According to one doctor, I probably have the beginnings of endometriosis. I'm at the right age (perimenopausal). I have the right history (screwed-up hormones). I have never given birth (confused organs). But it can only be confirmed by a surgery I'd rather avoid having.
According to another, my pelvic floor believes itself to be in distress, and I should see a physical therapist who specializes in neuropathologies.
He was the one who started off our meeting by asking, so, are you a real poet?
Later in our conversation, he glanced up from his notes to acknowledge my weight--my rather large weight in comparison to my stick-thin days of yore--his eyes never making it all the way up to meet mine but just sort of nodding in the direction of my mid-section: our bodies tend to trick themselves when all they do is sit in front of a computer all day, he said.
Yes, I said. Yes, of course.
I am sure the explanation for why I didn't come up with something a bit more colorful to say at that point is that my brain was having trouble getting past the term pelvic floor.
Yes, I'm sure that's it.