Elan Morgan is a writer and web designer who works from Elan.Works, a designer and editor at GenderAvenger, and a speaker who has spoken across North America. They believe in and work to grow both personal and professional quality, genuine community, and meaningful content online.

Almost There

Today, in a doctor's office, I signed away my uterus and cervix. There were fluorescent lights that made the papers appear to vibrate and something hung on the wall next to a placard that read "African Body Mask". It was a mould of a woman's breasts and pregnant belly. Behind me was a bulletin board crowded over with babies at Christmas, babies with proud new fathers, babies' first birthday cards, and babies smiling above shiny, spit-covered chins. I suddenly felt that an obstetrician's office was the wrong place for someone in my situation to be. Everything was pointing its finger at me and saying You can't.

For someone who has never wanted to have children, this cat's got issues with outside forces telling her no and removing a supposedly useless organ.

I had terrible dreams last night. In one of them, my mother was holding a long, clear plastic tube to my right nipple. There was some kind of suction device that forced milk from my breast, and it ran and sputtered down the length of the tube into a small bowl. There was no baby to go with the milk, only milk and my mother to milk it. I did not want her to be there touching me so intimately. Somehow, it was her fault that I continued to produce this milk, but I sat there unable brush her away. I felt drugged and lacklustre. She pulled the tube away and tapped the last drops from it into the bowl. That's a good amount, she said, and I could see that it was. I noticed that some of it had dripped onto my finger, and when I licked it off, I was surprised by its sweetness. It's sweet, I said. I know, she said.

I thought of that dream while I signed forms that said they could throw away my body parts and do whatever the hell else they find necessary when they are inside my abdomen. I thought that it might be nice if they tattooed small X-marks-the-spot Xs on all the parts of me that my uterus touched while it was still there.

I was a little sad that I wouldn't be taking my uterus home with me in a jar. I would have hidden it on a shelf in the closet and brought it out for morbid houseguests to oooh over. I would have tapped the glass in order to watch the fallopian tubes bob in an aqueous solution of formaldehyde.

Fainting Goats

#721: Someone Named Colleen Deserves A Thank-You