I really, really wish that yesterday could have been one of those days that I posted something profound and/or heartfelt and/or intellectually stimulating. Because, god knows, I don't want to come off as just another stupid, narcissistic mommyblogger
who suffers from some terrible delusion that people want to read about what she thinks or - gods forbid - about her children or her depression or whatever trials and tribulations related to motherhood that she thinks - wrongly - might interest anyone other than herself and possibly maybe four or five other similarly deluded women who've gone off their meds. But, dammit, I went and blew the wad on thoughtfulness last week
, and then went and spent my remaining brain cells railing against misogyny yesterday
, so whaddya know? You're just going to have make do with my vagina.
Nope. Not a bunny, not a reindeer, not Glory Hole with Chewing Gum (Triple J Truck Stop- Yuma, AZ, 2003),
not The Wind In My Vagina,
not a minimalist profile of a very sad donkey (all actual suggestions, please to go read
and pee yourself.) No: these are my hideous nethers.
That was a picture of my lady parts, artfully sketched by my doctor. Although I suppose that we might say that it was less art than it was artifact of doctorglyphics: it was an attempt by my doctor to explain to me how it was that yes, things can get worse than a fourth-degree tear sustained in an emergency delivery!
That fourth-degree tear can end up with a botched repair because the surgery was performed so hastily and under such trying circumstances. Yep: botched repair. Sloppy stitchwork. Sewn up wrong
. Ripped and slashed in birth and then stitched up roughly into some hideous, half-healed, scarred-up mess. Monster-nethers. Frankenvulva.
Click to enlarge, if you dare
I don't know about you, but I don't recall anybody ever telling me, ever, that the vaginal delivery of a baby could result in varying degrees of genital mutilation. Which, you know, is probably not surprising, given that stories about ripped anal-sphincter muscles just wouldn't do much for the sales of those glossy pregnancy magazines. And I can't blame my mother for not telling me, nor the Canadian education system for neglecting to cover the subject of SEX ORGAN DAMAGE in middle school sex-ed. Because, yes, that would probably have scarred me for life, and my parents and my teachers and the architects of sex-education programming in the province of British Columbia knew it. So, it's no wonder, then, that I had no way of knowing that after giving birth I would, indeed, end up scarred for life.
Of course - of course
- it was all worth it, the miraculous gift of my beautiful son - my beautiful progeny - being more than ample recompense for the damage sustained to my birthing parts, which did, after all, just do the job that Nature intended them to do (not, however, particularly effectively. JUST SAYIN) yadda yadda blah.
But still. My joy at the gift that is my son does not in any way mitigate my frustration with ongoing nether-discomfort, my distress at the possibility that I will go through the rest of my life with a Frankenvulva and my determination to get it fixed and put the damage behind me (figuratively. The damage is, after all, literally behind
me, and, also, below me. But whatever. Details, schmetails.) So. Is he going to hear about this at his wedding? HELL YES.
(Not really. Not unless I'm drunk, that is. Which is a possibility, I suppose. A good one.)
(Anyone who had any illusions about me being some kind of gentle and gracious soul is really, really disappointed right now, I guessing.)
(There's no way to close this kind of post elegantly, is there?)
Labels: bad mother, post-partum bad