Anatomy of a Move - pt. 1

Part I - Originally penned on 2/20/2024

A little intro. I’ve been committing myself to writing 30 minutes a day. Somehow, this has turned into a pretty long story about the lead up to moving to my new place in 2023 and I found it fitting that I was writing it in the days leading up to the anniversary of my move. It’s long winded and not always cheery, but I did try to keep it to necessary info only. I am not a sugar coating kinda gal and some of the opinions expressed might be considered hot takes or unpopular opinions. Proceed with caution. I purposely omitted gory details if they held up the story-telling. So here it is, presented in parts.

PART I

In 2019 I had two surgeries that have proven to be pretty important events in my life. One of them was an emergency gall bladder surgery. I had one stone, and it happened to perfectly lodge itself in the bile duct so that things got backed up and infected. I was in the hospital for three days, no food, no water until after the surgery which took place late on day two. It sucked. The surgeon came to my room the day after the surgery and said, “I don’t normally do this but I wanted to come in and let you know a couple of things. You had only one stone, but it was a mean one. You did nothing wrong and there wasn’t a way to prevent this, it was just bad luck. Second, what I really wanted you to know, and the reason why your pain was so bad (I’m purposely omitting the pain piece. It’s unreal.) is because not only was your gallbladder infected, but it was liquefying inside of you, and we couldn’t tell until I opened you up. You were quite literally, dying. Your scar is going to be a little worse than we expected because I did have to make last minute adjustments we weren’t expecting, but I figured that beat the alternative.” Ummmm, yeah. My body was telling me something was wrong. I didn’t listen.

I went about my business.

I was back to work as soon as I could get back to my computer, which is to say, the day I was discharged from the hospital. I had to make sure contracts were marked and that payroll was done. What choice did I have? I was back on site within 5 days. This is not normal, nor is it a flex. What’s worse? I took pride in my complete and utter neglect of myself. That was my comfort zone. That was what felt good and what I believed I deserved. At the time of my surgery (this was the first one of 2019) I was in a 20-year long relationship. We were in a rough place. We loved each other, but we had been terrible to each other for years. I love my brother, and he loves me, but we also tortured each other as children so … love can be, we’ll say with tongue lodged firmly in cheek, dynamic. My boyfriend and I should’ve broken up about 12 years earlier, maybe more. Neither one of us believed in ourselves enough to truly leave the other. I tried breaking things off with him several times and it never stuck. We were off and on, he cheated, I cheated, it was quintessentially messy. Both of us had full on relationships with other people, while still sleeping together at least three times a week. Yes, score was kept. Looking back on this now, obviously my jaw drops. Just like yours probably has. And yet, when I put myself back in that place, I can absolutely see how it happened. Nobody knows the inner workings of a relationship except for the people in it. Could this arrangement happen for me now? No.

Fast forward further in 2019, and I had to have a hysterectomy. I was 42. Forgive me while I say some things that desperately need saying.

Don’t immediately coo about it.

Everybody does that and it’s ridiculous. You’re doing it because you feel sorry for me, and you shouldn’t. Don’t get me wrong, any kind of surgery is risky and removing parts of your body should never be taken lightly and this wasn’t. But this conversation is never about the psychological toll it took on me or how I managed it, or even how it came to this point, it’s always about my medical inability to bear children and it should be made entirely clear from the start, I never wanted kids! I knew that from the time I was 15 years old, maybe younger. I have my reasons and I know my truth. I don’t hate kids, they’re adorable, and fun, and they’re the future. I fight for kids relentlessly in my work and amongst my crotchety old friends who suddenly find the youths so ungodly, as if they weren’t unholy heathens in their early years, themselves. I’ve always known I never wanted them though and I’ve had to defend this position endlessly. The hysterectomy somehow absolves me of my, “burn the witch,” status and makes me a sympathetic character suddenly. By your standards, rest assured, I remain of burning status. Before one jumps to conclusions perhaps one should consider the fact that I don’t want the life of the beautiful minimalistic house, 2.5 kids and as many or more modes of transport. Nor do I have an affinity for mid-century modern anything. We are not all the same, and that’s a blessing. Your pity betrays your empathy and says more about you than it does me.

