So Long, Drama Queen

It’s not every day that your doctor hands you your fibroid in a jar.

And if that’s too much information for you, then you’d better stop reading right now.

My fibroid and I have just ended a long and pretty-much-pointless relationship. She (shall we call her Effie?) has been living and growing inside me for years, or so I’m told, but for some reason chose the moment of my arrival in Morocco to manifest herself. She then proceeded to wreak havoc with my body in all sorts of ways that I will not get into. 

Effie accompanied me everywhere. To the desert. To the beach. To the hamam. To resorts, banana farms, and olive groves. She came to work with me each day, and slept with me each night. We were inseparable, me and my Eff’n fibroid.

Eventually I began to suspect that our relationship was not entirely healthy, and I started looking elsewhere for advice. When I thought Effie was asleep, I’d sneak off to this professional or that for a bit of relationship counseling. They’d poke and prod and interrogate, taking photos and recording measurements. I snuck all the way to Paris one day, and even back to Canada, to try and find two doctors who could agree on the best course of action.

Oh, they all agreed that Effie had to go. She was out of control, and everyone knew it. But how exactly does one extricate oneself from such an intimate situation? One said, “You must do this.” The other said, “That can’t be done.” The third said “No comment. But you’d better do something.” And the fourth said “Ask me in two months.”

In two months, I thought, I will be a puddle on the floor. I cannot wait two months. I cannot wait two weeks. This vulture is killing me.

And do you know what happened next? Glory be, I met a woman who had loved and lost a fibroid of her own.

“Go to this doctor,” she said. “Go now. Do whatever he says. You will be okay.”

I went. And a week later, I was lying on a gurney, half-numb, bidding my Effie farewell. I got to hear, and watch, the entire operation in real time. Local anesthetic will do that for you: allow you to be an active participant in your own dramatic break-up.

“This is the fibroid, right here,” the doctor said, motioning to a disgusting white blob on the screen. And then, ever so gently, he proceeded to hack my Effie to pieces, before my very eyes.

Later that day, they brought me my Effie in a jar. It was unnecessary. Really all I wanted was a cup of tea. Still, it was proof that our entanglement had come to an end at last. Effie was off to the lab for a biopsy, and I was ready to go home.

So there you have it. Now you know why I’ve been walking around looking ghastly for the last eight months, and why I get to spend the next week in bed, letting my body adjust to its radical new reality as an autonomous, self-determining individual. No more, “Wait, I can’t go for a massage today. Effie wouldn’t like it.” No more, “How long will we be at the market? Effie doesn’t like long trips to the market.” No more, “It’s Monday. Effie hates Mondays. And Wednesdays and Fridays.” No more any of that.

Effie and I are through.