Barren

His face is distorted. Like the conversation is being held under water. Was there a name for that summer ritual? Jumping in the pool with your bestie and screaming a secret crush's name in exaggerated phonetic syllables until you both ran out of air and bobbed to the surface laughing, gagging, and embarrassed? It was the best way to keep a secret while confessing.

The doctor wants to know, "Do you understand what I've explained? Any questions?"

You imagine he just admitted to liking Nurse Simpson, and it makes you grimace. Held-back tears burst forth, and you see the doctor clearly. Turns out, his office is not a pool, and you are not his bestie.

A total hysterectomy with salpingo-oophorectomy is the the removal of your uterus, cervix, ovaries, and fallopian tubes. The surgery can treat fibroids, gynecological cancer, abnormal bleeding, or endometriosis. This is what he explained to you. The white-haired male doctor who finds your case intriguing. An anomaly.

"I want to keep them," is what you blurt out in response. Clearly your baby sac and its tributaries are special, so you decide to keep them after the procedure.

The doctor sighs and pushes his thick-rimmed glasses above his graying eyebrows. He rubs the bridge of his nose. "Let's start again, shall we?" he suggests.

You shake your head assertively. You clarify, "My reproductive organs. After you take them out of me. I want to keep them. They're mine." You're done with the tears.

The doctor can't think of anything else to do but stare at you like you're a madwoman. No snappy one-liners? No sarcastic comment about hoarding or the price of formaldehyde these days? You decide he isn't a very creative doctor and consider whether or not he's the right man for the job. Before he can speak, you interject, "I know I sound crazy. I also know the rules. It's coming home with me. All of it."

You know this is a thing, and you're ready to litigate like Ally McBeal in order to win custody of your junky parts. You remember reading something about a woman who crushed her hip in an unfortunate spill hiking the Grand Canyon. She made the doctor box up her hip for take out and now she has an incredibly personalized, albeit bony, gear shifter on her Subaru Outback. Hell, William Shatner sold his grody kidney stones online for $75,000! Why is it so unbelievable that a real person, with real feelings, really wants to keep the parts of her that make her uniquely female? Reality doesn't bite, Ms. Childress, it's bonkers.

So, you spend a few extra hours in the hospital. First, you're reviewed by a psych team. Next, pathology instructs you on the proper care and storage of human remnants. Simple. Nurse Simpson finally leads you back to the surgeon's office, where your procedure is moved to the top of his list on account of how your uterus tries to murder you almost every day. The endometriosis is severe. Doctors and resident doctors and student doctors and you think even a janitor or two have been invited to look inside your vagina, study the chart, wield the ultrasound wand, both external and internal. Clearly your baby sac and its tributaries are special. Of course you want to take them home.

Surgery day arrives, and you know you don't look very cute in the blue shower cap they're making you wear, but none of these doctors are date-worthy anyway. Too old. Too short. Too grouchy. Too married. Sigh. Maybe one of the nurses will be eligible. While you stare at the blinding LED spaceship hovering over you in the OR, a stoic anesthesiologist tells you to count backwards or something, but you aren't listening. You sing the theme to Facts of Life instead.

The magical cocktail of sleep-inducing drugs swarms over you like thousands of bees giving you tiny little kisses. You wonder how to reinvent yourself when your lady parts are snipped and clipped from your abdomen and you bring them home in a bell jar. Your inner voice suddenly sounds more like Betty White hosting an episode of Just Men! She says, "Thanks for tuning in. We have a great show for you today. With us is our contestant straight from operating table seven. She's a 26-year-old computer programmer from Santa Barbara. Put your hands together for our first patient of the day."

While the incision is made, you realize you don't like the gameshow format and change the channel. A one-woman podcast is what you need to reconcile losing your fertility. In your softest, most sincere NPR voice, you announce, "Here's how to reinvent yourself after your entire reproductive system is snipped and clipped from your abdomen and you bring it all home, on today's episode of...

 

Top 15 things to do with your full hysterectomy doggy pussy bag:

1. Be the mamma.

You feel empty now. Literally empty. It's gone. The whole lot. It's all been yoinked out. You are left with neither lady parts nor purpose. Embrace it. Put your ripped-out junk in a jar. The kind they sell big pickles out of at the movies. Dress it in a onesie, and cradle it like a newborn. Secure it in a Bugaboo. Or better yet a Bjorn—studies have shown wearing your baby promotes emotional development and bonding. Describe to your little bundle of guts everything you see on the way to the park. The flora. The fauna. The neighbor staring from her front stoop. Strap that chubby little thing into a swing and push. Push, push. Push. Bear down. One last push, and it'll all be over.

