Advice for Young Doctors Treating Women of a Certain Age
or Listen Up, Doogie, I'm Talking to You
by Sarah Gowan
who is almost 60 and just as Cranky as she was before the Side Effects
1. The Introduction: Do not attempt to engage or flatter by calling us, "Kiddo", "Young Lady", "Little Miss", or any other cutesy epithet. Our years of being charmed by precious nicknames are long past. Do it and I will call you "Doogie" till I die.
2. Listen: Tell me, why do these earnest young things think they have the answers? THEY DON'T EVEN KNOW THE QUESTIONS!! You may have spent a decade in med school/residency, but when it comes to my body YOU KNOW NOTHING. Your medical degree earned you the privilege of listening to your patients, so use it! I've spent decades figuring out what works for me and what really doesn't. I've even figured out some things before the doctors did and will know the answer before you do. You will save us a lot of time if you listen. When we say Something Is Not Right, we are usually right.
example: My Mom went into her very experienced doctor and said, "Something Is Not Right. I have a blood clot in my leg." He could have brushed her off, but instead said, "You know your body better than I do, so I believe something could be wrong. Let's run some tests." Three positive tests later they discovered she did indeed have a blood clot in her leg that could have killed her if left untreated. He is never allowed to retire, as far as I'm concerned.
3. Speaking of which: Women of a Certain Age do not complain about pain unless there is pain and probably a lot of it. We know pain - we were born into it. We suffered menstruation, perms, childbirth, bad-fitting bras, child-rearing, pantyhose, surgeries, high heels, diets, assaults, and menopause, plus all the same crap men had to survive, too. (Except the testicle things, but childbirth is definitely worse, so I don't think that counts.) Listen to us when we tell you there is pain - we aren't making it up.
And guess what, pain isn't always consistent, so we can't tell you where it's going to strike next. Ankles today, that one spot next to the shoulder blade tomorrow, just the inside of the knees the day after, and then horrible leg cramps (not just a Charley Horse - the whole flippin' leg!) that night. My Pain rambles around my body like a sleepwalking night terror, randomly lashing out at invisible monsters. God I miss paregoric. It was the cure-all for everything in our day.
4. Oh and the sleep thing? Bwa-ha-ha-ha-ha! None of us have had a full night's sleep since we turned 21.
5. We are not fat - we are Traditionally Sized: Be very, very careful how you bring up weight, if you even need to mention it at all. Women of a Certain Age are keenly aware of their weight. We've watched it zoom up and down, up and down, up and down - and not in the good way - our whole lives. We could probably tell you what it is to the ounce when we're standing stark naked on the scale (always before breakfast, after the morning poo, but before the shower) and how it will have increased exactly 7.5 pounds by the time we get to your office. We don't need you you tell us to lose/gain weight.
And if we've been judged by our BMI by others, we've judged ourselves even more harshly. Every one of us has tried diets, (excuse me, "nutrition plans") and know they don't work unless we become insanely obsessed with every damn morsel we eat. So when you ask me about my diet and I say, "Listen up Doogie - I've been cooking amazing, healthy, nutritious meals for myself and my family since before you were too much Jameson's on Christmas Eve. Do NOT lecture me on nutrition, if you don't want that stethoscope wrapped around your pimply neck."
These youngsters, who can lose 6 pounds by skipping breakfast and playing a game of racquetball, have no clue how hard it is for a woman who went through surgical menopause to lose even a few pounds. Remember, WE HAVE NO HORMONES, not even a trickle. We're hungry all the time - I mean ALL the time. Ever seen teenagers eat after a swim meet? Yeah, we're that hungry. So if we're a little cranky when you suggest we steam our veggies instead of sautéing them in a microscopic dab of olive oil, count yourself lucky that we haven't dope-slapped you with a half-slab of ribs and a side of steamed broccoli.
6. Stress: Stop. Just stop. Stop asking if we have we have stress in our lives - jesum crow, dude, any thinking person with a scrap of common sense has gnawed their fingernails to nothing and taken to spiking their wine slushies with extra vodka. The world is going to hell in a handbasket and we're all flipping out - and that's still just the baseline. Women of a Certain Age are managing this and more without any hormones. Really all you need to know is that under no circumstances should you to mention meditation or yoga and we'll get along just fine.
