SIZE OF A GRAPEFRUIT

Apr 2

[An excerpt from TedxMaplewood]

Size of a Grapefruit, by Eva Woolridge

On the evening of August 31st, 2018 I was channeling the goddess of rap, Lil Kim. Wearing a white jumpsuit with one sleeve under my armpit and a seashell pastie to cover my right breast, I transformed into her iconic VMA award outfit. It was a themed party-- and I was prepared to win the costume contest.

Immediately upon arrival, I started experiencing abdominal pains that I presumed to be cramps--however more severe then what I've ever experienced before. In a room full of ponytailed J-Lo’s, Andre 3000s, and other beautiful examples of how bad 2000s fashion was, I felt isolated in my pain.

Within three weeks I was rushed to the hospital for severe abdominal pains and diagnosed with a 8 cm dermoid cyst. To help patients understand the size of a cyst, doctors often compare it with a fruit. Mine was the size of a grapefruit.

When anything traumatic happens to us in our lives, it can take weeks, months or years to process thoroughly, if at all. Some people won’t, but the importance is to attempt to process and move forward. My method was through photography. I created a visual narrative called Size of a Grapefruit to highlight the emotional stages from before, during and after my surgery. Each photograph represents a key event from that day. This helped me slow down, dissect and reflect on how I felt about it.

Three weeks following the costume party, I was in Denial. I had a consistent stream of pain, that felt like a dull knife pressing my right abdomen, and I brushed it off. I would quiet the voice that told me something was wrong. And this shouldn’t surprise people today. Because women are conditioned to quiet our natural intuition that something is wrong. We are instead told to not make a scene, or refrain from being “dramatic.” On September 17th 2018 that dull pain suddenly sharpened.

Blinding Pain made me struggle to stay on my feet, and stay conscious while on my way to urgent care. Once there, I was panicking from the excruciating pain, simultaneous dry heaving, and general fear from not knowing the cause when the white, female doctor glanced at me with little concern, told me it was probably food poisoning, and jokingly asked where I ate sushi the night before so she could avoid the restaurant. Now you would think that the physical pain would be enough to deal with, but as a Black woman, it’s only a part of a much larger, psychological pain we experience: the pain of medical negligence. Her negligence became a figurative Thorn in my side.

Once at the hospital there were three moments of Shock that I had experienced. The first was shock at waiting for 40 min behind a woman with a sprained ankle, despite the urgency of my condition. The second was shock from the three residents, doctor and myself once discovering the size of the cyst. And the third was finding out that my cyst was the sixth cyst the doctors had removed that week.

I was in and out of consciousness. I heard my dad ask the doctor whether it was necessary for him to remove my right ovary, as the doctor was insisting. And in my case, it was as the cyst turned and wrapped around my fallopian tube cutting off all blood flow from reaching my right ovary. I had to Surrender as my Dad pressed forward with his questions.

It’s unfortunate that Black people can’t rely on the doctors’ first diagnosis, reflecting on our history experiencing microaggressions, neglect, and non-consensual surgeries. Fanny Lou Hamer for example, was a Black human rights activist from Mississippi. In 1961, Hamer received a hysterectomy by a white doctor without her consent while undergoing surgery to remove a uterine tumor. Such forced sterilization of black women was a way to reduce the black population, and it was so widespread that it was dubbed a “Mississippi appendectomy.” My dad was going to ensure that an ovary removal was absolutely necessary.

I spent the next two months feeling isolated, confused and depressed. How could my body betray me like this? What if I couldn’t have a period again? Will it be harder for me to have kids, if even possible? I needed to show how much Weight those thoughts had on my healing process, how heavy this grapefruit really was.

And at my check up, my surgeon only told me that my cyst was Dermoid, and that it had hair, teeth and brain cells. When I told my Dad, he responded with what I believe is the most appropriate way to handle such news which was by sending an image of the Alien growth from the classic movie Alien. That’s called good parenting.

I was so shocked by the details of my diagnosis, that I didn’t ask my questions. And the doctor didn’t prompt for any. I was left to process on my own, Inspect my condition through research and Reflection.It took a year to really acknowledge the trauma I had experienced. Creating this series gave me a place to channel all of my questions, frustrations, guilt, and what ifs.

In August 2019, I had an opportunity to offer what I learned from this experience. I won the Leica Women in Foto Project that addressed any social issue a woman experiences today. I made mine about my surgery, the microaggressions and malpractice black women experience during medical emergencies, and outdated information in reproductive health.

In the end it wasn’t the award or recognition that helped me move forward, (although it helped) but how accessible my experience was to help Empower others. People were reaching out to me about how my story gave them courage to share their own trauma with cysts and or medical negligence.It shows what a powerful vessel art is to not only heal, but to dismantle and progress social conditions. What a gift it is to create a visual representation of a traumatic experience, and create a platform that demands people to acknowledge, and take action.

Activist sculpture Simone Leigh is an example of an artist who puts a mirror up to societal conditions. In 2016 she created The Waiting Room, an exhibition to tribute Esmin Elizabeth Green, a black patient who died on the floor of Kings County hospital. Esmin waited 24 hours to see a doctor, fell out of her chair and died on the floor from blood clots. A surveillance video shows security guards walking past her as she lies motionless on the waiting room floor. A nurse eventually checked her pulse 30 min after she died.

Like in Leigh’s work there is power in art to heal and help us progress toward better conditions. And in the age of the CoronaVirus pandemic we need to expose this medical negligence now more than ever. Asthma is one of the biggest conditions for Black people, and yet we are the ethnic group statistically most likely to die from malpractice and negligence.

As artists, we can use our talent to expose the healthcare system for what it is and what it is not. Use the tools of creativity to heal and progress forward.

TO FIND MORE OF EVA’S WORK FOLLOW HER ON IG @ewphotos1 AND FOLLOW @reddotcampaign FOR HER WORK SPREADING AWARENESS ON MENSTRUAL HEALTH!