Yes, I bleed.

This was written after reflecting on a long gynecology call shift…

Yes, I bleed.
Or rather I used to,
Until this thing was inserted into my vagina.
An Intrauterine System, they call it.
Or Merena, if you prefer a softer, more human name.
And my monthly flow, moontime, as you will –
Well, that now is no longer
Marked by the passing of calendared pages.
Of fuzzy puppies and cute cats.
This speaks instead of options and choice.

But I’m tangentializing, and missing my point.
The point, is that yes,
My body is capable of bleeding,
And for about 16 yrs, that’s what it, I’ve, done.
Monthly, plus or minus a few days.
My flow was a reminder of my femininity,
Along with my female-specific bike seat which –
Whether that really helps, I’m not quite sure.

I’m not here to talk about bikes,
Though I do remember a question dating back to grade 7 sex ed.
Can menstruating women still ride bikes?, the question read.
Anonymous. Questions dropped in a hat.
A puppet would read them aloud –
I think we were too old for that.
In answer to your Q, anonymous friend: Yes, we can ride. In fact, we can fly.

And that brings me closer to my point,
You see, I just spent 26 hours talking about bleeding.
Vaginal bleeding to be more specific,
And quantifying, qualifying the cycles of women in our care.
Of women who also bleed,
As about ½ of the adult world does,
Or has. Or will. I mean billions.
Like me, like us.

And yet, these qualifications, quantifications,
Are awkward, hushed and blushed
When outside the private sphere.
Between hospital curtains which
In their generic and failing ways
Strive for ideals of comfort, privacy.
Our cycles, though normal and different,
Cease to be normalized in our everyday.

It makes me wonder, as a woman.
Who bleeds, or at least used to.
How we celebrate ourselves and our bodies.
Our options and our choices.
If by femininity, we strive for female politicians and leaders,
Yet, keep hushed and blushed about cycles,
And hormones and discharge and bleeding,
That in part define our lives and mark the passing months,
Of fuzzy puppies and cute cats.
How questions about bikes and pads, and periods, and tampons, and menstral cups.
Disposable, reusable, hell, even TP in a jam –
Remain anonymous and puppetized.

I wonder how to celebrate that yes,
We do bleed. And yes, it’s different yet normal for all,
And yes, we can ride. And do fly.

If someone were to ask me how I’m doing right now.
I’d have to pause.
I’d have to take a moment to go looking for phone books.
The old school ones with white and yellow, and maybe pink? – It’s been so long.
I don’t even know if they still make them anymore.
Or maybe they just congregate at recycling depots.
Bypassing Reduce and Reuse on their way.
I could use, say, maybe 5. Though 4 could work.
The one tucked into a webspace physically just won’t do.

You see if someone were to ask how I’m doing right now,
I’d need a prop. In fact, 5 of the fat ones please.
I’d use them to climb, taller, higher.
And then. Maybe then I could say: I’m doing okay.
Without igniting a complexion of deception,
The burn of blushing in falsity.
But teetering at such height,
Still carries some risk. Though today, it’s outweighed.
The benefit being balls over bones.

Because of course, if someone were to ask how I’m doing right now,
The polite answer is to say: yah, I’m okay.
In fact, surgery was cool – I took out a kidney, felt a real live lung!
Learned how to open an abdomen and stuff it all back together.
Like new, well, minus perhaps the staples and poop bag.
I met patients with cancer, and others without colons.
Gun shots and stab wounds to “appies” and “choles”,
It’s not every day, to say pancreaticoduodenectomy – all in one breath.
There’s more to say – the human body:
A privilege. It’s humbling. I’m awed.

So, now if someone were to ask how I’m doing right now,
To act, sans props, sans eye shadow and tights,
It’s just seems wrong and disjointed – though orthopedics comes soon.
I don’t have cancer, my colon passes gas,
My calcium is normal*; there’s no reason for moans,
My pedestal is medicine, or so the culture goes,
I already have height on that totem pole,
It’s growing, I guess, as an MSI 3**.
So rid these thoughts of those phone books,
I already have the app and it’s time I learn: to just say okay.

*I think my calcium is normal. This is an assumption. I won’t lie and tell you I haven’t thought about sending my own blood for an E7 (a basic lab panel) and extended lytes…
**MSI 3 is shorthand for Medical Student Intern in 3rd year of undergraduate study. It defines our status on that hierarchical totem pole.