Welcome to Homeownership

You know how everyone says kids are the greatest thing that ever happened to them, and then when you have a kid and it’s fucking hard they all say “welcome to parenthood” with a big grin? Like it’s this joke that they trick you into participating in?

If one more person tells me “welcome to homeownership” I’m going to lose it.

It was day 28 (?) of living here when the oven caught fire due to rat turds in the range insulation.

We’ve lived in our condo for a year now and we both went into this process knowing that shit could hit the fan. Well, literal rat shit did hit the interior components of our oven the first month, probably including the fan, started a fire, and we had to replace it (and threw in a new dishwasher after a two-month long stalemate of neither of us doing a deep enough clean that would make me feel comfortable using it after the gross bachelor who lived here before — more on his gross behavior later). Since then it’s felt like one problem after another which can all be tied back to deferred replacements and the cheapest, corner-cutting flip. Our biggest and longest problem has been the roof. We knew it was old. The inspector said it needed to be replaced. When we reviewed HOA documents it was clear that the roof was original, meaning at least 40 years old. We figured it was going to be a dry winter so we’d try and work on the HOA replacing the roof and hope it wasn’t too bad.

Honestly not mad about having a brand new dishwasher.

It was not a dry winter. The first real rain happened in November, which is not common. Right away, the paint by the front door bubbled up and the next day brown spots appeared on the ceiling. I informed the HOA president that we had a leak and asked about starting the process to replace the roof. It rained hard again in December. Really hard. The bubbling and brown spots grew, and then little drops of water appeared in the ceiling and dripped down onto our shoe rack and floor. I put out a bucket and a towel and contacted the HOA again. I researched roofers and got a few appointments. On Christmas Eve we drove up to LA in the pouring rain, and when we got back after midnight the entry rug was soaked and water had spread all over the entry way. It was so much water, even for how much it was raining. But it rained lightly again just a few days later, while I was in the kitchen making dinner. I heard a very loud, dull ping from the front door, and saw that the water was fully flowing through a hole in the ceiling into the bucket. One of the roofers showed me photos of a basketball-sized hole in the roof, right where the leak was. It wasn’t a leak anymore, just a hole in the ceiling. Shortly after that, the brown spots and paint bubbling appeared above husband’s desk in the office — a far worse place for a leak.

We dumped the water every few hours at some points of heavy rain.

Six months after we first discovered and reported the leak, the whole roof is finally replaced, but not before the roof replacement process caused new leaks (because of course it rained while the roof was off and we had no protection). Now we’re debating when we should fix the drywall. I don’t want to start the process until the next rain, just in case. We've had light rains, but just for a few minutes, not enough (in my extremely expert opinion) to test this roof. The only thing that happened is now I wake up when it rains at night the same way I used to wake up to Chloe barfing. I rush to close the windows, then inspect every inch of the ceiling in the morning. I struggle to get back to sleep because I'm worried about new leaks. I love the rain. Want to move to Seattle because I love the rain. This stress over it is seriously uncool. 

Good news bad news, there’s probably going to be a Super El Niño this year with record rains. And record heat, so I want to install a ceiling fan in our room, then hire a handyman to do all the patching and drywall fixing we need. Hopefully after one good rain so we don't have to also wait too long to do the other things we want to do in the office, and avoid another year of all our books living in boxes.

Second big "uh oh" of our first year of homeownership: roof leak.

There are little things, too. A couple months ago I had a mini meltdown because the dryer wouldn’t start. I’d obviously already loaded my wet clothes into it, but I’d also already started a second load of towels in the washer. I reset the breakers, cleaned the lint filter extra good, checked all the connections, turned the light switch on and off (I don’t know why), and read the troubleshooting page of the manual. When husband came home he unplugged it and plugged it back in and it worked. I would have tried that myself, but to get to the plug we have to pull the whole thing out of the itty bitty closet it lives in. I should have cleaned the exhaust duct while it was out but I was working that day and having the dryer in the hallway blocks access to the office. So pretty soon we're going to have to pull it out again, clean the duct (which we think birds have started nesting in on the outside), and get it back in without pinching the ducting or water hose. It has to be in the closet just right for the door to close and the whole thing to still work.

