Sea Pearls menstrual sponges

Although I’m a happy home-made cloth pad user most of the time, I decided to invest [...]]]> Warning: This post contains explicit descriptions of internal menstrual products and the use thereof, cervical and menstrual fluids, and my sex life. If you are particularly squeamish, or a member of my family, navigate away now.

Sea Pearls menstrual sponges

Although I’m a happy home-made cloth pad user most of the time, I decided to invest in an internal product a couple cycles ago, for the (rare, for me) occasion when a pad is ineffective or inconvenient (swimming and massage come to mind). Because of my pelvic organ prolapses, neither traditional disposable tampons nor menstrual cups, reusable or disposable, work for me; that left, to my knowledge, Sea Pearls¹.

And so I ordered some from a friend of mine, Zoom Baby Gear², and after picking them up I spent nearly an hour giggling at the, as advertised, full-color pamphlet. I’m not sure what I found so amusing about it; maybe the starfish and shells on the cover, the obligatory bisected woman picture (to show insertion), the endorsement from Cleopatra³, or what. Perhaps I’m just not quite as enlightened as I like to think. I did, eventually, get over the giggles, and looked forward to testing them out.

Because it was the end of my period, I didn’t get a chance to try them until nearly a month later. And that is when I experienced Backpocalypse 2010, and about all I can say from that cycle is that 1) at least I didn’t leak while I was collapsed on the floor for nearly two hours then standing up wandering around in agony for another nearly two, and 2) The Man had a hell of a time getting it out for me (back spasm = couldn’t even reach to wipe myself, much less retrieve the sponge), but did, eventually, manage it.

The next month, I finally had them, a period, and the ability to get them in and out unassisted. So, I’ve had one cycle and one day of using these puppies, and finally feel like I can give a decent review.

Yes, you have to touch yourself: getting the Sea Pearl in and taking it out

Let me start by telling you that I’ve used disposable tampons with an applicator all of maybe twice in my life, and I hated it; I used non-applicator tampons throughout high school and for years afterward; I’ve charted my cervical fluid and cervical texture, position, and os width for years; my idea of a brilliant used-book-store find is A New View of a Woman’s Body: A Fully Illustrated Guide⁴; and I masturbate, rather a lot, including while menstruating. So I’m kinda used to the idea of touching myself, reaching into my genitals, and, when called for, getting my hands pretty darn messy. (Hey, skin cleans up great.) If you are not, consider this an opportunity to discover that our bodies really aren’t as gross as we’ve been led to believe: we can touch them, and survive!

So, the sponge. When dry, it is hard, kind of scratchy, and not at all squishy. But, run it under the tap for a moment, and, as a sponge should, it becomes soft, pliable, and very compressible, which are all very good things when looking to insert it into one’s vagina.

(A note: the sponge should, as the pamphlet says, be inspected⁵ and cleaned — more on that below — before first use.)

To insert, I get it wet, squeeze out as much water as possible, and compress what had formerly been a perhaps 1″ diameter, 2″ long sponge into the size of a very large pill capsule between my thumb and first two fingers. Sitting on the toilet, or standing up with a leg on the back of the toilet, I then insert it into my vagina; I try to at least get all of it between my vaginal walls at this stage so that it does not expand in the air, although it is not yet in its final place.

Next, I use my forefinger or fore and middle fingers to navigate the compressed (but slightly more expanded now) sponge into place in front of my cervix (which, because of my prolapse and sideways tilt, means it winds up in a sort of crevice high up and off to the right); I find it helpful to bear down slightly while keeping my fingers in place, effectively bringing my cervix to my fingers rather than vice versa: when I relax, the sponge is pulled back up. If necessary, I poke it around a bit more to get it just so, but at this point, I usually find I can’t even feel it anymore, and everything is quite comfortable.

The pictures and instructions have the sponge more in the vaginal canal rather than right in front of the cervix; that doesn’t work for me, since around menstruation — when the ligaments relax and the uterus and cervix usually drop a bit anyway — there’s not a whole lot of vaginal canal to use, and having anything there feels pretty uncomfortable. But it might work better for some to place it there, more like a traditional tampon.

