SuperMommy v./ Mother Nature, MN:1, SM:0

Ah, Mother Nature.  My arch nemesis.  We meet again.

As far as I'm concerned, there are two types of women in the world.  Women who DO, and women who DON'T.  That latter category has a hard time understanding the former- it's hard to exactly sympathize with something you don't understand.  They don't understand how it completely alters your mental state, how it makes you a genuinely dysfunction human being for stretches of time, or how all consuming and destructive it becomes.

They don't understand how women that DO begin to alter their entire lifestyles out of fear, out of misery, and out of desperation.

I am, of course, talking about getting yeast infections.

It's amazing, as I look back on the last decade I realize how much of my life has been dictated by being a woman who DOES.  Those of you who know me have no doubt noticed that I almost always wear long, flowing skirts.  That I eat (and make) a fair amount of yogurt.  That don't drink much.  That I have probiotics lying around the house.  What you may not have noticed is that all my body and laundry products are either unscented or have only essential oils added, or that I use only cotton sheets.

Christmas did me in.  Between all the sweets, all the booze, and the VERY long and dry car rides (in a poorly chosen wool/poly blend skirt) the holiday led to a PARTICULARLY nasty invasion of my personal space.

In short, ladies and gentlemen, it was as though somebody had rudely and without warning thrust a small hive of live bees into my privates.  Eerily peaceful, but constantly ready bees.

Now, I'm normally a very functional human being.  But being in the throws of one of the top three worst infections I've ever had, I began to decline.  I stopped sleeping, I left burners on the stove alight, I paced and got lost in the same room.  The bees were entirely in control.

But SuperMommy!  Surely you DID something?  Surely you called a doctor, or took some marvel of modern medicine, or made a magic potion!

Ah, dear readers, I did all of these things.  I drank probiotic elixers.  I downed the magic single dose pill.  And that's where Mother Nature got me.  Her and her hornet's nest of the damned.

You see, the female anatomy maintains a delicate balance.  When you so forcefully attack one type of organism, another grows to take it's place.  Now there are GOOD organisms.  Like the ones in yogurt that keep your lady parts healthy and insect-free.  But those aren't the ones that take over after SuperMommy's attack.

I take the magic pill again.  I try the Ovule.  I guzzle yogurt, but to no avail.


SuperMommy, you'll pay for your hubris! laughs Mother Nature.  You dare disturb my magic bees?  I'll teach you, you meddling fool!

The bees laugh as well, whirring their wings and spinning tiny circles as I try to sleep.

When I awake, the bees have been joined by DIFFERENT bees.  Suddenly there are massive, malformed bumble bees lurking among the calm but ready bees.  Evil bumble bees.

The first bees don't like this, and they attempt to flee.  This infuriates the evil bumble bees.  They become enraged, but it seems... trapped.  They are confused.  Dangerous.

My misery increases accordingly.  All sleep ceases.  My mental state deteriorates.

I call my OB/GYN at dawn, desperate.  I set an appointment.  When I arrive her waiting room is packed.  More full than I've ever seen it before.  The computer system is down.  Everything is taking longer than usual.  Too long.

The bees settle, waiting for the right moment to strike.  Waiting for the signal.

Hours after my set appointment time, after a too-long commute and with a sitter on the clock, I am led to a room and told to disrobe.  My wait continues endlessly.  On and on I wait, as I become more and more aware that I've hardly slept in five days, that I haven't eaten in hours and hours and hours, and that I am extremely cold.  My mind wanders from pure psychic bee control to other things.  My guard is down.

NOW! cries Mother Nature,  NOW, MY PRETTIES!  THE TIME IS NOW!

And the bees attack.

I scream.  It's unavoidable.  I desperately want to leave the room, to go screaming through the hall for the doctor, to beg somebody, anybody, to just...

GET THESE FUCKING BEES OUT OF MY VAGINA FOR THE LOVE OF GOD!

I pound on the door.  I return to the exam table and weep.  I don't even know what sounds I make.

The door opens to reveal my OB/GYN.  Like all other women from the OB/GYN planet, she is a small, eternally perky gal with a high, cheerful voice.  She has a permanent smile fixed to her face, and her pretty eyes never seem to be actually looking at you.  She deals with hysterical women a lot.

In her cheerful voice, she apologizes for the wait and she informs me that I need therapy and that I'm frightening her other patients.

I apologize, assuring her that I'm a perfectly normal person in total control of my actions and senses.  She acts skeptical.  She performs an exam as I sob on the table (awkward for both of us, I'm sure) and sets me a new regimen of magic modern pills to take.

Ones that will give me a yeast infection.

I return home and deep clean my dining room and kitchen while my children play with blocks.  I furiously will myself to think of nothing below the waist.  And still the bees remain.  Lingering... waiting for the next perfect moment to strike...