It's a Trap!
I had practically memorized Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret.
For those of you too young to remember, or those of you of the male persuasion, it was an extremely controversial book by Judy Blume about a pre-adolescent girl who wanted her period. She wanted it more than anything. Luckily, I was allowed to read what I liked, and I, like Margaret, wanted my period.
I wanted it more than anything.
Starting at about the age of 10, I looked forward to the day I would be A WOMAN! My mom had explained menstruation to me, complete with diagrams of ovaries and the uterus. I had seen the slide show in school, showing lovely, long-haired girls in flowing dresses who floated around and rode horses and were perfectly happy because they had their periods. And I WANTED IT! I would check every time I went to the bathroom. My disappointment knew no bounds when it wasn’t there. Wasn’t it ever going to happen?
And on the last day of fifth grade, it finally did.
I told my mother, and the first thing she did was slap my face. I’m still not sure where this custom comes from. Then she cried and hugged me and cried some more. I’m just old enough (and my mother was old-fashioned enough) to use an elastic belt with my pad, just like Margaret. My mom gave me a little purse to carry to school with an extra pad. My dad looked embarrassed but proud at the breakfast table. And I went to school with the exciting, secret knowledge that I GOT IT!
The last day of school was delicious. I was different. And I came home, looking forward to a womanly summer, and swimming the next day. “Oh no, you can’t go swimming!” said my mom. “You have your period.”
Wait. You mean it lasts more than a DAY???
And from that moment on, I wanted it gone.
I endured years of cramps, back aches, migraines, nausea, heavy flow that stained my pants, my sheets, my underwear, the occasional chair. I had PMS like nobody’s business and endured bloating, mood swings, and perpetual pain. What I spent in birth control alone could have been the down payment on a house. I would sit at work and rock silently back and forth, willing the pain to go away, feeling like I was in labor - like I was going to give birth to my own uterus.
Then perimenopause hit, and I was getting my period every 3 weeks. Then every 2 weeks. Then came the 45 day period. At that point, I was done. The uterus would have to go.
I’d known I didn’t want children since I was in my 30’s, but no doctor would do a hysterectomy because I was “too young.” This time, I went to my doctor and told her, in no uncertain terms, that if she wouldn’t remove my uterus, I would do it myself.
I was serious, too.
The surgery wasn’t pleasant, the anesthesia messed me up for about a month, and not being able to lift anything over 10 lbs for 6 weeks wasn’t fun. But the funny thing is my post-surgical pain was nothing compared to my period pain. I couldn’t believe the difference. And I wondered, why didn’t I do this years ago?
When I think I could have had 10 more years of agony, I’m thankful again and again that I sprung that particular trap early. It’s the best thing I ever did for myself.