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Rise Above

my abdomen. How could this happen again? Didn’t we solve this two years ago? Had another cyst ruptured? One ER trip later and a doctor told me I needed emergency surgery for a septic appendix. Apparently, I should have been in way more pain than I was. They found cysts on my Fallopian tubes while they were in there and removed those cysts as well.

Not even six months later, I was back under the

surgical knife for a massive ovarian cyst. In two and a half years, I’d had three surgeries. My belly button was pulled slightly now from all the laparoscopic surgeries I’d had. Thankfully, all my surgeries had been day ones, and I got to go home right away. It didn’t mean I liked the surgeries though. They were expensive and annoying; it made me feel like a financial burden. My family wasn’t rich, and surgery wasn’t cheap.

Surgery number four came at nineteen, roughly four

months after the last one. This time I couldn’t blame my body’s uncanny ability to produce cysts. No, I had blown my knee out in an intramural game. The MRI had shown I tore my ACL, MCL, and meniscus. The surgeon referred to one ligament as “shredded.” Of all the surgeries I’d had at that point, knee recovery was the worst. I had to learn to do everything again: walking, running, stairs, and more. It never occurred to me how much I used my knee until I couldn’t use it for twelve weeks. Thankfully that surgery was over summer break. I’d also never been more thankful toward my mother for being by my side during my painful recovery.

On my twentieth birthday after nearly five months

of being surgery free, I managed to shatter my left thumb during an indoor soccer game. The pain I felt from the

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break was unbearable. I thought I knew pain, but this had literally taken my breath away. Hand surgery was worse than knee surgery. The therapy I had to go through while still in school was radical, painful, and intense. It was at this point I became bitter and resentful. Why did these things keep happening to me? It seemed wildly unfair.

Those weren’t even the extent of my medical

trauma, but my ringing phone brought me out of my memories. “Aife Gomez.” I said into the phone.

“Hello, Ms. Gomez, this is Camilla from Dr. Su’s

office.”

“Yes ma’am?” Anxiety rolled through my body. “I’ve got the results of your most recent MRI.

Everything looks great. You’ll have another follow-up next year. Any questions?”

“No. Thank you, Camilla.” Relief entered my body,

melting all the tension from my body, practically into the ground. My shoulders and neck felt like the entire world was off my body. As much as I owed Dr. Su and his team my life, his office was still the one I feared the most. He literally saved my life, and I could never repay him.

For some reason, tears welled in my eyes. Clearly

I’d been stressing myself out, and the relief at hearing everything was okay made me cry. Doctors had caused me so much unwanted and unnecessary trauma. I really and truly had a love/hate relationship with them. Anyone that had chronic pain or chronic illnesses understood that. In my opinion, doctors were a necessary evil. There had been a point where I literally had crying, panic attacks before

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appointments. I never wanted to be at that place again, which was one reason I chose to pursue my PhD.

Sighing, I turned back to my laptop. There were still

several articles I needed to read in order to complete the first thirty pages of my dissertation. My advisor and I were planning on having half my paper completed by Christmas. We wanted to have the full thing done by May so we could have a number of months to edit and finalize while also planning my defense. That idea made me extremely nervous—even as someone who spoke for a living. Thankfully, I had plenty of months to prepare myself for that moment.

The ping of my phone brought me out of my

research haze. Shaking my head a bit, I answered the phone. “Yes?”

“What you doing?” Davis asked. He sounded tired. “Research and then plans to write. You?”

“Same. Can I come over? I need an accountability