Ovaries, Do I Really Need Them?

Do I Really Need These Ovaries? Really?

I can’t have any more kids. That’s a fact. And more over, I don’t want any more. Getting preggers is fun times, and being stuffed with child is a beautiful and wonderful thing, but the fact of the matter is, that part of my life is *WAY* over.

 

Being preg-noid is bad for my health. As in, I barf so hard it breaks blood vessels in my face and I walk around with burst capillaries in my cheeks and black eyes because the vessels in my peepers are burst, too. No amount of medication kills the nausea and all I want to do is eat butterscotch pudding, which turns out isn’t really very nutritious. Bummer.

 

Also? My body doesn’t like serving up children.

 

My first baby came several weeks early, and he was so itsy-bitsy that we had to order specially-made premie diapers for him. Huggies didn’t put them on shelves back then. We’re talking a three-pound little guy, okay?

 

T.I.N.Y.

 

I had some of that pre-eclampsia stuff,

which used to be called toxemia back when my mom had it 500-krillion years ago. It causes that aforementioned nausea along with super-duper high-blood pressure and results in fuck-tons of swelling. I literally could not get my ankles into my freaking jeans. It’s been a long time, so I could be getting this wrong, but I think it has something to do with the mommy’s body freaking out over the dad’s DNA, not realizing that IT’S HALF OF YOUR BABY, STUPID-ASS.

 

My baby also suffered a placental abruption, which is pretty much exactly like how it sounds. The baby gunk-bag ripped away from the uterus wall before everything was all properly cooked, so there was all this bleeding and nonsense. It was a GREAT first-time experience. I was SO EAGER to jump back in for more of that, let me tell you.

 

Okay, but first times aren’t necessarily indicative of how future pregnancies will play out. Except that mine kind of WAS. I had several miscarriages between the birth of my son and the birth of my daughter eleven years later. That’s no good.

 

And my daughter?

Yikes. Her head got all stuck because she was, as usual, not paying attention and didn’t hear the teacher’s directions when instructed to face THIS way instead of THAT way. After sixteen hours the medical staff finally decided she was not going to fit, regardless of the threats to take away her laptop and ground her from prom. So an emergency cesarean was performed and she still ended up with a frigging cone-head. Okay, I mean, her head is no longer cone-shaped, which is good. But you can see how that might be unsettling, am I right?

 

After that final fiasco, it was decided that maybe I’m not so very good at the whole baby-making process. Fine by me. That shit hurts, and kids are expensive. Plus? I see age 40 coming up all too soon, so I’m happy to embrace the great womanly change that says I’M DONE WITH TEENAGE BULLSHIT.

 

I had a tubal ligation performed,

which means something happened via my belly button that I don’t even want to imagine. I didn’t have a clue it was possible. Pardon me, but since when is my fucking belly button an orifice??? YEAH. Let’s move on.

 

End result: I can’t have any more kids.

 

This is an awesome thing, because I can practice all I want without fear of reprisal. And that, fwends, is good times.

 

The bad news is,

I still get periods. Which is all kinds of fucked up. Every month my hubz can hear me yelling at my eggs from the bathroom:

“What the hellz are you bitches doing? You are a god damn waste! You might as well stay inside because NO ONE CAN GET TO YOU! You will never, ever be fertilized! LOSERS!”

 

I don’t get hysterical and cry about not being able to have babies. I get hysterical and cry that I still have to worry about tampons and all that nasty mess which is completely POINTLESS. Every month I threaten my ovaries, “I will have you assholes yanked out if you do this to me again!”

 

I’ve been yelling at them for over seven years now, so obviously my ovaries are both aware that I’m a liar. But still. You’d think they would get the message. I don’t really need them. They are completely unnecessary and take up precious time and resources that could better be spent elsewhere.

 

As I look ahead into my slowly-encroaching middle age, I’m bitter that menopause is still so far away. I have seriously considered talking to my doctor about having my shit removed, but it’s one of those non-emergency, over-there-ish kind of things that hasn’t yet become a priority.

 

And then I read an article by  which made me question whether having my ovaries removed is a smart idea after all. In her piece entitled “Hands off my Girlie Balls!” Chloe discusses the potential negative medical repercussions of getting your shit chopped out. Since she is self-dubbed “the true Vagina Whisperer” I trust her opinion. Plus? I like her blog.

 

But now I’m doubly pissed. I’m stuck with these useless organs that cause more trouble than they are worth, but that would possibly cause more trouble if I had to go without them. That seems massively unfair.

 

I kind of want to go around punching people in the wiener now, just to share my frustration. Seems only right. Men should have to suffer monthly for no reason, too.

 

Dare to disagree?