The C-Word

Somehow, I managed to not realize how exhausting worry is.

As I lay on an exam table - feet in stirrups and stripped from the waist down - I writhed my hands together and listened to the reproductive endocrinologist talk me through the procedures she was preparing for, the C-word continued to dance in my head. Her nurse had gone to search for the results from my Pap test two weeks ago that would give us an idea of what the heck was going on with me. 

You see, two weeks ago my doctor prepared me for a possible cancer diagnosis and I was freaking RIGHT out. And by no fault but my own,  I've skipped every Pap smear I was supposed to be having because I was terrified of hearing I had another abnormal result. Hearing once that I had an abnormal result was scary enough.  I don't know why I thought not having another test was the answer, but there ya go.

This is about the perfect time for me to tell you: get your Pap tests done. Seriously. I will never miss another one.

Then the Pap result arrived and it was normal. Perfect even. I breathed a sigh of relief, knowing one possible problem was gone and then felt my breath catch in my chest because the list of possible problems was endless. 

The doctor sat on her stool and wheeled over to the end of the table and I couldn't help but wonder what exactly motivates one to spend their career looking at people's vaginas. She flipped on the light, patted me on the leg and launched into an explanation of what was about to go down (no pun intended).

Swab. Colposcopy. Vinegar test. You passed. Swab. OH! I think we found the problem - you've got a cutesy little polyp hanging out there. Sorry polyp, we're getting rid of you.

Then she likened my cervix to a donut, told me we wouldn't be doing any freezing, counted backwards from ten before "snipping" and then asked how my sex life was. I'm pretty sure I'd befriend this woman under other circumstances, because she was the coolest lady ever. And then she showed me the "cutesy" polyp, which was roughly the size of the top of my pinky. I didn't think it was cute. That polyp is an asshole.

After losing a little part of myself that's (hopefully) been the reason I've been in big pain for weeks, I walked out of the exam room feeling 100 pounds lighter. And about an hour later, I barely had the energy to stand.

It's shocking the way your body reacts to stress. I would have expected to have felt so alive - so energized - by this good news, but instead I was zonked. Some coffee and a new outfit were a good start to re-energizing, but all I wanted to do was nap. And hug F. And call Mr. Hockey Coach and then hug him. And just bask in the awesomeness of knowing I don't have cervical cancer.

Before saying goodbye, my doc looked at me and took my hand, explaining how things would be playing out. In 2 days, she'll have results back from the swabs. The polyp she removed will take 6 weeks to be analyzed, but she's confident it's just a blob of nothingness. No news is good news, and she thinks I'm great but hopes she won't have to call. She gave me her card and told me to call if I had any questions and then assured me I'd be OK, that I was young and healthy. I'm OK. I'm OK. I'm OK.

And apparently my cervix is beautiful. So there's that.

Saturdate

A few weeks ago I picked F up from preschool as always and we drove home.

It's exactly a six-minute drive from preschool/work to home. We usually listen to the same 2 songs during that drive. We were waiting to make a left-hand turn when F piped up in the backseat with a simple - yet strong - question.

How was your day, Mama?

It's a question we expect of our colleagues and spouses, friends and acquaintances but I would never expect those words to come from the mouth of my preschooler. It's so... grown up. And so, it became a thing. Every day from that day on, F would ask how my day was and I would ask him about his. During our six-minute drive, he would tell me about his favourite and least favourBite parts of the day and I would generally just tell him my day was good or bad because there's only so much you can say to a four-year-old. 

We have a lot of little things we do, like our weekly Starbucks date (every Friday), and F's bath schedule. One night a week we have pizza and one night a week we have nachos. We watch Octonauts every night before bed. I realized not so long ago that F and I spend a lot of time together without really spending anything actually together and I vowed to change that. 

Tonight, we had our weekly Saturdate - aka our "Saturday date". We do something different every Saturday, whether it's going to the park or going for a walk, grabbing "coffee" together, seeing a movie at the theatres, baking cookies, whatever. We always do something, just the two of us. Sometimes, we don't even leave the house. 

Busy with 10,000 things to do, I bunked down with my laptop to try to get ahead of my list when F came over - smiling as wide as can be - and asked what my "best part" of our date had been. It was a pretty easy answer - the best part of my date was hanging out with him, without anything else to do. But what was his? 

I got to go to McDonald's and have a nice supper, with nice chicken nuggets, and fries and yoooooooooooooogurt and there was a drink and a straw and I got to see Grampy! And then we watched a movie and remember how funny The Croods were?

He said all of this in about 11 seconds, not taking a breath from start to finish and it was pretty much the cutest thing I've ever heard.

It's easy to get completely wrapped up in work and writing and chores and trying to maintain something resembling a social life and squeeze in time for the handsome Hockey Coach, but hearing how much F enjoyed a simple, 30-minute trip to McDonald's is more than enough proof that Saturdate is the most important day of the week. 