It’s really obvious in some places how the contractors cut corners, like missing pieces in the baseboards in the kitchen and hallway, gaps in the crown molding in the kitchen, missing board between the counter and wall on one side, random missing outlet plates and gaps in woodwork, random bits of mismatched countertop to fill a gap between the bathroom vanity and wall (instead of cutting out part of the baseboard), and painted over screws and drywall anchors in every room. There’s also the dirt cheap cabinets which started to flake when I cleaned them with a soft cloth and mild cleaner before moving in, cabinets that don’t close properly, and drawers that come apart and/or off their tracks easily. I recently noticed splatters on the kitchen ceiling, literally all over, that need to be individually scrubbed. I can’t use the bathroom faucet without splattering water all over the counter and my clothes (even friends complained) and have to dry it with a cloth multiple times a day. And a few weeks after moving in I noticed a used condom on the side of the garage floor next to an old canister of antifreeze. What the actual fuck was this guy doing in this condo.

Our impossibly small laundry closet in which exactly one washer/dryer model fits.

It’s been a trying few months and we’re not exactly loving homeownership. I suppose that’s to be expected, and the benefits come once this work is done and we can refinance and start to see that mysterious equity everyone talked about (to maintain my parenthood analogy, I assume lots of parents question their decision within the first couple years of having kids, but having a good relationship with an adult child is probably the best). At the absolute minimum, rent will eventually increase enough that our mortgage will be the same as rent for a two bedroom two bath apartment, even if we don’t refinance. And that will probably happen within a decade, which is just so unfair to renters. But it gives us an out someday. Our condo problems, just like most problems, would be less frustrating and more solvable if only we had a lot more money than we do, so if anyone wants to give me like fifty grand that would be great. Or make interest rates go down so we can refinance like everyone said we’d be able to do within a year or two and then we can actually save for all this.

Bunny boy enjoying the balcony.

It’s not entirely shitty. It might be a shitty time but there have been extremely rare times in US history that housing isn’t a very stable and safe investment in the future. If nothing else except my retirement plan (more on that later), at least we can pay for it and do enjoy living here. Which is true: despite the constant annoyances and little things that cost way more than you think they would, we have also gotten to enjoy the parts of owning that we were looking forward to. We bought a small table and chair set and small propane grill, mainly because we needed a way to cook while we didn't have an oven, and have made amazing dinners and enjoyed drinks on our balcony. The amount of natural light makes us feel like we previously lived in a cave. My own mental health is better despite the problems (though work and the world at large are constantly threatening it) and my plants are absolutely thriving, both inside and out. Even my snake plant flowered within a month! Being a light nerd, husband is also loving the effects on the walls and from the disco ball planters and even a glass of water on the counter. We have a skylight, which is one of the coolest things we never thought we'd get, and two baby spider plants are on the wall hung in these lovely knit hangers. We painted accent walls in the living room and bedroom and will paint most of the office. We hung a gallery wall full of fun and weird photos we took and some art we love. We built and installed a ramp in the rabbit area so they can sunbathe in the garden window box (tbd if they actually do). We added shelves for cookbooks in the kitchen. We installed a ceiling fan over the rabbit area, hung blackout curtains for when the sun is too much, and added so much warmth and texture to a previously cold and gray condo.

Could all of this have been done in a rental? Yes, with the exception of the ceiling fan. We painted the very first place husband and I lived in together. But when we had to unexpectedly move out after a year because the owners wanted to move back in, they made us paint over it, and that sucked so much that we never painted again. But we could have, and we could have installed shelves and hung prints and just spackled over the holes when it was time to leave. It would have cost us time and maybe like $30. And part of me wonders why we were so afraid of doing that.

Sometimes the view makes me forget any problem this place has.

Especially now that one of our biggest fears is likely coming true: the house immediately next door is for sale and if an investor buys it they'll build a multi-story property. In the many, many documents we had to read and sign when we bought there was a clause that any views could be lost due to new construction after the purchase date. We read that, recognized the very real possibility that our gorgeous view of downtown could be gone within a few years, and decided to just hope that the people living in that house hung onto it. I'm writing this on our 53rd week of owning, and in half of those weeks sometimes the light and view made the other problems worth it. If it goes away and all we're left with is an expensive condo with half the natural light it once had, there's a real chance these relatively small disappointments and annoyances could turn into real regret. I want windows open for the breeze and curtains open for the light, and we already have to keep the front door closed because of the cigarette smoke coming from the unit right next to us (this guy must have the best genes to counteract all the smoking and drinking he does). If this place ends up a breezeless cave, I'll want to sell at the earliest opportunity.