When it comes time to remove it, I find the sponge has expanded (makes sense, since it’s filled with fluid now, right?), has moved/expanded more into the vaginal canal, and I am able to reach it fairly easily between my two fingers to gently pull it out. This can, if my flow has been heavy, squeeze some menstrual fluid out of the sponge, but since I always do this step over the toilet, I don’t find that to be a problem.

Some people, apparently, tie floss or string around the sponge, making it even more like a tampon, and so you only have to pull, rather than reach, to retrieve it. I suppose you could, but I have no desire to do so; either way, unlike a single use tampon you’re going to plop in the toilet, you have to hold the thing to get it to the sink, so your hand’s gonna get messy anyway.

Isn’t that messy?? Well, yes. Rinsing the menstrual sponge

This bit is the part I find really cool, but also sometimes annoying: I get the sponge from my vagina (or rather, from in my hands sort of floating in the toilet basin) to the sink, and rinse it out. (I have so far been lucky/able to plan it so I am only removing it in a toilet from which I can reach the sink; this stage would be a lot more complex logistics-wise if using a public toilet or one not in reach of a sink, and frankly, I hope I never have to figure out what to do then.) If my flow has been heavy, this has sometimes left drips of bloody fluid along the path it travels through the air, but so far has not landed on anything not easily wiped off.

The cool bit? The sponge usually (except on really heavy flow days) doesn’t look like much; there might be some red bits on the outside, or a brownish tinge around the sides, but it certainly doesn’t look like the movies lead us to believe a blood-soaked sponge should look like. But! When I start rinsing it, out comes all this bright-red water. Almost out of nowhere. I find this fascinatingly cool. (See above statement of midwifery/sex ed geekery.)

The annoying part is that there is almost always a spot on the sponge, I believe where it was pressed against my cervix, which is simply plastered with mucus⁶. And that stuff does NOT like to come off. I’m getting better at it, and no longer need to run the water for five minutes (!) to get it off; I find a bit of friction, and scraping it with my finger nail, breaks it up enough to let go of the surface of the sponge, and I can get it thoroughly rinsed in a minute or less. I’ve never read a mention of this elsewhere, so I assume it has to do with my placement of the sponge directly against the cervix, but since that’s where I’m gonna keep using it, I’m gonna keep having to deal with it, so I might as well tell y’all about it, right? Right.

After it’s rinsed, you can 1) disinfect it, and then leave it out to dry for later use, 2) set it aside to disinfect later (keeping in mind that the longer after use and before disinfection, the longer bacteria etc have a chance to settle in and multiply), or 3) pop it back in. I’ve done all of these; although I don’t use the sponge as my primary menstrual collection product, I find it easier to rinse and reuse than try to store until I can get home and clean it.

A nice relaxing soak… in vinegar: cleaning the sponge

The Sea Pearl pamphlet lists a number of ways to clean the sponges. They recommend against boiling or using soap, as these break down the sponge more quickly, but have a number of other suggestions, all of which come down to soaking in a disinfecting solution of some kind. Suggestions include baking soda, vinegar, hydrogen peroxide, tea tree oil, sea salt, and colloidal silver.⁷ I’ve so far only used apple cider vinegar (since I have it in the bathroom for my hair anyway), and it seems to be highly effective, leaving no odors and only one spot of discoloration.

ETA: I just tried a hydrogen peroxide soak (about 1:4 H2O2 to water), leaving it in for, ah, about two hours (I was watching Doctor Who and got distracted…), and it not only got clean, it got clean, and is now the same color it was when I first bought it. No more stains whatsoever. I would recommend very thoroughly rinsing afterward, as the same reason H2O2 is an effective disinfectant makes it rather harsh on living tissue.

The sponge requires slightly more attention than disposable tampons (though there’s no risk of clogging the toilet *cough*), and a different sort of attention than cloth pads, but overall I find it quite easy to care for.

Yeah, but does it work?

