regrets on overshare: you simply have to love the cyber delay of an IM chat about your vagina
- insecure self-effacing me: i switched it to private because I was so embarrassed about this whole thing. I had made the mistake that a thousand girls had made.
- acerbic, brutal male: you believed that the guy would pull out?
- me: not the abortion, the overshare.
- me: HAHAHHA oh my god.
To hell with all that: Archives are back
Pretty emotional from re-reading them. I will explain my reasons for unlocking them and all that some other time. There’s a whole paradox to this of course. I would to like to live in a place where abortion isn’t such a polarizing, seemingly life-changing event. It wasn’t for me. Not at all. I’ve been in more pain and anguish from a twisting my ankle. The pregnancy was the agony, 7 weeks of vertigo and mood swings. The abortion was a breeze.
So I want to put the whole thing behind me. I don’t want to count down every day from the abortion (this happens to be the one month anniversary). So blogging about it everyday and fielding emails about it —once again, if you email me to debate this shit I will ignore it but if I’m two drinks in you will get the sharpest side of tongue. Some of you readers have experienced that. I make no apologies. You should fucking know better — just makes it all there all the time. All the time.
But the response has been so great. The out pour. The support. And I just like it. It’s fun joking about this and getting mad and mounting my cyber high horse. Anyways, hope you stick around. And I hope you enjoy this
Here are the highlights :
Abortion Recovery Kit!
A fellow lady who had corrective womb surgery and I came up with this. I had a few friends send care packages and it was the greatest thing. It made me feel so loved and proud. If you wanna tell your lady that she’s the cunt-loving master of her sexual universe I suggest putting together something like this. (Or if you wanna prepare these things yourself like I did)
First you’ll need a crucifix and crushing sense of shame — OMG JJJJJJ FUCKING KAAAY.
1. Salty borthy soup/crackers — after surgery your body is alll waaaahhhhhh. I threw up a grip from the morphine so for every one’s sake you want to put stuff in you that’s easy on the belleh.
2. Hot Tea/ Port Wine/ Bourbon — If you were like me you couldn’t hold down the booze during the fetus invasion. Now is the tip to slowly sip some sweet ambrosia. Its so soothing. Stay away from beer. It makes you more bloaty.
3. Fuckin Popcicles — You earned sweetness —but not dairy! That shit is hard to deal with after surgery.
4. At least 1-2 season’s worth of quality tv dvds. You really can’t do too much while you’re recovery except sleep and complain about cramps. Take the day to watch the a show that you can nod in and out of. I watched 2 seasons of The Office. I cried a lot. Stay away from Deadwood or The Sopranos. That shit is all about the existenial abyss. You don’t need that right now.
5. Tabloids —- obvs.
6. The best pain pills your dealer can get — not that you’ll be in that much pain at all but it really doesn’t hurt to feel all floaty on vicodin. Or just get tynelnol if you’re scared to take drugs about drugs, puss.
7. Anything that brings humor to the situation. My fantastic friend sent me a huge package with girly themed lotion and make up, candy, magazines, fake candy grillz and temporary expecting mommy tattoos which blew my fucking mind!
Anybody got more to add?
It’s a vagina Madame, not a clown car.
Had ye ol’ ShameCave looked at today.
(actual image below)
I’m healthy and healing.
I went to my private gyno. She is a brusk north easterner. She was kinder than usual today cause I told her I had THE PROCEDURE. Mind you My Great Pregnancy Panic set in when I called her office 10 weeks ago first and asked for an appointment. When I told the unbearably sassy sectary that i was pregnant she said
“Doctor ____ doesn’t see pregnant women before their 8th week.”
I was so confused by this statement i just hung up. Because of course I wanted to scream out “uh, i don’t want to get to my 8th week!!!.”
I went to her and NOT to planned parenthood because I have a snobbish idea about healthcare. I’m sickly.
I’ve been sick and struck with too much shit at too young an age so I have silly phobias about public clinics and HMOs — ive had some Kafkaesque experiences. All this to say, no fucking way was I stepping into planned parenthood again. They treat you like cattle most of the time.
I had stitches and once and I was always worried that I infection because the wound tingle and throb for the first months. Well that’s how my uterus feels.
Not the vag, or the ovaries. But i actually feel my uterus jiggling a bit from “the healing process”
Remember in old cartoons when they would throw a cat in a bag and you could see the bag buldge and writhe from the kitty trying to get out. That’s kind of what it feels like. A couple times a week uterus will be all “BAM!” “BOOM!” “BIFF!”
I’d be lying if I said if that hasn’t made me trigger shy to sex. I get all hot and bothered and then “KABOOM!” And body shuts off.
I would like to be over this by now. I didn’t want to fuck during my pregnancy because I would get motion sickness. Now my shit’s all fragile. Ugh how is it mormons are able to pop out nine kids and still get their hump on?!?
why am i so attracted to this man?
Recovery Room: The Deluge
I was cheerful and high.
