WHY WON’T ANYONE LET ME SEE MY THING?
A Story of All the Things I Have Removed (Not Metaphorical)
Although I am mostly an unmotivated person, my body is not. My body works hard behind (underneath?) the scenes to create treasures for me to have removed in the form of lumps and bumps and masses. My body is trying to create an entire other person out of random growths. You know how you always say you could make another cat out of the hair your cat coughs up? It’s like that. At 42 years old, I am now up to 5 surgeries in my life, all to remove various things that my body worked overtime to produce and present to me, as if I should be honored, not unlike a cat that brings dead birds to the front porch. And what did I do? Ungratefully, I had doctors remove my little side projects, and I never even got to see what all the fuss is about. Because they never let you see your thing that you made! This is a form of harassment that I am still working on a hashtag campaign for.
The first surgery was elective. In 2000, I had a breast reduction. As my body built me, it got carried away in the breast area, perhaps thinking that this was something a 12-year-old girl who loved the Ninja Turtles and wouldn’t wear makeup until sophomore year in college would want (and then only theatrical makeup for years until someone told me I don’t need to look like Evita to go to Walmart). One might guess that constant teasing and back pain lead me to my decision to get the surgery when I turned 20, but I had none of that. Luckily for me and unfortunately for Danielle, there was a girl in my school who had EVEN BIGGER boobs, and that coupled with my general strangeness caused everyone to keep their gazes moving. All men try to flirt, but then they see that look in my eye, you know, the Ted Bundy one, and that’s the end of that. Being young and not understanding feelings and autonomy, I would fantasize about “accidentally” cutting my own breast in order to go to the hospital and then be able to say, ”hey, while you’re fixing that, can I also get a breast reduction?” Because I didn’t know I could just want one (until I read about Punky Brewster getting one in People magazine. After a quick Google of said cover story just now, I am glad I got the right message out of the article about TEENAGE PLASTIC SURGERY and IS IT HEALTHY?! because I guarantee Punky gave that interview FOR ME and was probably really disappointed they presented her story like that). A main concern in breast reducing is maintaining nipple sensitivity and breast-feeding function after the surgery. As I was coming to in the recovery room, a delighted nurse told me immediately that all went well and I would be able to breast-feed! I asked her when I could see my baby. They removed HALF of my breasts, and I didn’t even get to see a picture of what they took out, let alone keep it in a bag to present to the 7,000 women who made the same joke about “borrowing some for themselves!”
The second, third and fourth surgeries came along in 2002. My body presented me with a hard lump on my throat which led to biopsies and a lumpectomy to then a thyroidectomy to then a modified neck dissection. Just take everything that isn’t tied down! I laughed alone, as my family took cancer seriously on my behalf because I can’t ever not joke. My mom asked me to unload the dishwasher and I weakly coughed and said, “I can’t...I have cancer.” My dad slammed his fists on the table and my sister cried and I said WHHHHAAAATT?? while the multicam studio audience roared with laughter at my catchphrase (Tuesdays at 9/8c). Surely this time I would get to see what my body had made for me! I had enough balls now at 24 to just straight up ask my doctor, can I see the lump? Is it black and hard like you would think cancer would be? He said sure, maybe he can show me. (He didn’t)
Finally (for now), in 2016, after a full 11 years of hard work and growth, my body said we’ve done it. They sat me down to give me a full presentation of what they had been working on in my uterus. Fibroids, they said! Beautiful round balls the size of softballs and golf balls and peas and marbles! All sizes, placed strategically around the walls of my uterus, in prime positions to wreak the most havoc on me physically and emotionally. I said, ok body, show me what this is all about! And my body said, what if we could make you have your period nonstop for 6 months? Until it got so bad that even your high pain tolerance (which we also gave to you and you’re welcome) is no match? I said, I’d like to see you try!
I shouldn’t have said ‘I’d like to see you try’ because my body really saw that as a challenge and an insult. It should be noted that having a high pain tolerance is less of a superpower than you would think, and more of a constant stream of inner questions like ‘have I ever had a migraine and it just feels like a headache?’ or ‘how hard would someone have to hit me for me to feel it?’ and ‘ok but I don’t want someone to hit me to find out’. I first realized I might have a high pain tolerance when, after I broke my arm in 4th grade by falling off the top of a jungle gym in the middle of an ice cream social, I calmly walked to my dad and said, “Father, I have broken my arm. But I have yet to receive my promised ice cream cone, so while we do indeed need to go to the hospital, I would like to get that cone first.” (I didn’t)
The fibroids are located directly in the center of your Emotional Cavern (uterus), and they were in the exact spot to mess with every hormone, emotion and last bit of blood I had. As a bit of a cold girl, I was awakened to feelings I hadn’t felt maybe ever? Crying and feeling and loving and living like I was a HomeGoods wall stencil! My fear became losing these new feelings when they took the fibroids out. It was like a dark fairy tale - Ariel gets her legs so she can meet a dude, but then has her voice stripped away so she’s back to being just a creepy cold fish. Ah but all is well! The fibroids were removed and some emotion stayed intact until about March 2020 when the darkness of humanity and its jarring lack of empathy removed the last bits of it!
And for the third time, I asked my doctor, Dr. Shirley Chan (my favorite surgeon of all 5), if I could see my fibroids. Besides the fact that I MADE THEM, I just have the general curiosity to see what something on my inside looked like on the outside. They had been in me for years at this point. I had grown them in my uterus like a weird kangaroo, just let me look at them! Are they black and hard, I have to know! But Dr. Chan just laughed. OK, what about just a picture? Can you show me a picture of them? “Oh,” Dr. Chan said, suddenly serious. “I thought you were joking. The answer is no.”
THE END