My Uterus is Not a Clown Car

It's not a clown car, but there's enough room for all of us.

To say I'm a little bit emotional is a major understatement. To be perfectly honest, I'm a wreck. This afternoon, when I go to the doctor they will be testing me for Uterine Cancer. I'm terrified.

When I was five years old and played with my Barbie’s I envisioned a future for myself that involved a husband and babies; lots and lots of babies. I've always only wanted to be a wife and a mother. I had my future imagined and planned, when MarineBrother would be walking across the stage for his high school graduation I'd be 7 or 8 months pregnant and cheering for him in the stands-as big as a house. However, at the age of 23 after excruciatingly painful menstruation cycles that included, on a regular basis, in less than 45 minutes time bleeding through a Super-Duper sized tampon, an ultimate incontinence pad for nighttime protection, and at night a towel with a plastic backing to protect the bed sheets. Let me tell you, there is nothing quite like the horror of passing a blood clot the size of a man's fist! Then, I questioned, "Oh my God, was I pregnant? Did I just have a miscarriage?" The Dr. said I had not been pregnant. However, I was diagnosed with Poly-Binomal Cysts on my right ovary.

Being twenty-three and facing the possibility of having Ovarian Cancer was daunting, I could lose my ovary but I didn't understand the severity of the situation until the nurses were wheeling me into surgery. My Dad wouldn't let go of my hand and he was crying. Nothing can make me breakdown quicker than seeing my Dad cry.

When I was awoken from surgery there was reason to celebrate. The cyst was not cancerous and my ovary was saved. The cyst wasn't even attached to my ovary. It was twisted from and around my fallopian tube; all were saved.

At a family dinner in the fall of 2008 my brother and his wife announced that they are pregnant with their first child. I was ecstatic for them! I couldn't wait to have a niece or nephew. After dinner his wife took me aside. She said she had always hoped that her and I would have and could have been pregnant together the first time around. Then she suggested that perhaps the next time. She is sincere and kind and I know she has nothing but the best intentions. I'm positive I made a rude response or a silly face and walked away. I was crying. The only thing I ever wanted to be in life was an impossibility. Sometimes, I think about that conversation and it hurts so badly in my chest.

The hurt I felt that day with my brother's wife reminds me of a professor I had at the University of Memphis. She asked me one day during a class break, "What do you want to do with your life?" I answered her honestly, "I'd like to be a stay-at-home mom who homeschools." Unguarded, this woman who has a Doctorate in English Literature responded, "That's the biggest waste of a life, Muffy! Why don't you quit school now and go do that?" I turned red in the face and tears began to burn behind my eyes. Who was she to tell me my dreams and aspirations are a worthless?

Fast forward to October of 2010, I went to the doctor because I had not had a cycle since July. He gave me a prescription for pills to jump-start my period. I question him if my cysts were back. He poo-poo'd my questions and sent me away. I became as regular as I had even been. I just assumed my body was made to be in pain and bleed heavily for prolonged amounts of time, until this past May 2011.

For Memorial Day weekend most of the ladies of my book club spent a long weekend in New Orleans. Even with the food poisoning, from the restaurant Oceania- please don't go there, that resulted in hospitalization for dehydration upon my return to Memphis the trip was stellar! Upon being admitted into the hospital doctors being doctors ordered a myriad of tests, including a CT scan. The immediate diagnosis was Intestinal Cancer. Whew! Was I relieved that after further review and three extremely boring days in the hospital I was again diagnosed with cysts on my ovary.

Armed with a new OBGYN we went after the cysts with a vengeance. This time the cysts were actually on both ovaries. I was shocked, the surgery 10 years ago was supposed to eliminate this problem. I had my fears and worry but I was confident that the results were going to be the same. With this surgery I knew exactly what to expect. I was determined that it was not going to take me six weeks to heal like it did when I was 23.

Less than two months after the diagnosis, on July 25, I went under the knife. As the nurses and doctor were wheeling me in to Operating Room 2, true to me, I was giving them instructions, "You do not have permission to remove my ovaries or my uterus. Leave them where they are! When you put the tubes down my throat don't jam them in there. That shit hurts! Oh, and I don't care if you listen to Country music while you are operating." Sleep came as a relief.

