Moon cup review

So earlier this year I wrote a pretty frank and graphic post about my post-baby periods – heavy, horrible and combined with never-ending diarrhoea. It got to the point where I was feeling so rank and losing weight so rapidly, that I started charting my own poop on an Excel spreadsheet before heading to the doctors, graph in hand. As a result, I’m back on the pill to even out my hormones, which, on the plus side has sorted out the runs, but on the minus has sent my cycle all over the shop.

Anyway, because I haven’t been quite sure whether I’m coming on or going, I shilly-shallied for a while before trying my newly purchased Mooncup. But today was the big day, so here’s an honest review for anyone thinking about getting one.

To give you a little context, prior to my psycho shower scene copper coil periods, I have always been more of a one-day bleed, four-day marmite kind of girl, so I never felt that guilty about using tampons, as it was possibly eight per month in total. Then things started totting up – to maybe 20 a month. That’s around 200 a year….and over my bleeding lifetime that’s a shedload – or approximately 136kg – of blood-soaked little mousies finding their way into the system.

Combine this with the fact that I recently read a report in the Guardian about the sewer tunnels under London and the people whose job it is to go down into the murky depths and  hack apart fat bergs – giant congealed masses of fat from the hundreds of kitchens across the city. Bad enough in itself you might think, but then imagine that that lump of lard is embedded with wet wipes, faeces, sanitary pads and yes, you guessed it, tampons, a manky, meaty menstrual meatball blocking up the sewers, which has to be manually scraped out by teams of workers. After reading that, I stopped putting my tampons down the toilet, wrapping and binning them instead. To be honest it didn’t take long after I started handling my own sanitary wear instead of just quickly flushing it out of sight out of mind,  that I got to thinking how gross it was – and how wasteful. That’s where the moon cup part came in.

I knew at least two people who used them already, who had previously sung their praises, and so I decided the time had come to dive in. I have to admit it’s taken a bit of working up to. I came on a few days ago, but it was very light to start off with. The thought of shoving a giant silicon egg-cup up my food was not that appealing. I reasoned with myself that I was just using up the sanitary ware that I already had. Then that I didn’t want to risk a leak at my seven-year-old’s swimming party – that really would be embarrassing mum stuff.

Anyway, step one, I had to boil the bugger in a saucepan for 5-7 minutes. Then, fresh from the pan, I took it into the bathroom. I squatted, folded it, shoved it in. What can I say? Not the comfiest of experiences – that slight teeth-squeaking feeling of halloumi cheese ickiness, as the rubbery dome scraped against my insides. But then, just like that, it was in. No better, no worse than when I first used a tampon and could definitely feel it sitting inside me. In contrast, I couldn’t feel the cup internally at all.

The instructions say that you should be able to run your finger around the edge of it and twist it to check that it’s inserted correctly. I had a go at this, just to be sure the cup was in the right place, but I have to say that was a little sore, and yucky, and reminded me of the advice given in the end-days of pregnancy, where perineal massage is considered something you might want to be doing with your time. So I desisted. The next step is that the cap comes with a long nozzle thing that dangles down, that you trim according to the size of your vaginal passage. The stem should not be hanging out of you! The advice is to shorten it bit by bit, which does lead to a bit of hokey cokey pokery as I got the thing out, trimmed off the stem, stuck it back in, got it back out, trimmed a bit more, until finally it is was not possible to feel it when I wipe my frances after going for a wee.

Getting it in and out is…..OK. With the stem on, it was easy enough to grasp and tug, coming out like a bath time plug, but once the stem was gone, it became considerably more tricky. After two hours with it in, I thought I felt the gushy rush that normally precedes a major leak, but when I went to the loo, the paper was clean. Phantom leak! At my heaviest, two hours could be enough to demand a new tampon, but when I took the cup out, by sitting on the loo, breathing in and inserting a finger to break the seal and then breathing out and pushing down quite hard with my pelvic floor, it was only full to the first line. The moon cup holds nearly 30ml of fluid compared to the biggest tampon sizes holding just 18ml. It looked like the last slug of wine in a teeny goblet. Quite fascinating to actually see how much  / little blood comes out of you!

Anyway, I emptied it into the toilet, rinsed it in the sink and stuck it back in. I then wore it in a swimming pool for the next four and a half hours. No leaks, no pain, couldn’t feel it. Just emptied it on my return home after six hours, it was possibly 1/6 full. So, so far so good. I can’t imagine doing it at work is going to be as easy – the guide recommends having a small bottle of water in your bag to rinse your hands and the cup – or perhaps wipes would serve the same purpose, though that brings me back round to the indestructible products in the system guilt again.

Writing this article has also led me to read around the subject a little; from the CNN article about the fact that some tampons and towels have been tested and found to contain carcinogens, to problems encountered by refugees and homeless women coping with periods and the charities that have been set up to try and help them.

So far – being only on day one – I’m going to give the Mooncup a cautious thumbs up, seven out of ten, and definitely spread the word as my crimson tide adventures continue.img_3493

 

 

The Leaving Party

All week I was hopped up. I felt like a grinning dog, tongue-lolling my head out of a speeding car window. People kept asking me what I was up to, what was making me fizz.

“I’m seeing my old school friends,” I said.

“I’ve known them 22 years.” I expanded.

“That’s more than half my life!” I exclaimed.

Barely even pressed for details, I was eager to spill the beans. “I’m going up to London.”

Such a rare occasion in my narrow existence.

“Oooh, fancy,” they replied, and I nodded. I knew my face was wrong to keep smiling, I knew my excitement was misguided, but I couldn’t scare it off. I was like a frightened chimp, bearing my teeth in an angry smirk.

The party I was going to was a get together, it was true. But it was also a summons. We assembled on the pavement as the guest of honour descended the stairs. We crowded around her, twittering and tweeting like a pecking pack of pigeons as she sat heavily in her tinsel-covered chariot. We headed to the park, in a procession. Then she stood, took my arm, and we proceeded to promenade. I was on top form, yabbering and jabbering like my life depended on it.

“No questions.” I’d been told. “No solicitous enquiries.”

“No problem,” I said, “I’m the most self-centred person you’ll ever meet.”

But under pressure I felt my mouth getting gacky, my well running dry.

We got back, we sat down. But not for long. Time to perform again.

“Dance, monkeys!” my friend demanded, “Or I’ll haunt you all forever.”

We did as we were told. Dressed up and boogied to Queen, stone cold sober in her living room. What larks for the camera!

Later, I stood by her bed, as she lay, feet raised, head deep in the pillow. I said to her:

“I was trying to explain our love to my girls, this morning. That you are like a favourite pair of old trousers. Just because I’ve had you 22 years and I may not wear you that often any more, doesn’t mean that you don’t still fit perfectly.”

“Don’t you mean old tights?” she parried. “Slightly stinky in the gusset, laddered at the knee? Evidence of all the years of partying and mischief?” I laughed and agreed.

We cuddled, just a beat longer than we normally would, then said goodbye, neither of us wanting the day to be over, but knowing it was time to go home.

It was a lovely leaving party. But on my way home I cried, and the next morning I sobbed, and when my gorgeous friend abruptly left, beaten down by that bad bastard cancer, I cried once again. But through my tears, I was also sure to smile as I thought of Alice. I smiled and I told my face that, actually, it was right all along.

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For Alice ‘Balders’ Baldwin 24 January 1978 – 3 December 2016