Even two stories would ruin the view.

Which may not come for a long time, financially speaking. Now that it's been a full year we technically can, but we'd sell at a loss. It's not even worth what we paid for it yet, much less enough to recover the costs to sell and move. So in all likelihood we're going to be here regardless of what happens around us. And in that inevitability, we do have lots of future plans for when husband’s income takes off again or I become a fabulously famous writer (or, more likely, we spend money on nothing else for a couple years at least). Fix the drywall where it leaked by the front door, and over husband’s desk, and by the office closet. Figure out a way to store the cutting boards that isn’t right next to the spice rack, and then somewhere for the stand mixer. Paint the office walls and hang curtains. Add shelving to the office walls for our books, art, and knickknacks. Replace my L-shaped desk with a standing desk to take up less space and maybe add a pull-out chair or small sofa for a guest or reading nook. Add deck tiles to the balcony and install hanging planters in the stucco and the little hummingbird perch my friend gifted us. Paint the underside of the countertops where it overhangs so it blends in better. Hide some cords better. Take out the laundry closet doorframe and maybe widen the closet a touch (probably not possible). Replace my bathroom faucet. Add a ceiling fan in the bedroom.

Marriage compromise: wall color. Totally worth it.

In the very distant future, we’ll replace our kitchen cabinets and drawers with real wood, maybe create a more permanent built in pantry with vertical storage for cutting boards and cookie sheets. Husband will replace his bathroom vanity, maybe even get something tall enough for him to use comfortably. We’ll replace our ancient couch with one that doesn’t take up quite so much space but still fits us both. We’ll maybe rebuild the walk-in closet in the office so that it’s better suited for the storage we need. Maybe also the bedroom walk-in closet to be less awkward and actually store our laundry baskets. Add balcony solar, if it ever gets approved here. Weatherize the front door and French doors, mainly to keep bugs out and help insulate. Fix the HVAC.

I'll never be able to live without abundant natural light again. And neither will my plants.

I knew we were unprepared when we started this process and assumed that it would take a long time and that we could educate ourselves as we went. I also assumed I'd learned enough to at least know where we had gaps in our knowledge. But our very first offer was accepted and we didn't have the chance to fill those gaps. The last year has made it painfully clear how much we didn't know. If we'd had more time we maybe could have looked into the development potential of this neighborhood. There are multiple 8-story buildings going up around us and there's the slimmest chance that we won't be living right next to a construction zone for the next two years. Or we could have moved to a new rental to get out of our cricket-infested apartment and waited a year.

We won’t live here forever for two main reasons: in twenty years we’ll be in our 60s and may not want to (or easily be able to) go up and down so many stairs, and I still want a yard. Circumstances might change, but it’s unlikely that we’ll be able to hang onto the condo when we eventually want to buy a house. Which means someday we’ll have to sell. I don’t want to do what our sellers did and make it look great but function poorly. When we eventually list it for way more than any two-bedroom condo should cost, because that’s how the market works and this is like half of my retirement plan, I want the buyers to feel they’re getting something for it, not just because that’s what two-bedroom condos are worth in the next ten, twenty, or thirty years. I want to be the sellers who get to describe their home as being lovingly and meticulously upgraded and maintained. I don’t want the buyers hate us forever or wonder what we were thinking. And I genuinely want to make smart decisions and enjoy this place for as long as we have it. And if our circumstances do change and we can keep it and rent it out, I want our renters (maybe friends or family) to love it like we did.

Men in Flip Flops

Unpopular opinion: I love men in flip flops.

When we get that first stretch of warm, sunny days in the springtime, along with the Padres caps and the cargo shorts, the men wear their flip flops around town. And I just love it.

Before anyone jumps to conclusions, I want to clarify a few things.

First, these aren’t $2 Old Navy flip flops. These are Rainbows. And OluKais. Occasionally Reef (the younger men, or anyone who fancies themselves a surfer). Men are spending $80 and more on these flip flops. There aren’t too many cities in the US where “high end” and “flip flop” absolutely belong in the same description, and San Diego is one of them. These flip flops are built to last and comfortable enough to walk all day in.

