WTMI Bulletin

Ok soooo remember the awesomeness I detailed in this post about my naughty bits and their migratory habits? And how I was becoming an Olympic hopeful for the kegel competition? And how hard I was working towards acquiring some serious pick-up-a-pen-and-sign-my-name-with-my-Kung-Fu-super-grip action?

Well, there's good news, and there's bad news.

But I shall start with some background.

So the other day, I'm just strolling around the office, minding my own business, and I realize that Something Down There wasn't right. In fact, it felt like there was perhaps a new Something Down There that wasn't before, which is every bit as disturbing as it sounds. It's like realizing you sat on a Hershey bar in white pants and now have to walk around the rest of the day, mindful that you have brown smears on your ass you can do nothing about. Except that in this case, the white pants are, you know, my REPRODUCTIVE ORGANS and, of course, their surrounding squishy shelter, which in D's day must have been a 4-star hotel but now has morphed into some kind of uterine housing project.

So anyway, I start freaking out and immediately make an appointment with my PA, who, because of experiences like these, probably gently bangs her head against a wall when she sees my name on the appointment chart. She comes in, we chat, she explains that really, she's just sort of the gatekeeper and that if I need more than, say, a flu shot, my next stop will be at a Specialist's office. But she agrees to take a look and see if the situation really is in line with my hysteri-o-meter (yes, pun intended). She asks if she can use El Specu-lama to do a little recon, and I reply that I thought she'd never ask.

Before she starts, though, she gives me her Earnest Look (which I think she's been practicing since last time; it felt even more intense) and says, "Are you really ready to find out?" I ask her what she means, and she explains that the treatment for a prolapsed wha-hey-hey is often a hysterectomy. I explain that, not to put too fine a point on it, I would scrape out the whole kit and kaboodle myself if she happened to have a melon baller handy.

As you know, I'd just as soon demolish that entire basement rec room. Truly, the only reason I've kept it this long is because, despite being the bane of my existence for all but 9 months of my life since puberty, it did make the most beautiful thing to ever come into my life, and that fact buys a lot of emotional real estate around here.

Yes—other people keep pregnancy tests; I keep organs that don't even like me very much. "Blast away the whole region," I think, then add, "Well, except that tiny republic to the north."

ANYWAY, she takes a look and—here's the good news—announces that while things in the baby-making district aren't perfect, I do not appear to have the Womb of Doom. But even in the middle of my imaginary mini-celebration wherein I receive the Iron Vagina award, I have a gnawing suspicion. There's still someone lurking around the neighborhood who shouldn't be there.

The bad news is that what I'm feeling is my bladder, which has, I guess, put in a transfer request to move into the uter-house, you know, because it's obviously such a great place to live. So my pouch de la pee-pee is staging an invasion, and my Davy Crockett just can't seem to defend the Alamo, if you know what I mean.

And while I thought almost nothing of ripping out my nethers and flinging them to the wind, I realize with a sinking feeling that the urinary storage device is not quite as disposable an organ, unless I want to carry a genetically enhanced Zip-loc baggie around with me for the rest of my life. And it seems a little early in the skating program to be jumping right into that particular triple salchow.

I open my mouth to explain this to my doc, but she's way ahead of me—she knows a great urologist (who, to my chagrin, does not take my second-from-the-top-tier insurance), and they can fashion a sporty little doodad called a "pessary," which I think is French for "bladder hammock." It's basically a sling that keeps a particular organ all tucked in where it belongs. So now I head back to Dr. L, Gyno-man (who is totally going to be a superhero when I start writing comic books) to see if he agrees that yes, it is my very own piss-pocket that's causing all the hubbub.

At which point I will return with Waaaaay Too Much Information. Yes, friends, tune in to WTMI for constant updates on Stefanie's Southern Hemisphere, which I know is practically all you think about.