My personal Oophorectomy ordeal that spawned my long post last night entitled I Left My Ovary…In West Hollywood was a doozy. I wanted to thank anyone who got through that extensive account about my medical drama. It was a long one, and I know better than to post a blow by blow account of my situation. However, as the last few hours of September 25th were winding down, there was a burning need to commemorate this episode from last September by reliving it in the relief of hindsight. That way, I could tell the tale with some humor, major gratitude and make sense of it all. I understand if readers looked at the word count and went, “Ugh…what the hell?” and clicked on by. This was something I needed to get out. If one person going though the same thing reads it and feels consolation, then I’ve done my job.
One year ago today, I was still at Cedars Sinai recuperating from giving birth to a cyst the size of a giant gourd. I remember taking pictures like the one posted with the long article last night. I also had a photo of the macaroni and cheese dinner I requested, and could not finish because my appetite was gone. I can’t post it. It still makes me queasy.
I was discharged from the hospital a year ago tomorrow to recuperate at home, where my stomach felt like someone had sliced it open, punched all my insides with a boxing glove, and closed me up again.
The past year has been one of healing – physically and mentally. First of all, I haven’t been able to wear fitting clothes or blue jeans since I’m still rather tender. But most importantly, what did I get out of this experience? How could a cyst so big grow inside me?
I have noticed that when I get stressed, I feel it right in the lady parts, where cramps get defined and feelings of being faint occur. Five years of change have passed through me, and with that came the death of two parents, estate closure, a cross country move and a series of jobs in order to find myself. The cyst went unnoticed because I was a bundle of nerves and anguish, emotions that probably fed into this monster.
Also, it may have defined the fact that I’ve been holding in my passions. All my adult life, I’ve been working in jobs that I can barely handle. I’ve fooled myself by thinking I’m just an Executive Assistant. I’ve been told by recruiters to tell perspective employees on interviews that I love to assist, I don’t do anything else. My creative passions were nothing – do not mention them. Although I can understand that – if you’re going for a job as an assistant – the potential boss doesn’t care about your extra stuff. They don’t want a Hemingway on their hands, they want a secretary. But I was placing myself in a position to lie. I’m okay with assisting, but my true love is writing. And having to bundle that up for all these years while smiling and doing work I didn’t want to do, has festered like a big ball of anger and frustration. Perhaps the cyst was a symbol of this, how it’s time to be authentic with myself and shoot for a freelance career in writing.
Self publishing my book “Hitting the Water” is my first step. And now I have to get it out there. This is tough for me. I’ve lived in my own head for so long with my writing, and having it read on a bigger forum is daunting. But I’ll do it. If there’s anything last year’s ordeal has taught me is this: Life happens. And life can happen fast and furious. Life will then hold a mirror to your face and force you to scrape your self pitying unconscious ass off the floor and do something – before you end up in a hospital at the end of your life sorry you did nothing.