Only 40...

Those were the words my “lady doctor” uttered as we discussed what will possibly be the next phase of my reproductive life. Or should I call it my non-reproductive, feminine, pre-menopausal existence? It’s still a very new concept. “Yes, you’re only 40...” was the precursor to an entire discussion about my options for curbing my currently challenging menstrual cycle that hits like a freight train every 21-25 days, bleeding everything AND my freaking wallet. It requires every size tampon ever made, super plus to medium, and then I’ve obviously got to have the regular and overnight pads with all the wings. One time, I fucked up and bought the ones without wings and my usual monthly crime scene turned into a full on horror movie of epic proportions. I’m not sure exactly how many pairs of underwear I ruined in that hour, but best believe I have not made that mistake since.

See, for most women of my age this situation is much simpler. They go and get their prescription Mirena or Kileena (whatever sexy millennial name is out there for an IUD this week) popped in and POOF they get a drop or two of flow every now and then. These bitches (intended lovingly) can party it up at the pool 25/8 and purchase a pack of ultra thin pantyliners twice a year. They would very literally faint if they saw my CVS feminine product receipts. So what exactly is keeping me from a blissful and non-eventful cycle? Turns out, I have these lovely things called fibroids. And no, I’m not the only woman who has them - I know that, Karen. But I do have a whole... what phrase did the funny ultrasound tech use to describe them?... Oh, “a growing family” of them hunkering down, scratching and surviving, living their best lives, making themselves at home deep deeeep in the walls and other special places in my non-functional uterus.

See, the professionals like to remind you that your uterus is not functioning. In case I didn’t remember that I waited thirty-three years to have my first and only child and that in the last seven years, no other children have been born out of my same singular uterus. Yep, that was intentional. I’m not @oneanddoneregan by accident. It’s basically my brand! Can’t change it now, right? But in all seriousness, I just have no clear and present desire to be 42 or 45 or 48 yelling at some toddler in a grocery store and then carrying them out sideways leaving behind a cart full of groceries. Nope, I’m not the one. Happy to applaud and bask in awe at those of you who have done and are doing it. Currently saluting you with one hand while clutching a small fanny pack full of feminine products in the other.

Speaking of those many and varied feminine aids, I’ve been on a quest for about a year now to lighten and shorten my own monthly flow. My lady doctor is awesome. He spends the time to talk through my issues and options and listens to my concerns. No complaint there whatsoever. Shout out to Dr. Harouny from Novant Health. At this point I’ve been through not one, but two, ultrasounds to determine whether an endometrial ablation or even a standard IUD would be possible. For those of you that appreciate detailed facts and standard definitions, an endometrial ablation is an outpatient medical procedure that is used to remove or destroy the endometrial lining of the uterus in women who have heavy menstrual bleeding. Oh and don’t forget... endometrial ablation should never be performed on women who wish to have children. Because, again, I’m not doing that anymore, my uterus is empty and non-functional, I am barely a woman. Sorry for the dramatics, folks, but that’s just how it feels.

Identifying candidacy for the ablation requires an ultrasound. Remember those? The procedure that’s so exciting and anticipatory when we actually have a fetus growing inside us that we cannot wait to meet, and when that’s no longer the case is one of the most awkward ordeals that a woman can know. It felt like it took days rather than several minutes. While my comedienne ultrasound tech was just happily digging around in there typing various half-words into her screen, I was assuming general stirrup position and having an under-the-radar panic attack. After about 20 minutes, it was finally over. Same story...the fibroids are just slightly bigger now, so no IUD will fit right and the ablation won’t work. My remaining options are the band-aid of birth control pills (back to that nightmare of my late teens and 20s) or...drum roll please... a fuuuucking hysterectomy.

Now, let me get you straight on the modern hysterectomy. I’ve had it explained to me twice now so I’m basically an expert. Outpatient operation with anesthesia... 10 day recovery period... they only take the uterus and Fallopian tubes (did you know that ovarian cancer starts in the tubes?)... they leave the ovaries so no early menopause and, TADA, no more periods. Those are the hot logical facts. Sounds simple enough, right? Except that I am not guided by my logical mind, like ever. The prospect of losing this particular part of my body, the part that gave me the most precious gift of my life, non-functional and useless as it may be, is fucking with my emotions in a major way. I mean come on, I JUST TURNED 40 IN JAN...U...ARY! Can mother effing Mother Nature seriously give me like five or ten minutes to adjust to that fact? My 39-year-old body is barely cold. And yes, Sharon, I realize I’m not the only person who is newly 40 and there are certainly women older than me that have experienced more and worse. However, there are a lot of ladies younger than I am with their whole reproductive lives ahead of them that need to be reading this shit for their own sanity.

So, I’m pretty much as ambivalent about what to do with my uterus as I am about closing out this piece. I can choose to grab my reproductive reality by the...tubes, I guess as it were... have the procedure and fully embrace life on the other side of 40. Or, I can keep holding onto my feminine youth by a very thin and ever-shredding thread really for no other reason than some warped sense of nostalgia? Emotional principle?? While the decision seems easy, it’s tougher than I ever imagined. It's like letting go of a piece of yourself that means more to you than you thought it did. Turns out Chicago was right (again, because it also is really fucking hard to say I'm sorry sometimes)...you don’t know what you got until it’s (almost) gone.

What would you do if you were me? Comments are always appreciated!

Stay sane and hold onto your uterus as long as it feels practical to do so,

-Regan