Seven years ago, I was ten years old. Around March or so (it was probably February), my mother noticed something around my lower stomach. The way she describes it was it was about the size of a golf ball. Shortly after, I went to the doctor to see what was wrong. I had to go to a specialist and get an ultra sound. Basically what they found out was it was a hernia. Hernias are defined as an exit of an organ, and is most common in boys. So on May 2nd, I had my surgery. It was extremely successful. But I’ll go back a little prior to the surgery. When I was in the fourth grade I became a feminist. I didn’t know what it was, but I became one. It started off with this book I read prior to my surgery, about successful women in the past. I read of Frieda Kahlo (one of my favorite artists (I just got to see her exhibit with Diego Rivera (I’ll blog about it later)), and Virigina Woolf. I was so inspired (in fact, at Beaumont I got a purple stuffed bear and I named her Virigina, after Virigina Woolf herself). Once my parents and I found out I needed the surgery, that’s the first time I remember seeing my dad cry (which to me know isn’t a big deal because deep down inside he’s a big baby). My mother never cried about it, she said its cause she knew I would be fine. Before I left school (I went to school the first of May), my class made these get well soon cards and it was a big ordeal. And one boy told me that he hoped I didn’t die. I had never thought about that, he got in trouble with my teacher who was extremely positive and uplifting who basically said that I would be fine. I pushed what the boy said right out of my mind, and I didn’t remember it until after the surgery. That day was somewhat a blur, I remember the hospital room, I remember wanting my grandmother, I even remember the anesthesiologist, and I remember being rolled into the surgery room and talking to some of my doctors. I remember waking up and asking the nurse where I was and hearing them page my family. I remember being wheeled out to the car. I remember running (my mom said I was really walking but whatever) into the house and my grandmother yelling at me. I remember the feeling of exhaustion and how good it felt to be home. I remember waking up and seeing my father praying over me so that I’d be fine. I also remember that nasty off-brand Jello we had. I remember playing with new toys and I remember the hello kitty friendship ring my best friend got me. I just remember not being able to go to school, on a field trip to see Hillary Clinton and Keke Palmer (I was so hurt). I healed quickly. I still have a slight scar, but it’s barely noticeable. Plus it’s always covered.