Yeah, it really does work. Other than slight spotting that comes from putting it in when my vagina already has menstrual fluid in it (and thus it continues to work its way out), I haven’t had any leaks or failures from the sponge. It expands to fill the space given it, so there’s little chance of a leak past, and I haven’t yet “overfilled” it. What I do find is that when it starts to get full, I start to feel it — and that prompts me to take it out, rinse, and reuse or return to primary pad use. It’s not uncomfortable, unlike a full tampon used to be (I used side-expanding ones, and those things had some edges!), but it is there, and nags at me until I do something about it.

Because I don’t use the sponge regularly, and haven’t used it overnight ever, I haven’t had a chance to test out the claims that it’s fine to leave in during penetrative sex, and I don’t really see that happening soon. I do think it would be fine, though. My main concern would be if the sponge was already “full” — I’d worry both about leaking (from compression) and being more in the way (from having already expanded). There’s also the cleaning issue; if cervical mucus is tough to clean off, how much more so the abundant mucus of ejaculation? But, it’s good to know the option is there, unlike with disposable tampons or a reusable menstrual cup.

FDA, TSS, and pollution, oh my!

(You can calm down, those are three different topics.)

Now, what does the FDA⁸ have to say about this? Way back in 1980 (the year before I was born!),

twelve “menstrual sponges” were examined by the University of Iowa Laboratory and found to contain sand, grit, bacteria, and various other materials. The sponges were voluntarily recalled by the distributor.

(As the pamphlet points out, Sea Pearls, just like single-use tampons, are not sterile, and — unlike single-use tampons — might have minor debris and thus should be inspected and cleaned before use.) I have read in many places that their sale is, because of this, “technically illegal”, but what the FDA actually says is:

Sea sponges labeled as “menstrual sponges,” “hygienic sponges,” or “sanitary sponges,” intended for use as menstrual tampons, are regarded as significant risk devices requiring premarket approval under Section 515.

I have been unable to discover whether Jade & Pearl has obtained such or not.

Does this scare me away from their use? No, not at all. At the risk of sounding conspiracy-theorist, the businesses with money to spend are, in general, the ones who get products approved by the FDA. The disposable tampon and pad industry have lot of money; sponge harvesters and distributors, not so much. While this doesn’t make sponge sellers “good” and disposable menstrual product manufacturers “bad”, it does make me take any promotion of the ones with more money, and defamation of the ones with less, with a grain — haha — of salt.

As for TSS⁹, I have found reference to one confirmed case of TSS due to menstrual sponge use, in 1980 (compare this to “more than 800 cases and 38 deaths” in the USA in 1980 from tampon use). TSS risk from tampon use, primarily found during the era of using hydrogels in tampons (the same super-absorbent polymers still used in abundance today in disposable diapers), is caused by microscopic wounds created in the vagina’s mucosal walls when they get too dry (and then are roughed up by friction, such as the removal of a tampon), allowing a common bacteria, usually Staphylococcus aureus, to enter the bloodstream. The Jade & Pearl Sea Pearl pamphlet reads “Rest assured that Sea Pearls sea sponge tampons do not have the same drying effects as single use tampons.”

I, however, am not completely sure: the sponge is absorbent, though not greedily the way a tampon is (consider: the sponge is inserted when damp; a cotton or rayon tampon when dry), and at the end of my period, when there is not so much menstrual fluid, but my vaginal and cervical fluids haven’t yet geared up in anticipation of ovulation, I find the sponge more sticky, as it were, to remove. Do I think, therefore, I am at high risk of toxic shock? No, certainly not. Definitely no more so than using a conventional tampon (whose risk is already quite low), and, based on comparative feel alone (and worth what you paid for it), probably less.

A concern that some people have raised which I find more compelling than TSS is pollution, and the potential of toxic chemicals embedded within the structure of the sponge. Sea sponges are (very simple) sea creatures; they grow wild in the ocean, and although they are quite low on the food chain (as opposed to, say, tuna, or swordfish), they still spend their entire life-cycle soaked in the oceans we have made nigh-unlivable. How much of that gets absorbed in the matrix we use as a sponge? And how much of that then gets absorbed into our bloodstream via our highly permeable vaginal membranes? Could it possibly be worse than the dioxin-traced tampons millions of people use every day? I have no idea. But it’s something to think about.