2. Awaken your inner witch.

Don't let those poor souls from 15th century Salem die in vain! Get your bloody little hands on an ancient grimoire from a questionable used book dealer and go to town. Or you can just Google it. Ask your homegirls to join your coven and invent as many hexes as your unique ingredients will allow. Love potions. Cures for love potions. Truth serums. Fertility spells (oops, too late for that). Poison to drop in a bad man's drink—like knife-happy surgeons or guys who break up over text message. Once you get the hang of it, brew the ultimate charming charm. Bat your beautiful eyelashes, flip your luxurious hair, and giggle your way to world domination.

3. Grow some shit.

If the bastard who traded the family cow for a bunch of beans ended up with an armful of golden eggs, consider what your eggs might grow. Fie, fum, fo, fee, I smell infertility! No beanstalk. No magical kingdom in the sky. It's okay. Your ovaries know you're afraid of heights.

4. Explore the culinary arts.

Learn to cook already, why don't you? Then host an epic dinner party, but invite only your exes. All the ones who dumped you like a glass of spoiled milk. The handsome one. The one so full of potential. The Christian one who loved the outdoors. Have them all over at the same time. Promise there's no hard feelings. No really, none at all. Then serve treats they won't soon forget. Use your cervix to whip up a fine pâté garnished with chopped herbs. Stuff your fallopian tubes with creamy artisan cheeses, and turn that uterus into roasted pigs in a blanket. Consider making personalized dishes for some of your guests. Shred your ovaries for a variation on crab cakes for the one with anger issues. Pulverize your left over birth control pills to make a nice dusting on top of lady fingers for the spineless one. The food is divine, unlike anything they have ever eaten, and it awakens new and passionate desires. They all want another chance to be with you. But that grosses you out. After all, they ate your fertile crescent rolls. Some of them had done it before, but at least this time, you'll go to bed satisfied.

5. Perform a satanic ritual.

Draw a pentagram on the floor. Use your organs to open a portal to hell and go wild. Just be careful. Once you've opened that particular door, it's hard to close it without a backup set of used and unwanted female flesh.

6. Host a funeral.

Worried a wedding might not be in the cards? Use your party planning skills to lay your baby maker to rest. Publish a death notice. Write an obituary. Buy a casket. Ashes, dust. Ask your sister to play a Sara McLachlan song on her flute. The tiny tombstone will read: Here lies Lady Parts, she died in vain, before life could start. Sob, grieve, serve a light luncheon. There will be an open bar because your cunt would have wanted it that way.

7. Put them on display.

Whether you flaunt your treasure with a home shrine or default to subtle placement on a bookshelf or mantlepiece, it's these feminine je ne sais quois that will elevate any space to the next level. Hire a decorator, even. Let a professional come up with something funky and fresh. Fresh as a daisy on a summer's eve, they'll say.

8. Start a fire.

Forego the fancy funeral and host a simple cremation. A more private laying to rest of your privates. While they're gobbled up by flames, recall the good old days. Like how they ruined prom night. How they stained the crotch of your white jeans. How they cramped you since puberty. Since you don't have a fireplace, borrow a camp grill from the Christian hiker you dated junior year of college. Tell him you need it for a satanic ritual. He'll be so worried, he'll rush right over and pray for your soul. Of course he'll bring the grill. It's what Jesus would do.

9. Get creative.

Anyone can show off their organs in a curio cabinet, but a canvas slathered with flesh and acrylics can be the focal point of a room. Let your post operative pain be the inspiration for an impressionist piece. Think big, and don't be shy with the glitter.

10. Go Native.

If Intro to Anthropology taught you anything, it's waste not, want not. Ancient civilizations made tools out of bone, jewelry out of tusks, and clothing out of hides. Here's your opportunity to experience a divine connection with Mother Earth. Use the pup tent you bought when Christian hiker thought it would bring you closer together to hike part of the Wonderland Trail, but only if you slept in separate tents. You didn't even get past second base before he dumped you for a more virtuous soul. Hunker down in your tent of rejection and chew your guts like sinew. Twist your handiwork into twine and crochet a potholder, knit a beanie, or braid a strand of fashion-forward hair extensions.

11. Celebrate the holidays.

Regift your innards to your mother by wrapping them in festive paper. Not that you blame her for how things turned out. After all, how could she have known she was passing along an unfortunate combination of DNA resulting in a decade of periods that felt like a troll was trying to escape from your vagina? Maybe the card could just read: These didn't quite fit. Hope you still have the receipt. She always said she liked homemade gifts best.