When I was brought back around to the conscious state I had a coughing fit like I was fighting for air. Then I felt the pain just inside my hip bones- the pain was reminiscent of the night prior to my bellybutton piercing.  At the age of 18 it made sense to prepare for a belly-button ring by doing over 200 sit-ups. When I awoke from my surgery I was holding my stomach only to realize that I hurt so badly inside my hip bones because those were incisions.

The nurse stopped my coughing and I immediately began questioning, "Was it Cancer? Do I still have ovaries? When can I go pee? I'm ready to go home."

You see, they won't let you go home until you go pee. It has something to do with making sure they reconnect your bladder correctly. I was given permission to go to the bathroom. This go-round I anticipated that when I stood up blood would gush from my insides down my legs because of the D&C that was performed. This was something I did not know or expect ten years ago, especially as my Dad is walking me to the bathroom and all I can manage to mutter is, "I can't stop the blood!" This time I knew.

The nurse gave me an all clear, "It's not cancer and you have your ovaries."

I felt relief. All I have to do is heal.

Two days after surgery I walked a mile. The next day I went running.  After all I was training for my first 5k.

This past October I began to feel sluggish. I was always tired. I chalked it up to a lack of sleep from spending late nights and most of my free-time in the darkroom for photography. That didn't explain why my cycle was extremely heavy and lasting two plus weeks.  But, it did explain the fatigue. The OBGYN changed my prescription for birth control again and said to give it 3 months. It takes that long to make a difference.

On January 6 of this year I had my 3 month exam. The prolonged periods lasting two or more weeks were persistent. I was bleeding more than half of my life.

I was dressed in a paper gown when the doctor walked in to my exam room; at least they had a sweet mobile hanging from the ceiling.  Little drink umbrellas are lazily dancing in the office air conditioning. Believe me, I was imagining a tropical vacation with fruity drinks rather than anticipating cold stirrups and the famous words, "Scoot your rear all the way to the end of the table."

Instead of going directly into the exam the doctor sat down.  He thumbed through my charts and made a clicking noise with his tongue against his teeth, "Well, I suggest we cauterize your uterus or give you a hysterectomy."

Instantly I began fighting back tears. My lips were quivering and all I wanted to do was calm the eff down, not show weakness, and don't cry.

He kept talking, "Still give you an exam...You may have polyps...More tests."

All I could manage to say was, "Cauterization or hysterectomy is not an option. I don't even have kids."

He said, "With all of your problems you should realize you may not be able to have children."

I had the exam and then waited, stunned, for two hours so I could have a sonogram. The sonogram shows I have polyps in my uterus.

This leads to today. In a few minutes I am going to have a sonohystogram to test for Coochie Cancer.

I know I have dropped a lot on you. I'm sorry. I'm going to sit here trying to be calm. For the next few minutes, until they call my name, I'll revel that at least for the next few minutes I don't have cancer and I can have children. Right now, my dreams are still alive.

Glamorous Lifestyle

This morning I crawl out of bed and I'm standing in front of the full length mirror in my bedroom.  As I look at myself I think, "I am more than a mess." My hair is out of control and carelessly styled in the manner of a Scout Finch arriving home from an outdoors adventure.  It is tainted with the aroma of cigarette smoke, spiraled with laughter, and reminiscent of memories from the bar last night. The remnants of black eyeliner are smeared across my face like a raccoon's mask.  I cannot help but to smile.  My cheekbones are beginning to flirt with an impending arrival and the dimple in my left cheek has returned.
I'm wearing my University of Memphis Snuggie backwards as an open robe.  I scan my nearly naked body.  I'm wearing a leopard printed push-up bra and I'm impressed, women pay for what I have naturally.  I'm pleased that my waist is beginning to slim in the center, but I have a long way to go.  I laugh out loud as I am immensely distracted by my giant, purple, thong panties that are at least two sizes too big and are loosely hanging between my legs. My thighs can always use more squats, my legs are begging to be shaved, and my toenails are desperate for a new color.  I can't help but to not take myself seriously.