Searching

Every now and again, I venture into the world of my blog analytics and learn something new.

For example: 33 per cent of my daily audience is reading me via Safari browsers, and Apple products make up the vast majority of the Operating Systems clicking in with iPhones coming a close second at 24 per cent to Macintosh at 25 per cent. 

Why am I telling you this? Because I learned something terrifying the last time I decided to find out who's reading me and how they found me.

Most people make it to my blog by typing in the web address or my new domain (which, by the way, just redirects you here) or by typing my blog address into Google. But as you know, sometimes when you Google something you come across some interesting stuff. And alarmingly, a lot of people are landing on my blog lately by searching "how to be anorexic". 

That makes me incredibly sad. My Accidentally Anorexic post is in my top-five most viewed. 

I'll be the first person to tell you that I've got body image issues. It wouldn't take a genius to figure out that I've got some disordered eating habits. Between stress and work and the stress of work and raising a kid, I often don't have time to realize I'm hungry and with that totally unhealthy habit, I find myself suddenly 11 pounds lighter and feeling like shit. I call it "accidentally anorexic" because I don't mean to let myself go hungry, it just happens and it's unhealthy and I know that. So I often force myself to eat, even if it's just a salad and half a sandwich, a handful of granola or an egg on toast. And we all know about my habit of calling myself this F-word. 

It pains me to think that someone has turned to Google and typed the words "how to be anorexic". I mean, why would they? Are they looking for tips, motivation, support? Are they just trying to understand how someone can be anorexic? I typed it. The first three results broke my heart and I wondered how many beautiful, young girls and boys have typed those words and read those results and become lost in a disease that has the highest death rate of any known mental illness. 

If you're reading this post today because your Google search directed you here, please go back to Google and search Eating Disorder Help and follow those results. Take care of yourself, and be well. 

Fashionably Frenzied

I own like, 60 pairs of shoes. 

It's appalling and awesome at the exact.same.time. There are enough outfits in my closet that I could safely go weeks without wearing the same time twice (aka I could probably survive for 30 days or so without doing laundry which is basically bliss except that's a lot of clothes to wash at once).  If you know me at all you know that I've got a mean interest in style from hairstyles to stylish pants and everything in between.

You also probably know that I'm pretty frenetic - even frantic at times. Most of my days feel like a frenzy of shoes and scarves and Lightning McQueen. So, I guess it only makes sense that I've newly been dubbed "The Frenzied Fashionista". 

Say what? you say?

Yup. SQUEEEEEEEEEEEEE.

I thought I was excited to be a part of the #YMCCommunity but this is the bigtimes you guys. I'm now a real, live, honest-to-goodness Yummy Mummy Club blogger. And you can read me right here.

And I will totally go shopping with you and call it "research" any time. You know what's up.

Detriment

Irrational. 

It's a word I found myself repeating over and over to myself on Saturday morning as I stood in my kitchen. I was being irrational. Completely and utterly irrational. Ridiculous even, and it's made me realize exactly how detrimental self-talk can be. You see, while I was making myself a piece of toast and a cup of coffee before I got ready to work out, I almost called myself that f-word that I promised I wouldn't.

You are not fat. You are being irrational. I shouldn't be eating this bread. Carbs are bad.

Just because you are eating something does not make you fat. Tell that to my squishy stomach. I can't believe I wasn't working out all last month.

You are not fat because you haven't been working out. You were busy. You can work out today and tomorrow. You just need your routine. Hmm, I was pretty busy... 

Working out today is not going to make you instantly skinny. It is going to help you be strong, and it will make you feel good. Working out today will make me feel good... and I need to eat in order to have energy and be strong.

You are not fat. You are being irrational. I am being irrational.

This, my friends, was the internal dialogue that went down in a pair of neon shorts while standing in a half-assed tree pose (otherwise known as my cookin' pose) in the kitchen. It's a conversation that once upon a time, I would have had out loud, in front of a mirror - until the day F asked me if he was "fat". It's a conversation lots of us have with ourselves and it's a conversation that needs to stop. I'd dump the friend or the boyfriend who made me feel bad about my body, so it's time I dump my own habit of doing it. 

It might sound silly, but self-talk is important. It's the stuff we do in the minutes before a date or an interview or while we're trying to keep ourselves together standing in the longest line-up known to humanity at Starbucks when we just really need that coffee. But as much as we make it through hard times by telling ourselves to breathe, we also tear ourselves down unnecessarily. Or at least, I do. 

Tell yourself how awesome you are today. Made it to work on time? Go you! YOU SHOWERED? Fantastic - go eat a cookie! Seriously, eat the cookie. Don't put yourself in a state of detriment. You're better than that.