So I’ve been cracking jokes to make myself feel better, but in all truth I’m currently waiting for my doctor to call me to discuss which fibroid surgery I am a candidate for. A few years ago I found out I have a uterine fibroid, which I named The Christ Fibroid. As I was not trying to conceive, my doctor said we’d wait and monitor its growth. Ladies, if your doctor finds a tumor in your uterus and then asks if you are trying to get pregnant, just say yes, say yes even if you’re  a nun, because if you’re a regular non-conception minded woman they will leave the tumor in you, causing you pain, sucking up your nutrients and tweaking your hormones, but as a prospective mother- shit they will clear the decks and get that uterus ship shape. Imaginary babies are more important than living women, that’s just the way it is.

As it turns out, I am not fat (silver lining), my fibroid has grown. So I have battled with insurance and gotten into a hospital I am confident in and met with a surgeon who prescribed an MRI so we can get a better look at what we’re dealing with. For a while I was referring to my uterus as a bag of rocks, but as that was depressing and somewhat factual, I have stopped and am trying to be a bit kinder to myself and my lady lumps.

After 40 with fibroids the medical community has written motherhood off, “these eggs are no good.” So although I have top doctors, the only medical person who’s ventured to ask if I actually wanted to have a child that was genetically “mine”, was the Wiccan-ish (I’m guessing, no judgement witches!) nurse who put an IV into my hand last week. After trying both arms and one wrist, she jabbed a needle into my hand, explaining that the MRI I was about to have  was a contrast MRI. My surgeon neglected to inform me of that when he scheduled the procedure, so I was ill prepared for the IV. So I’m in a hospital gown, underground in radiology, with a needle in my hand and, although I wish my doctor or surgeon had taken the time to discuss it with me, the nurse asks if I’m planning on freezing my eggs. Well goddamn woman, can’t you see I’m in distress?! I told her I didn’t know and that I was scared. It’s confusing, I never thought about having a child until someone said I couldn’t, then I wondered if I’d blown it. It’s a lot to consider. The nurse continued asserting her beliefs about the importance of a genetic child. Warning to women battling  fibroids, everyone who is made aware of your situation will have an opinion, including the nurse you’ve known for less than 5 minutes. Finally, after yelling out in pain as she poked around looking for a good vein, I asked her to focus on handy tips for the MRI itself and to pump the breaks on her Dateline style interview. She told me to ask for a washcloth to put over my eyes during the MRI, which ended up being great advice. Thankfully she stopped talking about egg freezing vs. adoption.

Back in the waiting room, an older woman, also wearing a hospital gown, sat patiently awaiting her turn with the Wiccan and the MRI. She looked over at me and told me she was scared. I told her, “Me too, but we gotta do this, right? This is how we’ll get to feel better.” She nodded in agreement. The feelings rushed from my belly into my throat and I felt like I was choking on fear; fear of pain, fear of death, fear of facing the fear alone, so many layers of fear that I never even knew existed, like a shitty monstrous fear onion. It was a relief when the male nurse popped his head in and said my last name. I bid the woman good luck and was lead  away to the MRI.

The MRI room sounds like a rave, with the constant pulsating beats of the machine’s magnets. I asked if they had the radio on, buh dum bum, I got the nurse to laugh, hoping that they’d like me more thus hurt me less. The machine itself is beautiful and looks like something out of a Kubrick movie, smooth, white, and other worldly. I asked for the nurse to place a washcloth over my eyes and  was strapped in to the bed, which was backed into the tube. I was instructed over the headphones when to breathe and when to exhale, which I found relaxing. After 20 minutes of that,  the contrast die was released and it felt like they shot the contents of an ice pack into my veins. I had another 20 minutes of breathing instructions and then it was over.

That was a few days ago, and like I said at the beginning of this post, I am currently killing time waiting for the surgeon to call me and tell me what we’re gonna do. I’m not stoked about what’s happening to me, but I am fortunate enough to have friends who’ve been willing to talk me through their own experiences with uterine fibroids, the surgeries they went through and most importantly the life changing results of having their fibroids removed.