Recently, I've been facing and questioning the opinions others and I have of myself.  Mostly I've been facing my fears and recouping.  My married friends have been constantly telling me how envious they are of me, of my freedom. Others have told me that I am a party-girl and that I have a wild personality.  Someone has even built me into something of his own creation, to the point he admittedly gets nervous to speak to me.  Although wild personality is definitely a possibility, party-girl is far from the truth.  And I assure you, there is nothing to be nervous about. I should know, after all, I'm my own greatest critic.

Three and a half months ago I was confused, sad, angry, and disappointed.  I was trying to facilitate the best possible way to remove myself from a disaster of a relationship and a broken life of sadness in a house of sour lemons without letting myself be harmed any further and trying to avoid hurting him.  Regardless of his infidelity, abusive tirades, pathological lies, controlling behavior, and neglectful hygiene I once thought I loved Rhine, I know now he was actually a bad habit. I know, I'm hopeless, actually ridiculous to stay for so long against the advice of close friends and second guessing myself.  I thought I could forgive him for his cyber relationships and continued memberships to paid sex websites, but I never could win against his constant reminders of my inadequacies. I was helpless to his "Strength Training," exercises of mental and emotional abuse.  However, I always followed my belief that I know I'm not perfect and I should accept his flaws.  In return, he, who is far from perfect, will accept mine.  I could not have been any more incorrect.  After four and a half years I had no other option but to leave.

Before I left the house on November 18, Rhine threatened me. He said, "You've got another thing coming if you think you are going to leave this house with any of your furniture." After work the next evening I returned to the house. Rhine and his father, our landlord, changed the locks on the house. I had previously removed a very limited amount of belongings and one laundry basket of dirty clothes. My moved wardrobe consisted of 2 pairs of sweatpants, 4 sweatshirts, four camisoles, some panties, a few pairs of socks, one t-shirt, one bra, and one dress. 
Rhine has spent months sending me multiple emails demanding money in return for the personal belongings of mine that he is willing to return to my possession. He has converted my property to his ownership, thus stealing all of my clothing, furniture, and possessions.  He is a thief and has spent months spreading lies about me.  In the middle of November he left me without clothing or even a winter coat.  I'm completely dumbfounded as to why he would want to continue to control me nearly four months after our breakup.
For three and a half months I have been constantly reliving the end of our relationship.  I have been  confused, sad, angry, and disappointed. I was confused because he was still controlling me with mixed messages and promises of fixing our relationship.  I was sad because I believed his lies and yet knew I had to leave.  I was angry at myself for being so weak, for not following up on inconsistencies, and angry that he was not who he promised he was. I was disappointed because I was responsible for wasting my time with a lack-of-potential loser in a dead-end relationship. Dealing with these emotions is a daily issue, an internal battle against myself.

As for the party-girl stereotype, my life is far from glamorous.  I constantly make bad decisions and huge mistakes.  I regret something I say at least once daily.  I do the absolutely wrong things and yet I want so badly to be perfect and appear put-together.  I am struggling with this obsession with perfection.  I am not anyone to be nervous around, I'm probably more nervous than you.  That's why I find it so hard to find the right words; I don't want to say the wrong thing to scare anyone away.  I rarely go on dates. In fact, I just let myself be kissed for the first time since Rhine.  Let me tell you, nice guys aren't supposed to kiss like that.  Most of the time I get stood-up, dates are cancelled, plans are changed, and men lose interest in me.  Last week a potential date got too high and decided he'd rather sit at home watching Jeopardy.  Yes, it happened.  Yes, he admitted it. I don't blame them for losing interest; right now I'm an emotional mess.  Many days I find it difficult to even pull myself out of bed.  I cry without even knowing I'm doing it.  Most days I convince myself that ordinary reasons of everyday life are occasions to celebrate just so I can make it through the day. 
I'm the only one that lives my life every day.  I shower. I go to work. I do my laundry. I pay my bills. As much as I hate to do it, I pump my own gas. I go to the grocery store. I eat by myself at restaurants. I go to the movies by myself.  I visit my family on a regular basis, I love them. Without knowing he's done so, my six year old nephew has made me feel worthy of love.  I spend a lot of time alone.  I'm the only person that knows I'm happiest when I am exercising; it's the only thing I find complete comfort in.  I'm the only one that knows when I sit down to eat cereal I end up with tears in my milk.  I'm the only one that knows that I go to the nail salon because I miss human interaction and the sensation of being touched.  I crave hugs like I'm gasping for air.  I have anxiety attacks. I have nightmares. I rarely sleep. I'm the only one that knows that socializing with friends and going out keeps my mind occupied from myself, my insecurities, and my greatest fears. 

