My last moments on Earth as a potential Mommy.

Scared out of my mind.  Not of the sterilization.  Scared of the procedure being painful, or of the OR staff taking pictures of my pubic area giving the “thumbs-up!” gesture, a la Abu Ghraib.

If you see my vagina on the Internet standing on a box with a pillowcase over its head, I’m suing for a sweet, sweet upper middle-class income for the rest of my childless life.

_____

[EDIT:  I’m sterilized.  I got Essure.  That means I have to take three months of birth control pills while scar tissue builds around the little steel implants they inserted in my Fallopian tubes.  But I’m all done, and ideally, I’ll never have to do this again.

I have a headache from the anesthesia and I’m feeling pretty beat up (women:  think intense menstrual cramping; men:  think I have to take a massive, baby-sized, Taco Bell crap but am ten miles from the nearest men’s room)–but I have painkillers and Diet Coke and a nature show featuring the Alaskan moose on TV, so I’m all good.

I wish I’d done this twenty years ago.