I have always been fascinated by the concept of figure and ground. I have always liked questioning my perceptions and understanding. I always see both the vase and the face. I appreciate how visual artists challenge our perception of the world. I appreciate how composers create music that moves between harmony and dissonance. I appreciate how playwrights use dialogue to explore relationships. Our eyes, ears, and hearts experience figure and ground every day as we move through life.

Turner Syndrome as Figure and Ground 

Figure and Ground After Diagnosis

Turner syndrome has been both figure and ground in my life. After my diagnosis at the age of 15, it became the ground for my choices. I was a typical teenager in a state of complete denial – other than the medical necessities such as frequent doctor visits, hormone replacement therapy, blood draws, and bone scans. The figure of my life at that point was driving, working at a pizza restaurant, high school theatre, and hanging out. I never talked about Turner syndrome. After I read a few articles and books my endocrinologist suggested, I did not look any further. Scared to death of what they said I looked like and would (or would not) become, I allowed my condition to stay the ground of my life. To learn I was infertile at 15 forced the figure of a future of easily achieved biological motherhood from my sight at an early age.

Figure and Ground as a Young Adult

Turner syndrome remained ground as a young adult. I still never talked about it except annually with my gynecologist, select girlfriends, and a few boyfriends when the discussion of wanting to have families would come up. If I trusted them enough to tell them, I would talk. Most of the time, I would skip the Turner syndrome story, simply choosing not to enter an educational opportunity that would expose something so personal. I wanted to be normal and was unsure what that would look like if people knew.

Educating doctors was another way Turner syndrome became figure in my life during this time. Most doctors don’t know much about Turner syndrome. The questions generally started after I revealed I was on hormone replacement therapy. I saw the same gynecologist for thirty years, so I would not have to explain. It was the other doctors who looked at me sideways. The ER doctor I saw after a car accident or the doctor in the campus medical center who prescribed an antibiotic for bronchitis. I always thought they should already know about Turner syndrome. Still, I guess doctors learn an encyclopedia of genetic syndromes in medical school. It is hard to keep all of them straight.

Turner syndrome as Figure and Ground

Finishing a Ph.D. did not convince me I was smart. Finishing a marathon did not convince me I was healthy. After writing about my diagnosis in a writing class, I decided to participate in an NIH study. The study made it clear Turner syndrome had been both figure and ground in my life the entire time. The analysis, and subsequent essay about the experience, changed my life. The essay broke the silence.

Figure and ground rely on each other. One cannot exist without the other. They dance together. They are the tapestry. They are the symphony. Turner syndrome was ground in my life when I wanted to protect myself from pain. Tuner syndrome was ground in my life when I wanted to be normal. Turner syndrome was ground in my life when I did not have the words to talk about life and death. That conversation is what ultimately happens when we discuss the truth of a genetic condition. Turner syndrome became figure in my life when I found the strength not to let the diagnosis, prognosis, and statistics define who I am and what I might become. Turner syndrome became figure in my life when I first learned to love myself. All of myself. Turner syndrome became figure in my life when I realized our stories are as vital to our existence as breath.