Because of my vantage point I wonder why and what my married friends are so envious of. But, if going out with girlfriends, cracking jokes at my expense, laughing too loudly, saying inappropriate things, dancing, and occasionally having a couple of drinks classifies me as a party-girl, I will gladly accept that label.  After all, I'm the only one that lives me.  Only I know what I'm going through every day.  This is me.  This is the glamorous lifestyle of a single 30-something.

Confessions of a Long-Term Serial Dater

I'm sitting here staring at the blank screen, completely dumbfounded at what to write.  There is so much I want to say.  There is so much I need to tell you.

I'm doing the only thing I know to do. I'm writing this from the chair of a beauty salon.

The cardinal rule a girl must follow upon the break up of a relationship remains to be, "do not touch your hair." I'm throwing caution into the wind and I'm breaking my own rule. I am in desperate need of a change and in the next few weeks change is all I will have to embrace me.

Last week Rhine and I separated. "To save our relationship." Insert eye-rolling. I moved out of our bedroom into my own.  Rhine determined that in order to "save our relationship," we should take time apart. I have been through all of this before; the end is not new to me. It is not like we have been much of a couple anyway.  We fight every time we try have a conversation. Rhine is and has been sleeping downstairs on the sofa for the past month, since we came back from Hot Springs.

On one hand, I want to be with Rhine because we've been together for four and a half years. Out of habit, I have loved him. On the other hand, our relationship is good only in fleeting, sporadic moments.

This is contrary to what we let the outside world see.  To everyone else we carried on like the ideal couple, devoting ourselves completely to one another, appearing to be happy.  We tried to be one of those "it" couples that would make it together against all odds. Sadly, it was all an act.

I suppose I better start from the beginning.  This time the truth will be told.

upDate: He's Got a Case of the Niceties

For those of you not from Memphis, Beale Street is Memphis' less than equivalent version of New Orleans' Bourbon Street. Bars are open until all hours of the night, non-bottle adult beverages as open containers are permitted and of course we have the famous Beale Street Flippers. The Flippers are young, black kids that rap, dance, and perform acrobats in the middle of the closed off street.  It is a great place to gawk at the jackasses or perhaps to become one yourself.

Whenever JB and I get together to go 'downtown' we always end up with interesting stories.  Like the time JB fell in-love with that J-named fella, while I was stuck listening to his jack-off of a best friend, Adam, allnight, "I'm a private investigator working on a top secret case in Millington."  His story was unlikely and so was mine.  I was a flight attendant who was engaged to a FedEx Pilot, I had the biggest rock ever on my finger, but our drinks were paid for all night.  Or how about the time when JB and I went out on July 7th to celebrate my ‘I'm-Not-Turning-29 Birthday,’ JB ended up with a snaggled-tooth disaster following her all over Silky's.  It is quite a miracle that the only photo she has of him is the one I am in. The photo of the two of them miraculously "did not take."  Our last trip in September is no exception.
  
JB and I decided to go to Beale Street on Saturday, September 22.  She drove us to the top of the Peabody Parking Garage high above Memphis.  It was really only like 5 stories.  We managed to find an open parking space, next to a brand-new, maroon Jeep with the extended cab.  JB and I begrudgingly trekked up to the elevator, only to share it with the owner of the Jeep and his two friend-girls.  The Jeep driver was smoking in the elevator; I was annoyed at his smoking.  I leaned in to JB's ear and whispered, "Who the hell does this guy think he is trying to kill us in the elevator?  He won't stop looking at me!"  The banter in the elevator was pleasant.