But… a sea sponge?? A conclusion

Totally, a sea sponge. Granted I can’t compare it to a menstrual cup, single-use tampons haven’t been comfortable for me for years, and I’m still gonna stay loyal to my cloth pads for most of my menstrual needs, but for when I want to really get my gluts worked on, or long for a dip in the hot tub, or simply want a back-up? Sea sponge, all the way. They are soft, comfortable, easy to use, effective, and fit my body like no other internal device I’ve tried. I’m definitely going to keep them around.

Your turn: Have you ever used a menstrual sponge, and what did/do you think of them? What internal menstrual products have you used? Do you have any questions or concerns about the use of sea sponges as a reusable tampon? Might you now take a second look at those strange lumpy things you’ve seen in the health food store?

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I’m sitting up, bleeding, supposedly trying to work but really just letting myself be distracted by the sundry wonders of the internet, yawning and unfocused and unmotivated, wondering why when my brain was so bubbly and productive just a few days ago it now feels blanker than [...]]]> Living room, 11:45pm, Friday night

I’m sitting up, bleeding, supposedly trying to work but really just letting myself be distracted by the sundry wonders of the internet, yawning and unfocused and unmotivated, wondering why when my brain was so bubbly and productive just a few days ago it now feels blanker than [insert witty metaphor here]¹, thinking I’ll go to sleep as soon as I get a post up, I missed last month’s, really need to get one up now or I never will, damn I wish I’d prepared sooner, when –

– oh. Right. I’m menstruating. It’s the end of a hard week, the end of a menstrual cycle: of course I’m tired. Rather than pushing myself, ignoring my body, pretending that this cycle doesn’t affect me so I can write a post about my cycle and how it affects me (hah!), I could… Stop. Let it go. Go to bed. Before midnight, for once this week.

Kindness, to myself. What a strange idea.

I think I’ll try it.

Yeah, Day Three fucked my back up. Or rather, my back, injured long long ago when I was twelve, decided it had had enough and wasn’t going to take it any more, and I wasn’t going to give yet another massage, I was [...]]]> You know that fabulous class I was gushing over in my last post?

Yeah, Day Three fucked my back up. Or rather, my back, injured long long ago when I was twelve, decided it had had enough and wasn’t going to take it any more, and I wasn’t going to give yet another massage, I was just going to lie on the floor and cry for an hour.

That day? Also the first of my cycle. And the spasm came while I was trying to put on my pants, so I was on the floor wearing only a nursing tank and my bright red undies¹. So, that was fun².

On the other hand, if you’re going to have a great big physical and emotional break down, there are worse places to do it than a room full of nurturing women half of whom are doulas (some wonderfully radical) and all of whom are massage therapists or massage students.³

This has happened to me before⁴, and it will likely happen to me again, although I’m working on preventing it. But this has me thinking a lot about privilege⁵, and access to medical care, and sick days, and disability, and, oh, lots of things.

Like there’s this: since it happened, I’ve seen a massage therapist, a physical therapist, and the chiropractor twice. The latter two are almost entirely covered by my insurance, and the former offers me a student discount (which I can only be because I had good enough credit to have taken out a massive loan to cover my schooling — it’s really true that the more you make, the less you spend).

And there’s this: The Man took two days off, took a super long lunch to get me to an appointment the third day, and has a job that allows him to work from home once a week so he was around again to help me out today. He’s salaried, has abundant⁶ sick and vacation days, and is in a class of work that allows for flexible hours and minimum oversight.

And this: when I am not up to writing, when I am not up to taking out my own damn sponge, I can do nothing but sit around and pop NSAIDs and ice my back and go to body work appointments and bitch about #backpocalypse2010 on Twitter. I lose some readers and some momentum, I miss a week of The Boychick’s Bookshelf and am five days late on a monthly menstrual post⁷: I do not lose my job, I do not worry about paying my rent, I do not grit my teeth and soldier through and further damage myself to avoid those things.

