I love the concept of the divine yoni: the beautiful and powerful nature of femininity, being the creator and giver of life, vaginas are the source and origin of life and the gateway to life. I love that. I do.
Can I link, though? Oh, hell no. Don’t get me started on faulty plumbing.
Or, actually, do you know what? Do. Yes. It started, so let’s do this thing.
Two years ago, after putting up with what I was learning was my first miscarriage and my last pregnancy, I discovered that all my reproductive insides were rubbish. I was 32 years old and had two ovaries floating around in my body that contained roughly the same number of viable eggs as your mother-in-law. This means, almost nothing.
My childbearing years had escaped me almost entirely, and it took me every last hour of the next two years to come to terms with it.
Fact: The baby I have — who spent 40 weeks growing inside my body before it flew off me and ripped my divine yoni to shreds in 2013 — is a walking miracle, and not, in fact, someone I had any right to. Just because I had unprotected sex with her father nearly 4,000 times over the course of one 48-hour fertile period. (Oh, why did you have to try and have a baby month after month? I wouldn’t recommend it. It’s not totally a blast.)
So there I was, sterile in my early thirties, having spent most of my twenties walking around the planet as if I owned the place, often running around from flinging a few too many shots the night before.
The shots I kept getting free when I told my best friend every unsuspecting male that day—yes, on that very day! – It was my birthday, shouldn’t we both get a free drink? “Why of course!” They always say.
And my friend and I go, laughing drunkenly on our way into the night. (Um, I mean, what a joy to spend three sentences with you, you punk 50 strangers came up to a dirty bar at 11pm on a Tuesday night! Goodbye, thanks for the drinks!)
However, back to my vagina, because you haven’t heard the worst of it yet.
Did you know that each vagina comes equipped with two glands, one on each side, called Bartholin’s glands?
Well, I didn’t until someone decided to rebel. I developed a cyst in this gland—not once, not twice, but five times over the course of a few years, which on three occasions became such a big problem that I had to head to my gynecologist’s office for it to be treated… (let’s put it on this way.)
Oh, do you want the details? Details then. Put down your snack for a second because this is about to get terrifying.
I’m going to present this by reminding you of that baby you gave birth to a few years ago: I took her off painkillers. I was born in water after going through 14 hours of back labor. So I have an idea of what the pain feels like.
And these cysts? They were much more painful than that.
So enter my blessed gynecologist, co-owner of my lower regions.
(“That vagina? It’s our vagina,” I told her.) She did what it took to comfort me, but not before she inflicted me so much pain that I wished the goblin king would come and take me away. (He didn’t) So I gently endured the endless chain of my most imaginative damn words, which flew out of my mouth at the speed of a warp.
And when that didn’t work, I resorted to controlling screaming, screaming, and, unfortunately, quiet crying as she opened me, opened the bag, and inserted a catheter into that homemade opening inside my body.
This catheter will inevitably remain there for an entire month before it is removed.
She did this procedure with me twice, I must remind you. This. Event. to. I. Twice.
And would you like to know how many times this procedure has worked, did its job, and stopped the development of more cysts?
Because I’m sitting here now, resting on the bed, with a new homemade hole inside my body, just three days later it’s been put on a hospital bed, laid underneath, and sliced by a team of professionals who trust that a third time is magic.
No catheter this time, mind you, but I have more stitches sewn into my body than I care to count. So mark my words: another one is upset and I have that gland cast out of my body forever.
Am I a little upset? Yes kind of. (Pause a little.)
But am I totally enjoying the non-stop streaming of Netflix, waiting on the hands and feet of my dotted husband, copious amounts of red wine and Twix bars that stay lining the edge of my bathtub when I’m in the shower every night? Hell yeah, I am. My vagina isn’t exactly bad, I swear. As a rule, I revere it, even.
It’s usually on my side – it’s just that we’re currently on some kind of unauthorized break and I have half a mind to clear it completely. I could see myself looking great with my Barbie-doll-crotch kind of put in place.
Can’t relate to any of this, dear reader? Thank you lucky stars. But if you find yourself in this situation, don’t worry; I wait patiently for you with all the wine and frozen dressings your blessed heart desires. you are not alone.
I believe in my divine balloon. I just don’t have one personally.
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Sandy Jorgensen is a Kansas-based writer, artist and palmist reader.
This article was originally published on Ravishly. Reprinted with permission from the author.