My Uterus Needs To Go To Rehab
Madame Roux - as my menstrual cycle
Sharkey - as my uterus
I think my uterus is drunk and needs to go home. Only it is home. That's the scary part. Because it's become that sick drunk with haemorrhaging esophageal varices. It needs rehab. But we all know there's no such thing as rehab for aging wombs; that doesn't mean there shouldn't be though.
And so, my uterus has taken to singing that Amy Winehouse song. When everything's quiet and dark, in the middle of the night, I swear I can hear some singing coming from my abdomen. They tried to make me go to rehab. I said, no, no, no. Sharkey, you are outta control, you need some fucking therapy! Yeah, my uterus has become the elevator from The Shining. Madame Roux has lost her fucking mind in a Jack Torrance kind of way.
The door to the bedroom flew open
and there stood my uterus.
It’d been out drinking again.
This time I was scared.
Ah, there you are menopause. Welcome. Please feel free to take over, rule my life and make my every waking moment an obsession over leakage onto my clothing. Because yeah, it's definitely a fabulous start to the day when I get to work, and discover a blood stain on my white dress. I especially like when I'm standing on the packed-like-lemmings-into-shiny-metal-boxes subway car and I can feel the warm gelatinous liquid oozing from my vagina.Yes, feel it. Imagine that feeling of your nose running, copiously, unstoppably. Those times you say fuck it and stick bits of kleenex into your nostrils to plug the dripping faucet. Only it's happening inside your abdomen. And you can't blow your uterus into a kleenex. And if you could, you'd need a thick stack of Paul Bunyan-sized paper towels. So you spend ridiculous amounts of money buying cotton with adhesive on it or cotton moulded into bullet shapes to catch the messy drips or plug the gushing faucet.
When I think of my uterus, I call her Sharkey because she bears a striking resemblance to a shark brain. An apex predator, a solitary hunter, an expert at threat display. She doesn't have teeth, well, they're not visible to the naked eye or any form of human technology. She's nasty and I swear she can bite. So, I say she has teeth. And she loves to spew. And gush. And dribble. She does this fuckery thing where she makes me believe she's taking a break from gushing. And then when I'm about to believe the worst is over, she screams SURPRISE! Really loudly. It's a visual kind of loudness. Red or carmine in colour. And sticky wet.
It's a messy business being a uterus. And having one too. It's fitting that, in the vernacular, we refer to the menstrual cycle as a period. It does have a tendency to punctuate daily living. More about that next time.