Oh, hey! Guess what this is:
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 is a picture of my lady parts, as sketched by my doctor. Although I suppose that we might say that it is less art than it is an artifact of doctorglyphics: it’s 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 and messy circumstances. (So hastily that one of the attending surgeons – wait for it – stitched his finger to my parts. That, my friends, is another gruesome story for another day.) Yep: botched repair. Sloppy stitchwork. Sewn up wrong. Sewn up so wrong. Ripped and slashed in birth and then stitched up roughly into some hideous, half-healed, scarred-up mess. Monster-nethers. Frankenvulva.
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?)