I bought myself a Cuban sandwich, napped for an hour, and then went and had my vagina scraped by a camera on a tube for a good 15 minutes. Since my giant uterus was not inflated due to pregnancy, as she soon confirmed, she immediately scheduled an afternoon ultrasound. She thought I was pregnant, which I found funny. I canceled a hair appointment to have my uterus prodded by the on-call doctor at my primary care office. I thought it would distract me from the pain, but instead, I threw up. It would have been incredibly luxurious and sensual-sprawled out in a vintage floor-length silk slip, with a gentle and naked Casey Affleck lookalike giving me an early morning massage-had the pain not concentrated itself in my left ovary exquisitely and suddenly. Around 5 AM, he laid me out on the bed and rubbed what I thought was a pulled muscle in my back. I went into the other room, and it got worse. I woke up at 3 AM with a splitting pain in my back. One night this month, I had late and athletic sex with this guy I’m seeing. She’s handled it gorgeously, and I don’t know how. It happened right in the middle of the semester, and it’s been almost impossible for her to get work done while also taking care of herself. She was wrapped in a vintage Persian lamb coat, and looked like a glam and beautiful version of Beth in Little Women. After a few weeks, we walked to the bodega to get Miller Lites to drink on the porch. She was, as always, the model of grace under pressure, but it was scary as shit. My best friend very recently had a grapefruit-sized tumor removed from her right ovary, as well as the ovary and fallopian tube, last month. I will be swaddled in gauze, slurred with painkillers, and sharing a bed with my friends as they nurture me with green smoothies, weed tinctures, and assisted walks around my apartment. One of my mom’s first questions was, “I wonder how much it weighs?” I’m more concerned with how much sex I’m not going to be having in the 4-6 week recovery period after getting the baseball and ovary sucked out with a surgical vacuum. The doctor thinks I’m going to lose the ovary, too. I have a cyst the size of a baseball on my left ovary. And take my ability to have sex down with it. Just as I start dealing with my joint fear of sex and insanity, just as I start sleeping with someone actually great, my reproductive system decides to light itself on fire. Slutever’s resident over-sharer, Cat Damon, walks us through what her cyst has taught her about the universe, sex, not having sex, and eating hamburgers in bed.
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