Brooke Berman
2024: 100 thousand praises
PRAISE (BE) MEDICINE: 100 blessings
BB/2023
Two summers ago, I took part in the Silent Writers Army retreat online. As the mother of a middle schooler, the “silent” part was only part-time, while my son was at day camp; the rest of the me I was on duty.
On the first day of the Silent Retreat in 2021, I visited a new doctor. She told me that I needed a hysterectomy. I said “Fuck no.” She wrote me a prescription for a pill that was meant to curb the one symptom of my uterine fibroids: unending blood.
I lei her office in tears. I wept openly on the Upper East Side of Manhaan, not the fancy part.
At that point, my attitude towards most Western medicine and all surgery was: The Medical Establishment is out to get women.
After getting the bloodwork she had requested. I chose not to go back to that doctor, although I wrote about her quite a bit in the weeks that followed.
Inspired in part by this visit and by an article Erik sent about Joni Mitchell’s health, I spent the rest of the summer writing what I’d later call “The Joni Shirley Project.”
I had written about Joni Mitchell in the past. When I was a teenager, I copied her albums onto cassette from the local public library and heard, on my local radio station, that she was “the patron saint of lonely girls everywhere.” Misogyny aside, I took her as mine.
Shirley is an archetype described in the Herman Wouk novel Marjorie Morningstar. The character of Noel, Marjorie’s love interest, claims that most artistically-leaning Jewish girls are actually aspiring to marriage and motherhood whether they admit it or not. Indeed, this is what becomes of our heroine, Marjorie. This is blatantly misogynist.
But sometimes, as a middle-aged wife and mother, I worry that I have fallen into the chasm of Shirley – school meetings, parent teacher conferences, playdates and playgrounds, doctor appointments, and now high school tours.
Mostly, during that retreat, I wrote about the legacy of having been raised by a sick mother. My mother, Marilyn, was diagnosed with Type 1 Diabetes after I was born. She developed kidney disease and went on dialysis; she had two transplants, a leg amputation, glaucoma, and heart trouble, all exacerbated by extreme diabetes. Clearly my hatred of “the medical establishment” is rooted in all this.
My mother had a hysterectomy during the fall of my first year in graduate school. She called me from the hospital, apparently having a psychotic reaction to the painkillers to warn me that the nurses were trying to kill her.
In my 20’s I had a therapist who said that the body of the mother is, essentially, God to young children. We construct our view of reality based on our mothers and the safety or lack of safety that we feel in her presence.
As my wring took shape, I wrote about Joni, Shirley, my sick mom, and my evolving relaonship to being the mother of my son. I wrote about the Kingdom of the Sick and the Kingdom of the Healthy. Joni Mitchell was a guide who could carry me between the realms.
Doesn’t that sound like Game of Thrones? Or Persephone?
I remembered how, as a young woman, Joni embodied possibility; she showed us that we could fuck Leonard Cohen on a beach in Greece or Sam Shepard in the canyons (no regrets, Coyote). One could spend all night in the studio, sit in a park in Paris France, or stumble home from people’s parties and essentially, be whole. And create.
I consulted a psychic who suggested that I get a second opinion about my uterine fibroids from three different doctors and choose to follow the one I liked best. (She also advised taking red clover tincture, which I was later told was estrogenic – and therefore, not helpful at all.)
SIDEBAR: In August, I visited an organic farm that grew red clover and meditated close to the brilliant pink flowers, more fuchsia than red, before taking the tincture. I did indeed feel that the essence of red clover might be germane to my discovering who I wanted to become and was bummed when I learned I’d have to stop taking it. Whatever.
The four-week writing retreat ended. I had a deck of cards and a map of the two kingdoms and a list of scenes that might be in The Joni-Shirley Project, but no play.
I scheduled the three appointments – two covered by my Medicaid and one “out of pocket.” Which is a brilliant expression because my pockets were essenally empty.
I asked my body, “What do you want me to learn here?” I was unclear about the answer.
I asked the fibroid itself, “What are you here to teach me?” She said, “Trust doctors.”
The third doctor, who I had to wait months to see, told me, “I see no need for surgery... The only problem you have is that your body still makes estrogen.” Praise Be! Healthy, I closed this chapter.
