Call Me Beautiful

It has to be the weather.

It was gloomy on Saturday. Cold. Rainy. I didn’t leave the bed all day. Finally at 3pm still pajama clad I took Bear to see The Lorax per his insistence. Post movie I crawled back in.  Finally at 6:30 I pulled myself together, literally and figuratively, and saw Five Year Engagement then went out for drinks with friends. It was almost 2am when I came home.

Sunday was beautiful. Warm sunny. We went hiking at Afton. Had a delicious lunch at a diner we discovered in Stillwater. Went to a candy shop were I fell in love with white chocolate dipped pretzel sticks.

Monday was supposed to be nice. Where was the 70 degrees promised?

I cleaned. It helped. Having the dog hair picked up. The counters wiped down. The clutter filed away. The beds made. When there is order around me it makes me like there is order in me. Except it didn’t.

After six weeks of “dieting” and exercising and being healthy and doing all the right things  I had only lost 5 lbs. Five measly pounds. All lost within the first week. Gained. Lost. Gained. Up. Down. Flat. Flat for 9 straight days. Starring at that horrendous number. The same as 7 months pregnant, but 19 months postpartum.

I want to look at myself and think that I am beautiful. I want to, desperately.

I look back on this picture from two weeks ago. That I titled joy. I can’t look beyond my chin, my arm, the little part of my bra sticking out. That imperfection to even see the joy.

My eyes flutter across all of 2012, the ones that are supposed to be the best. Those shared socially to prove their worthiness for global speculation. I pick them apart. Line by line. Roll by roll. Until I’m left with a magnifying glass to the worst. A microscope to each pore. I am dissected and shredded and not human, but made up of haphazard slivers.

Being an over analyzer and introspective I know many of the reasons why so much of my happiness is wrapped up in self appearance. I want to believe when I’m older that I will look back on this and not only think of how I wish I knew how beautiful I was at 27, but how little it mattered. I find it hard to believe that I will ever come to a place like that in my life, but I hold out hope.

Maybe the weather will change. Maybe someone will call me beautiful and I will believe it.

Thank you so much for your support to my biopsy post. Results came back today and I’m cancer free.

Linked with Just Write and Pour Your Heart Out and Wordful Wednesday

Biopsy.

On March 29th I had a doctor’s appointment and wrote Notes Between the Paper Sheets.

On April 3rd I got a call from the doctor about my results during a co-workers lunchtime baby shower. A firm believer in no call is a good call I clearly panicked. After all I am also a firm believer in that bad things will happen to me (also good things. I have yet to win the lottery or be in tsunami, but I believe both are feasible.) I was told, as I stood in the parking lot gripping my iPhone and thinking about things like fertility loss, medical bills and the C word, that my tests results were abnormal and that I need to come in for more. The nurse I spoke to was very chipper. She told me I was probably fine. My appointment wasn’t scheduled until April 26th.

I am going to be fine.

On April 5th I called my insurance provider to ask how much this would cost. During said conversation I was a) disconnected b) told that they couldn’t help and to call the doctor c) told I was having surgery and would have to pay my $1,000 deductible or d) All of the above.

ding ding ding, ladies and gentleman the right answer is D. Though the option to add “and all your co-workers would leave work at that exact moment and wave to you as you stood in the parking lot” is also an acceptable answer.

On April 6th the doctor calls back to say that it’s between $400-600 since I have a $1,000 deductible. Woohoo! Love health insurance in the US of A!

The day finally arrives… April 26th:

How does one even dress for a biopsy? Heels? Skirt for easy access? I decided to dress up because if I’m going to have to get a biopsy done I’m going to look hot about it.

I only had to pay my copay upon arrival. I don’t know if this means I still have to pay more at a latter date. I choose not to say anything.

The tips of my ears are bright red. I feel like they are on fire. I want to take a photo, but I feel like it’s strange to take a photo of just the tip.

