Body By Brownie

chocolate is my happy place

 

Ever since reopening this blog, I've toyed with writing about deep topics like Black Lives Matter, gun control, or climate change.  But I can't figure out how to do so without transferring that pain to my kid, who is -- after all -- the main audience for this Blog For One.  So, since I haven't figured out how to write about all that, I'll instead embarrass him by discussing my latest "pregnancy".

Whenever I gain a particular amount of weight, it goes first to my gut. As such, Bee and I joke that I'm having a baby, and we always name it "Savasana Kombucha" (after our favorite yoga pose and the drink that seems fitting to go with it). 

Although it's been harder and harder for me to lose little Savasana over the years, I can usually make it shrink a little.  However, as I've already talked about, the combo of age and not giving a F*ck has caused Savasana to stick around longer lately . . . plus she seems to be sending her buddies to form back boobs and larger thighs.

To combat this, I started working out with Pamela Reif, of YouTube/Instagram fame.  I adore Pamela, to the point where I'm just about ready to send her a fan letter where I snivel and cry and tell her what her workouts and her positive attitude mean to me.  I'm sure she'll read my letter -- out of the thousands she gets from her 8.8 million followers -- and then we'll become best friends . . . despite the 20-year age gap, the wildly incompatible lifestyles, and the fact that we live on completely different continents.  It could happen!

so many fun options!

At any rate, I'd been working out with Pam for several months when -- wonder of wonders -- I started to actually see results!  I could feel a hard layer of muscle in my gut (underneath the layer of fat, of course).

"Bee!"  I screeched the first morning I felt it.  "Come feel my lower abs!"

Bee dutifully came and rubbed his hand along my voluptuous belly.  "Oooo, you're right," he said.  "I CAN feel muscle under there!"

I was just so tickled with this situation, it fired me up to cut back on the brownies a bit and take my workouts more seriously.  Soon, I was going to shed that layer of hibernation pudge and have rock-hard abs, just like Pam!

No matter how much sugar I cut out, though, I couldn't seem to get my belly to shrink.  Every few weeks, I'd call Bee over and, as I laid on the floor, force him to feel my ab muscles.  "They're still under there," he'd agree.  "You just need to keep working at it."

So I asked or Pam's cookbook for Mother's Day, vowing to create delicious and healthy meals.  And I switched to Pam's "Lose Weight" workout plan videos.  And I cut back my brownie habit . . . from 4 a day to just 2.

But the belly was still there.  And now, as lay on my back and pushed at it, it was starting to feel more like a hard bulge instead of a flat muscle.

Bee gamely felt it again, but this time he looked worried.  "I don't know, honey," he said.  "Maybe you'd better get that checked out."

So I made an appointment with my doctor, and went to her offices the next week.

"What's the problem?" she asked.

"Well," I giggled, sheepishly, "I'm feeling hardness underneath the layer of fat in my belly, and I'm really hoping you're going to feel it and laugh at me and call me an idiot because it's just muscle."

"I'd never call you an idiot," she said, getting on her exam gloves.

"Well, its OK if you THINK it," I assured her.

She did some poking and prodding, then immediately withdrew and stood up.  "You're not an idiot," she said, throwing out her gloves.  "Let's get you scheduled for an ultrasound."

Shit.

"But . . . but," I contested, "I was going to DM Pam and tell her that her workouts were so effective, my doctor had to tell me I was an idiot for worrying about rock hard abs.  I had it all planned out.  That was going to be my "in" with her!"

The doctor gave me a look that said, "Now I really DO think you're an idiot," then opened her computer to schedule my ultrasound.

Four days later, the ultrasound showed a uterine fibroid. Very common, particularly for women of my age; however, I can at least take solace in the fact that my doctor called this the "largest fibroid [she'd] ever seen".  Go me and my problematic uterus!

My next appointment was with the surgeon, who would tell me some treatment options.  Bee went with me.

"Alright," the surgeon said.  "You've got an 11 cm fibroid growing in the wall behind your uterus, pushing your uterus forward towards your belly.  It's about the size of a cantaloupe.  You're sure you don't have pain?"

I shook my head.

"You're sure you don't have excessive bleeding?"

I shook my head.

"Huh.  Well, I'd recommend 1 of 3 options.  First of all, since it's not bothering you, you can absolutely wait until menopause, when decreasing estrogen levels cause most fibroids to shrink.  You've probably got another 8-10 years before menopause, so you'd just deal with feeling like you're 16 weeks pregnant all the time, but there's no other harm."

Bee nodded next to me, and I tried to tamp down my vanity at the idea of looking 16 weeks pregnant for the next decade.

