I'm a Cyst'a

For as long as I can remember, I have had cysts. I'm a cyst'y bitch all over.

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've gained weight. I've soaked in tubs with Epsom salts. I've seen dermatologists, homeopaths, plastic surgeons, you name it. Nothing has made them occur any less frequent.

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?



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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.

~Muah~