Posted on by Jessica Dofflemyer

Write About A Story Your Parents Told You When You Were Growing Up

~the following is part of “Prompted Prose,” a series of posts from the prompts I’m working with during my Spring 2016 online writing course

PREFACE: Since all experiences in life come through our own personal filters, so it is when we hear stories, as well. Every tale we’re told comes through this same filtration, as we take in the details of our choosing. Mom, I hope you don’t mind me sharing this story of yours so publicly, and I hope I’ve at least conveyed the gist of such a transcendent, personal experience. It’s interesting for me to consider that perhaps this is my version, not my mom’s story at all, as it’s the one I’ve created over the years, based on what I remember of her telling.

Childhood with my mother was sweet like the juice she’d squeeze, fresh from the trees, in the orange grove where we lived. She was beautiful in her two long braids, tied with leather cord and turquoise, looking at least ten years younger than her age. Perpetually positive, she’d crank John Denver while doing the dishes, then swoop over to hug one of her three children with soapy hands. I never doubted my mother loved me, and it seemed as though my siblings and I were, absolutely, one of the best things in her life.

But the story goes that it wasn’t always that way. It was hard in the early years, with kids close in age, and each of us in some form of diapers. Dad was working ranching hours- gone early, home late. When he was with us, he wasn’t always present. Unhappy and struggling, Mom thought she was sick, and went to an MD for diagnosis. He gave her a clean bill of health, but saw pain in her soul. His suggested remedy, a book by Billy Graham, “How to Be Born Again.”

For a series of days, Mom set up childcare, while she parked our station wagon in a quiet, shady spot behind the citrus packinghouse. She read the book in detail, finally coming to Graham’s instructions on how to ask Jesus into her life.

Over the years, she would recount to us her supernatural experience, there in the car that day. How she made her request, and the undeniable, loving presence that responded. The voice from within that she vividly heard: Go home and love your children to the best of your ability. Her perspective was completely altered, returning home to us, seeing nothing but absolute perfection.

In a bubble of deep love, she joyfully floated. For days, weeks…years to come.

 

courtesy of Tom Hilton
courtesy of Tom Hilton
Posted on by Jessica Dofflemyer

Write About An Unsolved Mystery From Your Own Life

courtesy of Bilal Kamoon
courtesy of Bilal Kamoon

~the following is part of “Prompted Prose,” a series of posts from the prompts I’m working with during my Spring 2016 online writing course

I went for my first, routine gynecological exam at age 18. Dr. M was soft-spoken, with gentle hands. He explained everything he was going to do before he did it. But when he felt something on my ovary that he could not explain, he ordered an ultrasound right away. Within days, I was scheduled for surgery to remove what had been determined as a dermoid cyst on my left ovary.

Dermoids are bizarre. Beginning from a single cell, which holds within it, full potential, these morphed formations may often contain hair, teeth, skin, or pieces of bone. Cells busily attempt to fulfill creation, unawares that they are only a confused distortion of anything that will ever become human. These (usually benign) tumors endeavor authentic growth, but are mere conglomerations, misdirected. Their fruitless efforts can often endanger their host. And their cause? No one really knows.

Dr. M patiently took the time to extract the cyst, saving both ovaries. This was a first in experiencing the mystery of my womb. Doctors couldn’t say what caused the cyst, nor could Dr. M guarantee I wouldn’t have another (though he assured me a second dermoid would be quite rare). The only way of dealing with any more misguided cells, should they get too large, was surgery. These determined frauds that feigned reproductive intelligence, posed an ultimate threat to my long-time dream of motherhood.

During the years that followed, I continued to quietly long for a family. I wanted to clasp a plump, soft-haired baby to my hip like a koala bear. Sometimes I would dream of a little blond boy. I would be holding him, swaying to music, our hearts beating, chest to chest. I did not know if he was truly my destiny, or just a dreamy hope.

Then, another dermoid cyst formed, this time on my right ovary. Big, heavy, and full of foolish confusion, the cyst’s weight was causing torsion at the fallopian tube. Emergency surgery ensued, and I lost the entire ovary.

Grappling with the loss of a precious organ, I grieved, bewildered why another cyst had manifested. I didn’t want to blame myself, but because I believed that my body was a reflection of my deepest thoughts and beliefs, I couldn’t help but think that I must be doing something wrong. It seemed as though my uterus revealed some fundamental flaw in me, one that could possibly hinder ever having my dream of motherhood realized.

Why was my body creating these masses of futile fulfillment?

Posted on by Jessica Dofflemyer

Write About the Body in Extremity

~the following is part of “Prompted Prose,” a series of posts from the prompts I’m working with during my Spring 2016 online writing course

Perhaps you know the feeling of adult hands upon your slight, pre-school shoulders, firmly guiding you in the direction of the recess line or nap room. The weight of their palms is clear and determined. Not violent, but not negotiable.

Such is the feeling, at age 30, as the contractions build, and my labor is imminent. Yes, there is the tightening of muscles tensing my pelvis like a balloon being blown to capacity. But there is also something else. It is not physical, more like a chemical omnipresence, and it courses through my veins to reach my brain with a inarguable decree. You are no longer in charge here. This is bigger than you. Invisible hands are upon me, moving me along a course with no turnaround.

Eventually, there is an irrepressible urge to push. Everything in this vessel of sinew, bones, and nerves, wants to move this baby down, and out. I give it everything I’ve got with each instruction from my mid-wife. My face and head pulse with the strain of bearing down from crown to root. My partner behind me, wraps his arms around to grip my knees, pulling me open to the sear of nearly splitting.

In the low-lit room, a headlamp illuminates the gateway, ever-widening, but not yet allowing full passage. I’m told to reach my fingers down to feel the real-live, actual baby hair of my child, pressed wet into the world, his head still stuck inside. Our first touch. He is so close, but not coming.

The mid-wife grabs my hazy gaze with alerting eyes. “I want you to call on whatever it is you need to call upon to help you deliver this baby. This is it. He needs to come out now…You can do this.”

courtesy of Chuck Heston
courtesy of Chuck Heston