I am upset. No, I am angry. I am angry with myself for not sticking to all those herbal supplements and diet plans that are supposed to heal, or at least lessen, the woes of Endometriosis. I am angry with every man who ever insulted my value as a woman with a "rag" or "her time of the month" joke. I am angry with doctors who prescribe pregnancy for relief from the chronic pain of Endometriosis and a temporary "cure" to its vicious cycle of growth. I am angry for the sake of all children who suffer from abuse and neglect because theirs was a prescribed birth. How could a medical professional look me in the eye and recommend pregnancy when I have just stated that I am not yet prepared or emotionally mature enough to give the rest of my life to a child? I am angry that going to the bathroom means discovering blood-soaked panties and wondering how long they've been that way; worry who might have noticed the spotting on my clothes. I am angry with myself for thinking that calling my doctor after bleeding through a sanitary napkin, panties and clothes would be an annoyance to the GYN office.

I am angry with this body that has surrendered itself to this disease and is succumbing to a hysterectomy at twenty-three. I am angry that I once thought I might have uterine cancer but convinced my family that it didn't matter; that I would have a hysterectomy and live, live, live..... I am angry that upon hearing I was cancer-free yet in need of a hysterectomy, I wanted to die, die, die... I am angry with every doctor who would not return my calls for more pain medication, assuming that I am an addict, overusing my prescriptions or exaggerating my pain. They not only saw the damn pictures - they saw the real monster living inside! I imagine office professionals holding a hand over the receiver and whispering... "it's her again. She wants more pain medication. What should I say?" Someone in the background replying, "tell her we'll call her back." Many times they'd say, "we'll call back." And many times I would wait for my phone to ring to no avail. I am angry that I have turned to friends of friends of friends who had Tylenol 3 on hand, and I am angry that my body could tolerate up to ten of those pills a day without once nodding off. As I lay on my couch, curled in a fetal position with two heating pads wrapped around my abdomen, I cry with pain. I cry with anger. My husband holds his own tears back as he held my hand. "I wish there was something I could do...say to you..." he whispers. I joke, "don't worry honey, these pains are getting closer together...the baby should be here soon - I've been in labor for 36 months!" He laughs and I try to do the same for the sake of offering my biggest supporter a glimpse of the me he fell in love with years ago. But she is gone.

She no longer talks about giving birth to her husband's child someday when they buy land and build the house of their dreams. Or when they bring home an income sufficient to feed more than two people. Oh, she still cries over the prenatal and birthing documentaries on public television, but now the tears are of a different kind. When she takes her niece and nephew out for the day and a passerby says, "looks like mommy is wearing you out today!" she no longer says, "oh, I'm not the mommy. I'm the favorite aunt." Instead she absorbs the words of a stranger into every cell of her being and silently says "Thank You. Thank You for calling me mommy." While the children are still too young to tell anyone the difference, she savors the moment. She breathes it in and pretends that it is real.

She has become the woman that I am today. A woman who vows to see a cure for Endometriosis before she dies. A woman who gets excited at seeing the faces of foster children posted on the internet and with hope, thinks, "yeah....maybe...." A woman who prays each night for her last day in the OR to come. A woman who, through inexplicable pain and seeming defeat, is finding herself, and realizing that in spite of what appears defective, she is whole and beautiful, just as everyone keeps reminding her. What may seem obvious to others, in the face of Endometriosis, has been her biggest challenge. Still, she stands herself, nude in front of the mirror almost everyday and strokes her hand over the scarred, swollen abdomen. Remembering the childhood days when bellybuttons were described as "innie's" and "outie's", she thinks her "innie" is now more like an "all over the place-ie" and she laughs at the whole idea. She stares at the scars and tells herself: "This is not who you are; you are not your womb. In no way does it measure your worth." Then she climbs into the shower that masks the sounds of her sobs, and with all of her heart, she tries to believe it.