A few weeks later I bled through my clothes. In the car, on a road trip. We had to pull over. No one would let me use their (non-public) bathroom. I changed out of my now-destroyed jeans in an alley next to a pizza takeout place. I shimmied into a dress that had been in my suitcase, which was in the trunk. I sent my husband to buy more pads. We had to pull over twice more on the way home and all of this was in front of my 10- year son; it was humiliating.
But at least my son will not be someone who shrinks from menstrual blood. Or the people who pass it.
For the next 18 months I took the pill prescribed by the doctor in number 1. My periods lasted for 8 days. I bled like a crazy wild hurt bleeding thing, uncontrollably.
I tried: acupuncture, herbs, a low-estrogen diet, special underwear that promised to hold leaks (it didn’t; also it was taken off the market for some chemical infraction), something called “binaural beats” recommended by a dramaturg -- and prayer.
Finally, I just stopped going anywhere one week of each month.
I told myself that eventually Menopause would come and rescue me, and at least that would give Menopause some positive connotations because in every other way it sounded like hell.
I made a movie. Did I mention that during all of this, I was in production for a feature film?
Time passed. Nothing changed, and then --
On February 1, 2023, I started bleeding and never stopped.
You might think the word “never” is hyperbolic, but I assure you it isn’t.
I began this epic bleed in Cambridge, MA, the morning after interviewing for a job at Harvard. I woke up bleeding and crying. Eventually I stopped crying.
With the exception of two weeks in mid-March, for good behavior, I had a 5-month period culminating in the very surgery I said I’d never have — a hysterectomy.
I paid out of pocket to consult a Nurse Practitioner at the female-owned practice I’d go to if I had real health insurance. She said, “We have to stop the bleeding” and put me on hormonal birth control.
I’d mostly avoided hormonal birth control 1) because my mother always claimed it made her diabetic, 2) because everyone I knew in my 20’s said it was bad and 2) because the one time I did try it, the additional estrogen made me nauseous, dizzy and also like I wanted to hurl myself off a building. But I took it in March of 2023.
I didn’t bleed for two weeks. Then I started to bleed again. I was often nauseous.
Every doctor ever, including the NP, told me that if I “bled too much” I should go to ER. So one day, feeling particularly lousy, I went to the ER. They didn’t help me. My husband had said, “Don’t go to the ER.” He was right.
The NP set me up with a surgeon, who I also paid out of pocket and who said it was time to consider surgery. She said, “Your uterus is angry.”
My angry uterus and I began to interview surgeons who would take my shitty-ass Medicaid. (Which turned out to be fine and only slightly shitty-ass).
Because of the epic blood-loss, I was tired and cold most of the time. My abdomen felt bloated but also hard. I started calling the fibroid “my alien baby.”
I asked my body, “What do you think of all this?” My body said, “It’s me.”
A wave of abject terror set in.
I called one of my late mother’s best friends and asked, “With all the medical interventions, why didn’t my mom get better?” THIS I realized was the real question. It wasn’t really about The Medical Establishment; it was about the tragedy of my mother’s body.
I found a doctor I liked. He cracked a joke about my insufficient use of birth-control and let me know how much he hates “criers.” I told him I’m a crier and that in my 20’s, withdrawal really did seem like a good opon. I decided to trust him.
I set a date for this surgery. The thing I most feared. I fucking ran right towards it.
I FUCKING RAN TOWARDS IT.
I scheduled a few sessions with my Qui Gong teacher and with a somac Craniosacral bodyworker who is also a yoga teacher and radical lesbian; she remembered doing coke at CBGB’s and I felt at home with her even though I’ve never done coke. I did used to go to CBGB’s though.
I put a picture of Kali on my altar and imagined going into battle. (I know, this is cultural appropriaon, but it was suggested by a Bipoc woman and it helped.)
My film got into a festival. I celebrated.
My union went on strike. The first me I showed up to picket, I bled through my clothing.
I bled through my clothing on the bus.
I bled through my clothing on another picket line.
I bled my clothing so often that I started wearing only black clothing from the waist down.
I gained eight pounds, either from the birth control pills or from my engorged uterus. The fibroid now measured close to 11cm.
When you’re pregnant, you can sign up for these newsleers that tell you, each month, what fruit or vegetable your developing fetus resembles. (This month, your baby is the size of a grapefruit!”) They don’t do that for fibroids.
