A Plus Sized Uterus

I saw a new gynecologist this week. My last ob/gyn was fantastic, but not conveniently located and driving to her office felt like a cross-country trip. I found myself wanting to rent a motor home to drive to my appointments but motor homes are murder to drive through Hollywood and I was afraid that I’d run over homeless people. I’m against running over homeless people. Except for the one who threw up on my car at a stop light. He had it coming. Judging from the contents of his stomach at 9:00 am, the fact that he was wearing a parka in July and his crazy astronaut-style moonwalk, I was doing him a favor anyway.

Side note: I did not actually run over that homeless guy except in my mind and if you could see what else happens in my mind you would see that running over a homeless man is the least of my mental offenses.

“She is a complete nutbag and I know nutbags.” (image via dreamstime)

Anyway, my new ob/gyn is cool but I think we got off on the wrong foot. First of all, she asked me about any health concerns I might have and when I listed them she smiled and said, “welcome to your 40s.”

Evidently becoming 40 is the worst thing you can do for your health. Worse than eating bacon and cubes of butter for breakfast every day, which makes me feel a little foolish for eating oatmeal with chia seeds. But the fact that she was so cavalier about my geriatric health issues irked me. She didn’t even give me a card to soften the blow. Something like:

Welcome to your 40s. Sorry your body is turning on you, but at least you’re still alive.

I can’t really judge her about the card thing. I’m not really good about giving cards either and she’s a busy doctor. But an Amazon gift card would’ve been thoughtful. Just saying.

“My doctor threw me an enlarged prostate party!” (image via dreamstime)

Then she asked me about my job. I said I was a stay at home mom and a blogger. Again she smiled and asked what kind of blog.

“A humor blog,” I said.

“Good for you.” she replied.

Subtext: Another stay at home mom who writes a blog. Such a cliché. And a humor blog? That’s weird because she’s not that funny.

I might have been projecting there. It’s hard to have a dignified conversation with someone who has their head between your legs, which is why you never hear stimulating dialogue in porn. Still, I had to really fight the urge to add, and an astrophysicist just to make myself feel better. I did resist the urge, because it’s also not a good practice to lie to someone who has their head between your legs. Before and after they have their head between your legs is okay, but not during.

“A vagina never lies.” (image via dreamstime)

Just because I run over vomiting homeless people in my mind doesn’t mean that I don’t have moral standards.

Then the doctor mentioned that my uterus was large and I got all up in her grill.

Large? Large as in slightly chubby and cute like the babies it developed? Or large as in call Richard Simmons because this uterus is morbidly obese and house bound? Am I going to have to buy a second seat on an airplane for my uterus? Are people going to judge it for its size instead of getting to know its personality? Because my uterus is so much more than just a dress size. Why is it that having large breasts is a good thing but having a large uterus garners you criticism? I bet there are cultures where a large uterus is desirable. If Hollywood didn’t set up impossible standards by constantly showing anorexic uteri I bet we wouldn’t even be judging the size of my uterus. Why do we as a society castigate uteri for being different than the norm? My uterus is big and beautiful and I refuse to be ashamed of it!

I didn’t actually say those things but I thought them. Loudly. I was totally about to declare the inherent beauty of my large uterus out loud, but then she said, “You probably have fibroids.”


So I put my underwear back on and took my large, fibrous, forty-something year old uterus home, fed it a cupcake and looked at the stuff on Amazon I’d buy if I had a gift card. Later on I dressed up as a super hero and went to a screening of The Avengers. I bet Scarlett Johansson has a big uterus.

“I do have a large uterus and men love it.” (image via dreamstime)

Rise And Fall Of Super Birther

My mother was a Super Birther.  She was so gifted in this arena that she had me, her third child, in a doctor’s office without pain medication, despite my large head, and took me home buck naked in a medical supply box. (I didn’t say that she was a super planner.)  She could have just as easily popped me out in the grocery store somewhere between aisle seven and produce, picked me up and continued right on to check out. The only thing she was missing was a cape.

Hey, can I borrow your cape? This box is cold.

I always assumed, being like my mother in so many other ways, that when the time came for me to deliver my own child, I would automatically tap into the Collective Female Experience and channel my inherited birthing ability.  As it turned out, when the golden hour arrived, the Collective Female Experience’s server was down and the birthing ability possessed by my mother skipped a generation.  My body, when faced with the task of presenting a child to the world, handled it with the aplomb of an unsupervised crack baby at a Walmart super sale.

I want Star Wars Legos action figures and some candy or I'm going to shoot this baby out your nose!

The first sign that my body wasn’t up to the task at hand occurred when my water broke for no apparent reason other than boredom and general chicanery.  I wasn’t in labor yet. It just had nothing better to do. The rest of my reproductive system took momentary notice and promptly returned to its regularly scheduled programming, refusing to jump on board the birthing bandwagon.

My husband and I obediently went to the hospital anyway, because that’s what you do when you spring a leak. There I spent the next day watching my husband sleep, impending fatherhood having apparently thrown him into a fit of stress-induced narcolepsy. I also talked to various interns who came in periodically to check my non-progress and hold a mirror under my husband’s nose. And occasionally I listened to other women scream–with joy, I assume. What I did not do was dilate.

Narcoleptic Daddy--I love my family most when they're sleeping.

The hospital staff grew impatient with me. I was taking up valuable real estate and my body was showing no sign of ever producing anything but enough amniotic fluid to open my own water park. They began to think that maybe I was planning on gestating for another year, like an elephant.  So to give my body a little nudge they gave me a Pitocin cocktail.

Here I am packing my obstetrician.

Now anyone who has had the pleasure of Pitocin’s acquaintance knows that a “nudge” from Pitocin feels like a sledge-hammer wheeled by a 300 pound bodybuilder in a roid rage. My uterus began contracting with a manic enthusiasm usually reserved for stalkers and young Disney Channel actors. I’m usually fairly stoic about pain but at this point I tried to rip off my husband’s hand and beat him with it.

Your uterus on Pitocin. You can dress it up in a pink bikini but it's still scary.

The new-found fervor of my uterus made my cervix nervous. Still confused about its role as a portal to the world, my cervix felt the need to do something and so in the pressure of the moment went with door number two despite the coaching of the audience. It began to swell shut. The hospital staff shook their heads at my bodily ineptitude. The word “c-section” was mentioned immediately after the words, “whoa” and “what the heck?” My husband, fresh from his marathon nap and not burdened with any useful medical knowledge, remained optimistic, giving an inspired, if not misguided, delivery room pep talk, to which my cervix, in the middle of performing its own medical miracle, responded by giving us all the one-fingered salute and rupturing.

Goodbye natural childbirth.

So apparently I am not a Super Birther. There will be no cape for me. I did, however, earn my own special title, Medical Oddity, which possesses its own merits.

You cannot escape my uterus!

Medical Oddity: Super Birther’s nemesis and arch-villain of the birthing world. Bwa ha ha ha. I wonder if I can get a black latex arch-villain nursing bra.