Hemorrhage in Aisle Three…
WARNING: There is an abundance of female information in this post
There I sit in Canadian Tire, my ass on the lowest rack in the Home Decor Aisle.
Fists in the air… “THIS CAN’T BE HAPPENING!!!”
“Ma’am?”
For
a moment, I morph into a Mesopotamian Demon. Laser beams from my eyes
– poor kid backs up, hands in front of him in placation…
“Do NOT call me Ma’am…”
 |
| From The IT Crowd |
Sharp stabbing knives in my ovaries. I growl.
“Are you alright?”
“I. AM. FINE. I just need a second to… SWEET MOTHER OF… I’m fine.
It’s okay. I’m sorry. No need to be alarmed.” I pry myself off the rack,
just finding my footing before another cramp hits me. I grab onto a
Debbie Travis basket, willing myself not to pass out. “Breathing. I’m
breathing through it.
I. AM. BREATHING.”
“Is there anything that I can do to help?”
“Can you perform a hysterectomy?”
Blank stare.
“Never mind. I’m good… really… I just have to… FOR THE LOVE OF…! Give me a freakin’ break here!”
And
that’s when my uterus tries to fall out. Cramping one moment and the
next my lower body is doing its impersonation of the monkey from The Fly.
You know how it feels when you walk in muddy gravel in bare feet?
That’s how I feel inside. Wet. Squishy. Pointy. Things between other
things. I catch a glimpse of my face in a mirror. I am fish belly
white – my blue eyes the bluest they’ve ever been.
I start for the door. I will Kegel my way out of the building. 100 feet. I
just have to get 100 feet. Every muscle in my body supports those Kegels for the entire 100
steps.
I’m
pretty sure that when I sit my ass in the car I lose consciousness for a
split second. Thank God when I’d noticed a bit of
spotting that morning, I’d taken precautions and thrown in the Diva Cup. I drive home, Wagnerian arias filling the car, every time a cramp hits me.
Amoeba-like, I ooze my way up the steps to my house. I collapse on the front hall bench.
“Hello, love,” David calls from the kitchen. “Did you have a good…” He walks out to greet me. “Holy crap! Are you okay?”
“DRUGS. I NEED DRUGS!!!”
“Again? You’re having your period again?”
“YES.”
“Didn’t it just stop 2 days ago?”
“YES.”
“That’s messed up.”
“YOU THINK?!?“
He leads me to the kitchen. Sits me down at the table. He then goes to
the bathroom, grabs me drugs and pours me about a litre of water.
“Here. Take these. Drink this. All of it. You’re dehydrated.”
“Can you feel the ounces of blood that are now leaving my body, through my defective cervix too?”
“No, but I do appreciate the graphic reminder.”
“I could be more descriptive.”
“Not while you’re drinking a litre of water you can’t.”