I have polycystic ovaries.
I have fibrocystic breasts.
I have cystic acne.
And I have pelvic lymphocysts.
For most women, they will tell you that experiencing childbirth is when you lose all dignity - with your legs in the holsters and no less than 2 people looking up close and personal at your steaming snatch. And I ain't talking about ménage à trois here, people! In my case there were 7, but who's counting...
Well, for me it was a long, long time before that.
Let's completely ignore the fact that I had 12 interns present at my first pap smear at 14, all staring intently and taking notes as the chosen student proceeded to insert the vaginal retractor IN-COR-RECT-LY. Yes, that's right. I know you're all crossing your legs right now - and so you should. It was NOT a pleasant experience. Every time I've heard the line, "This is a teaching hospital" on shows like ER or Grey's Anatomy, I have done an involuntary Kegel. Fucking students.
So, indeed, let's all forget that.
But if it wasn't from that, then it would be from the two dozen times I have had a lymphocyst bordering dangerously close to my holy grail that was so painful that I couldn't walk. Then in 2006, one impacted so badly that I had to have an emergency operation... while my then current fiancé was back in Canada for a cousin's wedding. I had to call him from my cell phone on pain killers to tell him I was in the hospital. Plus, we didn't really know anyone well enough to call to help me in the UK, so I had to look up my neighbor's phone number and get his adult son's wife (that I barely knew) to come and drive me home after the surgery. It was a humbling experience, to say the least.
Try explaining THAT one to a bunch of nosy pupils that all wanted to know why I had been off school for 4 days and am now limping. Why, Miss, why, Miss, why, why, why?
BECAUSE I JUST HAD MY MEAT CURTAINS OPERATED ON - HAPPY NOW?!
(You must be shocked to know that that was my final year teaching. Uh huh.)
So I have done everything to try to help with these cysts. I've changed my clothing. My detergent. My soap. I've lost weight.
I had a doctor recently nonchalantly tell me that all I would need to do was lose weight - because the old scaring that would indicate exactly how long I've had this issue was apparently irrelevant. So that doctor could take his 'professional opinion' and go eat a dick.
Thankfully, my husband is very understanding and is so used to my occasional giant band-aid that he barely even notices now. He's explained my condition in the most perfect way:
"It's not the cave that brings the real estate down, it's the neighbors."
If I ever find myself back in the dating game for whateverthefuck reason (I like to be prepared), I would most definitely have to add that to my profile description.
What's so fun about dignity anyway?
This post was inspired by the TMI chatter that I just love so much over on The Twitter -
with the lovely Momofthreeunder, jlweinberg and kdwald.