The Ovarian Vigil

It occurs to us that almost every female friend we have has had some kind of ovarian problem. While I was at my local community college for a year, the worst place in the whole building was the bathroom. It was constantly filled with skanky chicks getting ready after class by spraying themselves down with Britney Spears’ latest perfume. I suppose I imagined they would douche each other out, just as a helpful gesture, when no normal women were around. Even if there was no vinegar  evaporating on the floor, there is no other place I want to avoid more. You can contract chlamydia just from looking at it. Suffice it to say, when the cyst on my ovary ruptured I was in so much pain that passing out on that filthy floor seemed perfectly acceptable. I awoke later, almost blind and writhing, to be surrounded by the dumbest girls from my class asking if I were okay. I was not.

Needless to say, there is really nothing one can do when this wave of horrendous pain (I’ve described it as a repetitive, internal nutshot) takes over your body. Some of my friends lie in the bath. Others are lucky enough to have drug connections and sleep for a few days. I imagine it’s a lot like the aftermath of an abortion: you lie in bed all drugged up if you’re lucky, and wait for the pain to pass. The last time this happened to me I strapped heating pads around my body and read The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen for a few days. The day before our beloved friends’ wedding, Jess was struck down, literally, by ovarian pain.

The day did not start out well for Jess. She had to strip all the black out of her hair and even out her color after an extremely botched color job sometime months before. The result was a good couple inches of platinum blond hair at the roots. It was so shocking I jumped back and was visibly shaken.

“I know I’m hideous, okay? Jeeeez,” she yelled at me.

Moist 'n' Meaty, anyone?

After watching Inglorious Basterds, Jess and I were ready to shamble on back to my house when the dreaded ovarian illness struck. On the way out of the bathroom, halfway through the kitchen, with jacket AND boots on, she fell to the floor like a house of cards. As searing pain coursed through her body, the only idea I could come up with was putting a pizza stone into the oven for a while, then wrapping it in a towel and laying it across Jess for both heat and applied pressure. She then told me it was the stupidest thing she had ever heard and that they didn’t even HAVE a pizza stone. There was nothing were could do. I just had to sit and watch Jess squirm on the floor.

Jess, shortly after she fell/Shortly before I tried to help

Finally, I resorted to phoning The Internet to tell him Jess was on the floor. Unlike Jess’ roommate The Man who wanted to make pancakes, The Internet was ready to run away from work and take Jess to the hospital. Luckily, Jess’ pain had relatively passed within an hour, and we were okay enough to dance the night away at a fantastic wedding.

However, just to show you how very useless I am in an emergency situation, the next picture is what I decided to do when I realized there was no hope of getting her off the floor:

She's about to eat. my. face.

I held a candlelight vigil. When the ovary monster hits, there is nothing you can do.

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