Giving my vagina the inscrutable Mona Lisa smile
I lost my mother when I was twelve to ovarian cancer and it ruined my teen years — I became irrational and wild and quite self-destructive.
My grandmother too died from ovarian cancer in her early 40s.
I was tested and I have, unfortunately, the BRCA1 gene mutation that puts me at extremely high risk for ovarian cancer (my risk is thirty times higher than the average woman).
Last year I began talking to my gynecologist and oncologist about my own risks and the idea of prophylactic surgery to reduce my risk. There is now apparently a robot called Da Vinci which helps surgeons do hysterectomies and salpingo-oophorectomies, removal of the fallopian tubes and the ovaries.
I also need to get what’s called a peritoneal wash, which is an intensive search for cancer cells in my peritoneum, the lining of my abdominal cavity.
In other words, all my insides are going to be removed and I’m going to be stuffed with straw.
Yeah, and I’m 32.
So the big problem is that my boyfriend Joel doesn’t want me to have this surgery, thinks it’s unnecessary to do it now, and wishes that I would have children first.
Only problem being, I don’t want children.
I mean, I love children. But I’ve got two careers going that I really love and I don’t have time to be a good mother. Plus, I find it very very selfish of me to risk bringing a female child into this world who is almost guaranteed to have the gene mutation and eventually get ovarian cancer.
I was absolutely scarred for life by watching my mother become a skeleton on her death bed. I mean, I have been to lots of horror movies and I have never seen anything remotely as horrifying as my mother in the late stages of her disease. The amount of pain she was in was unbelievable. My sweet mother’s face was so gaunt and sick…she was on such high doses of morphine she assured me there were bugs crawling over her body. Why would I want to inflict that on another being? Or myself?
Because my boyfriend wants to have babies and wants me to wait until I’m older to have this surgery?
What a dick.
Well, to be fair, Joel is a doctor and has his own medical opinion about all these things. There are two camps about these prophylactic surgeries. Funny, it’s often the guy doctors who are against it. The girl doctors are like, yeah, hack off the tits and pull out the pussy, let’s save this woman’s life. Who cares if she won’t be a “woman” anymore? She’ll be alive at least.
Joel keeps bringing up the point that having a hysterectomy at this age will lead to what he calls “premature aging.”
Have you ever heard anything so selfish? He’s worried that his girlfriend is going to age.
Whether I’m going to age prematurely is debatable. Apparently I can take estrogen and avoid most of the aging effects (but there is one slight problem with that — oh yeah, cancer again.) But that this is Joel’s primary objection is really annoying.
I thought he loved me for me. Turns out he just loves the young-looking me. The old-looking me he is grossed out by.
That’s the big worry, though, I have to admit, even if he didn’t say it out loud. Will I be gross? Will I still be a woman? What about fucking after a hysterectomy? Will it still feel good to the man? Will it still feel good to me?
I’ve read lots of assuring articles but here are some worrying things that I might experience:
- Loss of sex drive. Well, actually, that might not be such a bad thing for me. I tend to be overly horny almost every minute of every day, so I am willing to risk this one.
- Incontinence. Um…isn’t there a porn category about this? I have a feeling there is, so we might be able to include me wetting myself into our sex play.
- Vaginal dryness. Good. I get so moist sometimes Joel says he can’t even feel his dick any more. So I am happy to have a bit more friction down there.
- Lack of sensation in the vagina. This one worries me. I’ve written about my dearth of vaginal orgasms. I feel like I don’t have a lot of sensation down there already. Will this make it even worse. Ah fuck it, I have my awesome couples vibrator. Which brings me to my real worry:
- No orgasm, even by masturbation, for six weeks. What the F? I am going to go absolutely bananas. I don’t know if I’ve ever confessed this, but to get through the average day I do need to make myself cum at least five times. What? I have a lot of stress. I don’t know how to self-soothe any other way. Please don’t talk to me about meditation of mindfulness, I hate that bullshit. My martial arts workouts are a great stress-reducer — I won’t be able to go to the gym for months. What am I going to do? I can’t smoke pot. I won’t be able to sex blog because I won’t be having sex. What can I write about? My articles about any other subject seem to get about zero views.
- Oh, and one more little thing, I will lose my boyfriend.
Of course, Joel does not want to be the guy who dumped his girlfriend because she got a hysterectomy. But it’s pretty much his position. He is going to phrase it differently. In his mind, we are going to break up because we both wanted different things, which is true: he wants kids and I want to not die.
I don’t mean to name-call. I’m heartbroken. I know, reader, you probably think I’ve done about everything humanly possible to drive Joel away. I’ve cheated on him. I’ve coerced him into group sex. I’ve lied to him. And worst of all, I’ve written about it all here for the public to see.
But I love him so much. And I don’t want to lose him.
I scheduled my operation yesterday. Joel didn’t speak to me last night and continued giving me the silent treatment this morning.
I just can’t live another year with this anxiety in the back of my mind all the time — what’s that feeling in my mid section? Did I wait too long? Do I have cancer?
I’m going into the hospital in the first week of December.
I wish Joel would speak to me, that sucks. But otherwise, I feel so much better. The indecisiveness and agonizing were getting to me. Now I don’t have to think about it anymore.
I might not have a boyfriend this Christmas, but at least I’ll have peace of mind. And a pussy that’s been all fixed up and rearranged by a robot called Da Vinci.
I’ll call her my Mona Lisa.