Second, this love absolutely hinges on proper foot care. Trim and file your toenails, lotion the tops of your feet, and wash them very well. Good advice for flip flop wearers of all genders.

Third, there’s a time and a place for everything. That time and place is generally pretty broad for flip flops in San Diego, but the men still know not to wear even the fancy flip flops to a nice dinner.

Fourth, my feelings for men in flip flops do not extend to slides and I have active disdain for boat shoes. 

Maybe it's a calf thing?

OK, my argument.

Men in flip flops signifies a casual confidence (Vogue agrees with my assessment). They’re just out running an errand real quick and popped on the flip flops by the door. They’re from here, or identify with living here, but they probably don’t even go to the beach much. They don’t buy into the idea that male feet should never be visible and don’t care if the sight of feet is offensive. The flip flops were readily available, so that’s what they wore.

This casualness is not to be confused with indifference towards their appearance. These are men who know how to put themselves together (see clarification #3). They’re generally well groomed. They wear t-shirts and hoodies from local coffee shops, breweries, or neighborhood events (every South Park dad has a SoNo chili fest hoodie).

I adore this whole vibe.

I love that the men in flip flops is a sure sign of summer. I love the dads at the playground in flip flops. I love the men wearing jeans and flip flops. I love the men in a beanie and flip flops. I love the men riding bikes in flip flops (though I drew the line when I saw a man on a scooter in flip flops… that’s just unsafe). I love the men who will spend an entire afternoon walking the zoo with the family in flip flops. And I looooove the men out walking their dogs in the cold mornings wearing a puffer jacket and flip flops. The contradiction gets me.*

*Side note: Ever since college I’ve seen people in the rain in flip flops. This is not the same thing, but I love that, too. Flip flops in the rain makes sense. I’d guess that a minority of San Diegans own waterproof shoes, which means the rest of us deal with wet shoes and wet socks when we go out in the rain. (I only technically own waterproof shoes: my hiking boots. But I’m not wearing these out for a city stroll unless we get another hurricane.) But if you’re wearing flip flops, you just need to dry off your feet when you get inside. Back when skinny jeans were a thing, you wouldn’t even get the hem of your pants wet if you wore flip flops. It was low maintenance genius.

He's just a shoes guy.

Dressing like we live in sunny San Diego used to be a mild complaint I had about husband back when he was The Boyfriend. Having grown up in the Bay Area, he moved to San Diego for college and has decided to never look back. Whenever I bring up wanting to live in Seattle, he reminds me that he came from the gray, cold rain and left for a reason (though that reason was more about going to a party school far away from his parents than it was about weather). But it took like a decade of being together before he figured out how to make shorts and flip flops work in a way that suited him. We both strongly prefer jeans and hoodies as our standard uniform, but some of us (me) overheat and it’s too goddamn hot here sometimes. Previously, on the handful of times he actually dressed for summer I got giddy that “summertime boyfriend” had come out. If we’re going to live here, let’s live here, you know? Happily, now he has his own pair of fancy OluKais that he can wear for hours, doesn’t feel awkward in, and even leaves by the door (plus a singular pair of shorts to complete the look). He’s probably only worn them five times since buying them, but still. Progress.

Insert quote about going to a state school.

Or maybe I’m reading too much into this. Maybe loving men in flip flops is simply a sign that I’ve lived in Southern California my whole life. But I was at a neighborhood fundraiser salsa fest earlier this month and the flip flops were out and I loved it.

Pet Parent

Almost every day I’m glad I’ll never be a parent. When I have slow, relaxed weekends like this one, I’m fortunate I can sit in my quiet home, reading or writing or trying something new. And when the week has been hectic and all I have time for is work, making dinner, and sleeping, I’m fortunate I don’t have to manage a kid’s many needs on top of that. Even when I was a kid I never desired children: I’d assumed I’d have them because it’s what you do, until I realized it was a choice. Despite many people telling me I’d regret it, that my biological clock would suddenly start ticking, that I’d make such a great parent (then more commonly once we started dating, that husband would make such a great parent), that we’re the right people who should be having kids, I take a moment near daily to appreciate my choice. I hit two big age milestones since making my decision and that clock is still silent.