I crave novel and unique experience. I want travel and a little bit of curiosity and mystery in everything I do and everywhere I go. That’s not the life for child rearing and I’ve known this for far too long. When you give me your puppy dog eyes about the fact that all the doctor did was remove something I didn’t want, and I no longer have periods, but I still produce estrogen, (all blessings), is an indicator of your lack for understanding the greater plague uterus-bound humans tend to toil under, namely patriarchal expectation and value.

Uterus-wielders are all too often valued purely by said uterus and what it can offer non uterus-wielders. Dear Source let me tell ya … you’re missing so much of the story. Women make the world turn. Not because of their ability to nurture magic in their bellies but because they are the feelers and the healers and so much more. Even then, that is not what makes them valuable. They are valuable because they are here, period. Being incarnated on this earth right now is all that’s required of anyone to be of value. Every single one of us regardless of label or identity is here for a reason and has a purpose. Simple as that. Don’t let anyone - especially any colonizer or late-stage capitalist goon - tell you any different.

Alright, so … end of 2019 … two surgeries down. I met … the most intoxicating person I’ve ever met. Actually, to be more specific, I met him right before the second surgery. The human I met at that moment might be the most intoxicating person I’ve met to this day. Had I remembered my friend Rachel’s invaluable words, I’d have been better off, “Toxic people are intoxicating.” Damn that hits hard now. Within a month, I broke up with my boyfriend of far too many years and moved about 40 miles away from everyone and everything I had called home (40 miles isn’t a lot, I am aware, but it does come into play later) to live with the new guy in our joyful little nest of love. I moved in in December of 2019. Again, no need for too many details here, we’ll just say that unshockingly, things didn’t work out. In case you forgot, in March of 2020, the world shut down. Helloooooo pandemic! Here I was, living with an unwell man, under lockdown, while he would go to work feigning and claiming “essential” status, (wink wink, you’re expendable), coming home drunk and high and offering me mushrooms as consolation for complete and utter loneliness and confusion. This arrangement blew up in spectacular fashion and I needed to find a way out.

He had a friend who lived about 10 doors down the street.

She was an angel of mercy who came through and said, “Hey, this isn’t good. You guys are going to kill each other. You can come live with me.” And that was the end of my foray into living in drug-induced toxicity. I call her an angel of mercy because if you remember this was a time when I couldn’t apartment shop, my wages had just been cut, nobody was showing property, and this was the weekend of the George Floyd murder! The county was under curfew. Incredible friends came over and with masks and wagons we made the move. I will never forget those absolute angels. That weekend was so emotionally and physically draining that almost 4 years later, just thinking about it makes me tired.

So … new leaf, right? At this point, I’ve moved in with a lovely woman, my age, we have a ton in common and I’m ready to embark upon this journey of attention that clearly needs to be paid TO ME. And I do. Queue three years of inner work, spiritual awakening, hiking, reacquainting myself with nature, and MYSELF. I started making time for journaling, and learning, and growing, in all kinds of ways. Still, my wages were suffering, and I had mounted bills that I simply could not keep up with. The American Health Care system is truly masochistic and monetarily corrupt. It is INSANE to starve somebody for two days (no food or water), cut them open, remove things from them that are failing - by admittedly no fault of their own - and then ask them to pay you $89,000. And that was just the first surgery. By the summer of 2021 I had to file bankruptcy. This is a decision that is still haunting me to this day. As a society, we are not well. Check on your friends.

It was around this time that things started to shift. Once the bankruptcy was discharged and I could finally breathe again, things started to change and look up. Mostly because I wouldn’t have it any other way!

To be continued …