Requiem for a Uterus: Ode To My Lady Parts

The views expressed here are the written opinions and observations of Nila N. Brown and are not endorsed by Blogger, The Landon or Ingalls-Wilder Families, or Procter and Gamble.  The subject matter of this blog is of a frank and mature nature and may be delicate for some readers, who probably prefer to look at the bearded clam from the outside, not from the inside which is where I’m going today.

Hello my lovelies!

I remember watching this episode of “Little House on the Prairie” where Laura announced that she was pregnant and then Caroline announced that - ermahgerd – she’s pregnant too!  Well, she thought she was, until Doc Baker told her that she was actually in the early stages of menopause.  I thought Caroline would kill herself; she was depressed, whining about not being a woman or something like that.  I guess back in the day, a woman’s worth was measured in how many kids she could breed, not today where we can find women in all segments of cultural, professional, socioeconomic environments and in binders.  Not that there's anything wrong with being a homemaker and housewife, but back then women were limited to being teachers, governesses and nannies until they got married; then they had to quit their jobs to take care of the house and the children.  Hearing you can’t produce any more children seemed to make many of them feel like they’re practically out to pasture and it’s just a matter of time before he’s looking at the town tramp.  What’s a pioneer wife to do?

“Little House” was a series of books written by Laura Ingalls-Wilder based on her childhood growing up in The Big Woods and their years on the prairie.  “Little House on the Prairie - The Television Series" was the figment of Michael Landon’s overactive imagination.  Not that I playa hate on it, but as the series began to wind down, you could almost feel the love you had for it just die inside you; for me, it was the aptly named “Hester Sue Terhune.”  In the years immediately following “Roots,” I think that this was Michael Landon’s attempt to be socially conscious, which is why he addressed a lot of race topics on his show; at least this is what I choose to think.  He’s not around for me to ask.  Anyway, her character was meant to be strong, level headed and act as a comedic foil to Harriett Oleson. She came across as that pushy black chick with an attitude problem who knew just what to say at the right time peppered with a few exclamations of a Godly nature and a hands-on-the-hip chuckle once in awhile.

Then…she would break out into a Negro spiritual. 

Let me tell you something, my lovelies; I’ve been a black woman all of my life and I aint never seen anybody break out into a Negro spiritual, much less around white folks.  Never.  Ever. Well, except for Herman Cain but that was because he was pandering for votes and my inner demon really doesn’t want to think that he does this on the regular.  This is the part where I wish Landon was alive so I could ask him what the hell was he thinking when he conceived this character.  Was she a combination of Florida Evans, Jane Pittman, with a smidge of Cissy and Mahalia Jackson’s scrunch face vocalizing?  Yall know Miss Mahalia could make some scrunch faces when she hummed.  I know that in today’s climate, you cannot get away with a Hester Sue Terhune on television.  In fact, a lot of shows that were on television in the 70’s couldn’t play in today’s climate. 

Sorry…I have this really weird habit of going off on a tangent.  I had a point to make here so let’s try to get back on track.

Sometime in the next three months, I’m going to have a hysterectomy.  This procedure is performed on women for a variety of reasons but for me, I’ve developed a condition called "adenomyosis," which is where my uterus is attaching itself to my uterine wall muscles.  To put it in terms you might understand, it’s like “Alien,” except the little belly monster isn’t exactly trying to break free via my chest.  The symptoms are weird, but the worst of it was I had a menstrual cycle for about a year. 

A.

Whole.

Freaking.

Year. 

I know, right?  Horrible.  A woman’s biggest nightmare besides hearing, “you’ll have to notify all of your sex partners.”  More importantly, it’s causing some very large fibroids to grow inside of my uterus and so, after all efforts have been exhausted, I find myself needing to have a surgical procedure to remove my lady parts.  Here’s something I found extremely amusing.  The nurse asked me if I was looking to have more children.  We looked at each other and then laughed our asses off.  Come on, honey; I’m 47 years old with a 25 year old daughter!  Seriously, what the hell, man??  Not only has that ship sailed, it's now sitting on the bottom of the Pacific!  Funny...

So anyhoo, I’ve spent probably 80% of my life having my monthly friend checking in like I owed her rent.  I was twelve years old when Aunt Flo paid me my first visit.  I can remember exactly what house I was in, which bathroom I was using and my reaction to it.  Sure my mom and I had “the talk” like most normal people, but you just don’t understand it until you get your moment of crimson wave Zen.

It’s funny because I distinctly remember having a conversation with the girl next door nicknamed "Rocky" when we lived near Sumner High School in 1978 where she had to go home to change her pad.  I didn’t understand she was talking about and she told me she got her period.  I told her to just take it back.  When she broke it down further, I realized that my mom had had “the talk” with me about two months earlier.  I thought Rocky having to go home was hella inconvenient and swore that I would never get my period.  She just kind of looked at me. 