I’m told my blood pressure and pulse are very relaxed. Feel confident I could pass lie detector test.

The nurse is very pretty and very nice. She also has a Coach name tag holder. I find this reassuring. Her shirt has a Greys Anatomy logo on it. I will call her Izzy.

The procedure room is frightening. How long are they going to make me wait here? At least I’m not naked. Izzy decided that since I’ve never met the Doctor our first encounter shouldn’t be in the nude. I see a rationale to this.

That is a really big light. I feel like it could shoot lasers at me.

That is the worldwide largest cotton swab.

The door is locked with a syringe. That is … Different.

Questions Asked:

Do you smoke? Occassionally. 

When did you first have sex? Um. 16, no 17. Yeah 17. 

Have you had more than two sexual partners? Yes. (Silent Laughter) 

Told I am very high risk for HPV. Make a completely non-scary disease sound like a very scary disease, check! Make patient feel like a street walker, check!

At least I’m a well dressed lady of the night.

I wonder why they need an oxygen tank. Perhaps I will pass out. Or get high. There is also hand sanitizer. Party in procedure room 2!

Actual procedure is unpleasant. Good thing I self medicated prior to arrival (as per instruction). There are in fact abnormal cells. She will call on Tuesday no matter the result. Am handed a cancer brochure.

Feel light headed, slightly nauseous and have no hearing in right ear.

Drink hot water from little cup in procedure room.

Resume proper hearing.

Read brochure in car. See words like hysterectomy. Decide this brochure is ancient version of webmd and will not send self into unnecessary panic.

Make list of things I don’t like:

• Soft Cheeses
• Words like moist and panties.
• Moist panties
• Reading Cancer brochures

 

Assume that unless otherwise written that the results on Tuesday will be fine. 

 

Notes Between the Paper Sheets

Last Wednesday there was grooming, shaving, scrubbing, lotioning. More so than even prior to my wedding or the loss of virginity (events not related) I prepared for the lady doctor appointment. My winning personality can only do so much with an arm behind my neck while avoiding eye contact during a breast exam.

A good impression at the lady doctor is based upon cleanliness. I fold my clothes neatly on the chair even folding my underwear* which is then carefully hidden under the clothes. This is key as the pile of clothes is sure to be the first thing seen when the door is opened.

*I am not a fan of the word “panties”. This word should be reserved strictly for conversations that involve words like “wet” and “heaving”.

The simple act of nudity immediately causes me to consider the need for the restroom. Another reason a porn career would never have been the right choice for me.

I sit upon the exam table awaiting the doctors entrance with a paper sheet neatly placed over me and a random piece of haphazardly created material covering my chest. What is the purpose of this fabric? What should it cover? What are these strings for? Have I put this on correctly? I am now flummoxed by cloth.

Holding said shreds together while attempting to make introductory small talk causes me to start sweating. I think to myself this woman has seen two children come out of me I think a nip slip while chatting is acceptable.

Deep breath. Cold wet uncomfortable things happen. We discuss how I want to lose 35 lbs and when I plan on having more kids (next year). It’s like naked therapy.

She hands me some Kleenex and exits.

20 minutes of every woman’s life she could probably do without.

Does anyone else have similar lady doctor habits and neuroses?

When Will It Be Enough?

As I look down upon these unfortunate folds under my clothes, the spots, the tiny misplaced hairs I cannot help but thrust judgment. An endless barge of criticism and insults spit from my mind. Somehow the amazing deal on the skirt I purchased is overshadowed by the number on the tag. By hanging it next to dozens of much smaller numbers that cannot be worn. How is it that I have found myself in this place? How can a former bulimic stand upon a scale and have these number show?

Undetectably, I find myself scanning other women around me. Sizing up the other mothers as we walked through the zoo today. Are her shoes nicer than mine? Her waist smaller? Her hair shinier? This constant judgement and assessment. Cataloging each one and scoring myself against them, it’s so ingrained in my mind. Buy why? There’s beauty in our soft spots, in our fuzzy ones, in bumps and moles and imperfections that make us mothers and women.

