I bet that many of us not in the profession have random medical terms floating in our heads. I can tell an adipo from an adreno and I’d prefer an oscopy over an ectomy any day. I know medical colors too, like cyano, cirrh, and xanth. I remember ovo-, ovi-, ov-. But I didn’t know about oo (egg, ovum) or ooph (ovary, egg-bearing.) Ooph. Oeuf.

Where this is going is that I had an oophorectomy last week. When I first found out I needed one, I thought it sounded kind of fun and cartoony, like I was going to have a small Dr. Suess creature removed from my abdomen. It was less fun that that, but pretty easy as surgeries go.

My friend Donna emailed me, “I could cook you dinner like I'm making for my family tonight but I wonder if you really want a tuna fish sandwich with sweet pickles?” That sounded more like a dish to offer someone who was pregnant. I declined. This recovery is distinctly in the other direction.

I’m fine; please don't bring food, unless they are Rice Krispy Treats made with real Rice Krispies and fresh marshmallows. I like them just-made, butter never margarine, and a little warm, so please plan the baking and driving carefully, especially with all this snow.


  1. One of the most moving experiences of my medical training was assisting in surgeries involving the uterus and ovaries. The awe inspired by that miraculous organ and its little universe always got me. We should have a worship system based on female reproduction (instead of virgin birth). The ovaries, wow. That everything is there,ready to grow when a baby girl is born. That a little pear grows to hold a baby and shrinks back almost immediately. I hope you raised a glass to your dear departed ovary, which, after all, did the world proud. Now may you get away without hot flashes.

  2. No flashes yet, but thank you for the idea of raising a glass. In my distraction of it being a medical procedure and its inherent stresses I didn't really give that ovary its due. A pysanky egg to the divine system is being designed in my head.