Womb Chat

My uterus is more popular than me. She is a trending topic on Facebook and Twitter. I never imagined the type of notoriety a female body part, other than her sister, the vagina, and maybe her twin cousins, the boobs, could garnish. However, it has happened. She has graced the offices of many a local government and even made it to the international stage during a United States Presidential Debate.

Correct me if I’m wrong, but is it not the 21st Century? Didn’t our mothers already fight for this shit so we wouldn’t be bothered with such issues?  I would have imagined by now, my girl would be kicking back (which is funny because she is tipped) and taking it easy. No such luck. Even in her twilight years, my uterus has been thrust back into the spotlight and is causing quite a clamor. If you have been living under a rock, or only have two testes and a penis, let me bring you up to date. The uterus is the new black. She’s the talk of the town. She’s the cat’s meow; literally.

Since everyone is so interested in the goings on in my uterus, I’ll tell you a little bit about her.
My uterus is 50 years old and lives in Indiana where she is Enemy #1 to our governor. I call his office to speak to him about my uterus at least once a week, inviting him to my GYN appointments, asking him for advice about my uterus and giving him general updates. He hasn’t once returned my call. I assume he must be performing a pap smear on a constituent. But I digress.

Back in July of 1978, my uterus got the call from my fallopian tubes stating that an egg was coming down the chute. She was excited to finally be elevated into active duty. The rest of my twelve-year-old self, however, was on a parachute ride at Knott’s Berry Farm, and was the least bit thrilled. I believe the experience could have been described as terror, denial and embarrassment as I watched my mother share the joyous news with everyone in that amusement park bathroom. Since then, my uterus, like clockwork, has cradled those eggs and done her thing.

In the past 17 years, my uterus has produced 3 live births. From the moment they took their first breath and became independent from my uterus and the rest of my body, we (my uterus and I) have watched them grow into wonderful human beings. Unfortunately, my uterus has also delivered some duds. There have been several monthly occasions where the flow was so heavy and the cramps so bad, it looked like a case for CSI. Incidentally, that is exactly what would have happened if our governor had his way last summer. I would have had to cordon off my toilet with crime scene tape, gone fishing for a few clots and taken it to my physician or nearest medical facility where I would then be held responsible for a burial. I’m not sure, but I don’t think insurance covers bodily function interment in my MetLife plan. Again, I digress.

On a typical day, my uterus and I grocery shop, run errands and occasionally will see the uterus and vagina doctor since this whole menopause thing has us by the proverbial egg sac. I have been considering just having coffee with the governor so he can guide me through this. After all, he seems to know what’s best for us.
My uterus also accompanies me to a program I volunteer with that mentors at-risk teens. Together, we give young women and men the opportunity to talk openly about relationships, boundaries, respect, responsibility, sex and the importance of education. I must admit, the old uterus is pretty wise when it comes to lecturing about self-care, self-respect and responsibility. She’s not an armchair uterus that just spouts off orders to other uteri. She’s in there, front and center, helping other uteri understand and make informed decisions.

My uterus and I like to help but we also understand that just as my uterus is part of my body, like my heart, kidneys, liver and other internal organs, she only functions because I function. Her health and welfare depend on me, the vessel. Together, we understand that each vessel is unique. Each vessel is responsible for her own course. It is also important to note that a vessel does not lose her command even when she must lose her uterus. Contrary to the belief of some,we are not defined by our uterus. We can survive without a uterus, thrive and even run for President. However, it cannot survive without us.

Old girl is getting tired and headed into retirement soon. She will no longer be part of a trending topic or heated discussion regarding purpose. Although, in the future, the only thing she may be capable of producing are tumbleweeds, she still deserves the privacy and respect she did in her heyday. My uterus is not independent of me, nor is she up for debate among strangers. I protect her and she has served me well

The purpose of allowing you, the reader, to get to know my uterus, is to advise you that the business of regulating personal reproductive rights is degrading and discourteous. To allow you to dictate rules and laws, to listen as you gush a series of opinions as to what each and every individual woman and her uterus must comply with, you must first know each and every uterus intimately. You now know mine, only 125.9 million to go.

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