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The Rogue Ovary Chronicles: A Tale of Two Cysts

Note: This blog post includes a lot of biological/sexual/medical descriptions that may be considered graphic for some readers…this is a post about my lady-anatomy, after all. I do not spare any details; read with caution if you’re prone to discomfort when reading such content.

Monday, August 3rd, 2015 – 8:30 pm

Irony has a funny way of jumping in to my life to yell, “Surprise!” while my pants are still down.

Steve and I just had a lovely round of marital relations and were looking forward to a nice relaxing evening, probably involving a movie and going to bed early. (Don’t squirm–intercourse is kind of a thing that happens in marriage, people. And I include this snippet because it single-handedly initiated the following story.)

I stood upright to go to the bathroom and was greeted by severe cramping in my lower abdomen. Curious, as I have never, ever experienced cramping before (lucky me, I know…sympathies to my not-so-lucky fellow females out there). True, I was due to start my cycle any day now, but this was something quite different than the usual pangs of discomfort.

Cramping was soon accompanied by extreme bloating in my upper abdomen, and the pain only continued to increase as an hour passed by. I lay in bed with a heat pad on my stomach in hopes the cramping would pass. But I found myself sitting on the throne of my misery, cramping at a full roar with my abdomen refusing any form of calm as nausea and fatigue and light-headedness took over.

I couldn’t even call out to Steve, barely getting out, “Babe…something’s wrong…”

He called an advice nurse through our insurance company, who asked me a laundry list of questions and concluded with, “You need to be seen at the ER. Immediately.”

Great.

Steve was a superhero—dashing around the house to pack a small bag of necessities for the hospital as I attempted to confidently leave the bathroom behind without concern of needing it again soon.

This was bad. Let me be clear—I have a high pain tolerance. Like, stupidly high. I know when my body is just dealing with something minor, which is most of the time. But this was unlike anything I’d ever felt, and everything in my body and brain screamed wrong wrong wrong. The pain was so bad I seriously considered telling Steve to drive me to Salem Hospital (which is a desperate move…everyone knows how bad the local hospital is when it comes to ER care…or any care for that matter). The proximity was that tempting. Steve reasoned me out of my insanity, though, reminding me that I would be seen and likely diagnosed at Silverton Hospital in the same amount of time it would take Salem Hospital to simply call me into triage.

Good point. To Silverton…

Our Impossible Story

“Our Impossible Love” by #JessicaMurdoch the #RhetoricalRedhead. A snippet of our story.❤ On behalf of the day of St. Valentine…Love should be easy. But Love also requires some work. Love is not just an emotion, but also an action…a CHOICE…a daily effort to give yourself completely to another person without expecting anything in return. If you put forth the effort, and work hard to be partners in everything, it will be easy. If the effort isn’t there…love fades and resentment grows. Marriage is different than engagement is different than dating…it’s fascinating how a relationship can grow and deepen. We have experienced…

Where to Go, What to Do

As of 8:05 a.m. this morning, I am a free agent. Floating. I have no base. No dock. No boundaries. No limits.

The company I worked for had lost two big clients in a matter of months, and I knew my part-time tech writer position was on the line since business was slow and the revenue had taken a hit. But it was still a shock to have my boss hand me my notice and final paycheck saying I could leave: “There’s no reason for you to stay.”

It was bittersweet. I liked working as a technical writer, and my employers were kind and genuine people who ran a tight ship. I respected them, which made this part even harder. But as I walked to my car, arms clasping the classic banker’s box filled with what meager items I owned at the office, I felt relief. Which excited and scared me at the same time. I felt guilty for being relieved…but guilt was soon mixed with a sense of freedom and adventure; I could finally chase what I have been dreaming of doing for years…I could finally pursue my writing with nothing, nor anyone, to hold me back.

When the Time Comes

My Unconditional Lover

Home sick. Wake up. Cough. Shower. Cough. Groan. Stare at myself in the mirror and sigh because I know it’s going to be a long day. Wallow in self-pity. Walk into the kitchen to make breakfast…and find this waiting for me. #MyLifePoetic In seeing this gesture…I’m (duh) overwhelmed. But I’m also reminded of how quickly we forget that there are people who care for us deeply (I know I’m certainly guilty), especially when we aren’t looking. People who love us without limits or expectations, reminding us that it’s going to be okay. I pray we all see and recognize that kind…

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