“Birthing a set of triplets was easier than this.”
Y’all, I have been traumatized. I let those crunchy moms sway me to try the menstrual cup. They told me I would never go back to tampons again!
So I bought one. I ignored the voice inside my head that told me I was 40 and perimenopausal. And that I had periods that resembled Niagara Falls. And that these weird things were made for dainty women who just drip.
I folded the cup as instructed and inserted it. But it didn’t open as it should so it was really just a wad of plastic. Using my middle and index finger as tongs, I pulled it out.
Sweat now on my forehead, I tried again, and gently pushed upward. I felt it open like a beautiful spring flower, accompanied by angels singing.
But the singing abruptly stopped. The cup was sideways and nowhere near my cervix. All I managed to do this time was create a rain catcher to direct “Niagara” over to the right a bit.
Sweating all over, I tried a new position and finally made contact with my cervix. Yes! I gave it a final push to make it flop into place. It felt good to be crunchy.
When the time came to take it out, I sat on the toilet, and attempted to find the rim. Let me just stop here and tell you that I was apparently blessed with a longer than normal vagina. The rim was way out of reach. Maybe I can just pull the tip of the cup to break the suction and then pull it off that way, I reasoned.
Did you know a menstrual cup on a cervix is like shrink wrap on a fruit basket? And that your middle and index finger really have no muscle power at all?
After many attempts to get the devil off my cervix, I ripped off my sweaty shirt and positioned my legs as if delivering a baby. That was the moment I remembered my doctor telling me I had a tilted uterus. “Oh my lord, I am going to die,” I wailed.
The door chimed. My husband was home. Lying there, I listened to his footsteps as he made his way toward the bathroom. “Are you Okay?” he asked through the closed door.
“I don’t know! . . . Yeah I’ll be alright . . . NO, I’m not OKAY!!!”
He cracked open the door and saw me lying, shirtless, on the floor sobbing.
“What the . . . ?”
“I think I need to go to the hospital.” I sobbed out. “I have this . . . thing . . . stuck to my cervix!”
I weakly gestured to the empty box lying in the corner. He picked it up and said, “How could something like this get stuck to your cervix?”
“I DON’T KNOW!!!”
“Can I help you?”
“You have sausage fingers and Carpal tunnel!!” I hissed. “How can you possibly help?!!”
I spent time resting and staring at the ceiling AC vent wondering if it was even working at all. Then, after many attempts, different positions, and profanity over having a tilted uterus, I finally managed to hook it and yank it out. I tossed it angrily, watching as it skid across the floor before bumping into the closed door. Then I collapsed in a spent mess.
Birthing a set of triplets was easier than this. I swore I would never listen to another crunchy mom as long as I lived on God’s green earth.
I was even angry enough to want to throw away my organic milk.