12. Sell it on the black market, or in fact, a regular market.

While it's illegal in the US to sell your organs for transplants, there's nothing to stop you from selling your bits and bobs for fun and profit. Your clientele might include:

Desperate high school students whose science fair projects are due. Make sure they pay in cash or Venmo from their mother's bank account.

Witches. The question is which which? Oh, any old Wiccan, Druid, Finnish Neo-pagan, or Baba Yaba will do. They'll guarantee your castoffs will only be used for good, not evil. Give them a discount and they'll gladly read your cards or cleanse your aura.

Devil worshippers, on the other hand, pay retail. Don't sell yourself short. When Beelzebub's Babes realize the Demon Dentists have put in an offer, they'll counter and you'll get a premium price.

Halloween aficionados. These people will do anything to up the game from last year's party.

Collectors on eBay. If William Shatner can generate $75K for his kidney stones, imagine what a full set of female entrails might get. Yours might not be NIB, but they're definitely NBU. Let the bidding wars begin.

Museums. There's a gallery of oddities for every human organ or orifice. The Vagina Museum and The Museum of Menstruation are obvious choices, but don't discount these outliers: Museum of Bad Art (see also number nine), The National Museum of Funeral History (see also number six), or the Museum of Broken Relationships (see also number four).

13. Call Hollywood.

Twenty-first century entertainment is all about the reboot, and Bosom Buddies will be a huge hit with Gen Z. Bring your script and jar—which you've dressed in a baseball cap and glued-on mustache. You propose a switch to the gender switch. Maybe it's a cross-cross, a criss-cross, a double cross? Regardless, you're keeping it fresh, like a daisy on a summer's eve. You meet with executive producer Tom Hanks and give him the pitch: Jamie wants to be an engineer, but everyone knows girls are bad at math. So, she enrolls as "James" in Santa Cruz College with her friend Ursula, aka "Ulysses." These zany girls pretend to be boys to keep their scholarships and their dignity. Tom has questions. "Won't everyone realize the organs are FEMALE?" You shake your head no and explain that men have no idea what the female reproductive system looks like. Hell, neither do most women. "Jamie and Ursula will teach as much as they learn!" And the studio audience is cued to say, "Aww."

14. Get crafty.

Dust off the air fryer you just had to buy because it's also a food dehydrator. Now, treat yourself to a heavy pour of Pinot Noir while you watch your flesh expel every last bit of moisture it ever had. Once your uterus has been turned into fruit leather, make an adjustable belt. After years of making you bloated, it will work to hide the resulting pooch from the hysterectomy scar tissue. Your ovaries should shrink to the size of a unique set of earrings, perfect for a family heirloom. Oh, wait... never mind.

15. Become an Instagram phenomenon.

Why travel alone when your girly bits can join you? Traverse the world together as #LadyPartsOnParade or #HysterectomyHolidays. You will rack up followers posting selfies in front of the world's most recognized landmarks with your pickled gal pal right next to you. Be extra by donning crop tops and bikinis every chance you get. Show off that scar! You earned it.

 

When you wake up, the spaceship of lights has been replaced by fluorescent units, giving the room a sickly energy. You blink yourself into clearer consciousness and see a figure standing at your bedside. It's your mother. She holds a vase filled with a rainbow of daisies, but she's staring at the table with her mouth open, aghast. She slips her plump fingers into the palm of your hand. Warm. Your mother is so goddamned warm.

She squeezes your hand, and even in your post-op high, you can tell she is concerned, but not, "I'm worried about my little girl who just had surgery," concerned. More like, "I'm worried about my little girl who needs to grieve the loss of her fertility. Grieve for what she will never get to experience." You look to your left and see the cause of your mother's distress. Proof of your hysterectomy is already swimming around in its personal pool of preservatives.

Your hardware doesn't look the way you thought it would. Everything is swimming in gynecologist tested and approved vinegar, but your fallopian tubes are saggy. An ovary has been dismembered. She's a blob on the bottom of the jar. Your uterus looks like raw silk that was tumble dried on high heat. What you thought would resemble a fleshy angel with wings spread to the heavens has turned out to be more like alien roadkill.

With a smile, your mother asks, "What are you going to do with it?"

You tell her you aren't sure, but you have a few ideas. She wants to hear them all.

You share them with her while she moisturizes your hands, your feet, your legs. She listens for hours.

You come up with a bonus option:

 

16. Replay the printer scene from Office Space.

Because, according to the Geto Boys, it's die mutha fuckas, die mutha fuckas. Die.

 

She likes number sixteen. So do you.