Chloe liked to be involved in my activities.

But there’s one statement that nearly every parent I know has made that’s always bothered me: you’ll never know real love until you have a baby.

Intellectually I get it. We’re hard wired to love the screaming, crying, pooping, boring infants we create because otherwise they’d probably be really easy to accidentally forget about. There’s a reason public health billboards caution to not shake your baby, that fire stations are anonymous baby drop-off sites. If there’s anyone who knows how hard babies are, it’s those who made the decision not to have them. We saw how our friends and siblings and coworkers and acquaintances struggled, and continue to struggle, and be surprised at how hard it is, and decided it wasn’t for us. I’d even go as far as to say that most people who actively choose to not have kids believe that all kids deserve parents who want them, and because we don’t actively want them we should not have them.

Gandalf the emo bun

But on the other hand, what is this real love? So many people I know directly and indirectly are in unhappy relationships, many even before they procreated (often because they wanted to procreate). We’re not hardwired to desperately love another adult. Other adults constantly disappoint us, even the ones we do love. They are their own beings with their own experiences and histories and wants and faults. But babies are pure, helpless bundles of our genetics and we simply must love them. We will die for them without a second thought. Many adults who unexpectedly lose a child cause other destruction in their lives (divorce, suicide, addiction) because the pain is too great to bear. Of course we love our infants so desperately we can’t breathe thinking of a life without them. We have to*. We don’t have to love our partners. The only unconditional love most people will experience is the love they have for their offspring and, hopefully, their own parent’s unconditional love. But outside of that, love is conditional.

(*Though there are plenty of examples of the people who simply don’t love their children. Whatever wiring they’re supposed to have is missing. They neglect, abandon, and abuse their children. They resent them for taking something away from their lives before, their partner, maybe, or their dress size, or disposable money, or their time and ability to sleep through the night and laugh without peeing. People do turn their babies into fire stations. Or shake them out of sleep deprivation and a split second of relief. Many are even decent parents while regretting their choice. Few will admit it, but we all know someone who would make a different choice if given a do-over.)

Amelia, Ruth, and Maya mostly learned that we were a good, safe place

I most often hear about this stark difference in love when a parent also has a pet. The amount of times I’ve widened my eyes at someone telling me “I loved my dog more than anything in the world before I had kids, but now if he choked on a bone I’d just be like, ‘you good?’” makes me want to take in their pets. It’d be telling if someone openly admitted to loving their dog more than their kid, but casually posting and talking about how they’d barely cry if their formerly beloved pet died seems a bit too far for this animal lover.

But I’m not a parent and I’ll never really know. Despite my over thinking habits and desire to consider all sides and sometimes inability to make a decision because there are very good points all around, deciding to remain childfree was easy. I’ll never actually know what it’s like to be a parent, but it’s not like I haven’t looked through the window of parenthood. It’s not like my very active imagination hasn’t turned other people’s stories into my own nightmares. It’s not like I haven’t spent a lot of time with kids. I was changing diapers before I was ten years old, home alone and in charge of my younger sisters as early as 8 years old, being paid to babysit kids I wasn’t related to at 12 years old, and am now an active aunt to chosen and biological nieces and nephews. I do know some things. Meanwhile, the amount of people who have told me that either they or their partner first changed a diaper when it was their own kid is more than one. I’m astounded at the gamble. 

Korra with the perfect ears

I’ve had more pets than most, though, and I’ve given them anything and everything I could. I’ve been told that my devotion to my pets is unreasonable, that they don’t really care or notice, that I need to focus on other things more. And sure, I do more than probably most. But they were my choice to bring home and I had a responsibility to live up to the promise of giving them a good life. No one needs pets, but a lot of people get them thinking they (or their kids) deserve them and then treat them like an annoying and outdated fad they can’t get rid of (like the dog my dad brought home as a surprise when I was ten because his sister said he “deserved it”). Vet bills are so much more expensive than you expect and happen way more often than you plan for. Medical issues pop up even — especially — in purebred animals. Training young animals is exhausting. Just like kids, people get pets thinking about the Kodak Moments, not about the special needs, accidents, and the mundane expenses and day to day.

