That's Enough of THAT.
For those who missed the memo, on the fifth of next month, Fates willing, Sargon will join the ranks of the snipped. We've got him scheduled for a no-scalpel vasectomy, the lowest-impact kind available.
I'm filled with an appalling sense of dread, largely stemming from the fact that thus far all of our attempts to ensure that we will remain blissfully childfree have met with resoundingly negative results. And so it is out of a sense of obligation that I write this entry, which is less about the event itself and more about me deliberately forcing myself to step on mental cracks and walk under psychological ladders in an effort to train myself to really believe that talking about a thing will not fuck it up.
Fate can fuck things up all on her own, and does not need to read my livejournal to know when I am looking forward to something.
The doctor was totally cool about it when we went in to speak with him. We politely emphasized that my life would be in danger if I did get pregnant, and he agreed that this was by far the best thing we could do for ourselves. I was expecting much more of a fight, but he wasn't an asshole about it at all. It was refreshing in the extreme. I mean, wow. Imagine that. A medical professional actually allowing two adult human beings to make the choice they feel is best for them. Incredible.
Really, it's only sensible to pitch the ball into Sargon's court, given that I've exhausted the non-invasive procedures available to me.* It's so much simpler for men.** Two tiny punctures, and it's done. There's none of that squelching around in the depths of my plumbing. No pre- and post-op checkups. No "please piss in this cup to prove you aren't pregnant, you vapid whore" tests. No pain and bleeding for a week, a month if you count sex. No hormone pills beforehand to make sure I'm absolutely shitting out my forebrain with terror because of estrogen poisoning.
Just one consult. Then the operation. And that's all.
Did you know that men get a Valium to take before they go in, as well as a local anaesthetic? I had whole chunks ripped out of my cervix with no painkillers whatsoever, and I did not get so much as a fucking lime lollipop to calm me down beforehand.
What the fuck is that about?
Is it because we're women, and thus will someday have to go through labor, so it's only seen as right and proper that we learn to suffer because it somehow builds character?
In the words of the Foulmouthed Broad, FUCK THAT SHIT.
Oh, I realize that the pedantic assholes among you are probably tempted to pizzle on about how it genuinely is necessary for a guy to be relaxed in order to perform the procedure, and that it's not at all necessary to be sure a woman is relaxed before you go perforating her unmentionables, but that just goes to show how little regard medical professionals have for the psychological state of their patients. They've brainwashed you into believing that how you feel about what they do to you is unimportant. Oh, and there's still the part where women are expected to endure any amount of pain the physician deems necessary simply because we're female. It's "unavoidable." Yeah. That's what we in the snarky bitch industry like to call "bullshit."
Fucking barbarians.
Really, I should have gotten him to do this years ago. Would have saved me much bitterness, spite, and drama. I swear . . . I still can't believe the shit I have to deal with because I fucked up in some egregious way in a former life and was born a female with no desire for children. Yes, I'm still hoping my uterus just shrivels up and falls out like an old lava rock one of these days. Spiteful fucking thing.
Anyway, having this done will be like closing the book on a very painful and very unpleasant phase of my life, and I'll be free to just put it out of my mind thereafter. Provided it all goes as planned, I'll feel a great deal safer and more comfortable.
That's all I've ever fucking asked: the right to be allowed to follow through on a choice I made when I was six years old. After twenty-two years, I doubt I'm going to change my mind.
I'm really lucky to have a husband who is with me a hundred percent.
* I ask that you all politely refrain from offering birth control advice or asking me if I've tried this method or that method. I've tried everything short of abdominal surgery and crocodile dung. I have done everything I am willing to do to rid myself of my fertility. Nothing has worked to my satisfaction, and a great deal of it has been destructive to my life. It's his turn.
** I didn't say it was a cakewalk. I said it was easier for men than for women. I have sympathy for the precious nuts, okay? But you guys are just way, way easier to sterilize.
I'm filled with an appalling sense of dread, largely stemming from the fact that thus far all of our attempts to ensure that we will remain blissfully childfree have met with resoundingly negative results. And so it is out of a sense of obligation that I write this entry, which is less about the event itself and more about me deliberately forcing myself to step on mental cracks and walk under psychological ladders in an effort to train myself to really believe that talking about a thing will not fuck it up.
Fate can fuck things up all on her own, and does not need to read my livejournal to know when I am looking forward to something.
The doctor was totally cool about it when we went in to speak with him. We politely emphasized that my life would be in danger if I did get pregnant, and he agreed that this was by far the best thing we could do for ourselves. I was expecting much more of a fight, but he wasn't an asshole about it at all. It was refreshing in the extreme. I mean, wow. Imagine that. A medical professional actually allowing two adult human beings to make the choice they feel is best for them. Incredible.
Really, it's only sensible to pitch the ball into Sargon's court, given that I've exhausted the non-invasive procedures available to me.* It's so much simpler for men.** Two tiny punctures, and it's done. There's none of that squelching around in the depths of my plumbing. No pre- and post-op checkups. No "please piss in this cup to prove you aren't pregnant, you vapid whore" tests. No pain and bleeding for a week, a month if you count sex. No hormone pills beforehand to make sure I'm absolutely shitting out my forebrain with terror because of estrogen poisoning.
Just one consult. Then the operation. And that's all.
Did you know that men get a Valium to take before they go in, as well as a local anaesthetic? I had whole chunks ripped out of my cervix with no painkillers whatsoever, and I did not get so much as a fucking lime lollipop to calm me down beforehand.
What the fuck is that about?
Is it because we're women, and thus will someday have to go through labor, so it's only seen as right and proper that we learn to suffer because it somehow builds character?
In the words of the Foulmouthed Broad, FUCK THAT SHIT.
Oh, I realize that the pedantic assholes among you are probably tempted to pizzle on about how it genuinely is necessary for a guy to be relaxed in order to perform the procedure, and that it's not at all necessary to be sure a woman is relaxed before you go perforating her unmentionables, but that just goes to show how little regard medical professionals have for the psychological state of their patients. They've brainwashed you into believing that how you feel about what they do to you is unimportant. Oh, and there's still the part where women are expected to endure any amount of pain the physician deems necessary simply because we're female. It's "unavoidable." Yeah. That's what we in the snarky bitch industry like to call "bullshit."
Fucking barbarians.
Really, I should have gotten him to do this years ago. Would have saved me much bitterness, spite, and drama. I swear . . . I still can't believe the shit I have to deal with because I fucked up in some egregious way in a former life and was born a female with no desire for children. Yes, I'm still hoping my uterus just shrivels up and falls out like an old lava rock one of these days. Spiteful fucking thing.
Anyway, having this done will be like closing the book on a very painful and very unpleasant phase of my life, and I'll be free to just put it out of my mind thereafter. Provided it all goes as planned, I'll feel a great deal safer and more comfortable.
That's all I've ever fucking asked: the right to be allowed to follow through on a choice I made when I was six years old. After twenty-two years, I doubt I'm going to change my mind.
I'm really lucky to have a husband who is with me a hundred percent.
* I ask that you all politely refrain from offering birth control advice or asking me if I've tried this method or that method. I've tried everything short of abdominal surgery and crocodile dung. I have done everything I am willing to do to rid myself of my fertility. Nothing has worked to my satisfaction, and a great deal of it has been destructive to my life. It's his turn.
** I didn't say it was a cakewalk. I said it was easier for men than for women. I have sympathy for the precious nuts, okay? But you guys are just way, way easier to sterilize.