Dear Uterus:

First of all, I want you to know that as an organ, I hold you in the highest regard. You and I have had a very comfortable and mutually rewarding coexistence for many years now, and I have found you in the past to be an organ that has caused me little or no trouble, and many joys.

You were most judicious in your commencement of my menses. You began them not so early that I would feel freakish, nor so late that I would have started to worry. You were most kind during my menses as well. In sharp contrast to many other teengage uteri (?), you never incapacitated me with cramps, nor did you embarrass me with untimely demonstrations of your ability to purge yourself.

You were most considerate in your cyclical nature. You were (mostly) punctual, except for a couple of incidents of worry stemming from improper contraceptive use which I freely admit were entirely my own fault. Well, mine and one other person. But still. Not your fault at all.

You were exceedingly hospitable to my children, and caused me no more than the normal discomforts while growing them. I have nothing but gratitude for the kind way in which you helped me to bring them into the world, and I am well aware that two natural childbirths with no complications and no painkillers, one performed in my own home, and less than 10 hours of labour between the two of them, is something any woman would envy.

So I hope that you understand that my current dismay with you is tinged with the certain knowledge that I've had it very good so far.

But. As to my current dismay.

This is getting ridiculous. My feelings towards you are swiftly becoming less and less charitable as we weather this fibroid storm together.

As a matter of fact, I'm becoming severely pissed.

I did not complain (much) when my periods started to get longer, heavier, and more erratic. I simply did more laundry and learned to plan for emergencies.

When I realized that I would not have a third uncomplicated pregnancy, I was mindful that two good ones was plenty, and reconciled myself to a complicated third, or no third at all.

When you insisted on 25 days of bleeding, I was rather put out, but did not remonstrate with you.

When you landed me in the hospital, I began to lose my patience, and realized that we would have to be parting company soon.

But now this. This insistence on me being on a double dose of birth control as a way of life. Promptly reminding me of the need to double up every single time I try to lower the dosage.

Why, oh Uterus? Why?

Did I not sing your praises to the world during my pregnancies? Did I not treat you with respect and care? Did I fail you in some way, that you now choose to punish me in such a callous and messy way?

This double-up thing... it was supposed to be a temporary measure, you see. And while I give it credit for my happy domesticity and many other good things, it's supposedly not good for my heart or overall health.

Not to mention certain aspects of my marriage. Constantly being on a whopping dose of libido-killing hormones alternated with severe bleeding is not conducive to certain activities. While this means we've caught up on a lot of reading and TV, still... you've made Chris very sad.

So. Dear Uterus. Please tone it down a little bit. Please go back, as much as you can, to being the lovely, unassuming, efficient little organ that I've grown to love and cherish. Let's not have our last few months together ruined by acrimoniousness and mucho laundry.

'Kay?

With Love,

Your Host.