Rigor Mortis.

This is not my story, but it is certainly a story worth telling.

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“You will be judged for your decision.”

On October 25th, sitting in a small doctor’s office next to my mother and across from the man who saved my life.

“I know.”

For 11 years, I lived a half life. For 11 years I was in pain. Every. Single. Day. I was exhausted. I was sick. I couldn’t function.

But guess what happened when I went to the doctor? None of that mattered. It didn’t matter to them. Because to UNMC, Methodist, Midland, or any number of private practices I went to. I wasn’t a patient to them. I wasn’t a young woman in pain. I was a brood mare. That’s right; they refused to treat me properly because the ultimate cure would leave me sterile. They thought that because I was a female I should want to bear and raise children of my own. Incorrect. I wanted a career. I wanted to travel. I wanted to join Green Peace and Peace Corps. I wanted to go a day without eating pain killers like candy. None of that was possible with how I was living. And if it was up to the lovely “doctors” I visited in Omaha, I would never be able to do that.

I went from doctor to doctor for years. Pills. Pills were the answer. Their pills left me on my knees in front of the garbage can in the tiny room I lived in at the time. Pills caused me to lock myself in my room for hours at a time, to tape over the keyhole in a state of paranoia. When I called to say I was having some issues the god damn bitch told me to keep taking them. I threw them away the second I got off the phone with her.

Another round of pills after a failed surgery. These were different. They made me feel like my stomach was on fire. Another bottle of pills in the dumpster.

I sat stoned faced across from one doctor as she told me that eventually I would probably bleed to death, and they would still try to inject me with hormones.

I was diagnosed with a blood clotting disorder. Then offered more birth control pills. I told the offering physician that I wished them disease.

Early this summer, I went to Planned Parenthood. I begged them to recommend a doctor who would see me as a patient and not a potential parent.

On June 13th I drove to Lincoln.

On November 3rd at about 10:00am, I was put to sleep and I underwent a hysterectomy.

I am not ashamed of my choice. I am not ashamed that I chose my life and health over my ability to have children that I didn’t want. Just because I have breasts doesn’t mean I need to have children. I’m proud of my scars; it means I stood up for something.

So if you want to judge me for that, then you can go fuck yourself.

I’m more than a machine.