And then there’s how hard it is to ask for help, the socially imposed conditioning to apologize for being hurt⁸ that I’ve struggled with, the allowances I am given because this is presumed to be temporary, the language used to describe the incapacity⁹ that is today only for me and every day for others, the suggestions that it’s my own fault for not taking better care of myself, the voices¹⁰ saying that if I’m so damaged what am I doing trying to be a massage therapist… there’s rather more going on than I can identify, much less analyze. Especially as the ice pack melts and my hips start tingling and my back starts twitching and my bed starts calling — loudly, in the form of snores from my child and texts from my lover.

But I haven’t forgotten you¹¹, and soon I’ll be back with another Boychick’s Bookshelf (and there may be a collaboration there to announce soon — stay tuned!), and a review of Flow (oh so mixed), and whatever else I can eke out time for (ideas I never lack — time to follow through, often). And I promise it’ll be a little less apocalyptic¹², and a lot more topical.

Specifically, because I had a massage tonight2, have any of you used a menstrual sponge? With my [...]]]> It’s that time again, and lacking any thinky thoughts or filking inspirations, I’m using this post to ask you¹ about what you use for your period, whether traditional disposable products, something you made yourself, or purchased reusable products, or…?

Specifically, because I had a massage tonight², have any of you used a menstrual sponge? With my prolapse issues, neither cups nor tampons are an option for me, but it’d be nice to have something for the rare occasion like tonight, when going pad-free would make life easier.

Also, I’m on the hunt for both a wet bag and a “moon pot”³; consider this an invitation either for recommendations to your favorite makers, or self-serving spam if you think you make/sell Just The Thing I’m looking for. Bonus for being moon or menses themed, or otherwise exceptionally cool, neat, weird, or pretty.

‘Til next month!

Growing up, I hated pink.

I mean, really hated pink. Irrationally, completely, unceasingly hated pink.

I also hated hair (though I [...]]]> It’s a red underwear day, and last month I promised I would, eventually, tell the story of my first period — after all, so many of you did (thank you!). But first, let me set the stage:

Growing up, I hated pink.

I mean, really hated pink. Irrationally, completely, unceasingly hated pink.

I also hated hair (though I refused to allow mine to be cut — I just hated fussing with it or styling it or, um, brushing it. that led to tears not a little.), and skirts, and sometimes dolls (but sometimes not), and make up, and fashion, and, well, anything “girly”.

I got really pissed off in the third grade when the school photographer called me Mr Red. But I wasn’t about to stop wearing plain t-shirts in dark colors and boy’s shoes (they fit better) and nondescript pants, my unbrushed hair pulled messily back in the same pony tail for days on end.

It wasn’t that I had “gender dysphoria”, though perhaps gender role dysphoria. No, I think it was simpler and more insidious than that.

I think it was internalized misogyny.

Now, really, truly, one doesn’t have to like “girly” things to be a girl (cis or trans). And boys (again, cis or trans!) can like “girly” things and still be boys. But what I experienced, and to some extent still struggle with, was not just a simple lack of like for the “girly”, but an active, complicated rejection of it — not each thing on its own merits, but the entire category out of pure prejudicial loathing.

What else is that — hatred of the feminine — but misogyny?

I don’t know quite where this hatred came from. In part perhaps because I was the daughter of second-wave-era more-or-less-feminists, raised at a time when rejection of prescribed (and severely limiting) gender roles translated to rejection of all accoutrements of that gender. In part perhaps because I’m not particularly femme, but had no model for not-femme that wasn’t anti-femme. In part perhaps because I bought the lie, fed to me by every part of my culture, that there were “girls”, who were vapid and shallow and adored pink, and there were people, who weren’t and didn’t — and I was raised in the certain knowledge that I was a person (thank you Mom and Dad). In part perhaps because my mom didn’t wear make up or read fashion magazines or shave her (very sparse) body hair — though unlike me, she always wears skirts, and carries a purse. In part perhaps because I was simply a weird kid, raised by nonconformists but not, at so young an age, sure of the difference between nonconformity (good) and anticonformity (not so good). In part perhaps because I was already manifesting early signs of my neurological atypicalities and mood disregulation.

