Lois Gilman

A Letter From My Ovaries

Dear Lois,
       We’ve been together a long time now. Do you remember your first encounter with us—that sultry August day when you had stomach cramps. You went to the bathroom and saw a small brownish stain in the bottom of your underpants. Your mother told you that was a sign you were menstruating. What an exciting time: you were starting junior high school as well. How grownup you felt. We started kicking up our heels a lot—giving you monthly cramps—as we launched eggs down your tubes and shot hormones through your body.
          Reflecting on our life together, we’d say it’s been tough sledding from time to time. First, you deceived us about those weird birth control pills when you were in college. The pills were supposed to regulate your hormones and clear up your acne, but they also transformed your body into a blimp. You gained twenty pounds because of the water retention, and had to use diuretics to control the bloat.
         And we really did have to think about the future of our eggs because you used the pills to permit yourself to sleep with your boyfriend. Killed two birds with one stone, as they say. Were we glad when you decided to kick those pills and switch to a diaphragm. (You’d married your college sweetheart and the excess weight slipped off.) We had a couple of good years but then you decided to try to get pregnant. You didn’t ask us for any input on this decision.....so we showed you. First the ovary on your right side—call me 'Jane'—erupted with a cyst. The doctors didn’t know if you had an ectopic pregnancy and you spent a scary night at the hospital. You were okay and after that you knew exactly who we were and when we ovulated because you followed your menstrual cycles like a hawk. You really got out of control at times ...like that night you lay in bed and drank a bottle of Tia Maria. Your husband found you vomiting into a garbage pail. (He often was insensitive to your emotional pain.) And you’ve never let a drop of Tia Maria touch your lips since then.
         That was the beginning of your pregnancy quest. After two years of monthly emotional downers, you consulted a doctor and started an infertility workup. A temperature was taken every morning and recorded dutifully on a basal temperature chart. What a nuisance! (Where did the joy in making love go?) There were painful tests, shooting dye up your tubes and finally tubal surgery. We did our part: scared the heck out of you by initiating your period the morning you were to be discharged from the hospital. You panicked, and insisted you were hemorrhaging internally. The doctors and your husband were not amused.
        Remember those drugs you submitted us to? The infertility specialist determined you had a luteal phase defect and that we didn’t release our eggs until day 20 of your menstrual cycle. You’d menstruate a scant eight days later, so not enough time elapsed for an egg to implant in your uterus. If you’d only asked us: we knew that the regular periods were all for show and that our timing was off. You pumped drugs in: one pill of Clomid, then two, three and four a day for five days until you started seeing double one month. Didn’t anyone tell you that you might be putting us at risk for ovarian cancer? That’s what some current research suggests, Lois.
       The Clomid was just the tip of the infertility iceberg. There were vaginal suppositories, shots of HCG in your ample buttocks remembered as long drives to your husband’s cousin, the pediatrician, so he’d administer the injection on the weekend. The humiliations and pain you put us through as we revved into ovarian overdrive. Finally one of your closest girlfriends, who’d gotten pregnant by mistake—you could have killed her—and now as a proud mama, looked at you and said: “Do you want to be a mother or have a baby?” We knew the answer and you said “no” to the next round of hormonal torture and ovarian tinkering.
         You and your husband threw your energies into adoption: just five months later you traveled to Chile to adopt your son and two years later your daughter arrived from South Korea. As the children grew we kept pumping out those eggs. As the years passed you started forgetting about us. There would be months that you lost track of when your period was due. We felt neglected, but that’s alright. You no longer mooned over us. It was interesting to watch several years ago when your daughter got her first period and you tried to make her comfortable with her body.
     Somewhere along the way you realized other things about us: our hard work gave you PMS and if you weren’t aware of the time of the month, you could do yourself great harm in your personal relationships. You became angry, moody and weepy as your hormones switched gears. After your husband left you just before your 25th wedding anniversary, you worried that maybe we’d been exposed to herpes or worse though his infidelity. You grappled with questions of birth control once again when you briefly had a love.
      Now the time has come to warn you that our relationship is changing. We just can’t keep churning out those hormones like we used to. Your body had better learn to adjust. Your mother never counseled you about what you’d go through but we know: you can’t start hormonal shutdown and not feel the impact. What are these rumors we hear that we might have perpetual periods now that you’ve chosen to replace our output with synthetic estrogen and progesterone? When do we get to enjoy our retirement?
       So this is your relationship reminder letter. We’ve been in partnership for more than 50 years and we’re facing a transition. Let’s hope we get through it intact, Lois,
    Your Ovaries