My ovary just gets sadder and sadder.
That is what my doctors tell me.
My ovary is like a gonadal, unfunny, feeble version of myself: It feels oppressed, moody, behaves erratically, it simply refuses to do what it has to do and, in my opinion, it’s not doing anything to help itself.
Our relationship is not in a positive place. We have been through a lot in recent months, but presently our negotiations have come to a standstill. Apparently my ovary has unionized and wants a contract from the Jana Sikdar Corporation. The little bastard is on cystic strike — it wants its grievances aired and its demands met. Josh Eidelson, master communicator, in your infinite wisdom, please help us get the talks back up and running!
[I do not mean that in a sexually suggestive way. The cunnilingus joke comes later (ha). That being said, though I have never hooked up with Josh, he gets my endorsement as “The Ideal Male Lover”.]
In the spirit of open communication, vaguely uncomfortable personal disclosure and the suggestion of mental instability (“Does she really talk to her reproductive organs?”):
My ovary and I engage in couple’s therapy dialogue:
Ovary: I’m sick!
Me: You’re just looking for attention, you insecure little cluster of cells. At least if you’d been diagnosed with Polycystic Ovary Syndrome the uncommonly high levels of male hormones associated with the condition might have medically excused my aversion to postcoital cuddling, emotional investment and my propensity to consistently be on the lookout for someone better. So you’re troubled by little sacs filled with fluid and semisolid material. We’re all burdened by something — histories of enslavement, religious persecution, Catholic guilt, Liberal White guilt. Get over yourself and just keep it moving.
Ovary: I’ve been working my follicles off for you since the sixth grade. I need to take some time, figure out what I really want to do with myself.
Me: Who asked you to start working at the age of 11? You think it was fun to develop earlier than all my pasty, flat-chested little friends? Believe me, being the only one with boobs gets old, fast. You have a singular purpose — you don’t even work full time. You get every other month off. This is about you wanting to feel special, to differentiate yourself from the other ovary, be The Bad One. Well, just watch yourself because I’ll have you snatched out faster than you can say “babymaker”.
Ovary: Love me! Affirm me!
Me: Short of erecting a Red Tent in the Saybrook courtyard, dressing in flowing crimson robes and painting abstract art with my menses (activities that are a bit too crunchy for me, lest I be trippin’ on some serious drugs), I have done nothing but celebrate you in all your ovulating glory. I even made conscious contraceptive choices that gave you the freedom to follow the beat of your own cycle. That is probably where I went wrong. I’ve overindulged you. You are nothing but a selfish, spoiled ovary. I know for a fact that your general region has received an inordinate amount of unconditional, unreciprocated love — far more than average. A lot of very generous, and ultimately very frustrated, individuals took the time to engage in such selfless acts. And look at what you’ve done with all that oral love. You should be ashamed of yourself.
Ovary: I know, aren’t I so awkward? Aren’t you so embarrassed of me?
Me: Clearly, you’re not all that awkward to talk about. What is unfortunate is the fact that you have become such an exhibitionist that you solicit strange doctors to shove light saber-like implements all up into my internal organs so they can point and stare at you. I don’t really know what they are trying to hit up there — but it sure don’t feel too nice. Also, seeing as you’re an ovary and not my bladder — or my dignity — you cannot appreciate the intense anxiety associated with drinking 64 fluid ounces of water, not being allowed to go to the bathroom for two hours and then just praying something disastrous doesn’t happen when the doctor takes to jabbing your abdominal region.
Ovary: I am simply acting as an agent of The Universe. I am a sign.
Me: I’ve got to hand it to you. When the nurse told me that my condition is often “cured by bearing your first child,” I won’t lie, I cried. With winter break on the horizon and the promise of endless, cold, bleak New Haven nights stretching before me, I am beginning to seriously rethink my post-graduation “job search” plans. Currently, I have no occupational prospects — and thus no hope of health insurance — but you may just force my hand. The networking I need to start doing is to track down all the people who’ve ever told me that they wanted to make beautiful, brown babies with me and hold them to their word. While my fellow Yalies are busy doing their things with the BDs and the SCC and the YCT, you can be sure to find me holed up in my room, proactively sexually healing a la TTC (Trying to Conceive).
Ovary: You called me “unfunny”. I don’t necessarily think that’s true.
Me: Oh my god, you’re right. I never should have made fun of those girls who prioritized husbands and babies over their careers. In some bizarre twist of fate, I now find myself prematurely fearing infertility. That’s ironic. And f*cked up … and yes, tragically hilarious.
Jana Sikdar’s “shout outs” come with a pretty basket of muffins and a Hallmark card.