For whatever reason, I was really not comfortable with this whole being a girl thing (which I could not then distinguish from the doing the girl thing).

And then, at barely 10 — though already around 5′7″ (eventually to end up at 5′10″) and well on my way to well-endowed — I started menstruating.

My coping mechanism? I ignored it, as best I could.

It wasn’t that I had menstrual shame, exactly — I would happily stay up until midnight telling all the other Girl Scouts at camp about sex and pregnancy and busting “but tampons will take my virginity!¹” myths, I’d gleefully bring my copy of Where Do Babies Come From? to school and pass it around at recess, I’d say “period” and “vagina” and all the other words considered “dirty” or “bad”. I had no problems — and no lack of knowledge — discussing the reproductive cycle.

But that was all academic. Theoretical. Separate from me. The idea that I menstruated, that I was a girl-going-on-woman, that I had to deal with this tangible, inescapable reminder of pinkness every month forever (given that I most completely and emphatically and seriously did. not. want. children)… it horrified me. And, yes, embarrassed me. I hadn’t yet come to grips with my female-ness, and I was supposed to relish talking about my need for “feminine hygiene products”?

So, mostly, I didn’t. I used a lot of toilet paper (the first true bleeding came when I was at school — on an elementary school campus, like that helped the situation! — and I used those little pre-folded toilet paper squares for the  rest of the day), and I filched from my mom, and eventually — truly, I don’t remember how — I found a favorite brand and style of pad and tampon (and for a short while, disposable menstrual cup) and managed to make sure I generally had enough in stock.

But I also tried to flush the pads².

Eventually — as you can tell — I got more comfortable with both my gender and my sex. I stopped longing for uterine replicators. I started letting people hold open doors for me (though I, of course, also still hold open doors for others). I stopped using toilet paper (except in emergencies!) and trying to flush unflushable things. I started saying “I’m having cramps”. I never did stop cringing at staining the bed, but I did start buying dark red sheets, and I didn’t let the stains stop me from getting help moving our uncovered mattress from The Man’s burly, macho coworkers. (I always was fine having sex and masturbating while menstruating, once those were happening at all. So no change there.) I stopped sending The Man out to buy paper pads, and started making cloth ones myself — and soaking them in the sink.

And I started blogging about it. Which you may take as a sign of my complete recovery, but rather has been a rather key component of it. Because I’m not just talking about menstruation in general, which I’ve always been comfortable doing, but telling you, my readers, that I am currently bleeding. Which, well hell, is half the time how The Man knows my period’s here, because I still haven’t figured out a way to say “And by the way, honey…”. (To be fair to myself, the other half of the time is split between me asking him to bring me a pad while I’m on the toilet, or him happening upon one in the sink.)

But now? After telling a few dozen/hundred/thousand people about it, um, many times, it really doesn’t feel like a big deal any more. It’s just something I do, because that’s the type of body I have.

I still don’t like pink, and am a bit neutral on red, but I don’t hate or reject either any more. It’s just a color, just a body function, and although I still can rage with the best of them at the meanings assigned to each by my society, I don’t have any arguments with them any more. We’re ok, pink and red and I. And I’m happier for it.

The Boychick hadn’t nursed in two weeks, then asked for milk again one morning. He latched on for half a minute each side, as much as I could stand, as little as I could stand to offer him.

I thought that was why my breasts were aching.

Might it be…? It couldn’t be. I’m sure [...]]]> My breasts ache.

The Boychick hadn’t nursed in two weeks, then asked for milk again one morning. He latched on for half a minute each side, as much as I could stand, as little as I could stand to offer him.

I thought that was why my breasts were aching.

Might it be…? It couldn’t be. I’m sure it’s not. I’m pretty sure it’s not… it isn’t, right? No, of course not. The timing was wrong — right — whichever.

