Early this year, I had surgery to remove two large dermoid ovarian cysts. These mean cysts came on like lightning - I noticed in August of 2014 that they existed, but had to push (hard) for my doctor to send me for an ultrasound. Cognitive distortions, which I've been learning about in
HappyYou, led me to the conclusion that she just thought I was f-a-t, and that my pain was nothing more than me becoming f-a-t-er.
Suffice to say, not only was I correct, but from August 2014 to January 2015, they had doubled in size, to nearly 10 and 15cm each. The right ovarian cyst was so large it looked like a centralized mass, and it wasn't until my MRI that they realized it was actually growing from my right ovary.
This was my second ovarian cyst surgery, the first taking place during my university days. I remember the surgeon then saying how fit I was, so thin, and how easy it would be to remove the dermoid thanks to my body's overall physique. I was proud, after all I had lost nearly 50lbs prior to surgery and had never been skinnier
(another word I hate).
What he didn't know was that my friends were worried. They felt I wasn't eating enough in a day, and went so far as to sit me down at our usual campus hotspot to express their concerns.
The surgery went well, I was back on my feet in a couple weeks and graduated without issue.
Fast forever ahead to September 2015.
Three pregnancies.
Two natural births.
One emergency C-section.
Eighty extra pounds from my lowest-ever weight, about 50 since I was married.
My May 2015 surgery went splendidly, unremarkable as they say, but my incision line took longer to heal because of something the medical community refers to as "the shelf" - the lovely skin flap which overhangs a woman's body at the pubic bone, post C-section surgery. For me, three incisions later means one serious shelf, and one seriously self-conscious woman.
Nothing, and I mean NOTHING about my body was the same. I am now soft, round and curvy. I have stretch marks, scars from surgeries and rolls of skin where I was once fit and sexy.
The change did not escape me, as I went back to my doctor.
I knew she didn't believe me last year when I said my cysts were back.
I saw the look on her face when I showed her my unhealed scar from this year's surgery, and she made it clear my extra weight was the cause of the problem.
I knew she was disappointed in me.
I felt ashamed.
On this day in September, however, she took me to a place I hadn't been to since I was a teenager.
I visited her to express concerns over breast lumps, which were causing me significant pain. She asked me to remove my shirt and bra. Uncomfortable for me yes, and worse so because my two year old playing with toys at my feet.
I looked up, preparing myself to be examined and then this happened:
My doctor, my FEMALE family physician, looked me up and down and said in an exacerbated tone,
"oh Pam, oh my.... (pause).... your body..."
Cue the tears.
For days on end I felt that moment. Her staring at my body, disgusted and worried. Her authentic reaction to a body I'm not proud of, but in a way which took me back to the days of kids who tease, magazines filled with size two models and boyfriends more interested in taking my clothes off then getting to know me.
In some ways, I feel this experience has reverted my inner being to those awkward, uncomfortable teenage years. It's a huge burden to carry around, because it so clearly contradicts my desire for self-love and radical acceptance.
She was wrong. So wrong.
But I am more wrong for letting this experience let my inner voice, ego, tell me more loudly than ever that I am unworthy.
Exploring these past experiences with curiousity is helping me understand how ego works, why it says the things it does. The process is slower than I expected, but I still trust that the path I am on will take me to a more positive, loving place.
