First Stop: Healing with a Side of Ham.
All you need is a machete and a wooden stick to bite when they slice you in half and rip out your uterus. But hey! You'll be up and running in just about six months! Why are you so ungrateful, Wench?
Welcome, Welcome! Are you here for the first time? You can start reading here but you might feel a little lost. So best to go for The Agent of Change. That’s where it all begins. Or read this now and backtrack so you can catch up. Much of this story is dealing with a serious health issue: fibroids, of which I had in spades. As one radiologist stated: “histrionic”, and stopped counting them. I like to be witty and funny but it was a serious and scary issue for me. If you ever want to reach out because you’re scared, too, just email fleurdobbins@substack.com or leave a comment.
The good thing about working for a global franchise (I know it sounds like I’m talking about hamburgers but no, I’m talking about early childhood music education) is that no matter where you go, though the people and surroundings change, perhaps slightly, the culture of how people generally say and do things and what you are actually teaching pretty much remains solid. That was a gift after I’d been through the past few months of change, movement, worry and a sort of what I like to call spiritual vomiting.
What is spiritual vomit, you say? Maybe it’s like spewing pea soup out of your mouth and rotating your head while you elevate off the bed as you are cleansed of evil.
Or…maybe it’s just a re-ordering how you feel about the God of the universe as it comes up and out of your mind, heart, gut and mouth in various forms; conversations, prayers, long walks, therapy session, arguments, sleepless nights, crazy talking to yourself, journal entries you’ll never show anyone… you know… spiritual vomit!
But whatever it means, I’d done it. I’d vomited up a bunch of “spirituality” and I was recovering. So I allowed myself to just go to work, teach with really frizzy hair, no makeup, jeans and a t-shirt, and go home again. I was happy. But in a culture shock kind of way. I looked perpetually shell shocked. With a smile. And a guitar.
I’d found a lovely new apartment. After living in tiny sublets for so long in NYC, having a beautiful new one-bedroom apartment was positively palatial. I relished the space, the little balcony, the swimming pool and work out room, and the country feel of woods out back of the property. I was more than fine with this new life.
I’m never going back to New York. Ever Never.
Never.
In those first months of returning home to Texas (Austin, where I’d never lived), I spent time getting reacquainted with old friends, family; the land. Time to be Texan.
When you move home one of the first things that happen is that your family arrives with all the sh&t they’ve been storing for you for thirty years. In my case, my grandmother had stored pictures, stories, poetry, art, and a little barbie all dressed as a revolutionary woman for some social studies class in grade school. It was all there. All that I’d never asked her to save was now mine again.
There were also letter, cards… never ending STUFF.
As I begin to write this portion of the story, I can see how things are about to branch off. Because there were things about to happen simultaneously that would amount to what most would call genuinely life changing. But I can’t write them all at the same time. I mean, can I? It would kind of look like some WWII code letter. Or an acrostic. Trust me, I’m not doing that. I don’t have the energy. But then again, things can really only happen step by step, correct? Perhaps I can just see them in hindsight all happening in space, floating, waiting for me to draw them in; these happenings.
So one of the boxes had letters. I dug and dug. A little at a time. I came across a card from an old boyfriend from when I was seventeen. Inside the card there was a folded piece of paper, and old yellow sheet of legal paper. On it there was a handwritten sonnet, an original sonnet, written in blue pen.
I did remember he’d once written me a sonnet. But it wasn’t the sonnet I’d remembered.
Yes, a man has written me, Fleur (née) Phillips, a sonnet. I may not be able to say a lot of spectacular things about myself. But I can say that.
At the bottom was written “10”. I didn’t know what that was.
So you must remember this part. For it will return. But if I go there now, it will seem like a huge tangent even though it must be told. Just put a pin in it. We’ll come back. Just remember “old boyfriend, sonnet.” Got it?
I threw the card back into the box and contemplated all the went down with that one. A lot. But we must move on. Keep it pinned.
One of the great things about living in Austin is that they really take care of their artists. Most especially their musicians. Being called the “Live Music Capital of the World”, this shouldn’t be too surprising.
As I began my search for how to get the rolling mountains in my pelvis to flatten for good, it was made known to me that if you are a musician, you can get insurance in Austin – free! Okay, it’s not really insurance, it’s a discount program call HAAM (clever), for Health Alliance for Austin Musicians. I’d been a singer, composer, performer etc. But I hadn’t produced anything.
Then I found out that they consider music teachers, even the ones who are certified to teach toddlers, musicians.
I was in.
It might be fun to count the little miracles as we go. Let’s start with the arrival in Austin. Let’s call arriving home before the flat tire #1, (I know there’ve been countless one’s before that but let’s start fresh). So HAMM is #2.
I find a female OBGYN through HAAM. Oof, that doesn’t look so hot typing it. Could this be #3?
I think I’d waited a month or so – let’s call this late summer when I’m seeing a new doctor. There is hope!
I had gotten new pictures and measurements of the real rollicking party going on in my uterus. So this new doctor could review everything, see that I’m with HAAM, and make plans for putting it all behind me forever!
Though I never like these appointments, I sat there with a mustard seed of faith and a belly of anxiety.
How do I describe what happened? Oh Fair Reader, how do I convey to you the next development?
Perhaps images and bullet points are best.
· She walked in with her laptop, hurried and harried. She offered me a few questions, for to say they were “asked” would be too charitable.
· She told me she’d have to slice me open at the pelvis about six inches long and take out my entire uterus with the fibroids and that it would take about four to six months, you know, give or take, to heal.
· Walking wouldn’t be happening for at least a month? A few months? Maybe. Who knows.
· I would not be able to work for close to six months, considering that I hopped, jumped, lifted children, and used all of my stomach muscles to sing for a living.
· She actually looked scared.
· She then closed her laptop, about-faced and exited the room.
How do I paint for you, dear reader, the look on the face of this HAAM physician? I will settle with a cross between a D-list movie star checking you out at the party to see if talking to you is worth the effort and a mother of octuplets at feeding time.
I had never felt so blown off by a doctor in my life. I can still see the semi-eye roll mixed with a hint of glare as she departed as if to say, “How dare you, plebeian minstrel, to think this could be a go for you?” [Then tosses a scrap of, yes, ham, to the floor as a farewell snack.]
Let her eat ham.
No matter the fear of might happen to me or what I’d created in my own mind up to that moment, it could not compare to the frozen alarm, horror, distress, dread and frenzied panic I felt now.
Thank you, HAAM.
Are we still calling this one a miracle? Clock it and tell me later after this is all over. If this will ever be all over! Because at that moment. I had no, nada, zero, zilch and negative hope. Hope has left the building with a shut laptop and the look of where’s the nearest drink on her face.
So. I got dressed, (yeah, I had to get undressed for that), and drove home. White knuckled.
So what have we learned, Fleur?
· Don’t allow your roadside service to expire.
· We are not now and will not ever be a vicar.
· Perhaps insurance discount programs called HAAM, however convenient, aren’t the best recourse for our health problems and, as haam, should be left on “the boards”.
· If you want to have your belly flat again, not be anemic, and be able to live without confusing people whether or not to congratulate you on your pregnancy, you’ll need a machete and a big wooden stick to bite on when they slice you in half.
But hey, Chickee, you ARE the kind of woman a young man will sit and write blank verse for….
You, Miss Phillips, are sonnet material.
And that’s no ham.
If you’d like to read more stories unconnected to this journey, try out one about using your gifts and talents or feel happy about your pants size or remember that we are more complex than our past actions show.