Since his maybe-sort-of-probably-weaning, I’ve been wanting my breasts more involved in sex again — something that was extremely uncomfortable both physically and psychologically to me for a long time — so I thought maybe that’s why my breasts ache.

Really sure it isn’t, look at the dates, they’re all wrong, it couldn’t be, it must be my period, I’m sure that’s it and oh I wish we’d charted this month to avoid this not-knowing not-sure really-sure but maybe-not.

My breasts never ached before menstruation before — or was it that I never noticed it before? Is the aching new, due to changes from weaning, or something always there that had gone unobserved? Nevertheless, aching they are, and I am sure (am I sure? whispers the doubt, and how I have/n’t missed that thrilled horrified uncertainty) it is from an impending period. Fairly sure. Perhaps just unsure enough. And so I am paying attention to my body.

And I feel it. I swear, I feel the moment my uterus starts to let go, let down, I know. A trip to the toilet not half an hour later confirms it — spotting only, for now, but enough: it’s here.

As expected a marginally-tolerated guest as it is, as much as I am resigned to the upcoming pain and mess and annoyance, that I knew, that I was that present in my body, paying that much attention, even if it was due to laziness and achiness and no no it can’t be but it might be and that wouldn’t be terrible but it isn’t and that’s better uncertainty… that body-knowing thrills me.

And it makes me wonder, why am I not this present in my body always? This beautiful, big, bloody, beaten-but-not-broken body of mine, me in all ways that matter — is this not worthy of my attention? Am I not?

I am. You are. Where are you now? Your body, dis/abled, in pain, in pleasure, in unjudged experience — what do you feel? What does it say, that we ignore each day, sometimes because it’s the only way to make it through, too often because we deem it unimportant?

What’s going on in your body? Right now?

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But Wordpress doesn’t do “whisper”, so: I’m late.

…to blog about my period. Two whole days. I know, you’re shocked and disappointed in me that I [...]]]> It’s a phrase inevitably whispered, two words to strike fear and hope and the embodiment of ambivalence: “I’m late.” It simply must be whispered, voice low but weighty, urgent, breathy, breathlessly.

But Wordpress doesn’t do “whisper”, so: I’m late.

…to blog about my period. Two whole days. I know, you’re shocked and disappointed in me that I didn’t keep you up-to-the-minute on the status of my uterus. (…or that I’d yank your chain like that.) What can I say, it’s the holidays. (…and I’m slightly evil.)

Once again, I am definitely not pregnant. And I’m still very not ambivalent about that: we are still very much trying to avoid conception. But… it no longer feels like an impossibility. Having another child is still definitely not an inevitability, either, but I can picture it now, where once the idea left me wide-eyed and wondering where the nearest Planned Parenthood was.

This where I pause to say: Dear family and friends, I will consider the next person to ask me when we’re having another to be volunteering to pay for that child’s education from ages 2-22. We’re thinking private school, followed by small liberal arts college. Out of state. Any of you have anything you’d like to say now? …I thought not.

Right, back to the topic: at which point I decide that I’ve had too many cookies tonight (and we’re baking more tomorrow!), and direct you to Hobo Mama, wherein she discusses many of the various sides for and against having a second-and-would-be-last child, in a way I’m simply too sugar-dosed and sleepy (and crampy and blood-loss-y) to manage right now.

And PS: I apologize. I promise to never again fake a possible-pregnancy maybe-announcement ever. I swear on a stack of cloth pads. Cross my womb and hope to bleed for a month. Honest.

Here’s what I don’t talk about: all month, all [...]]]> For the 20th time since the Boychick was born, my uterus sheds its endometrial lining. For the 20th time since the Boychick was born, it all slides down my vagina, falls between my lips, is absorbed by the cloth between my legs. I’ve talked about that before.

Here’s what I don’t talk about: all month, all cycle, I am falling out, falling down. My rectum falls forward, my bladder back. My uterus to the left, cervix perforce to the right (deduction rather is vice versa: os is found to the right, therefore uterus must be falling left).

It’s not something that bothers me — except when it does. It’s not something I talk about — except now I am.

