Not Doris

When I resumed this blog a bit ago, I promised myself I'd post twice a week. I broke that promise last week, I admit, but it wasn't my fault, it was my vulva's.

I hate my vulva. I know that's not very nice. One should cosset one's vulva, call it pet names like Rosebud or Doris, affirm it regularly, enjoy its company, give it special treats. And I would do all of that, I really would, because I am a nice person.  But my vulva is not nice. My vulva does not deserve to be called Rosebud and definitely does not rate Doris. My vulva, in fact, is downright mean.

In hindsight, I now realize that even when I was in my 20s, my vulva was beginning to be a problem. I figured it was just moody, or tired, or you know, having a bad day. But then I hit my 30s and gave birth, and somehow that act sent the vulva over the edge. I don't know why; I ended up having a C-section so never in fact actually involved the vulva. Maybe that's why; maybe it's sulking, feels left out, deprived. I dunno. What I do know is that the process of giving birth set my vulva aflame-constant burning, with intermittent spikes of severe, sharp pain, as if someone was stabbing me up the yahoo, just for the hell of it. For the next ten years, my life--and to a large degree, Keith's-- was vulvar-centric. Could we have sex? "Absolutely not," was the usual answer. Could I wear jeans or leggings? No, not really. On bad days and for a very long time, most days were bad days, a long skirt and no undies was the only option. Could I sit down? Not very comfortably. Was I a bitch? Oh, totally.

Doctors at first called the problem "vestibular adenitis." That was a comfort; it was good to have a diagnosis, even if there was no effective treatment. And "vestibular adenitis" is such a satifyingly scientific and diseasey name. It sounds like something that hurts. Somewhere along the line, tho, the name shifted. Now I have "vulvodynia." I do not approve of this name change. "Vulvodynia" sounds like a dance--can't you just hear the wedding d.j.: "OK, everybody, on your feet for the Vulvodynia!"

After ten years of burning and spiking pain, the vulvodynia got tired. Little by little the time between episodes grew longer and longer; bit by bit the epidodes grew less and less extreme; gradually I claimed a largely vulvodynia-free existence. Still had to be careful--couldn't have sex too many days in a row, couldn't spend much time in chlorinated pools, couldn't go on long bike rides--but I could have sex, I could wear jeans and leggings, I could bicycle. A Good Life.

Til last week. When the vulvodynia came raging back in all its burning, spiking fury.

You know, when someone asks, "How ya doin'?" I know that one is not permitted to reply,  "Oh geez, my vulva really hurts." But one is tempted.