Hysterectomy: Ode to My Uterus

Yes, this is a uterus cake. No, I didn't make it.
But, I have a great idea for a vasectomy
cake if I ever have the balls to bake it.

Sometimes, in order to have it all you cannot, in fact, have it all. In other words, the very nature of your "all-ness" prevents your having it. Or in other, other words, to truly have it all, you can't truly have all of it...or, more simply, you really can't always have your cake and eat it, too. 

Take, for example, my uterus, that small heart-shaped organ located somewhere amongst and between the internal forest of my girly-bits, who, at its tender age of 41, has made the independent decision to become un-useful. Well, the decision really wasn't an independent one. She and I have had long discussions about her behavior over the years. She has become increasingly unreliable, hostile even, and is frequently a down right pain in my ass...or wherever. Accordingly, I decided it was time to sever our relationship. Permanently. Tomorrow.

Still, I would be remiss if I didn't acknowledge what she has meant to me over the years. And for this reason, I will present a dramatic reading of my poetical debut: "Hysterectomy: Ode to My Uterus."

"Hysterectomy: Ode to My Uterus"

In the style of John Keats' "Ode to a nightingale."

And by "style" I mean heavily relied upon, or,

for you sticklers, plagiarized. 

]

My stomach aches, and no drowsy numbness

Numbs my pain, wishing I had hemlock drunk,

Or sucked down some sweet opiate-ness,

Before onto the couch I’d sunk:

No man envies our unhappy lot,

Being too happy, womb-free,

As we, the womb-ed ones, plot

At how to tie a hangman’s knot and

Swing them from the trees.

O, for a chocolate bar! even

dredged in lint and Purell,

dug from some foul car seat hell,

and a dusting of cheerios still tastes like heaven!

Oh! To calm the fullness in my tired womb,

with stretch marks folded deeply in,

and an Oreo stained mouth;

That I may eat, and leave my deed unseen,

and nevermore to see my shirt tucked in!

Faded now, at forty, my womb cannot

forget what once it knew,

that I had wanted it until the babies grew;

And now, we women sit and hear each other groan,

With useless cramps and all their seeds long sown,

For you, my uterus, I care not.

Away! away! for the doctor shall remove thee!

No longer shall I fear that Bacchus and his hacks

Will land their unexpected seeds in me!

Already with thee! No longer tender are my belly and my back!

Haply, the Moon-time is nigh and calls for what I lack!

But there is no pain,

Save what a Mojito or chardonnay might tame.

I cannot see where she once held her throne,

Nor what now fills that place

where, for a pace,

my nestling children grown.

Quietly I listen; and for many a time

Have I been half in love with thee, even, life giver,

when your once ruby river,

was, finally and forever, dammed!

But thou was not born for death, immortal womb!

The budding generations for whom

you were a home, live on!

And for whom, with XX chromosome,

for some pre-allotted time you will bless and curse,

I thank you, my dear uterus!

"Hey! She's hot!" 

"Yeah, and she let me take out her uterus..."

"Kinky!"