My ovaries are problematic

When she looked at my ovaries and condemned them to a miserable, useless fate, the sonographer may as well have cut them out of me there and then. I’m supposed to be a feminist: intersectional, dynamic and unconstrained to two little tubes and what’s on either end of them, but somehow I feel as if a part of who I was is severed when I hear that maybe I’ll never be able to carry my own baby.

I so strongly believe in a woman’s right to choose that it seems ironic that maybe I will never get this choice. I say this, acutely aware of my privilege, where I’m afforded the precious means to a doctor who knows their stuff, a society where I’m not subjugated in a life I don’t want, where liberty over my body is taken for granted.

I go home in a little disoriented bubble, suddenly aware of how small my body is. I feel like I’m looking down on a frail figure, shivering in the cold March wind. I don’t know how to feel in response to everything that has happened.

I am infinitely glad that this comes at a time where there are still hours left in my biological clock; I’m not thirty-five and sobbing in a doctor’s office as I try and fail to conceive. I’m glad it comes with plenty of options, some difficult and lengthy and will require my dedication, but at least they exist. I’m glad it finally comes after four years of lying in bed unable to sleep at two in the morning, booking countless appointments, scared to be that girl complaining, that girl who can’t even handle her biology every month.

I’ll be pragmatic and dynamic once more, once I get my disoriented head wrapped around the thousands of google hits and Mumsnet anecdotes. I feel like I’m mourning the potential for something that I knew I wanted, but not this much until it was snatched from between my legs.

I don’t mention it when I return to the banal chat of the day. I’m too young to be considering this now and for some odd reason, it seems to be admitting weakness as a woman. Maybe this is the result of too many years of societal conditioning: the mark of our society being to juggle a career and beauty and create life at some point in the midst of all that. I laugh as the first proper thought I have is that I don’t want to go gluten-free. I love bread.


Almost a week later, I am okay. I was so shocked to enter the hospital, at worst thinking that my IUD had perforated or something *terrifying* but not expecting two diagnoses that, although I had googled and seen before, had been brushed off by a previous doctor.

I have to ground myself by being comparative: it's not that bad, it's not as bad of a thing as things some other people have. I'm young, maybe they'll have cured everything by the time I have to consider it. I feel like posting this to show a raw reaction to a situation which is manageable. Have no fear, there are always steps which may be taken. <3