Even with the craziness of having a couple of really small kids, I decided I would dedicate some time to writing every single day. My first project was more for me. I am not sure I should ever pursue publishing that manuscript because I wrote it as fiction, but it is mostly creative nonfiction with a twist. After writing it, I realized I wanted to write one of my real stories. I set out to write my mastectomy story. I even sent out a few letters to agents, nobody wanting to publish yet.
Then I had Dominic, and a few more babies and that brings me to today. Where do I stand as a writer and when will I ever find time to write again? I write this blog and that is about it for now. We will see. I am thinking about some fiction. I figure I will write when I can and maybe self publish, or write more queries later. I love the writing part, like less the rewriting part, and look forward least to the idea of trying to convince someone my work is worth reading.
Just for fun, I want to post a section of My Mastectomy Tale: One Breast Less.
Drinking orange goo, while staring at a rather intimidating tunnel I was about to enter, was just the beginning of my MRI introduction. I sat gulping the orange soda flavored stuff (orange soda flavor seriously gone wrong), feeling queasy with each sip. I never really liked soda much to begin with, but this tasted much worse.
The room was beige, even the machine I was about to spend a fair amount of time in was beige. This was a nice change from all the dazzling white doctor’s offices I had spent so much time in. I sat in the room wishing the warmth of the wall coloring would help me feel better, but I was overcome by the same sensations I experienced in just about every doctor’s office. I felt hollow and empty.
“I have a selection of CDs for you to choose from. The procedure will last roughly forty-five minutes,” the technician informed me.
The stack of CDs was filled with people I had never heard of until I reached for a cover that looked slightly familiar. It was a white cover with glamorous Celine Dion on the front.
“This one,” I pointed at it feeling deeply embarrassed.
Telling people what music I liked was like unlocking one of my most treasured secrets. I am not sure why, but I have always felt as if nobody understood my taste in music, so I always tried to keep it to myself. Celine Dion brought back a lot of memories for me. She was the person I listened to when I was painting my nails odd colors of purple, blue, and magenta in junior high. My first prank calls to cute boys included me playing “My Heart Will Go On” for their answering machines. In any case, Celine Dion was the perfect distraction for a rather lengthy MRI. I had no idea eliciting past memories would save my sanity.
My whole body was encompassed in a tube, one breast in a hole. I felt as if the hole might suck up my entire body if I was not careful. Song after song played and it is a CD I am so acquainted with I knew what was about to play next. I could even judge how long it might take until the entire CD was finished. Around such a time, I would no longer have to lie in the tube.
My stomach felt queasy. My entire body limp. It was probably a good thing that nobody explained what an MRI was like prior to my experience. I wanted to jump out several times. Forget my trip down memory lane through Celine Dion’s amazing voice. If I did not get out soon, I might puke. What would happen if I did? Was there some kind of button to press for assistance?
The music had stopped a few minutes ago and my brain ran away with the nauseous sensation. Where was the nice MRI technician? I NEEDED to get out of this thing.
Just as I felt like I could not stand one more minute of the tube, I heard footsteps and the technician was ready to let me out. Thankfully, I never puked and the feeling left me the instant I left the tube.
Moments like the MRI experience reminded me of the reality of my situation. The lump could be serious and the MRI was merely a machine that allowed the doctor to make a more accurate assessment of my situation.
So there I was reliving a difficult time in my life, but I must say writing was a great way to process everything I went through. As I live more, there are even more topics to write about. I must say I really enjoy thinking about new topics to explore. Not only are there more things to write about, but there are different ways to write. Fiction, plays, creative nonfiction, poetry. . . my favorite writer, Victor Hugo, explored all genres of writing, and I hope to as well.
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