My Juicy, Cysty Ovaries (And Me) - Taboo Tuesday #8

Oh, sure, so you see a link about juicy ovaries and all the sudden you just have to click it and read.

"No time to peruse the Bible, mom. I'm busy reading about the cyst-filled Gusher equivalent of lady parts!"

Sicko.

Moving on.

I'll forget, but I won't forgive.

So my ovaries are disgusting, it turns out.

I didn't know this for a fact until doctors told me...

"You haven't been flossing twice a day, have you, Quinn?"

But I had my suspicions starting roughly from the age of eleven when the Curse of Eve began.

Come on Eve, why you gotta be such a big ho?

You see... my vagina started bleeding -- which is definitely gross, but apparently you're not allowed to call it gross, because then most ovaries would be gross. And then you wouldn't understand how my ovaries are exceptionally gross.

And I'm not willing to give up the only time in my life that I've been exceptional.

So the first indication was when I was eleven. The scene: fifth grade. My tummy had been hurtin' up a storm all day, and I was worried that there was a dangerous diarrhea tide rising. I slunk into the restroom at recess to investigate, only to discover an peculiar brown goo in my Day of the Week underwear.

Which I never wore on the correct day of the week.

And that, to child me, meant only one thing.

Before I could call my mom crying, up comes this biznatch, who we will refer to as Samantha, after the most basic American Girl Doll. 

Look at that potato-ass face.

She heard whatever horrified noise I made, and decided to leap up on the neighboring toilet and peer into my cubicle to see my misery. 

Who does that?

Mother fucking Samantha does.

Anyway, she, a more worldly woman, recognized my predicament and ran off, laughing, to tell all the other girls in my class that I had started my period.

I then flushed my Tuesdays (it was Thursday) down the toilet, wrapped my sweatshirt around my waist, and proceeded to casually ask all the kids if they had a Band-Aid I could borrow.

Which, for future reference, is not apparently what you're supposed to ask for.

Finally my oblivious teacher gave me one, and I taped my vagina shut until the end of the day.

From then on, I knew that my ovaries were not my friends. They only caused more problems. Firstly, I was too embarrassed to ask for pads, so I just wadded up toilet paper and shoved it down my pants.

Then, I proceeded to get things like pimples, which I cleverly covered up with stickers.

And on top of the cramps and headaches and other bullshit that is way unfair, I started to get migraines, vomiting, and the general feeling of death whenever the Blood Sea came in (which was either every week or twice a year). I knew this wasn't normal, exactly, but I was more willing to put up with that than to admit to anyone that I had a vagina. 

The symptoms got increasingly worse as I got older. By my senior year in high school, I couldn't tolerate it anymore. Luckily, my mom died, and I realized that there was something worse than admitting you have a vagina.

I had read online that demon periods could be kept at bay with the handy help of birth control.

So I saw a nice little Gynecologist who I trusted primarily due to her resemblance to Treasure Troll Dolls.

Like this, only more naked.

She gave me a prescription, and I left, optimistic about the future.

Then, shit almost immediately got worse. A week into my tiny hell pills, I started getting dizzy like a newborn alcoholic, tiny woodpeckers infested my head, and my poop (sh, I don't poop) turned into a constant gentle brook. 

I told my Treasure Troll, but she insisted that that was normal and to give it three months.

I Band-Aided up my ass, stocked up on the aspirin, and decided wait it out. The promise of a cramp-free future was too wonderful to deny.

Bizarrely, however, the symptoms didn't get better. They got worse, rapidly. On top of the physical problems, I started getting bad anxiety that I couldn't attribute to anything. For first time in my life, I was sleeping as long as I could, and staying in all day because I was depressed. My acne, which had been promised to get better by the internet, only got worse.

The worst thing that came with birth control, however, was that -- I think because of my anxiety -- I couldn't eat. Whenever I put food in my mouth, I'd instantly start gagging. I'd dry heave and my stomach would do flip flops. If I did get food down, that gentle brook became an angry storm. I basically survived by shoveling in as much Coke, yogurt, and white rice as I could at night, when the anxiety was at its quietest. 

