faintest idea of the tidal wave that was enveloping me. I had all the bases covered. I had my aunt, who was unfailing at telling me the truth about what to expect as I began this journey. She was a tower of strength in telling me it was going to be hell and to ride the wave but that I was not alone and I would make it through. She never “pooh-poohed” me, but had an unwavering sense of compassion and tolerance. Not to mention horror stories, that she had experienced, that made me laugh until I wiped tears. Then I had my best friend, who was there to listen to me cry, be angry and share my fears with, and never telling me once that it was no big deal. She took me to the hospital, sat with me during the pre-op, and stayed until I awoke from surgery. She came to my home to check if I needed anything, and she didn’t scream when she saw me at my worst. I felt loved, safe, and blessed to have her with me. Another person that has been one of the kindest, loving, and most generous of friends has been my sister-in-law. She has been wonderful at helping me keep my self esteem high and giving me moral encouragement. We have laughed at the most ridiculous things and have shared intimate secrets of ourselves. I have also been blessed with many other women in my life that I shout out to and tell them they are gems to have as friends.

Being faced with obstacles is hard enough, but it is a little easier to know you are not alone. Courage is the act of bravery which makes it all the more possible when you are backed up with friends that cheer you on. Knowing that throughout my life I will be up against a wall from time to time is a little comforting because it gives me a sense of accomplishment when I do get passed it. Alright, now that is a bunch of crap

To Patch or Not to Patch

If you are a menopausal woman, then you have heard of or are experiencing all of the options of hormone replacement therapy. We are told about all the wonderful things that are at our disposal, from designer drugs full of horse urine, to patches of all shapes and sizes. After surgery I had a patch on me that took skin off the bone when peeled off. When I went home, my husband went to fill my prescription and came home with these Frisbee size patches that I was supposed to wear. It was nothing like the one I had just removed. So I read the instructions on how to apply this contraption and found that after a day it was falling off. It was supposed to stay on for a week. I got mad and was feeling pretty frustrated when in two days I had gone through three patches. The promotional insert had lied about their wonderful product. Not to be outdone by a hormone disk, I decided to get my monies worth out of the things. I told my oldest son to go get me the duct tape from the garage. He brought it to me and I duct taped the patch to my ass. I figured it was better than the alternative, which was most like a tiger eating her young. Which by all accounts is acceptable as well.

I then had a follow up appointment with my doctor. The nurse asked me, how things were going and if I had any problems. As she was asking me these questions, the doctor walked in as I replied, “Not anymore. I fixed the problem myself. See?” Then showed her and the doctor the results of my handiwork. I thought the doctor was going to have a seizure from laughing so hard. After all I had created another use for duct tape and was quite proud of the accomplishment.

The doctor took me into his office and sat down behind his desk, put his head in his hand and chuckled. He then reached for his pen and wrote out a new prescription for a different patch that would work better for me. I laughed so hard when he asked me, “Have you ever heard of the 3M company? They make a wonderful adhesive that goes on the back of these patches that I am now prescribing you.” I had a slew of questions burning inside my now active brain. The biggest one being, that with all the negative propaganda with HRT, was I going to have to live with pregnant horse urine being a constant companion in my body. He assured me that what he had prescribed did not have any of this, which I was thankful for. My next burning question was if I would have a natural libido and continue to want sex with my husband. After all, this was one of the things my husband was most excited about, no birth control, no babies and no more worry. And frankly I was pretty curious about this myself, hearing all of the war stories that it would just dry up and go away. My doctor was very gentle and kind when answering all of my questions and told me that there was no reason for me not to have a normal sex life. He then shook my hand and told me that I had made his week and to not hesitate to call him if there happened to be another problem.

That brings us to sex. That one is a “toughie” to wrap up in a nut- shell. Another fear was that I would shrivel up and have no desire for sex. The fact that I was thinking about sex at all, while healing, dawned on me. “There is no way that I could lose my sexuality if I am thinking about it this much!” You hear horror stories about marriages failing to survive the fallout of the one thing that you have always been taught was your womanhood. What a crock. I have to admit though, that I now think about it differently.

It isn’t just about the physical aspect of satisfaction but that I feel more sensual and that it is ok to explore that sensuality with my husband. Not that we didn’t explore it before but now it had an element of spontaneity. My only problem is that there is still no time to explore it. My husband works long hours and we either put it on the back burner and just let it hang there or ignore it completely until I think that I better satisfy my man or he’ll go elsewhere.

