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 · 2 Comments

Write About…Your Own Topic

~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

 

Instead of responding to today’s prompt topic, I chose to work on a portion of something that I hope to incorporate into a longer piece, and it may come into one of the 1000 word assignments.

 

Matthew 7:8 “For every one that asketh receiveth; and he that seeketh findeth; and to him that knocketh it shall be opened.”

I’m seeking. I’m knocking. I’m trying to remember the exact verbiage the camp counselor gave us, when he encouraged us to step out into this night, be alone with ourselves and God, and invite Jesus Christ into our hearts.

He made it sound so good. So simple. That all we had to do was ask, and we’d be privy to the bridge. A direct line of communication to God, and the essence of unconditional love filling our hearts. Jesus was waiting, he said. Available in every moment, but we had to ask.

As I walk in the open field, I can see the white of my Keds in the moonlight. I look up to see millions of stars, a splay of crystals on black velvet. Is He there? Tall mountain pines stand sentry at the edges, housing a few other seekers, whose shadows I see moving slowly about immense trunks. They, too, are finding their place, looking for the spot where they can sit, make their request, touch God.

I stop wandering and wait. Sit down where I am and listen. There is the sound of crickets in the blades. A cabin door shuts in the distance. I search my heart, this doorway he said, was the way in which I could be received, accepted, reborn. I lace my fingers together, feel the wrinkles of my knuckles. Unlace my fingers and trace the knotted string of the friendship bracelet around my wrist. I try to clear my mind of all thought. I ask again, listen, wait. But there is nothing.

I thought I’d hear a voice. Or maybe get some kind of sensation. Butterflies in my stomach, or a presence, very clear, inside my chest. I only smell pinecones on the summer breeze that floats across the lawn. See the outline of tree branches bounce with the moving air.

When I go back to the group tomorrow I will accept the invitation. Raise my hand and step forward from my metal, folding chair. Yes, I have asked Jesus into my life, and I will be his follower. I will make this claim, believing. Hoping. Never wanting to ask if I was the only one who didn’t feel Him. Unable to face the fear that, perhaps, there is something intrinsically wrong with me. Too afraid to question why God didn’t come, even when I asked.

 

courtesy of Jason Trbovich
courtesy of Jason Trbovich
Posted on by Jessica Dofflemyer · 4 Comments

Write About an Object That You Coveted As A Child

~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

You are gifted a blanket at birth. A crocheted rectangle of comfort, in pinks, and blues, and greens. After two decades, and thousands of washes, it is a tatter of gray, more aptly described as a ‘security blanket’. Unraveling yarn makes gaping holes in its center, but the edges are what matter most. The solace of this blanket comes in the feel of the familiar, textured softness of its edges through your fingers.

Your rhythmic circumnavigation of the blanket, traces the weave through thumb and middle finger, bringing a solace like nothing else. Its comfort outweighs the awareness, that it is a little weird to be twenty and still sleeping with a blankie.

You realize you’ve got an odd attachment to a ragged bit of cloth, and wonder about why the fingering ritual brings so much peace. Then, a revelation. You watch the tracing of rosary and mala beads through the fingers of the devout, realizing you do the same with crocheted string. Your attachment to tactile tracings is suddenly elevated. Perhaps it’s spiritual. Maybe even past life bleed-through. You continue to keep the blanket.

But then you turn 21, and a hippie from the dark side, named “Many Rivers,” (black cape, and hood, and all) steals your gear at a Rainbow Gathering on top of Mount Shasta- his booty includes your borrowed sleeping bag, which had your spiritual security blanket stealthily stashed in the bottom.

You search all over the mountain’s campsites, asking every free spirit you meet if they’ve seen your rag of a rectangle anywhere. And when someone tells you they think they saw it in a pile ready for burning, you run there just in time to find smoldering ashes.

You find a place to be alone. There, you cry. The deep and sorrowful wailing-kind-of-cry (because you are on this mountain to free your soul, and touch the depth of your beingness, so you know that it’s essential to release every ounce of agony). And after the tears have purged several layers of pain, the color of the sky looks different. You notice the wildflowers waving in sunlight. You wipe water from your face with sooty fingernails, and watch butterflies flit through the grasses. Everything seems to be conspiring to this bittersweet moment, your loss some sordid gift, signaling your growth. Through snot and no tissue, you realize your rite of passage: you have graduated to a blanket-free existence, the remains of your pseudo-security, ceremonious ashes on Mount Shasta.

 

courtesy of megananne
courtesy of megananne