"Second choice," the surgeon continued, "is for me to send you to a radiologist to insert a catheter, block the blood flow that's feeding the fibroid, and 'starve' it that way.  It'll never fully disappear, but it might shrink enough to get you to menopause.  Also, it may shrink enough to allow me to remove it vaginally at a later date, should you want that."

Dr. Google had already told me about this option.  I liked it, though I didn't like that the fibroid never goes away, and -- if it IS cancerous -- apparently that can make it harder to diagnose.

"Third option," she continued, and I braced myself for the inevitable: "Hysterectomy.  We remove the uterus -- and the cervix, while we're at it -- and you don't have to worry any more."

"And do we keep the ovaries?" I asked, because my Googling had told me about this.

"Yes," she said, and I slumped in relief.  "I see no reason to remove them, so you would NOT go into early menopause.  However, you wouldn't have periods any more."  Bonus!

Even though Dr. Google had prepared me for all these options, my head was still spinning.  Bee could see this, and took charge.

"So, what would YOU recommend doing in this situation?" he asked the surgeon.

Naturally, she wasn't about to tell me one way or the other.  "Since it's not bothering you and it's likely not cancerous, it's really up to a woman and -- sometimes -- her spouse."

I think I looked a little dubious at that one, so she elaborated.

"Sometimes, it can put a strain on relationships," she explained.  "Maybe the husband doesn't want to worry about the growth and if it means cancer, and maybe that causes a lot of fights between the couple.  Also, a hysterectomy means absolutely no action down there for 6 weeks.  Sometimes, that's hard on a couple."

Being married for 16 years, Bee and I just collectively rolled our eyes.

"At any rate, you can choose the option that seems best for you," she concluded, and that was the end of our consultation.

That appointment was last week, and I still haven't made a complete decision yet.  While I'm leaning towards a hysterectomy, I'd have to have it done abominally, which means 6 weeks of absolutely no lifting of more than 10 pounds.  That's not something I'm comfortable doing right now, as we're incredibly busy with work: I have to be able to load our truck with heavy items and work in odd positions for the next few months.  But, come January, things die down, and I could easily do it then.

It's hard to think about looking pregnant for another half a year.  But I also have to laugh at myself, because the fibroid is in my belly; it's not in my back boobs, and it's not in my thighs: getting the fibroid removed is not going to be some sort of weight loss miracle, anyway.  Pam and I would still have to work out (made harder by the fact that I couldn't for a month and a half after the surgery), plus -- horror of horrors -- I'd still have to cut back on the brownies.

It's interesting, though, to see how my mindset has changed: when I first visited with Dr. Google about my options and learned that a hysterectomy was likely, I spiraled.  I think there was that fear of being "less of a woman" once those parts of me were gone.  By the time I had my consult with the REAL doctor, though, I was over that worry; it only took a few weeks for me to get to the "Zero F*cks" stage of acceptance.  (Hmmm: maybe all my practice in Zero F*ckery lately is finally having practical applications!)

The other interesting thing is how offended I've gotten by the notion that any of this is Bee's choice.  The surgeon alluded to it briefly during our consult, and a friend I told about it also said, "Yes, that's definitely a call for the woman and her spouse."  (So I thought "F*ck you" and haven't talked to her all week.)

As far as I'm concerned, this decision is mine and mine alone.  Bee is welcome to have input, and I will definitely take his feelings and fears into consideration.  But it is NOT up to him to decide.  Bee, very wisely, completely agrees: although he's told me he'd prefer I just get the fibroid completely removed, he is giving me the space to make the final determination for myself.

Would I be so vehement about this being only MY decision if I'd had to make this decision months ago?  Or is the recent f*ckery from our Supreme Court what has put me on edge? 

Will I decide to get a hysterectomy because it's the right choice, or because I want to prove that no one can tell me what to do with my own body?  Or, conversely and sickeningly, since I know my spouse wants me to have a hysterectomy, is that making me drag my feet to do so simply because I don't want ANY man telling me what to do; even a man who loves me and supports me and just wants what's best for me?  Even one who isn't even telling me what to do?  

 Am I just cutting off my nose to spite my face?

So, here we are, with me holding out on making my decision out of animosity towards idiots who don't give a sh!t about me.  Here we are, with me desperately wiping away tears in the bathroom whenever I start to think about how backwards has become the country I used to love.  

Here we are, with me spewing these thoughts out . . . knowing my kid will read them . . . because my kid wants to read them . . . but feeling horrible that he's now had to read them.

 

Did I do it right?  Did I let him know what I was thinking without transferring my pains to him?

Is it right to protect my kid from this darkness, or is that doing him a disservice?

And how did we get from the title of this post to where we are now?