The recovery room was not at all how imagined. It was communal. Instead of beds their were chairs. Looking back now i realize that it looked exactly like a nail salon. Two rows of oversized recliner chairs, silent women, and chatty asian ladies at their feet.
Every one was very quiet. When the nurse took my vitals she asked me how I was feeling I said “I am fan fucking tasticcccc… how are you my friend?” She chuckled and she said it was good to see me smile.
And I got excited. This was going to be a very rare, often coveted moment of self-actualization right? Where something so atomized understands itself entirely and it begins to bond to other atoms. We could all speak the same language now.
I sat back in the chair expecting all us sisters, we bloody, happy few, would make each other laugh and exhale out anxieties. I looked to my right and I saw the polish woman. I just reached out and grabbed her hand. I asked her, because I was zonked out of my fucking head, why she had an abortion. Through a lot of tears she told me that she was 15 weeks pregnant, had three children, and she just found out her new child was going to be autistic. And decided she didn’t want to go through with it.
She was sobbing. And I felt guilty for being flip about the whole thing. She wanted her kid. Shit, she had three more than I was willing to have. But then she asked me why. And I said I’m too young. And there was this slow groundswell of emotion inside my ribs that didn’t quite erupt but steadily spilled out. Like some huge block up that is slowly, but forcefully drained.
I told her about how scared I was, how alone I felt in this hell of a fucking city, and how difficult all this shit was with my partner. And we sat there dazed and sobbing. Speaking loudly hoping, I think, that others would explain how they were.
Jesus Christ. i am a fucking wreck as I type this. Not sure why.
Then a girl two seats away, black and stout said:
“Girl, this is my second. I don’t ever want to do this shit again.”
Another girl came in named M____ . I recognized her and knew her name from the waiting room. She sat down and I immediately blurted out “M___, how did it go?”
“not great” she said cried silently.
I noticed that, except for one other girl who was passed out, I was the only one that was on a ton of fucking morphine. I decided I should shut up because who knew what kind of raggedy ass bullshit I was going to talk. No, transcendental sisterhood would have to wait. I rolled my head over to the other side and slept for about ten mins. Delicious, otherworldly sleep.
When I woke up the Polish woman had left and I knew I wanted to leave too. I was in too good of spirits to stay in such an emotionally charged room. I felt pretty good walking out. A little floaty. Went to eat a clubsandwhich with mom. Before i could sit down I puked all the morphine and stomach acid out. That was the end of my high.
And that was it. Aside from some mild nausea and weak cramps I was back to being myself. I spent the day sleeping and watching the Office with my mom. By monday my hormones were a little wonky but in all i just felt like this parasitic creature that burrowed its way into me and fed of my energy, apetite, and joy was removed. And I had been restored.
The young, fresh-faced Ethopian doctor walked in, shook my hand and completely ignored my tears. Told me to just lay down.
The sedation, the procedure, my feelings, anxieties, were clearly not up for discussion.
This is where you succeeded, Planned Parenthood. It was total go time. Once you made it into that room you weren’t going back. This was the best possible thing that could have happened. Any further discussion about anything would have made me melt down from frustration and anxiety. (I was a wee bit emotional)
I was also flummoxed by the fact that he was a man. My defenses were thrown. Every single person I saw and dealt with behind the desk that day was a woman. My gynos have always been ladies (its important for me to describe pain to my doctor and have them know which flabia or labia i’m talking about.)
I laid back, there was no cool thing on the ceiling — at my old clinic in LA they had pictures of pandas and dolphins!! The nurse spiked my vein and the morphine shot hurt like a bitch. I’m wincing and writhing and thinking
FUCK! IF THAT HURT, WHAT’S THE VACCUM GOING TO FEEL LIKE AHHHHHHH—
And then like a slow rolling wave- it washed over me. I inhaled and I felt fucking magnificent. Picture right when you’re coming out of sleep, when you turn over to snooze and put your face to the cold part of your pillow, you can’t help but grin. Ok, hold that soothing warmth and total relaxation, now imagine having an orgasm. Like 5 of them, surronded by plushy pillows. That’s what hit me about 20 seconds after they poped the IV in.
I closed my eyes to let myself float through the high and thought “oh my god, i feel so good, oh my good, this is fucking good, oh my god —”
“And you’re all done.” The doctor says.
I couldn’t believe it.
I felt nothing.
I heard nothing.
I felt awesome.
Wanna talk about the question of life? Let me put it like this: the physical and psychological euphoria was so immense that moments after I stood up i felt resurrected. I felt very certain the life had indeed prevailed. My life.
I scooted off the slab, with the paper still clinging to my ass and thighs and asked if I could see “it”. I looked at a medical waste bucket by my feet and to be honest, my head was swirling so much that I could have been looking at bucket of baby bones, or Marie Antoinette’s severed head, or unicorns, or thumb tacks I wouldn’t have known the difference.
I put my clothes on and was escorted clumsily into the recovery room where there 5 other women in their own separate dazes. Now that’s a good story. Until tomorrow. My ambien is preventing me from tortured coherence.