Also Chik'n nuggets. I don't know why, but I ate a lot of Chik'n nuggets.

Come three months, and nothing was better. I went to see my Treasure Troll, her bellybutton glinting like an emerald in the sun, and she informed me that the next course of action was to try a different birth control pill.

She insisted that this is how women's medicine works, so I hesitantly agreed -- cautiously optimistic again.

But you know what? Shit didn't get better. Shit never gets better when you listen to a Treasure Troll.

The next three months were identical to the last, except for now my pee burned. 

So I went back to the Troll and she said that the answer was to try ANOTHER birth control.

"We just have to figure out your magical, mysterious lady chemistry."

So I went along with it again, but this time more skeptical. 

Again, nothing got better.

I'm surprised, look how surprised I am, so surprised.

This would all be fine and good, except for I was fucking miserable (please see my posts about thinking I was a man, wanting to commit suicide, and being a sad, loser virgin for further information).

It also wouldn't have been so bad except for at 5'4", I'd gone from a dead-mom-cake-binging-high of 125 lbs, down to a svelte starving-except-for-Chik'n-Nuggets weight of 100 lbs. 

Over the rest of the year, I got used to most of the other symptoms, but I became more anxious and depressed when I realized that I couldn't gain weight. I was trying, literally shoving rice-wrapped balls of butter down my throat, but nothing was working. By the end of the year, I  had been on five different birth control pills and was 90 lbs.

It turns out that that isn't a good look for me. 

So I basically went up to the stupid little Troll lady and threatened her that if she didn't figure out what was wrong with me, I was going to be very put out.

She was not convinced until I off-handedly mentioned that I hadn't bled from my nethers in the entire year.

Which is apparently also not a thing.

Then you know what that bitch did? That bitch went and stole my blood. 

About a week later, I got her slightly-too-worried call.

"Uh, Ms. Quinn? Did you get my text? If you could come in as soon as you can, that would be really good. Like today if you're not busy. Or right now. Call me back. You didn't reply to my text."

So then I went back to the doctor and learned that my testosterone was higher than a Cuban baseball player's, and my thyroid was lower than FDR's limbo record.

She proceeded to tell me I had something called Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome, which, she informed me, is not a good thing. Basically it means my reproductive system is too dumb to function, and it keeps releasing boy germs into my body. It also means that my uterus is a barren evil place where babies cannot live. 

She also told me that there's a type of PCOS where you can lose weight and then it disappears. At 90 lbs, I was unwilling to try this potential remedy. Instead, I just stopped taking birth control pills and started taking a low dose of the testosterone blockers that some people take in order to feminize themselves.

(A recreation of what the next year on Spironolactone felt like.)

A week after discontinuing birth control, I was better than normal -- I had lost all of those pesky symptoms I had before, and I was getting cool new things, like boobs and Silly Putty-like skin.

I also managed to gain back the weight by eating a healthy regime of Twinkies, hot dogs, and Root Beer.

I was lucky enough, however, when the next time I went back to the gyno (now a new one), she asked if she could look inside my uterus.

I said, like an idiot.

She then asked if her trainee friend could watch. And I was like, "this is what mom warned me about when she told me not to go to the Valley, but sure."

She proceeded to put me in a chair where my legs went above my ears.

Should have shaved that morning.

 Then she rubbed goop on my abdomen (which I frankly think was unnecessary), took a fist-sized camera and shoved up my hooha, then twisted it around like she was upping her pedometer count. 

Her friend just watched.

After sufficient exploration and chiding me about my tilted uterus, she located what she was looking for. Both she and the friend gasped and turned to each other with equally shocked expressions.

They then had a dialogue, me, camera up my hooch, ankles by my ears, in the middle, that I will never forget.

Doctor: "Look at those ovaries! They're juicy!"

Friend: "So juicy."

It was never explained to me what that meant, but I figure it's better that way. 

And that's it. You're welcome.

Tweet