“We’re at war,” I utter to my general practitioner in a low, conspiratorial tone in case my arch enemy is listening. “She survived the hormonal warfare we launched on her last June.
“She came back to full strength in February, kicking down the door and shouting ‘I’m back, ya’ll.’
“She’s back. She’s pissed.”
“You’re at war with your uterus?” My doctor asked with a lift of her eyebrows.
“Yep. And she’s winning.”
“And I am . . . ”
“So, what’s the battle plan?”
Wait. I am ahead of myself.
Last June, I had an operation to remove a polyp in my endometrial lining that was giving me chronic pain and longer, heavier than normal periods. To stymie the heavy monthly flow, we inserted an IUD.
While the IUD reduced the length of my monthly cycle, it didn’t reduce the intensity. However, the “knock me down and make balloon animals out of my internal organs” cramps were reduced. I figured it was a win.
Weegee: 1, Uterus: 0
That was into February. That is when my uterus attacked full force.
In February, my cycle once again lasted 14 days. 14. Two weeks. 50% of the month I am bleeding. I became the unofficial chief investor in Kotex. Again.
Weegee: 1, Uterus: 1
Mid March, I woke up one morning and it felt like I was dragging an elephant out of bed behind me. It was that hard to sit up, stand up and function as I normally would. For me, a drop in my iron levels mimics depression. I knew I was hitting rock bottom despite taking daily doses of the mineral.
Weegee: 1, Uterus: 2
And then, April happened.
Imagine you get a paper cut on your finger. At first, you don’t notice. Then you see a bit of blood. You go to the medicine cabinet and pull out a Band-Aid. By the time you get the bandage on your finger, there is a steady stream flowing from the small nick. You get a bigger Band-Aid. And another. And another. Before you know it, you have gone through the entire box and your finger is still gushing crimson liquid. You wonder how much blood loss has to happen until you pass out. The room starts to tilt and you realize you may find out sooner than later.
That was how my Tuesday went. Instead of my finger it was my uterus and instead of Band-Aids, it was 17 feminine pads and four ultra-absorbency tampons. In one day.
And that is how I ended up in the doctor’s office, aka My War Room, with my Secretary of Defense (aka my doctor) on Wednesday afternoon, talking about how “she” tried to kill me the day before.
“Well, that escalated quickly,” my doctor said. “While we could take her out with one shot, sniper-style, I think we should consider all of our options.”
I dig that my doctor was willing to communicate on my level on this issue, even if she was talking me down from my revenge perch.
In short, we are doing blood work and I am being referred to a gynecologist to explore possible plans of attack.
I’m just really looking forward to the day when my uterus isn’t trying to make a balloon dolphin with a ball balancing on it’s nose out of my intestines or worry about how much iron I have consumed today.
It’s an ongoing battle.