Yeah, I know.

Anyhoo, the period was one thing – the cramps were another freaking nightmare altogether.  That didn’t happen with the first time.  Oh hell no, Aunt Flo’s even bitchier sister didn’t pay me a visit until my freshman year of high school and no, mom and I had NOT had the talk about cramps.  I didn’t understand why my lower back felt like I was being hit with a baseball bat.  I thought I was gonna die and demanded that the school take me to the hospital.  It wasn’t until the nurse asked me if I was having my period; then she told me to take a Midol and go back to class. 

God is clearly not a woman.

You figured out early on that you have to plan certain events around your calling card and that it’s really not a ‘month’ – it’s every three weeks and then life sucks for the next five-to-seven days.  I can’t swim so the pool was never an issue, but I learned the hard way you can’t wear white, and the pads back then were huge so everybody knew because of the belt imprint.

SSSSSSKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKRRRRRRRRRRRUUUUUUUUUUUPPPPPPPPP!

*taking the needle off the rekkid*

Ladies of the Millennium or those who were born after 1980, adhesive pads weren’t invented until the middle of that particular decade.  In the before time, we had to use sanitary napkins that were held in place by what was called the "sanitary belt."  You loop the pad through the little clasp in the back, pull the pad betwixt (hehehehe – I said ‘betwixt’) your legs, loop it through the front clasp and pull your little panties up. 

Yeah, you just can’t unlearn that, can you?  Gross.  Anyhoo, back to our regularly scheduled program.

In the years that followed, I learned to anticipate when the red death was coming and depending on what was happening in my life, it was either the worst thing ever or it was the most messed up thing ever.  You go on a date – bam!  It’s team sporting events – bam!  It’s your wedding night - cruel twist of fate bam! Getting up out of a chair in the middle of school assembly as the cutest guy in school finally notice you - merciless high school teasing bam!  It’s not until you become sexually active that you realize how much you like having that bleeding bitch show up on time.  

I had the one child and hated being pregnant, so I decided Charlene would be an only child.  Once in awhile, I’d get to the point where I’d almost regret that decision but then, life was not really easy so it was best that I not add to the issue with more children. Sure, they’re great tax breaks. Earned Income Credit paid for my entire house of furniture and kept me in cheetah print wear but overall I made the right decision.  Now that she’s a nursing student, I’ll be free after she gets her degree and get out.

Which brings me to this point in my life; the hysterectomy.  It’s going to happen and as I reflect on the loss of my lady parts, I’m filled with the overwhelming sense of sadness; not because I won’t feel like or be a woman anymore but I won’t be able to bitch slap somebody and blame it on PMS.  I’m not sure if my quality of health will improve without it but I’m so over the pain and other issues that it's causing on a daily basis. It will sort of miss it, however.  It cradled my little bundle of joy for nine of the longest months of my life and I still have the stretch marks to prove it. 

In memory of my lady parts, I've opined this piece entitled “Requiem for a Uterus: Ode to My Lady Parts.”

I’m not a poet so don’t look for a Dickinsonion effort here…

Requiem for a Uterus: Ode To My Lady Parts

*beating the drum*

Sephia and crimson blend as one,
Willows weeping call out to me.
Deeply rolling voice on the wind,
My lady parts, my lady parts...farewell to thee.

As I look up, lost in thought,
Lost in time, lost in me.
My lady parts weep sadly
My lady parts, my lady parts...farewell to thee.

The days of worry, moments of angst,
Will my lady parts scare and betray me?
Count twenty four days, three days late
My lady parts, lady parts, I embrace thee.

Red tide burst forth, calming my fears,
Angst turns to annoyance, oh woe is me.
White jeans now ruined, I knew better,
My lady parts, my lady parts, I curse thee.

Now the end of our journey soon at hand,
Faithful throughout, calming to me.
Well, just that one year when the rabbit did die,
Oh lady parts, my lady parts, did thou forsaketh me?

My lady parts, oh lady parts, we had some fun,
My torment, my passion, my pain, my tears.
My crimson prison shall flow nevermore,
My lady parts, my lady parts, true friend for years.

My lady parts, my lady parts, it’s been real,
The cradle of life, now this world depart.
The freedom from Playtex, the money thus saved,
Could fund a small country, ‘tis true the best part.

Freedom from counting, white pants all year,
Freedom from pill box, oh joy unto me.
On the rag? Yeah right – no more of that,
My lady parts...good riddance, good riddance to thee.

Oh did I say, “overwhelming sense of sadness?”  I meant, “overwhelming sense of doing cartwheels in a short skirt!”  I aint gonna miss Aunt Flo at all!

Although..her cousin “Minny Paws” is next on deck…

Hmmmmm….we’ll just see.

GOOD NIGHT CLEVELAND!!

Peace!

nnb