Throughout this whole experience I haven’t googled anything about fibroids, because I’m scared enough, but just incase there’s another woman out there, feeling alone and afraid, I wanted to write a post that would show up in a google search to say that you’re not alone. Hundreds of thousands of women live with fibroids and never notice them, and if they do become a hindrance to you living a happy, pain free life, there are procedures to solve the problem. Additionally, if you’re willing to be a bit vulnerable and open up to women about your situation, you’ll be surprised to find advisors within your circle who’ve already walked the same road.

The best advice I can give has been the hardest for me to accept, which is, ask for help. Be willing to ask a friend to roll with you to your appointments, as you will probably leave your body the minute the doctor walks in, there’ll be another smart woman in the room asking questions, taking notes, and advocating for you. Doctor’s talk fast, and they speak in medical jargon, like you’re another doctor and understand what they’re talking about, so having a friend there to decipher  the doctor’s orders is priceless. Additionally, this shit is hard, this brings up a lot of emotional stuff, at least it has for me, so grab your friend and lean on her, you can get her back with pedicures, footwear and brunch later.

Well, it’s almost 5PM and the doctor hasn’t called yet, so I’m gonna go for a walk in the park and then, when I get home, I’m gonna call my friend.


Whenever I convince myself that there’s nothing going on, it’s usually because I’ve gone full hermit and haven’t left the house. That being said, there’s no shortage of things to be enthusiastic about.

A few weeks back, I got to go see Future Islands do a Q & A and a few songs at the Grammy Museum. A few was honestly not enough and I ended up downloading all of their records later that night after failing to procure a ticket to their show that night. They’re probably the best thing to come out of Baltimore since John Waters. How could they not be, when the singer looks like the long lost son of Brando and sounds like Louis Armstrong ate Richard Burton. P1070109

Next I got sent to Malibu for Big Wednesday by my favorite Betty, who reported monster hurricane related waves. I packed snacks and a blanket and headed to the beach. I posted up under a tree at the end of the ride, just before the Malibu Pier. Next to me was a professional photographer with a foot and a half of glass and a tripod and another pro with about a six inches of glass. I pulled out my point and shoot and we laughed, joking that the longest lens was in the water, the next was on the beach, and I was across the highway shooting from my car, but I did manage to capture Laird Hamilton on his stand up paddle board shooting the pier. Laird Hamilton shooting the pier

The waves were huge and stacked up, so you’d be watching at least seven waves at a time and each one would have at least four dudes riding it. I didn’t know where to look. Sitting at the end of the line I had the pleasure of watching the victorious surfers coming out of the water, their eyes on fire, radiating warrior vibes- like Drogo from Game of Thrones, having just surfed a twenty foot wave. Surfers with half a wetsuit on are definitely in my top 5, it’s like the wet tee-shirt of dudes. In fact, I feel like Big Wave surfing might be the male equivalent of a Victoria’s Secret runway show, an incredible display of skin, sexuality and some primal man versus nature shit.

Moving on, now that I’m lost in fond memories of babes, I made it to my favorite Mexican’s art show;  Neckface’s “Drinkin’ On The Job” at New Image Art Gallery. I love his work and have been enjoying his antics since he first showed up at a skate demo and tried to run over some little kids. More than anything, I appreciate his refusal to evolve anything but his talents. If you care so much.... P1070173 P1070162

In addition to all this radness, I went to the Hollywood Bowl to see the LA Philharmonic do Beethoven’s Ninth. In a surprising move, they opened with music from Westside Story, leaving me and my companion doing our best modern dance moves from our bench seats. By the time the choir and soloists began singing in guttural German, I had already realized the Beethoven was the Metallica of his day. The Ninth is just so fucking heavy. Not to mention, The Bowl provided karaoke style lyrics on their screens, thus revealing the Ninth includes the phrase, “drunk on fire.” Tell me Beethoven’s not metal.

Lastly, in the midst of all the inspiring and incredible stuff going on outside, there’s some pretty cool shit happening in here too. It might look like a scene out of “Memento” or it might be a photo confessional that indeed I do have pictures of cats at my desk, but whatever it is there’s some pretty cool stuff happening inside as well. JUST WRITE IT!