I love how time allows us to revisit experiences that were cringe-worthy at the time. Those bloody-awful events which made us want to curl up in a ball when they happened. Three years ago, I had plastic surgery after removal of some tumours on my face. Long story short, I had been on high doses of hormones to try and reverse the premature menopause I found myself in. We wanted to try IVF, and give our daughter a sibling. Instead, I found myself with what I thought were warts. “Great, I really am a crone now,” I thought to myself. I thought they would be frozen off, but instead, I was sent to a skin specialist, and then found myself receiving plastic surgery. I was chattering in a deep and meaningful manner, under light sedation, completely off my trolley. Not helpful when one’s surgeon is attempting to do a flap repair and remove a tumour to one’s chin. “We will need to knock this girl out,” I heard. Then, they knocked me out. Over the next few days, I couldn’t speak, as I had stitches to my chin and forehead, two black eyes and a bandaged face.
I was waiting to see if these tumours were a nasty cancer, and also whether the HRT I had bombarded my system with had worked and I would be able to do IVF again. I would find out both sets of news at two different places on the same day. Feeling as though I had absolutely no control over my life, let alone the outcomes, I became desperate. Desperate to find my place. Desperate to feel connected. What happens next is why I view fountains with fondness.