Posted on by Jessica Dofflemyer

All Clear

“That’s what your ovary sounds like.”

The technician administering my ultrasound has the volume turned up on the monitor, and I can hear the blood flow through my uterus in a heartbeat-synced rhythm. Above me on the screen is the land of mystery. A fuzzy, sepia-toned display of an upside down triangle, housing hazy organs that shift in view every time she moves the wand at my womb.

I listen and study. Realize that I’ve been investigating this hub my whole life. From my first gynecological exam at age 18, when the doctor discovered a dermoid cyst on my ovary and ordered surgery to remove it. After that, I was always checking in with the land of mystery, the place that could promise me life, or surprise me with loss.

At 23 it was loss. Another cyst on the other ovary, a surgical removal, the cyst, taking the ovary with it. With a life-long desire to be a mother, I feared having only one ovary may jeopardize my ability to conceive.

Doctors reassured me that one would be sufficient, and they were right. I was gifted a beautiful, healthy son the year I turned 30.

Moving into motherhood, diapers, toddling, and kindergarten, the woes of my womb from the past seemed behind me. I was a healthy, strong woman in my prime. One child was enough. I maintained my yearly check ups with the doctor, but I no longer worried about the invasion of my uterus by another growth.

However, at 38, I heard a whisper: “Go get an ultrasound, it’s been a while.” I had no pain, no sign of anything amiss, just a hunch that I should check in on the land of mystery. With the history of my chart, the doctor agreed to order one. It revealed that yet another (most likely) dermoid was on my remaining ovary. The doctor suggested I have surgery to remove it.

For anyone that may have been reading the Archives five years ago, you’ll have been privy to my ponderings on that discovery. Though I was aware that my repeated cyst issue was not life-threatening, it still pained me to be dealing with pesky invaders that were settling in where they didn’t belong. I didn’t want surgery. I didn’t want to potentially lose the last ovary I had.

Deeper still, was the lingering question- the one ‘they’ say is futile to ask: why?

But I couldn’t help it. Why was my womb so prone to misdirected growths? How could I stop them from happening? What was I doing wrong?

This took me on a soul-searching journey, from which I explored the concept of “No Enemy,” a philosphy/life-perspective I’m still seeking to master.

I asked the doctor to give me three months before we finalized surgery plans. He agreed, and I began journaling. I had actual dialogue with the growth. Asking it questions, making peace. Honoring its existence but asserting that it was out of place.

I worked with energy healers. I made adjustments to my diet. I contacted holistic doctors, who basically told me there was nothing they could do to help me, that this one was all about me figuring it out for myself.

Three months later another ultrasound. The doctor read the report and changed his tune. It didn’t look like surgery was necessary after all. The growth seemed stable. Another ultrasound was ordered in sixth months. That report indicated the same. The cyst was still there but holding steady. No indications for surgery. No need for another ultrasound anytime soon. That was 2012.

In 2016, I’m lying on the table listening to my ovary. At 43, I’m reflecting on my lifespan living with the land of mystery. There is a deep tender place inside that feels the yearning of all-things-possible, golden, light, expansive. It collides with the vulnerability of potential destruction, black, dark, overpowering. I, the vessel, lie at the crossroads, subject to the whim of forces unknown.

“You know I’m not allowed to tell you anything. The doctor will call you with a report on this in a few days.” The technician parts the curtain to exit the room, and kindly says, “Good luck.”

What the tech doesn’t know is that I was watching. And when she measured the black mass on the screen, I memorized the numbers that automatically calculated dimensions in the lower, left-hand corner. Again and again in my head…”1.89×1.64…1.89×1.64…”

I had the 2012 report in my files at home, and if my calculations were correct, it appeared that the growth had only grown by .3 centimeters in four years. That didn’t seem so bad. This possibility took the edge off of the next couple of days of waiting to hear the official news from the doctor.

Besides, I was distracted with other things. I’ve been tackling sun damage on my face, and treating it with a daily dose of cream (a process written about in my last post). So there’s been a waiting for the inevitable breakout of sores to appear, while trying to navigate the world from beneath the floppiest, biggest brimmed hat I’ve ever worn.

