For my two male readers, this may be a good time to step away for a moment to get a drink. Do some push-ups. High-five something. Whatever it is men are into these days, you might want to go do that. I'm going to be talking about "lady problems," and it's about to get awkward.
Gone yet? Good.
Last week, I went to a clinic in desperation. Family doctors are harder to come by here than single men, so I've developed a network of walk-in clinics I'll visit depending on the nature of my health crisis. I choose which clinic based on the potential for embarrassment and undue hardship.
For instance, I've learned the hard way not to go to the clinic with the deaf receptionist because the entire waiting room doesn't need to know I'll be getting a PAP smear momentarily.
Anyhoodle. Last week I rolled into a clinic not caring who I saw or who heard me, because I was really, really tired of bleeding. At that time, I'd had my period for slightly over two weeks. While it's nice to discover innate talents, the ability to menstruate like a biblical plague shouldn't count.
To top it off, the next three days were scheduled to be so crazy busy at work I couldn't even call in dead. Over the next 72 hours I would be working nearly around the clock, hosting and managing events I had been planning for a year.
(These events included the one luncheon I would have a military police escort for, given the threatening emails I had received regarding this activity from a former client who can best be described as pants-crappingly crazy. Luckily, he didn't show.)
(I had been having nightmares over him actually. Apparently I was more worried than I was ready to admit, particularly when I discovered the police had confiscated weapons from him in the past, and the lunatic has several court dates coming up as a result. I couldn't find out when this happened - specifically, had he had enough time to re-arm and re-load...?)
(The entire weekend went off without a hitch, except for the part when I ended up on the evening news. I kept trying to stay out of camera range, fearing that I would look wind-blown and fat. Sure enough, my fears were well-founded. I looked like a harried marshmallow with a clip-board.)
(I convinced myself it would be OK because nobody I know watches that channel, until I got a text message from a certain firefighter congratulating me on my prime-time appearance. Goddammit. At that point I think I would rather have been shot after all.)
(Sorry for the digression, but it's been a very horrendous week. And I looked really, really fat.)
(Like, huge.)
Obviously I had a lot on my mind going into this weekend, and all I wanted was for my period to stop. The doctor asked me a series of questions that are just too icky even for me to over-share, and then looked concerned.
Scratched his chin. Sighed heavily, started writing something on his chart, then scribbled it out. All really good signs when you're a patient just waiting for a prescription for the magic pill that will make whatever is happening just stop.
"Clearly, you're hemorrhaging."
Actually, it hadn't been that clear. Hemorrhaging was a much more frightening word than what I had been hoping was merely a strange, uncomfortable and uncalled for occurance that could prevent me from getting laid.
"If it were any worse I'd send you to the hospital."
Not an option. I was not about to spend the next nine hours sitting in emergency because my period had taken steroids. I had to be at work for 6:00 a.m. the next day, and this did not fit my schedule. Also, Jersey Shore was on that night and there is no way I will miss it.
(Let's not judge. That show is freaking amazing.)
The doctor hummed and hawed some more. Send me to the hospital or not? I assured him I felt just fine (not really), I'm sure it would eventually stop (not really) and if it got worse I would definitely take myself to the hospital immediately (actually true.)
He was reluctant to sign-off on this idea, so instead he proposed I get my iron tested. He could see that I was very, very pale. I informed him that this is actually my natural colouring, and I always look this way. This caused him to ask, "Really...??"
(When a doctor expresses such shock and concern over my everyday appearance, it may be a sign to invest in self-tanner. Or paper bags.)
While I was glad to come to a resolution concerning whether I'd be spending the night in emergency and how awful I look on a regular basis, we still had an issue.
Actually, more than one.
Why is this happening? Why am I hemorrhaging? How will it stop?
It was at this point the doctor provided the most revealing diagnosis in the history of medicine.
Apparently, my uterus is confused.
I'll just let that sink in for a moment.
Does my uterus need a stern talking to? An educational DVD? Time alone to meditate? What exactly constitutes confusing to a uterus?
Perhaps my uterus is suffering from the same anxiety I am. Is it past its prime? Is it just taking up unnecessary space? How can it find fulfillment?
If this is the official diagnosis, I'm now afraid for my remaining internal organs. Could my kidneys be baffled? Is my liver bewildered? My spleen is likely astonished and let's not even discuss what my heart has been feeling lately. My heart might just be completely confounded.
I had no choice but to ask the doctor when my uterus might...achieve clarity?
He didn't know. For whatever reason my uterus isn't doing what it knows it should be doing and ideally it will stop on its own and go back to normal.
I'm now bleeding like a champion into week three, with no signs of stopping. This is hardly surprising. At any given time, I know what I should be doing and I don't do it either so it's no wonder my uterus continues to be confused.
And so it has come to this. Uterus, if you're reading this, I promise to provide a better example going forward. It's OK to be confused, but it's not OK to just give up completely. Though difficult...can't we all just go back to normal?
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