Frustrated with being denied a pregnancy, my uterus has struck back by sprouting a fibroid. As if to prove its maternal ability to nourish and cherish, my uterus has not only produced a fibroid, but is growing it as well. I’m told that it has achieved the size of a 16-week pregnancy.
The truth is, I’m not sure what is going on in there. Two years ago, an ultrasound revealed “two fist-sized fibroids and numerous smaller ones.” At the time, I did not know what a fibroid was, let alone that my uterus was one of millions set on developing them.

After poring over many fibroid photos on the Internet, I must say that it’s a good thing fibroids are an internal condition because they have no aesthetic value at all, unless you are looking for something to inspire you with an alien monster design for your next straight-to-DVD bargain bin movie. They look like solid, smooth, shiny, red balls of muscles on steroids. They can be very small, or they can grow to the size of a watermelon or even larger. (Aside to my uterus: That is not a suggestion.) In some cases, they have even shared a womb with the baby for which the organ is designed. (Aside to my uterus: We won’t be attempting that.)

Two years ago, the gynecologist couldn’t be sure I had fibroids without an ultrasound. Today, even I can feel its hardness a little below my navel. It figures that the only hard muscular tissue my entire body sports would be in what should be the softest part of my belly.

So I have a fibroid, or two, or several. What is the next step? I’m supposed to schedule an appointment for another ultrasound, as I have an unfounded suspicion that my uterine rebellion is crowding my bladder and causing some issues. The mostly likely outcome is that I will ignore it; then, at menopause, it will shrink of its own accord if not provided with estrogen therapy. It’s not that big, and despite the bad behavior of my uterus I wish to keep it. We humans are fond of our body parts, even the non- and malfunctioning ones.