In terms of the doctor’s call, I was seeking simple, and gratefully, that’s what I got. Uterus good. Blood flow good. Cyst stable. Most likely a dermoid. About the size of a “fat grape.” If it worried me, I could remove it surgically. But if it wasn’t bothering me, no need to do anything. I confirmed there was no pain, and I wanted to avoid surgery. His response: “Ok, then. See you next year.”

I know there is something foreign lingering in the land of mystery that doesn’t want to let go. I’ve made peace with that for now. At this point, if it’s not causing any trouble, it can stay.

I’m turning full attention to my face now. Dealing with this physical body and trying to heal it up. I’ve got the ‘all clear’ from the doctor on my womb, and now I’m watching 40 some-odd years of too much UV, bubble up on my face. Anything but clear, here. I want it all to rise to the surface, slough off, and start anew.

courtesy of PNASH
courtesy of PNASH
Posted on by Jessica Dofflemyer · 2 Comments

Taking Care

With my 43rd birthday a few days behind me, I endeavor into this new year with ‘self-care’ at the fore.

My random To Do lists on half-sheets of recycled paper sit on my desk, ordering my priorities. I enjoy the process of crossing out tasks as accomplished. Once the majority of a list is nixed, a new list gets created. Any straggling tasks that are yet to be completed, get transferred to the new page.

For literally a year, or more, two doctor’s names have continually been ‘transfers,’ never seeing a red line. This past week, I moved on both, addressing the sun damage on my face, and the lingering cyst on my ovary that hasn’t been assessed in two years.

My purpose here is not to drag you through my health issues (and I can assure you that I feel fit as a fiddle, strong, and healthy). What interests me are the stories behind the ‘ailments,’ and how they shape my life experience. And how can these specific stories of mine, translate to an experience that anyone can relate to?

As a brief overview, I’m a fair-skinned girl who always wanted a tan, but mostly burned. It’s taken me over 30 years to realize that my genetics want a gentle morning sun for no more than 30 minutes, then a shady reprieve from which to admire the sunlight from afar. I cannot sunbathe. But I didn’t know that growing up, and the dermatologist tells me that the red and brown spots that have surfaced on my face over the last five years are direct results from sun damage in my youth. These are called “actinic keratosis” and if left untreated can become “squamous cell carcinomas”. These “SCC’s,” according to the Skin Cancer Foundation, can “become disfiguring and sometimes deadly if allowed to grow.”

Hence, a cream has been prescribed that is to be applied to my entire face. It works at removing the “AK’s,” that are visible, as well as any that are yet to surface in the future. Sounds good! Except the images shown to me in the doctor’s office, warn of a 2 – 8 week period of surfacing sores that can look like a person is suffering from leprosy. During this period, one should not be in direct sunlight. And from what I’ve heard from others who have undergone this process, one does not even want to venture into the world at all. I’ve been offered simple sentences to recite to the check out clerk at the grocery store when she asks, “How are you today?” and then gets a look at my face peeking out from beneath my big-brimmed hat.

Qualifiers have been suggested, along the lines of “Pardon my face, I’m going through a treatment for sun damage.” I’ve been cautioned not to include the “C” word, even in the context of “pre-C,” as they won’t hear the “pre,” only the “C”, and it will simply add more intensity to the moment.

But c’mon! Would a person’s face look so heinous that it would need its own disclaimer in the check-out line? According to many I’ve spoken to, yes.

So I’m on day four of applying the cream. I apply it at night, and the Bohemian and I wake each morning, waiting to see the Monster surface. So far, nothing.

So scared was I that my skin would have a severe reaction, I began the first two days only applying the cream to my forehead. After no results, I announced to the Bohemian last night, “That’s it. I’m doing my whole face. Let’s get this done.”

I’ve gone from fear of a reaction, to being hopeful for one. It’s been said, be careful what you wish for. Well…

Doctor’s say it can take more than a week to begin to see the cream take effect. We will see what the next days hold. As of this morning, not much of anything.

As I’ve faced my fear (pardon the pun) of going through this process, one of the buoys for me has been the opportunity to live a great story. How will I go through my days with crusty sores all over my face? How will I interface with the world, and how will the world interface with me? This will be a fascinating study. And I hope to share some of it here in the Archives.

For now, this is enough medical focus. I’ll save the ultrasound I had yesterday for a different post.

Though both the sun damage and the ovarian cyst are issues I’d rather not exist, it feels really good to have those tasks in ‘pending’ status on the list.

imiquimod