While My Uterus Gently Weeps

Filed Under Ruminations | Leave a Comment

I resist making this confession because its inherent pinkness borders on the twee, but every month that I slouch closer toward menopause, the more forsaken is my uterus. It’s hard for me to interpret any somatic signal as pure text-for me there is always some subliminal message that cries out for interpretation-and my extreme period cramps are no exception. My womb, I find, weeps. It cramps and it keens and it sings this silent yawp of loss each time I bleed. This soundless yawp of loss grows louder.

There’s a scene near the beginning of Ingmar Bergman’s Fanny and Alexander that has become in my overripe imagination the visual for my uterus’s ululations. Centered in the screen is a doorway of heavy wooden double doors, the two doors slid apart. Between them a woman paces in and out of frame. She is Fanny and Alexander’s mother, she has just lost her husband, and she is screaming. Deep animal wails rend the stillness of the heavy Victorian home; she carries on painfully, excessively, uncomfortably. In the deep purple rooms of my mind, this grieving woman is my womb.
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