From the time I was young, I cursed my uterus.
Cramps plagued me when I was trying to do rounds at the hospital, and blood would leak out of my tampons and onto my scrubs in the middle of a surgery. Seeking a way to escape my own womanhood, I discovered that I could take birth control pills daily and never get a period. Why hadn’t anyone ever told me this? After I uncovered this secret, I sent my uterus to a dark recess of some basement closet and didn’t bleed again for a decade. Every now and then, my uterus (I affectionately call it Yoni) would cry out for me, but I pretty much ignored her. I wasn’t a very good friend.
Around the time I turned thirty-four, I heard Yoni calling more consistently, beckoning like a siren bellowing out to sea.
She’d cry, “Lissa! Lissa! Don’t forget about me.”
And I’d shrug her off. “No, Yoni. I’m busy.”
She kept asking, “Aren’t we ever going to have a baby?”
I responded with my standard brush-off answer. “Not now, maybe tomorrow.”
So I’ve been chatting with my uterus lately …
As my thirty-fifth birthday loomed, I decided to bring it up with Matt, the commitment-phobic perpetual bachelor I had been dating for almost two years. But I wasn’t quite sure how to broach the topic. Do you say, “So I’ve been chatting with my uterus lately…” Or do you couch it in the awkward terms of biological clocks and such?