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Purgatory - Sunday, Feb. 10, 2019
Thursday, May. 12, 2016 @ 11:59 pm
At work I scramble to get things done. I'm trying to work on a design but the phone keeps ringing, and meetings scattered throughout the day leave me feeling useless and unproductive. A series of appetizers but never a real meal. Pushing pieces of worms down the throats of the various chicks squawking at me from the nest, trying desperately to make everyone happy enough to leave me alone so that I can spend more than ten minutes of uninterrupted time focusing on my deliverables. I pull my large headphones on, but even they do nothing to disaude others from approaching, from waving theirs hands to get my attention. I need a door to shut. And lock.
But the reality is that I'm irritable like this because of my period. Or lack thereof. I have this sinking feeling in the back of my heart.
I research hypothalamic amenorrhea and PCOS. Post-pill syndrome. The former characterized by a lack of and the latter by an excess. My gut tells me that it's the former, the disease of ballet dancers, marathon runners, Wall Street executives. Maybe a small part of me is proud to be included in this group. I kind of even like how it sounds... amenorrhea. It's such a beautiful word. Like pirouette and adagio.
I read that a lot of women have success in correcting the problem through yoga. I already go to yoga twice per week. I read that B vitamins and magnesium can help. I've been taking those for two weeks with no changes. I also read that increased healthy fat intake can help. I eat an entire avocado for breakfast, followed by a dollop of organic peanut butter for my second breakfast. I read that eliminating dairy can help. I cut out my daily plain yogurt and cottage cheese. I miss those more that I'd imagined, and the challenge of eating higher fat without including dairy is interesting. But even with all of this, nothing changes.
I start to drink water two hours before my ultrasound appointment. Full bladder. I wonder how they define this. I drink one liter. I sip tea. I stand up to stretch, finally having had an hour of productive time once the office cleared out at 5pm. I stand up and walk towards the bathroom. Shit. No peeing. I go back to my desk and continue working.
I drive across the city. Always driving across the city. I like how going to appointments - dentist, Doctor - how I go home for them. It makes me feel safe.
I arrive at the clinic. A maze of dim rooms and blinking electronic lights. A woman takes me into one of the rooms. I lay down and as she's lubricating the paddle she asks about my medical history.
Lost my period as a teen. Went on the pill to regulate my cycle. Became sexually active in my 20's. Continued on pill and forgot about the whole teenage amenorrhea thing. Went off the pill at age 27. Accidentally got pregnant. But it was a blighted ovum, so not really pregnant. Went back on the pill. Now, age 35. Off the pill. Three months and nothing's happening.
She pulls up my shirt.
Oh, you've had a cardiac surgery?
Right. My scar.
Pylroric stenosis. As an infant.
She carries out the procedure. I watch my internal organs fade in and out in black and white on the screen. I think about how some women are in this room to see their babies for the first time. I'm staring at my dead womb.
Am I allowed to be this melodramatic? Feelings are feelings and are never wrong.
She asks if I'm OK with an internal ultrasound. Oh god. You mean, the ultrasound dildo? I ask. Yes, the ultrasound dildo.
She asks if I'm allergic to latex, and I watch her put a condom on the instrument head. I'm suddenly feeling less and less OK with this whole thing. Start to feel mad at my body, this situation, wondering if I DID THIS TO MYSELF.
I sit in the car afterwards, feeling slightly abused. I always sit in the car afterwards, right? I live the same repeating cycles: drive to the north shore, have life-changing experience or interaction, sit in car and feel sad, drive home and be inspired by the weather/architecture/etc.
Speaking of which, Chris emailed me on Monday. But I don't have the energy to get into that right now.
Anyhow, I drive home across the city. I go across the Second Narrows, and I weave in and out of traffic, through the tunnel.
I stop for groceries. I look at my phone in the parking lot, and a friend (well, Daniel's friend who is now more my friend than his, but I can't rightly claim her as mine so hence the explaination) is texting me that they just bought their DREAM HOME IN THE COUNTRY!
I act all happy, texting her to ask about it and congratulating them on achieving their life dream.
I think about my dead womb.
I think about my dead womb, and the ultrasound dildo, the nest of angry chicks at work. I shame myself, that maybe I did do this to myself, by losing weight and being vain.
Maybe this is what I deserve.