I decided to go to the film festival and watch my film in front of an audience for the first time. I packed only black clothing.
At the premiere, I prayed I wouldn’t bleed through my clothing.
At the opening night party, I prayed I wouldn’t bleed through my clothing.
Every day, I felt red.
At the airport, coming home, I prayed I would not bleed through my clothing.
When I got back from the festival, I was ready.
On the day of surgery, I took the East River Ferry to the hospital and walked in, calm.
The surgery lasted four hours.
The uterus was eight pounds when they removed it.
They wouldn’t let me leave the recovery room until I peed, which took another four hours.
An outpatient procedure. They sent me home at 2AM.
For the next few days, I was in pain, but I felt clear and strong and relieved. I felt like myself, and I guess I was worried that without a uterus I would feel like someone else.
I did not take opioids.
Erik and I emailed about this praise thing. I said, “I haven’t done a hundred anything except possibly bleed through 100 pairs of jeans, purchase at least 100 maxi pads, and overcome my deeply rooted fear of doctors.” He said that was enough and noted that in my email to him, I had written at least 100 words.
I thought more about Joni Mitchell. I loved that article Erik had sent on Joni and the bug disease.
I thought about the writing I’d done during the 2021 retreat and how I’d unearthed shadows of where the archetype of Sick Mother lived in me.
I returned to the deck of cards I’d made during that retreat in which I mapped out the two lands. What could I learn from it?
I tried to rest.
Resting is really hard for me, so I tried to do less.
Doing less lasted about three weeks and then I tried to not try; and essentially, do less anyway but walk a mile a day.
I felt tired. A lot.
I took naps.
I took a nap today.
I learned a new language, which is the language of needing to nap.
I meditated every day, sometimes twice.
I put all of my remaining Maxi Pads in a Ziplock bag and offered them up in the local “Buy Nothing” group. A high school teacher claimed them; she’s going to keep them in her office for students.
On my follow-up visit, the surgeon said it all looked good and I could (mostly) get back to my life. Everything except intercourse and heavy lifting. I told him that I was going to include “laundry” in the “sex and heavy lifting” category.
I asked the surgeon “What’s up with the other internal organs and the way they’re adjusting to all of this new space inside the abdomen?” He said, “They’re all fine.”
I asked these organs, “Do you miss Uterus? How do you feel without her there?” My organs said, “She was a bully who took up too much space. We’re glad she’s gone.”
My acupuncturist said that there is internal scarring. My surgeon disagrees.
Which brings us to praise. I feel so much of it these days.
Praise be the medical establishment!
Praise be my husband who took care of me through every stage of the above!
Praise be my son who my husband insisted come see me in the Recovery Room and who must have been freaked beyond words to witness his mother right after surgery.
Sidebar: my son has spent the last four or five months saying, “You should’ve taken care of that fibroid years ago,” because he has heard me tell the story of how, after he was born, the ob/gyn said, “Let me get rid of that fibroid for you,” and I said, “No that’s okay, I’m good.”
Praise be Medicaid, even if I did have to call numerous times to get them to acknowledge my claims.
My scars are fading.
Every night I put Calendula ointment on them. The Calendula ointment is from the same farm as the red clover tincture. Maybe they shared a plot of land.
On July 1, when I was roughly a week post-op, Erik sent this email, you probably got it too. He said: Had a dream the other night that laid out three stages of a creave process: start from healing (an impulse to grow), followed by risk, and ending with finding/making/being inscribed by the right wound (in a surgical sense, or the cutting of the umbilical). I was definitely inscribed with the right wound, and now that wound is healing. What does it MEAN?
I’m constantly amazed by the human body’s ability to repair. I felt this way after childbirth, after Covid certainly, and now, after surgery. The fact that I “feel like myself again” is monumental.
But okay, if in a Buddhist sense, there is no lasting, ongoing “self” what exactly is this return? What is returned to?
I kept my two ovaries. Which means, while I no longer bleed, my body still makes estrogen. Will know if and when I experience “Menopause”?
Does it matter?
When envisioning the “energetic womb,” where my uterus used to be, I see a beehive. Beehives are a place of fertility and transmutation. Winnie the Pooh and all his friends know, beehives mean...
HONEY.