Lock Me Up for Murder
But not a real murder, that's cruel*
I may never go to jail for it, but it was definitely murder**. I murdered my cyster.
WARNING: You may find some of the images presented here disturbing or disgusting. I know I do.
I had a twin in utero and she implanted above my eye as a cyst. I am convinced it was a girl because “cyster” and sister are the same and that is just, plain funny. I think I murdered her in anticipation of the nasty boyfriend-kissing incident in grade 9 — that bitch!
That is possibly all in my head but it sure seems real.
Anyway, my family always thought the lump of hair was a pimple that grew out of my head. They heated it, squeezed it and the hair and puss (sorry) would come out and it would go away for a period of time. Heat, squeeze, repeat.
My twin kept growing.
When I got to about grade 7 or 8 my twin was the size of a ping pong ball growing above my eyebrow, partially closing my right eye. Kids are mean, so you can imagine what they said to me not even knowing it was my twin. Had they known, I think they would have been instructed by their parents to leave the conjoined girl alone and to stop staring.
Heating and squeezing no longer worked.
I will never forget the day that Joanne (I am saying and typing her name with a sneer for effect) caught me off guard with a chest pass in basketball and it landed directly on my eye — which was her intent. My twin exploded. I cried humiliating tears. The kids laughed. This had to end.
But my cyster was all over the ball and class had to be canceled.
Vindication.
My father took me to the doctor and scheduled a time for the removal to be done in office. I remember the lame anesthetic. I told my doctor I could still feel everything and he said I couldn’t. He kept telling me that it was just the pressure I was feeling and to keep still. He cut, squeezed and I was screaming like he was killing me not knowing that he was actually murdering my twin sister/cyster. I can only imagine what my father was thinking in the neighboring room. I still have trouble with anesthetics and often just go without at the dentist because they have to stick me so many times.
Back to my twin. The doctor couldn’t stand my screaming and refused to add more freezing to the open wound so he stitched me (as I cried) and said he would have to do a general. The sound of metal hitting metal, as he threw down his instruments and pitched a fit, punctuated his pain.
The surgery happened and I was left with a second nasty scar above my eye.
Fast forward to my step-grandfather’s funeral. We were on our way to the family pews when my exceedingly helpful and funny aunt asked me about my cyst from a decade prior. I told her the Coles Notes version of the story, and that is when she told me I was a murderer.
I had had an embryonic cyst, and considering the age at which I removed it and the amount of space it took up, it was likely to contain fully formed teeth when it was removed.
I know! The scars are real, folks.
My aunt was responsible for lab testing at the time and had seen her share of teeth so took great joy in sharing. Needless to say, the tears at the funeral were real and so were the giggles as my aunt and I could barely contain ourselves. Nothing like a good family murder story at a funeral to give you a new lease on life.
It does beg the question, “Why didn’t she tell me sooner?”
I heard that.
I have a complicated relationship with my mother and her family. Mom left when I was seven and I’ve been the grown-up in our mother-daughter duet since. I don’t think it occurred to her to tell me what her sister knew. I was separated from that side of the family for many reasons: physical distance, my mother’s narcissism, and I wondered if they had been told things about me that poisoned their feelings. The only person on my mother’s side of the family who I regularly spoke with was my Nana who sat in the pew as a widow.
In that moment of combined laughter though, I felt like I was part of the family. In grief, sure. But more in the we share an inside joke kind of way. So I thank my cyster for connecting me with my aunt*** and for creating a happy memory out of a traumatic childhood event.
The moral of my story is that murder is worth it*.
*an homage to the great Canadian song If I Had a $1000000 by the Barenaked Ladies since today is Canada Day.
**not real murder, of course.
***my aunt died recently, and I wasn’t told in time to attend her funeral—a byproduct of the aforementioned complicated relationship. I’m sad I missed it, but I certainly miss her.
This first appeared on The Memoirist on Medium. Now you can follow The Memoirist on Substack here.
Now I shall be enjoying the earworm "If I had $1,000,000" for days on end. Oddly, this is the second time in a few weeks I've referenced it, since someone somewhere on the interwebs asked if normal people knew what a Chesterfield was. Thank you for renewing my experience of this fine Canadian import.
I never know anymore when you're writing real life or satire. Is that good? I'm guessing this falls under the 'thinky' column. Also, in the U.S. (what remains of it) they're called "Cliffs Notes". Don't know why it's not the same name.....