Megan Butcher's blog

Sometimes, a writer’s non-writing life gets crazy enough that writing becomes only a wish showing up in fervent dreams. The past couple months have been like that for me, with some big shifts on the job and love landscapes. All either for the best (former) or just plain good (latter); however, they’ve kept my mind-hamster rattling other wheels than this one.

After I've prattled away in front of a group of Erotic Talk workshop goers, throwing around terms like "cock" and "cunt" with abandon, I always see at least a few eyebrows raised when I say that I used to be incredibly shy about sex talk, especially the saucy kind you might do with a lover.

There were a few  months there when I was a graduate student that I scrabbled through 2, 3, 4, 5 really part-time jobs. I'd just moved from Toronto to Halifax, and was horrified by the minimum wage in Nova Scotia - my hourly wage was cut nearly in half just by moving a few provinces over.

Maybe you're the kind of person who can just enjoy nice things. If you are, more praise to you. Hey, who knows, maybe I envy you a little bit, even as I worry that you won't be quite as well prepared as you could have been for the End Times.

But enough about you.

That? That? That wee bloody coil nearly lost in the mess of stainless steel and surgical green?

That small thing had made me feel for 10 weeks like I was crazy.

Had given me a 70 day period with some of the worst cramps I've ever had. Had given me constant and terrible PMS, to the point where I either wanted to cry or throw something 90% of the time.

It was a very angry uterus for many weeks. For 10 weeks, in fact. Angry with a full body rage I couldn't shake.

See, on August 5th, instead of cancelling the appointment to get an IUD like my uterus was telling me I should, I walked into the office, hoiked my legs into the always too short stirrups, and asked the doctor would she kindly shove a Nova T into my womb.

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