The main difference between having a pet and having a kid, other than the perennial joke that you can go to jail for crating your kid, is that you expect to outlive your pets. You never expect to outlive your child. And that is a massive difference but one we don’t think about when bringing home the bundle of joy (be it human or otherwise). I’ve had a lot of pets, which means I’ve outlived a lot of animals I truly loved. As hard as each loss was, it was ultimately expected. I knew that going into it. But no one goes into parenthood thinking that they’ll someday bury their child. I’m not a parent and I’ll never really know, but that is the worst pain a human can feel, and I wouldn’t wish it on anyone.

Harriett, Rosa, and Billie were my most baby-like pets

A few years ago one of husband’s closest friends died suddenly, leaving behind a wife and three young kids. He grew up here, his whole family was here, and they’d just spent Thanksgiving all together. The first time we saw his friend’s mom afterwards she looked at my husband like she was angry. How could my husband, who had no kids, still be here while her son, who had three kids, was not? The unfairness radiated from her. The pain I felt at losing my pets has always ebbed because not-so-deep down I knew it would happen. In fact, I wanted it to happen because I want to live a long life and give a home to many more pets and not leave the ones I have without a care plan. Subconsciously I had been preparing for it, sometimes for many years.

Losing my parents, in a way, made me realize that having pets and being an aunt aren’t the only ways I’ve tried on parenthood. My parents are one of the examples of people who love their children conditionally. My dad admitted to me when I was in my 20s that he never wanted kids. By that point we were all grown and out of the house, and he could appreciate getting the chance to live the live he’d originally wanted to have. When we stopped speaking with him one by one, he seemed to forget we ever existed. My mom will still claim that she loves us all unconditionally and honestly not see how she actively pushes us away, degrades us, and blames us. She has said horrible things to each one of us and we have each decided in turn that it’s not worth keeping her in our lives.

Juno is easily the least rabbit rabbit

The more that I’m involved in my nieces and nephews lives the less I understand my parents’ choices. Again, since I’m not a parent I’ll never know that level of love and devotion, but even at the measly aunt level I genuinely don’t understand how a parent could stand being estranged from their kids. When I mentioned I’m reading the memoir I’m Glad My Mom Died in book club, one of the members was visibly uncomfortable because she couldn’t understand ever being glad. (Side note: she’s the exact type of person who should read the book because these types of parents exist and it can help open your eyes to other parent-child relationships.) But some parents are shitty. I’m really hoping and believing that the parents my age are doing it better. They’re already doing it better in so many ways and these kids are turning out so cool. Imagining that it might end up very different when they’re adults is not where I want my overactive imagination to go. But it could happen, because it does sometimes.

Argo loved me except when I made him wear clothes

It happens a lot more often with pets. Families get too busy. Pets lash out when they’re neglected. Age and illness change the nature of the relationship, maybe even at really inconvenient times. We can’t communicate in the same language and wind up misunderstanding each other. Life circumstances change. I’ve been lucky enough to have adopted pets that other people no longer wanted or could care for. Chloe wouldn’t have lasted much longer with my dad — she’d already been hit by a car once and was in a constant fight with a neighbor cat, but he wouldn’t keep her in. Gandalf was probably an Easter bunny who didn’t live up to the cuddly bunny expectation and was dumped in a park. We adopted three rats in 2020 who very obviously had a rough history (not the first time I’d brought home rats someone else didn’t want). Our boy Juno is the most dog-like rabbit I’ve ever seen, so desperate for attention he’ll follow us around the house, and he was living in a small cage in a garage before husband picked him up. Getting to know these animals, how fun they are, how much love they have, how simple their needs are, and how much joy they bring me, has made me angry at the people who abandoned them and thrilled that it happened so that I could love them. A goal of mine is to someday adopt from the local Frosted Faces senior pet rescue because I know how much it would mean to the animal, I’m experienced in caring for senior and medically needy pets, and I love so easily. It’s heartbreaking to know that these pets are abandoned in their old age, when they most need the love and stability of their families, and, worst of all, that their age and health makes them far less desirable to adoptive pet parents. Will it hurt when I only get a couple of years with them? Hell yes it will. But I still want more rats even though they top out at 3 years because it’s just so worth it.

Bilateral Salpingectomy 10 Years Later

Wow. It’s been ten years since I had my laparoscopic bilateral salpingectomy. Well, it was ten years last October, but I had a lot going on then and forgot I meant to do this update. And then I started this and moved on to writing about other things. So now it's ten and a half years. Oops.