JB and I headed to the Flying Saucer as the people from the elevator went elsewhere.  Many beverages later, and after my bad judgment of giving the wrong guy my REAL phone number and after having been booty-groped by the same wrong guy, a real AssHat, at the Double Deuce, JB and I escaped to Alfred's.
JB and I danced our asses off to the Madonna cover bad playing"Material Girl" and "Like a Virgin."  We were both sweaty or should I say delightfully glowing.  Naw! I was sweaty and I have the photos to prove it.  We were heading to the bar to purchase another beverage when I ran into the guy from the elevator.  He was a nice change from the five text messages and three voice mails left by the"I can't believe I'm going to be hittin' that ass later, tagging that shit tomorrow" AssHat.

Yes, can you believe the boldness of AssHat?  I just met him and as far as he could think I was his property and apparently we were going to be 'knocking boots' quite quickly. Even eight weeks after I gave him my phone number I'm still receiving drunken voice mail messages at 4:30am and random text messages from AssHat. I have never returned one call or text to him and yet he still insists on contacting me.
The elevator guy bought JB and I drinks.  The conversation was going so well that I sat down to talk, JB went to dance.  He and I were in the middle of a conversation when he "had to tell me asecret," apparently the secret involved his tongue being halfway down my throat because not only was I kissing him, but I was blatantly making out with a complete stranger in a crowded bar surrounded by his friends.

At the moment I was "that girl," again. You know who I am talking about, that drunk girl that gets a little tipsy and all of her friends have to babysit her because if she steps away you won't know which corner of the bar she will be in making out with a complete stranger.  Yes, I admit, that was me and I have a habit of kiss strangers.

Did I mention before that one of his friend girl's had professed her undying-love to elevator man?  No?  That is because I didn't know either until after we sucked face.  We parted like the Red Sea and I turned to see if JB had returned from the dance floor.
As I glanced to the other side of the table there she was, glaring. I was blushing.  JB had one hand on her hip and the other strangling her beer bottle.  Her eyes were piercing me and bulging out of her head. Her nostrils flared and her lips were securely pressed in disappointed shock.  It was priceless! She looked at me and I knew exactly what she was thinking.  Her glaring eyes were screaming, "Whatthe eff are you doing?  You have a boyfriend you live with at home!" But she said, "Gather together so I can take your picture."  Oh... her sweet revenge.

When I came clean to one of my roommates, Edward, and showed him the photo of us he said, "You must have been wearing beer-noculars."  In the drunken moment, I don't remember anything other than the guy at the bar I was kissing had dark pools for eyes that I fell into.  I was tempted to threaten that I would not be drinking in public anymore, but we all know that is not possible. Besides, I find Elevator Man attractive.
   
The rest of the evening, alright it was early morning because we didn't leave Beale Street until 4:30am; the girl with the undying-love was shooting daggers directly into my face.  I smiled.  I could see that she was imagining a slow and painful death for me. To retaliate I did what any other girl would do.  I smiled and made sure to kiss him while she was glaring directly at me. And I was so nice to her.  She knew what I was doing and he just saw me being nice to her.  It was a win-win!
JB, Elevator Man, his friend-girls, and I all walked back to the cars together.  Elevator man and I stopped at the vehicles to say goodbye or to give each other strep tests, I really don't know which.  In the background I could hear the girl with the undying-love bitching about me. Apparently, I learned later, that she bitched about me their entire drive home, "Oh, so you have something for Miss Blue Eyes, Long-hair, Big-Titties...don't you?"

Isn't my new nickname perfect?  I just love it!

     
JB lectured me all the way home about already having a boyfriend. Reminding me I would ruin my relationship if Rhine found out about ElevatorMan.  She didn't know that Rhine refuses to claim me as a girlfriend.  She doesn't know that earlier that day he declared that after unofficially dating for well over a year he has decided that he is holding me back and I should date other men.  That is just the tip of the iceberg.