Which is another thing. I am continuously thinking about making him happy and I wonder if he thinks about the same thing. It is a sensitive subject even among the closest of couples. You don’t want to say anything that might suggest that your thinking he is inadequate and frankly, men take that very seriously. Their ability to provide for their families, retain a sense of respect and pride on how they see themselves, and last but not least, the knowledge that they are still kings in the bedroom. It really cracks me up to get a visual on this, for if they knew how we see them they would cry and beg to be let out of the Kleenex commercial that we have put them in.

It is amazing to me how very different we are. I mean men hold and touch to make love and women make love to be held and touched. I can’t quite get a handle on how to make it work though. I think as women, we tend to have a deeply innate drive to be the caregiver and put our own needs on the wayside. We get wrapped up in sensibilities and question our thinking to the point of insanity. Then when we hear that “we are paranoid” it just perpetuates that self-doubt that we carry. Then you ask yourself, “What’s wrong with me? Why can’t I just accept things at face value and move to another avenue?” It stands to reason that women tend to be more of emotional thinkers, in which we have to analyze every subpart of every part. That brings us to the Wonder Woman complex, and let me tell you, we can sniff out other wonder women like a dog sniffs out beef jerky. Our golden lariat comes out and we twirl around extremely fast to accomplish all the tasks that need to be done, fight the bad guys of injustice towards our fellow man, host community rallies, not to mention all of the other things we do as a wife, mother and friend. God forbid if we lose our cape and mask that we put on for the world every day. That would just be too much to handle because then we have to admit our faults as a regular human being. The vulnerability clause never entered the arena of our minds. That is a sign of weakness and damn that I AM WONDER WOMAN! Screw the leaking thing, I have battles to forge, armies to raise and single handedly take on the world’s problems.

That is a wonderful theory, but I forgot one important piece……me. I forgot how to be comfortable with my own identity. I had given up myself to a cause, an idea or who someone else thought I should be. I had been reduced to being defined by my work.

Loves Me Like A Sister

Well, here we go. After the last chapter, I had a blow that would knock an elephant on its side. My husband was acting a little strange for a couple of months. It first started with him accusing me of giving him the Peruvian clap all because he had a urinary tract infection, which I pointed out. It didn’t dawn on me to question why he would even say that much less question what he was doing. Then he began going in earlier and staying later at his job. So I called and asked him what time he would be home for dinner? I then told him that I think we need to talk. When he got home I asked him what was bothering him and he came out with, “I think that I am done. I don’t think I love you anymore and I don’t know if I ever really loved you that way. I love you more as a friend and a sister.” To say the least, that was a hard blow to swallow, especially the sister part. I got violently ill and had to go throw up. I came back and asked him if he ever screwed his sister the way he did me. He then told me that he wanted to pursue another woman that he met at work. Pursue away! When I asked him how long he has been feeling this way, he told me that he had felt this way for two years. Thanks for the warning buddy! I mean, couldn’t he have told me sooner instead of wasting two years of my life? Then he told me the answer to that question by saying, “I wanted to wait and see if MY feelings would change.” What about the feelings of my children and me? I can see why women turn towards lesbianism. Women are catty and vindictive but they don’t screw you over by withholding their feelings.

It took me a little while to process what my husband just told me. Once again, I was backed up against a brick wall, faced with that wonderful contraption, known as a bulldozer. Trust me, there were all kinds of questions that were racing through my mind. What the hell was I going to do? My God, I had lead myself to believe that this would last forever, that I had finally achieved something. Now I’m having to down shift pretty fast at this point and realize that I hadn’t succeeded. What’s funny about it is that I don’t think I ever really trusted in the forever thing with him. All those questions that I kept tucked away on some dusty attic shelf in my brain were tumbling quickly to the forefront. Of course, he so gallantly offered to stay for a few weeks until I got on my feet. What the hell was he thinking? I told him that I wanted him out as soon as possible, which turned out to be four days later. So while he worked during those four days, I packed up all of his meager belongings and set them by the door. I didn’t have a whole lot of time to think other than the task at hand. I was in shock at the failure of another relationship. It was quite therapeutic to pack his crap. So for the next three nights I had something to do with myself while he was at work. I was also freaking out about how I was going to manage in the house I was in with the income that I made. After all, he expressed to me that it was probably better for me to go back down to part-time so that I was home for the kids, put me on his insurance then have to move from the other house that we rented and moved into the house that we were in now. Little did I know that he had been planning this for seven months, which was the exact date of the lease agreement. Guess I should have paid more attention to what was going on, huh?