Advocates & Activists Badass Activist | Eve Reiland

Dear Gynecologist, I Can’t Get Married Every Month | Circa Aug 14, 2008

Aug 14, 2008 | From My Journal

My gynecologist is lucky. I wasn’t actually experiencing PMS on the day he told me that it didn’t exist.

I had scheduled my yearly appointment with hopes he could help me find some monthly relief. I wasn’t expecting miracles — or my pants to fit – I just wanted to still be married, raising children and have a job when I became human again.

My family should know I love them every single day, not just three weeks out of the month.

As I sat on the examination table, covered in a too-small drafty paper gown, the doc explained how recent studies showed PMS didn’t occur in happy women.

He said, “Women getting married didn’t experience the symptoms.”


I guess brides’ hormones were over-powered by the joyous occasion and they felt nary a pain, twinge or cramp.

Well that made no sense on two fronts: Brides are stressed out — at least I was. If there was ever an occasion for PMS, my first wedding was it. I wasn’t happy until the honeymoon. Secondly, what the hell?

No such thing as PMS … as told to me by my male doctor. Oh really?

For an educated guy, and a gynecologist, you’d think he’d know to just lie for his own protection. Seriously, where he was sitting, I could’ve stabbed his eyes out with my big toes. It would’ve been a simple knee-jerk reaction.

At my trial, I could’ve claimed PMS – even the courts recognize that defense.

The judge would’ve shaken a finger at the doc and said, “Duuuddeee, what were you thinking?”

By chance, I do know one man that whole-heartedly believes in the affliction. When told the story, he scoffed in disbelief.

This guy has experienced the situation first hand. He’s a survivor – a dodger, soothsayer, child protector and a Midol buyer. Wrestling an alligator and fighting a rabid porcupine at the same time would be nothing compared to what he handles every month.

My husband is the reason I haven’t set my hair on fire (though I’m sure he’s thought about it once or twice), buried the dogs alive or strung the children up by their toes and muffled their complaints with duct-tape.

Every month he single-handedly saves the family, welcomes me back from the brink of destruction, accepts my apologies, forgives me and shows me where he stashed the kids.

I love you husband.

I bet you wish you could marry me every month.

By Eve Reiland

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