When my wisdom teeth were removed, I wondered if I was actually losing wisdom. A tissue sample taken from my uterus had me thinking about the murder of cells. The loss of the gallbladder felt like a pressure valve had been amputated, and it would be more difficult to control my rage. When most of my uterus was kicked off the body bus, it seemed to give permission for shifting parts of my identity. On Monday, the pillaging of my ovaries reminded me how precious body parts are.
We are born with a precise yet individual collection of them, after all.
Each piece that has been surgically taken arrived with me when I was born and will not physically leave with me on the bus when I die. Unlike the eventual losses of dear friends and family and the losses of those who have already gone, my body parts were meant to go with me when I die. Similar to the hair and skin I shed, people do not accompany each other when they transition to whatever does or doesn’t come next. Even if several people die at the same time, they don’t go together.
Shedding pieces of me years before I leave has created a deep well filled with grief. It is grief for something that is literally intangible. Not enough words have been written or connected with this experience to give me something to grasp to understand it. Dr. Google and bad friend Tik-Tok have nothing to say on the subject. There’s loads of conversation about the grief people experience after open heart surgery or organ transplants, and perhaps that’s closely relatable to what is going on with me. During previous excisions, I didn’t get to the root of what I was feeling, labeling it as post-surgical depression and leaping over it as an obstacle to getting back to my life.
Perhaps because I did not do the harder thing—taking both ovaries instead of leaving them to wither on the vine or silently go rogue with cancer—it brought dormant grief for previous missing parts to the surface. Choosing to cut and toss grapes that may or may not one day become diseased shows an expedient disregard for the life of the grapes…. suspicion of gangrene before an infection presents. In a conversation with the surgeon, I said, “I don’t believe in lopping of parts because they might one day kill me.”
If my ovaries were limbs, there wouldn’t be a question about keeping them until or if cancer appeared. When I eventually decided to remove both ovaries, it wasn’t for expedience, though it did have regret-filled disregard for the life of a cluster of grapes. I requested the death of one perfectly stable ovary and one sprouting likely benign cysts because I could not pull up the trust that I would be able to withstand another MRI or a repeat of the last several weeks. I chose to dump nice old lady passengers on the side of the road, rather than the shred of a chance I might have to go into another MRI tube, see an oncologist, or embody-surf the threshold while waiting for blood tests, imaging results, and tissue samples. I kicked off bus members because I was terrified of a sequel.
I suppose, no matter how I write it, it was expedient disregard.
There is no Get Out Of Jail Free card when it comes to bodies needing medical attention. I have avoided a possible second surgery to remove ovaries by removing them early. I have not avoided an MRI or surgery for another reason; I have merely eliminated two unbroken eggs from the dozens that could drop to the floor on their own.
In the thirty-eight days between discovering my right ovary had undiagnosed masses and the surgery, I attentively cared for my body with ritual, movement, and nourishment. In that way, it wasn’t expedient disregard. Heart-shaped stones were placed over each ovary and worn all day, every day, prior to surgery. I am still wearing them. The stones remind me to send love to my lost clusters of grapes. I believe Mother Earth sends love to them through the umbilical cord between Her and all Her creations.
Grief holds love and intention and always regret.
Regret comes from the untold times loved ones have been disregarded, no matter how much they were loved. I ache for the times I raged at my body for its inability to carry pregnancies to term and for neglecting to worship it for finally bringing twins into the world. I grieve for thoughts of revulsion and shame over how my body coped after years of trauma and survival surgeries and medications designed to save the twins. Every part of my body wanted to live, even when I wasn’t sure I wanted it as much as it did.
My body survived a cruel beginning, a physically degrading middle, and is surviving a lifetime accumulation of trauma. I have begun to understand how important it is for me to gracefully and lovingly embody the rest of our journey together.
The essences of my lost body parts dance with me; I sense that. Similar to the beloved people and dogs that have transitioned, I feel them too. They may not be picked up on an MRI or seen in the recovery room after an operation, but like the prayers beautiful souls held for me during this process, I feel them holding space and love for my life and healing.
dear, dear, beloveds,
i miss the beat of the origination you carry
the gentle hummmmm of our existence
i miss the swell of your breath as i moved with you
i’m sorry i couldn’t hold fear and you too
there’s nothing i do that will not hold the fire of our origination
there’s nothing i do that will not hold the essence of you
our dance never ends
it is in the river between us
may our Earth Mother
care for us
as we dance
here
and
there
Lovely