Ovarian Cystmas

I was nineteen the first time I had an ovarian cyst rupture. To set the scene, I’d been having an orgasm—my boyfriend at the time still inside of me. It felt really good, and then it felt really bad. It was like I‘d been suddenly gut-punched, and instead of the pain dispersing it only intensified. My boyfriend took me to the emergency room, where after several hours of waiting I finally received an ultrasound and explanation of what had happened. This brought me little clarity. In middle school health classes I'd remembered labelling diagrams of penises, and jokes being made about crusty socks; no mention of the fluid filled sacks that might one day affix themselves to my ovaries to later explode during sex. I was now being told these growths were fairly standard amongst women, usually benign...though could at times be cancerous, swell to the size of a grapefruit, and cause extreme pain if twisted or ruptured. My cyst had been about the size of a grape, there was nothing they could do to help, and I would just have to wait until it disappeared on it's own. "Take some ibuprofen for the pain".

It happened again when I was 24. I’d gone on a dud of a date earlier that evening, my first in some time, and was awoken by an excruciating abdominal pang in the middle of the night. My immediate thought was “Is this what heartache feels like?” because I couldn’t think of anything else that should hurt this much. I’d had another pelvic ultrasound several months before, that had revealed six small active cysts divided between my two ovaries. Again I’d been told there was nothing to be done to aid or prevent another rupture, so when it finally happened I didn’t even bother going to the hospital.

Last spring I was diagnosed with Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome (PCOS)—or rather I had heard of the term, asked my doctors if they thought I might have it, and they were like “Yeah, maybe?” I wanted to know what was going on in my body, why it was happening, and how to control these unwanted occurrences in future. Unfortunately western medicine and my gynaecologist had none of these answers. PCOS was one of several classifications ascribed to women with “hormonal imbalances” though the more I learned about it the less black and white it became. Diagnosis didn’t come by way of samples or scans, rather the ticking of boxes on a list of common symptoms. A fair few of the bullets applied to me; I was prone to heavy periods, struggled with acne since puberty, and of course dealt with recurrent ovarian cysts. Other indicators had me wondering who exactly was deciding what “normal” was...was having thick hair proof of PCOS or just of my half greek heritage? Was not being obese enough of a reason to not diagnosis me, when I checked all of the other boxes? I was confused by what was going on in my body, and the “experts” seemed equally unsure.

A month ago on Christmas Day I’d driven down to my best friend’s family cabin in the woods to celebrate. I’d been chopping leeks for a galette we were collectively making, when I felt a sudden twinge in my abdomen. I excused myself from the kitchen where my friend and her father were merrily sautéing, trying not to draw any attention to myself, and sat on a dinning room chair for what I assumed would only be a moment to catch my breath. My period was due any day, this was probably just routine cramps, nothing to fuss over...but suddenly I couldn’t stand up. With my arms clutching my middle, Jules led me to the couch where she told me to rest while they finished preparing dinner.

I was so embarrassed. Her family had welcomed me in to their home and here I was making a scene, drawing attention, expecting to be waited on—and over period cramps?! I was no stranger to hurt, in all of her varied shapes and forms. I was the rough and tumble kind of kid who broke bones regularly and got right back up without complaint, and the kind of adult who preferred to keep any sufferings on incognito mode. My periods were regularly nine days of heavy bleeding, that was my normal since I was 12. I’d accepted that my pain tolerance might have been higher than others because it had to be, and as a result I judged my own value on my ability to persevere. As I saw it pain and discomfort were choices to succumb to, or else to find ways of overcoming, and I’d long since decided not to let anguish dictate my life.

I pushed my way through Christmas dinner and a movie, brushed off any attempts for help from those surrounding me, and profusely apologized for not being a more fun guest. I couldn’t sleep the entire night from the aching, and the next morning Jules drove me back to the city. I needed to be in my own bed, with my heating pad pressed against my tummy, and most of all I needed to cry which I would’ve never allowed myself to do in front of others.

It was difficult to walk up the stairs in my home, difficult to use the bathroom, and I had little appetite. The extreme soreness lasted around four days after which it began fading, gone completely after about a week and a half. My period didn’t arrive until day five, so I was becoming more convinced that something else was going on. My doctor wrote me a requisition for two different kinds of ultrasounds. During the first lubricant was spread along my lower belly and a computer mouse sized device rolled across it, like you’ve probably seen done in every movie featuring pregnancy. Part two involved the same nice lady shoving a foot long phallus up my vagina, with a camera on the end to take several internal photos, while talking about the weather. I’d asked her if everything looked normal, and tried not to let it worry me when she said that my doctor would call within a week to let me know.

Yesterday I got my results. They’d discovered another cyst on my left ovary that was sizeable, 5x4cm about the size of a lime, as well as a fibroid in my uterus. I was ashamed to have to ask what a fibroid was; another kind of growth in a different location filled with muscular tissue instead of liquid. My doctor requested that I get another ultrasound this week, and that if I had any pain in the meantime I should go straight to the emergency room.

I’m scared. I’ve learned these things are fairly normal, one in five women will experience ovarian cysts in their lifetime, but I feel wholly unprepared and uneducated about the things happening inside of my own body. When I told my roommate what had happened on Christmas he told me that his mother had just had a cyst removed that was at risk for being cancerous. My own mother had a cyst removed, when she wasn’t much older than I am now, after causing complications during child birth. If these occurrences are so common than why don’t we hear more about them? Educate our children on the risks that living inside of a female body can entail? Why don’t we have better ways of dealing with these issues when they arise, other than simply grinning and bearing it?

I hate that my Christmas was shit for a completely unforeseeable reason. I hate that on top of an array of issues in my life, my body keeps finding new and creative ways to self destruct. I hate that other peoples bodies aren’t. I hate how despite working out five days a week, I’ve been internally beating myself up for my abs not being more defined while a swelling citrus fruit is taking up residence inside of me. I hate that my topmost concern when imagining the possibility of surgery is how it might affect the way I look in a bikini next summer. I hate knowing that if testicular cysts were a thing we would already have a cure. Most of all though, I hate how I didn’t cry when I needed to. That I felt a deep shame for my ache, a guilt for hurting. There’s a lot that life throws my way, and there will be more, but if there’s anything I owe myself it’s the tenderness that the world does not always offer. I’m slowly learning that there is a certain kind of bravery and strength that comes with owning your pain.