I returned to the radiology clinic last week, second time around, no big deal, just the Christ Fibroid. The first time was fine, but round two was slightly more invasive, terrifying, and painful. I have a pretty high tolerance for pain and unpleasantries. I can tolerate a whole lot. However I cursed out the doctor and the nurse, stringing profanities with enthusiasm and a natural flow. “God Damn! Fuck you Jesus Christ! Shit God! Damn you! Fuck no!” The doctor wasn’t at fault, I was being turned into a Quinceanera internally, as they blew baloons inside me via a catheter. Once I say “via catheter” you can understand the gravity, nothing good ever is associated with catheter.

Anyway, that’s not the the real shit. The real shit is what happened when I walked out onto the street and felt water all over my face. I had sunglasses on to cover my PDE (public display of emotion), so I let it flow as I walked to my car. I deceided to treat myself and wept through my first pedicure in months. I wept through the extra massage, a really good egg bagel, the drive home. Once settled on the couch, my tear ducts reveled in their home court advantage and I wept until I looked like a boxer after twelve rounds. I swung from wet faced ambivalence to hyperventilating hysteria.

I did what any normal single woman, with no local family members would do, I hit the Google machine. Apparently any invasive medical preocedure can release tissue memories. Your biography is written in your fascia, or connective tissue. Eastern medicine has been hip to this for thousands of years. Having had a six hour cry, I read on. There’s research and resulting studies state that previous traumas are captured in the bodies connective tissue. Apparently after heart procedures patients can feel broken hearted because all the tissue has been disturbed and recorded emotional data gets released. So gnarly, and so much for denial. You can not wipe this mother board.

This Christ Fibroid’s a real sonofabitch.

 

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