The technical terms sound sweet, seem sinister: rectocele, cystocele. This one doesn’t even sound pretty with my eyes closed: uterine prolapse.

Well, prolapse, maybe. Pro-laps. Doesn’t sound too bad, if I don’t think too hard.

A fact: the suffixes -rrhoid and -rrhage both mean the same thing. And yet hemorrhoid and hemorrhage? Not so much. Go figure.

I have the ‘rrhoids, too.

True story (no really, this is relevant): when I was 12 years old, I went on a rickety old wooden roller coaster, was lifted out of my seat, and slammed back down. I’ve had low back and sacrum problems ever since. It’s also probably why my coccyx is, itself, fallen — in, forward, to the right. And that one hurts.

How these are connected: every. single. time I talk to anyone about my coccyx pain (chiropractors, doctors, massage therapists, cis women with similar issues), the answer is a variation on this: “Have you considered internal coccygeal adjustments?” “Maybe you should see a physical therapist who specializes in pelvic muscles.” “I know an acupuncturist who does vaginal treatments.” Every. Time. If I mention the rectocele as well? They redouble their recommendations. (Silly ideas about anatomy, and connection of internal organs. Pfft.)

Everyone, it seems, wants their hands — or their needles, and as much as I love acupuncture I’m trying not to think about that one — in my pussy.

OK, so it’s a nice pussy. I don’t really blame them.

But pardon me if I’m also disinclined to allow them.

And yet…

Why?

I went to a midwife who knew the uselessness of vaginal exams in pregnancy, knew how rarely they were indicated in labor. The only time in the last five years fingers other than mine or my lover’s (or, as they were sliding out in birth, my child’s) have touched my vagina were after birth, examining for tears (I had none). That is as it should be, it seems to me. Too quick are OB/GYNs to poke us, prod us. Too often “medical need” is code for “physician habit” and becomes client’s trauma. I know this, and so I am wary of exams, wary of allowing unnecessary violation of my bodily integrity.

But, might there not be necessary non-violations? Or, even desirable, beneficial, honoring touches?

I’m sure there must be. I am told — by women I trust, women who trust their bodies — that there are.

Still, I resist.

And I hurt.

And I still resist.

And I still hurt.

I don’t like talking about pelvic organ prolapse. Inevitably, it seems, someone is going to blame my weight, my big baby (10lb 6oz, and no I wasn’t diabetic, thank you very much), my homebirth, is going to say I simply need surgery. From the other side will come pronouncements that I’m Doing It All Wrong — I’m not eating right, sitting right, standing right, breathing right. (And that I might even believe, because the mostly-sedentary American life I live is entirely unnatural and unhealthy on the human body, especially those of us with cis female anatomies.)

From any side might come fatalism, a proclamation of the profound brokenness of my body. But I don’t feel broken (except my tailbone, sometimes); I don’t want to feel broken. I don’t want to be warned off having another baby (eventually! not now!); I don’t want to be told I am too far gone to be helpable, fixable. I am, in short, afraid — afraid I will be told I am broken, afraid that I will discover it to be true.

My brain’s a little whacked too.

But if I am ever going to do anything that has a prayer of helping (have I mentioned the coccyx pain? Truly, it is a pain in my ass), I have to be able to talk about it. And so I am.

Today, it all falls down: my uterine lining, for the 20th time since the Boychick’s birth. My pelvic organs, constantly, always, starting well before his birth. My walls and defenses and impenetrable, impossible silences: now, and forever more.

It figures: the one month we don’t chart at all (blame The Man needing to go on antibiotics for 10 days, and my laziness) is the one month my body up and decides to do something FUCKING WEIRD. Like [...]]]> 23 days later is a lot more ominous in the world of menstruation than 28 days later.

It figures: the one month we don’t chart at all (blame The Man needing to go on antibiotics for 10 days, and my laziness) is the one month my body up and decides to do something FUCKING WEIRD. Like have another period after a mere 23 days. And no, I’m not talking spotting or whatnot either. Cramping, bleeding, uterus trying to turn itself inside out: the whole shebang.

All I have to say is: what the hell, body?