Post surgery apple juice

I wrote my original post mostly because I knew I’d always want to remember, but also because it was the hot new thing at the time and there wasn’t a lot of information about the procedure or recovery. I figured other people would want to know. And they did! That first post has had 42,000 views and 140 comments (though half are my replies). My 6-week update has had over 6,000 views and 43 comments, my 1-year update had 4,000 views and 18 comments, my insurance rant had nearly 3,000 views and 2 comments, and my FAQ post had 2,400 views and 10 comments. Altogether that’s close to 58,000 views and 106 original comments (not counting my replies).

One day: Gnarly incisions

Most of the comments expressed gratitude for the posts. It’s a little disappointing that, even a decade after I documented my experience, these types of detailed accounts are not that common. There are reddit communities with written accounts but lacking photos and other accounts that don’t have the same level of detail or follow up, and loads of fear mongering stories about what went wrong and phantom side effects. This can leave people confused and afraid. Any surgery has risks, and some people are more at risk than others, and those should be discussed in depth with a doctor. But there’s also a targeted effort to remove the ability for women to take complete charge of their fertility, and fear mongering is having a moment. The truth is that most recoveries are as easy as mine was.

6 weeks: I forgot I had a belly button ring!

One year later: the scars are still there but hard to see.

But let’s talk about the downsides for a minute. The biggest one is that I still had a period all this time. It didn’t occur to me that this would be a downside, but after the first few I was like, wait, what’s the point anymore? It used to be a nice signal that I wasn’t pregnant. But as soon as I knew I couldn’t get pregnant it became unnecessary. And because I stopped taking birth control, I also couldn’t control when I got my periods. Which meant trips, birthdays, anniversaries, and other times you don’t want to have a period would get inconvenient. Ten years later I’m still annoyed by my period. I asked a doctor once about getting a uterine ablation to remove the lining, but she said the approval process would almost ensure I’d be rejected. Which is genuinely bonkers. Why can’t I, as a grown-ass adult who doesn’t want a period, choose an elective procedure to take care of that need? Do all people with nose jobs have a medical need? Fuck no. At least my periods were predictable. I always had a 28-day on the dot cycle. Now that I'm probably in perimenopause my periods are becoming less predictable and I’m having to be in an office for work, there’s an element of anxiety once again that I don’t appreciate.

I struggle to think of any other downsides, honestly. As long as I have ovaries there remains the risk of an ectopic pregnancy, but those almost always happen in the fallopian tubes which no longer exist. They can happen on the ovaries themselves or outside the uterus, but that’s really uncommon. I’m also positive that any ectopic pregnancy would have happened by now. So, intellectually, I know I can’t get pregnant.

Unfortunately, knowing that I can’t get pregnant didn’t stop me from panicking about it for about six months when I skipped a period. I was almost 39 and had been sterile for 9 years at that point. The only other time I missed a period was the one right after my surgery. I bought and took a pregnancy test, which was obviously negative, and I only did it because I knew it would be the first question a doctor asked. I started having severe anxiety, irrationally worried I was 8 months pregnant and it would be too late to do anything about it, and then lamenting how my life would change. At one point husband offered to get a vasectomy just to ease my totally irrational worries. Thankfully those have passed and I even had another very late period and didn’t completely lose it.

Did sterilization push me into an early perimenopause? I’m not sure. I’m not 100% sure I’m in it because it’s not something you can really diagnose with certainty. Hormonal tests aren’t reliable, most doctors know next to nothing about it, and as much as I’m trying to learn the information is still hard to find and trust. Forty is admittedly earlier than most but not unheard of. I remember my mom having symptoms when I was in high school, which would have made her around that same age. So it could be genetic. Or I’m just stressed and it’s finally causing erratic periods and rage. <shrug emoji>

Positive: Group then solo trip to Africa

Now, the positives. This was without a doubt the best gift I could have ever given myself. Even if husband had been willing to get a vasectomy at the time, I’m sure I still would have ended up having this done. The peace of mind is unreal, except for those weird months where I was freaking out for no reason. There’s no preparation that needs to happen before sex, I’m not supplementing with hormones, my period tracker app is as reliable as it can be in the perimenopause age, and I generally feel as natural and normal as ever. If the apocalypse happens I won’t have to worry about avoiding pregnancy, and if this deranged administration starts forcing women into pregnancy I’ll escape that fate. Last, I’m not sure this is a positive (because I kind of wish I still had a visible reminder), but for years now when I look for my scars it takes a few seconds to find them, and you have to know what they are to know they’re scars.

