A Different Kind of Oedipal Complex

So in Greek Mythology, when a baby of some consequence is born, the oracle is consulted. The oracle then says something along the lines of “Baby Oedipus will kill his father and marry his mother.” Then the parents freak out, send the baby away, and later, when the baby is an adult, the baby freaks out and runs away in order to avoid the predicted fate. The kicker, of course, is that by trying to avoid the predicted fate, the actions necessary to fulfill said fate are instead put into motion.

When I was sixteen years old, my friend Victor and I went to see a witch in Mexico. She told me I would not live to see 25. I turn 25 in September. Last Friday, doctors found a tumor attached to my uterus.

It’s about 9.8 cm x 4.3 cm x 6.9 cm. The size of a potato. A lumpy and mean potato. A benign, non-cancerous, non-fatal potato. I will, most likely, live to see 25. So that’s good news. Doesn’t mean I don’t secretly think that shit is starting to go down.

Questions I’ve been asked recently that I haven’t answered: How’s the Book going? What do you think about George Carlin dying? Why haven’t you blogged anything in a month? Where are you? Have you been blown away? What’s on your mind these days?

The books is going along. I’m making (slow) progress, although now that this tumor business has cropped up, I’m not sure what I’ll be able to do. I’m bummed about Carlin, but I got to see him live twice, and I got to shake his hand once. He’s the other half of my crush on Kurt Vonnegut and he’s one of the key influences upon my sense of humor. I do have a sense of humor, you know. I haven’t blogged anything in a month because I’ve been traveling, writing this book, falling apart and piecing myself back together, over and over again. I’m afraid of my computer and what I’ll say. I’m afraid that I’m too emotional to make sense. I’m afraid that I’ve lost clarity and objectivity. I don’t quite know where I am at any given moment. I’m in Houston right now, but tomorrow I fly to McAllen to get a second opinion on the tumor (or at least what to do with it). Although, I do have surgery scheduled for next week Wednesday in Houston. And I’m terrified of surgery. And I’m terrified of tumors. And I’m now going to be terrified of potatoes. I haven’t been blown away yet, but I’m getting close. Edwidge Danticat is a wonderful writer. And there are too many prostitutes in this world to justify spending a whole chapter of my book on the one who deflowered my favorite cousin.

Samson once told me I was maudlin and full of self-pity. Now I’m maudlin and full of fibroids.

See, there’s that sense of humor again.

Renee says that maybe I psychosomatically did this. I told myself I wasn’t going to live to twenty-five and so I gave myself a tumor. A fibroid. A mass. The size of a yam. Well in that case, I have options.

Option one: surgery. Do what I would do no matter what. Don’t alter the fate, just roll with it.

Option two: ignore the hell out of this thing. What’s it going to do? Grow? Eat me alive? Become cancerous and kill me before I’m 25?

Good news: It won’t prevent me having children. And if it’s attached to the ovary then we’ll slice that up and just pray nothing happens to the one on the left. That one’s looking pretty good. I love you, left ovary.

How’d the doctors find the tumor, you ask? Well, Thursday night/early Friday morning (3AM) I went to the emergency room with severe abdominal pain. Severe that I passed out. In the parking lot of the apartment building. In a puddle of water. Classy. And they put me in the CT to rule out appendicitis and other lurking things and instead found a candied yam playing hopskotch with my reproductibles. Bigger than the uterus. Bigger than your face.

I can’t believe I passed out in a puddle. That’s so pathetic. I usually pass out in much classier places. Like mountain-top lakes.

Adri at Mountain Top Lake

All I wanted for lunch today was Olive Garden, and Pete conceded, since I was stressed out to the point of yanking my hair out and quitting humanity. But we didn’t know where the Olive Garden was, so we ate at Pappas Barbeque. And as we left, we saw the Olive Garden up ahead and the right. Guess it wasn’t meant to be. Not in the cards so to speak.

Pete hates the Olive Garden. I secretly love it. Then again, I also secretly love buffet (any buffet will do).

I’m fine. I feel fine. I’m not in pain anymore. I’ve named the potato Ernst. But I actually call it Loplop. I’ll probably be having some kind of surgery next week. In lieu of flowers, please send cherry Fresca.

If you pray, please ask the Oracle to be nice to me. I’m not trying to escape my fate, I’m just hoping if I stop resisting then it will all play out in my favor. Try not to set too many things into motion. Try to breathe. Try not to be so scared. Just try.