True to fashion and as he promised, Elevator Man called me four days later.  I waited five weeks before I returned a text message; some things are just worth waiting for.  But the truth is I had to work up the courage to return a message, I was nervous and second guessing myself.  He immediately called me, as I picked up the phone he said,"I knew you wouldn't forget me," I could hear him smiling on the other side.  "I want to take you out, how about Monday?"
We decided on Tuesday because it was more convenient to me.  He texted me on Monday afternoon to reschedule for Thursday November 8, which was fine I had other things I could be doing.  On Thursday he texted to confirm our date for that evening.  All of this it was very new to me; it was all nice, gentlemanly even.

Here is where I am sure most of you are asking, "What about Rhine?"  So? What about him?  There is nothing about him, he is NOT my boyfriend.  Rhine doesn't know any of the above story; I'd like to keep it that way.  And if he did know, he wouldn't care. Yes, I know for a fact, so I just leave him out ofthe loop.

At 4 o'clock Thursday afternoon Rhine called me to ask me for a favor,"Hey, do you have any plans tonight?"

"No, why?"  It wasn't so much a plan as it was a date. It's more of a lie by omission.
 
"When you go home tonight will you clean the crock pot so that I can cook dinner?"
 
"Sure," I said.

At five I race to the house, clean the crock pot, plaster my face with make-up, pin my hair back, tell Edward "You don't know where I am," Edward knows and I rush out the door before Rhine gets home.       

I go on the date with the guy I met on Beale Street; his real name is J-squared.  Yes, he has a real name, reference "Naming the Puppy."  We both work in the vicinity near Cozymel's on Poplar, so we met there after work.  We were supposed to meet at 6pm for drinks and just this once in my life I am actually on time. I climbed atop the benches in my four and half inch, red,stiletto Enzo's, with my fists clenched and yelled in a tribal, guttural,monosyllabic grunts, "I was ON TIME!!!"  I sat there patiently and waited.  J-squared was late.

We go to the bar for drinks, he drinks some sort of beer, and I drink more Diet Coke than I have ever previously had in my life.  Caffeine buzz!  We talk, he is nice.  Like me, he was raised Catholic.  He talks more, he is nice.  When we first met he told me he had two children, apparently he has magical Sea Monkey children because once on the date he has three kids:  14, 9 and 7.  He has full custody,which is nice and tells me a little something about him.

Two women he previously worked with randomly show up.  The one whispers too loudly, "She's pretty; try to keep her.  Good luck!"  He talks more, he is nice and we move to a table to have dinner.
He is a liberal, but he is nice.  He has a full-time job with benefits.  He is 10 months into starting his own company, and he is nice.  He would rather spend $10,000 dollars a year on a social life than going to grad school.  He talks too much.
 
Before we leave he asks me out again for the next night, "I want you to meet my friends.  How about Moffat's for karaoke tomorrow night?"  At first I agreed, but once I got home and asked Edward about what he thinks about J-squared's request to meet his friends. Edward said he thinks he might want to show me off and parade me around, like a girlfriend.  Eeeek! I'm putting on the breaks; he said the word that has me stop in my tracks.  I decide I will be too tired to go out on Friday night.
J-squared boxed up my leftover food, opened the restaurant door,opened my car door and gave me a sweet, soft peck on the lips.  It was cold outside, or maybe I was cold and we were just standing there...and he was still talking. 

Finally, we parted ways at 9:35pm.  I had just over 15 minutes to get home before Rhine and Edward would be coming home from lacrosse practice. 

I rushed home with a few minutes to spare.  When Rhine came upstairs to the bedroom, he told me how hard I am to get ahold of.  I guess you could say that, he called and texted several times while I was on my date.
  

As the gentleman I believe him to be, J-squared called me the next day to tell me how much he enjoyed our date and that he would like to spend more time with me, he also slipped in a compliment, "You are beautiful."  It is very nice.

So when is 'just nice,' nice enough?

I really don't know...it has been so long since I have gone on a date...and he doesn't have any weird quirks, like immediately asking me to marry him or trying to get me into bed, or a third eyeball in the middle of his forehead...the Sea Monkey child was kind of odd, but still he was just nice.

I obviously don't have the answers, and I won't pretend to know them.  On this one, I am just going to take it day by day.  I'm not settling, but nice is enough for a second date.