My children couldn’t possibly care less what size is on my pants or number on the scale. Bella finds great pleasure in pressing my belly button and laughing as she slaps my belly and makes silly noises. She lifts her shirt and giggles for me to do the same. These are the things that should matter. Her smile. Bear’s first wiggling tooth. These moments, not the mother next to me at the zoo in her size 2 jeans. Does she size herself up, glancing my way and desiring my purse? My cellphone? There is always something someone has. Physical. Material. All so ephemeral.

What will it take for us to stop comparing, criticizing, coveting?

To not define ourselves by numbers. To not limit our happiness by marketing ploys. When will being a woman, a wife, a sister, a daughter, a mother be enough?

I hope I figure it out before my daughter is old enough to ask herself these questions.

Linked with Just Be Enough.

If I Only Had One Day

It’s been slowly gnawing at me. That movie I saw last week. Then yesterday that article I read. The red stained face of my co-worker when the third year anniversary of her boyfriend’s death came and went. So many are being torn away from family by disease and leaving in their wake only heartbreak.

I wonder what it says about me, the way I would choose to spend my last day. I planned it from the morning to the end what I would do. Then I’ve sat there and thought. Why are some people so glaringly missing? Why did I choose that place over the other? What memories am I conjuring up hoping to relive by spending my last moments in these ways?

I’ve made some assumptions on my last day. One that it would be a gloriously hot summer day. Two that I would be healthy enough to do any physical activity I wanted without hesitation.

My day would be in Chicago. I smile, just writing it. The Chicago sized hole in my heart. My home. Even after living here eight years, it’s still not home. It will never be home. There is no place else I’d rather relive my favorite memories.

I would start the day at Walker Brothers. Where I used to host/cashier for years. We would order family style: Sizzling bacon, chocolate chippies with big globs of whipped cream, an apple pancake, the German pancake with extra lemon and powdered sugar, the challah French toast. My nose awakens recalling the scents, my mouth waters remembering.

Then we’d head to the beach. We’d build sandcastles and I would hope the Art Teacher wouldn’t accidentally pull down my bathing suit and then tackle me to the sand. We would frolic in the water playing chicken fight and 500.

For lunch we would go to my favorite restaurant, Tapas Barcelona, and order my favorite things. The mussels dipped in glorious melted butter. The snails perched atop of a fluffy piece of bread soaked in sauce. Pitchers of margaritas and sangria would flow. For dessert I would delight in my pistachio banana and ice cream.

We would go to the park next. Play ultimate Frisbee. Perhaps sit in a circle and play Mafia. Then when properly worn out we’d go bowling. They would make it cosmic, even though it was still relatively early in the day. For dinner we would dress up and drive down Lake Shore Drive. The music blasting, the summer breeze blowing through the slightly cracked open windows. I would press my forehead against the window and stare at the city ablaze in lights just like I did all those years ago.

We’d have dinner at the most expensive steak restaurant in town, order the best wine they had. We would laugh and talk about all the greatest times. All the best times. We would not talk about what I would miss; we would only recall what I had.

We would go to Navy Pier and ride the ferris wheel. I would keep my eyes open the entire time. Clutching the hand of who ever sat next to me.

Then with the wine still buzzing in our heads we would go out and play in the sprinklers at Northwestern just like we did that one glorious summer. We would run through the fields wet, muddy, the laughter burning our lungs. Then we would strip off our muddy garments and jump into the cooling waters of Lake Michigan.

Afterwards we would go out dancing. The room swirling, the beat pounding in my chest. We would dance and dance and dance until our feet gave out. Until the bars closed at 5am.

Then I would go home. I would get in my bed. With my dogs, my children, my husband and I would fall asleep with a smile on my face, and I wouldn’t need to wake up again because I had lived.

Written as a part of Just Write.