I’ve been tracking my periods since going off birth control nearly a year before my surgery, so I still have a decent idea of when to expect my period even though there’s some hormonal fluctuations. Fluctuations mean highs and lows, and the highs include being absolutely randy during my ovulation week. So that’s been the fun side of perimenopause.

It took about a year to stop feeling like I forgot my birth control pills, which means it’s been a solid nine years of not having to think about preventing pregnancy at all. Once it was normalized in my head, it just was. To the point even when I learn that friends still take pills and use condoms I can’t imagine that life anymore and wonder why anyone puts up with it, especially those who don't want kids or any more kids. Sterilization is the most set it and forget it way to stay unpregnant. And I’m also really glad that I had the forethought to get a salpingectomy rather than a tubal ligation, even though it was still new-ish for sterilization purposes and not covered by insurance.

What’s the difference? A tubal ligation is cutting the fallopian tubes in half and doing something to the ends to stop them from growing back. Often they’re tied off (which is why it’s called getting your tubes tied), but some doctors cauterize the ends and others used these little chip clips for a while, but that fell out of fashion when they became associated with complications. My understanding is that now doctors that still do the ligation tie and cauterize the tubes. But salpingectomy is the gold standard for sterilization, so most women go full tubeless.

Just because I think it’s interesting, here’s what a laparoscopic bilateral salpingectomy means in English:

• Laparoscopic: Surgery in the abdomen made with itty bitty incisions and a camera so the surgeons can see
• Bilateral: Both sides of the body
• Salpingectomy: Salping means the fallopian tube (Greek for trumpet, apparently), and ectomy means removal

Altogether, removing both fallopian tubes via tiny incisions in the abdomen. The tubes connect to the ovaries, so the biggest risk with this surgery is that an ovary will get nicked. That can cause all sorts of problems. But surgeons tend to be very good at their jobs and don’t do that. The other risk is that they leave too much of the tube next to the ovary, and somehow little sperm gets to an egg and there’s an ectopic pregnancy on the ovary itself. It’s happened, but it’s extremely, extremely rare.

Husband gets me cards like this on my surgery anniversary

So, what have I done in the last 10 years? Lots! I got married. I got a masters degree. I grew out and cut my hair 3 times. I traveled by myself to Namibia and Kenya. Husband and I bought a condo. I was diagnosed with celiac disease. I quit a job with nothing new lined up. I bought a scooter. I fostered small pets. I ran a marathon. I had six pets at once. I've witnessed two solar eclipses. I paid for chemo for my dog and did subcutaneous fluids for my cat and administered medication that causes reproductive harm. I got tattoos. I traveled for work. I touched the water in the Mississippi River and the Colorado River. We traveled to Colorado and Louisiana and Utah and Montana and Nevada and Hawaii and New York and New Mexico and Washington and all over California. Not all of it was because I’m sterile, but I definitely wouldn’t have been able to do some of these things if I’d become a parent. And I’m so grateful to not have to have taken hormones for another 10 years or dealt with the excruciating pain of an IUD.

What’s next? I might write a book. I’m writing a book. I’m going to figure out what I want to be when I grow up. I’m getting really good at being an aunt. We’ll get more pets. I might run another marathon. I might finally convince husband to move to Seattle. I might try to get my 5k time under 20 minutes (which is really fucking fast). We’ll finally go on our honeymoon. I’ll get more tattoos. We’ll enjoy our quiet nights at home, making dinner together and watching a movie and appreciating the opportunity we get to choose how we live.

Since this ended up being more about how perimenopause is going than an update on sterilization, mainly because there isn't much to report (still don't need to worry about pregnancy, scars are too small to see), I'm not going to do another one of these. Nothing will change at 15 years, 20 years, or beyond. Eventually I won't have had a period for a full year and will be fully and completely barren. It's just nice to be one of the few voices on reddit with this longer term perspective to reassure scared women that, yes, it's going to be fine and this is worth it.