Showing posts with label Lady Business. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Lady Business. Show all posts
Friday, October 4, 2019
Saturday, January 7, 2017
Thanks, You've Helped Enough
When you have cancer, there are two really obnoxious ways people try to help. The first by telling you you your cancer was caused by something stupid like childhood trauma, or a vitamin deficiency, or lizard spit. Even if your friend is a hot dog eating, cigarette smoking, alcoholic, telling them what you think caused their cancer DOESN'T HELP, so just keep it to yourself.
The other super annoying thing people do is offer the latest in alternative "cures" and treatments. (My personal favorite was the "Baking Soda Cure".) When I told my brother Lon about this, he started sending me these hilarious texts. He may not have cured my cancer, but he kept me laughing...
The other super annoying thing people do is offer the latest in alternative "cures" and treatments. (My personal favorite was the "Baking Soda Cure".) When I told my brother Lon about this, he started sending me these hilarious texts. He may not have cured my cancer, but he kept me laughing...
This was especially funny because I've been gluten free for about 20 years.
Then when he got injured doing stunt work I got to return the favor....
I love my family.
Friday, June 20, 2014
A Perfect Lady Business Storm
This week three Very Annoying Posts came across my screen in a perfect Lady Business storm to set off this triple-header of a rant. Salty language and all the triggers I've ever had are included. You have been warned.
George Will Mansplains "Rape Privilege",
Some Guy in North Carolina Whines about Mila Kunis and
Procter and Gamble continues to Tell Women What to Do.
#1
There have been some very eloquent and profound responses to George Will's column, "Colleges become the victims of progressivism". This isn't one of them. My very visceral and instantaneous reaction to his column was, "Fuck you, George. You don't know the first thing about what it is like to be a woman and a victim of sexual assault." If there were rewards and privileges being handed to anyone who claims victim status I'd be the first in line. Hell yeah, gimmee some of those fine benefits that are due me as a survivor of sexual assault. I'm ready for the entitlements, status, reparation, compensation and hallelujah glory that is owed me.... I sense I may be waiting a very long time for my goodies.
Women have all kinds of reasons for reporting and not reporting assault. Trust me, people are NOT speaking up because they want attention and think they're going to get some sort of special treatment. There are more compelling reasons to stay silent than to speak out. I know stopped speaking out about my own experiences when I figured out that my story was the only part of of what happened to me that I truly owned. My words, my history, my struggle, my survival. The most painful part about being a sexual assault survivor is not the telling of the story, it's when that story is appropriated and changed to fit someone else's world view. Even when it's done with good intentions, say for instance when using an assault story as a shining example of bravery and survival, the experience is reshaped to make the listener more comfortable. I stopped talking about my experiences because I couldn't bear to hear how the telling became flattened, diminished and all smoothed out like a polished stone. The story inside me still feels to be all points and jaggy bits that open fresh little wounds all the time. Tell me oh Great Mansplainer, where is the privilege in a heart full of glass?
#2
Then Mila Kunis did a very funny bit on Jimmy Kimmel telling men to stop using the phrase "We are pregnant". It was a fluff piece, done from the perspective of a very pregnant woman and it made me laugh because I remember thinking the exact same thing when I was pregnant. Not long after, a couple of people posted links to this guy who found her bit "troubling and hurtful" and wrote "An Open Letter to Mila Kunis: A Response to Taking the 'We' Out of Pregnancy".
Oh for fuck's sake and fuck you too, Paul. You don't get credit for being pregnant and you don't get to claim anything other than being a loving partner and support person. Your desire for inclusive language comes dangerously close to the way men talk about women's bodies as property, as something they should have decision making power over. Let's be really, really clear - pregnancy belongs to the person who's body is changed forever by growing a couple of human beings inside her. "We" don't have permanent edema from tissue damage. "We" don't have hemorrhoids that never went away from pushing out 9 pounds of baby. "We" are not going to be breastfeeding for several years and suffer the plugged ducts, raw nipples and soaked shirts. "We" did not have a hysterectomy due to cancer caused by a virus that we most definitely shared. "We" are not going in for 3 month checks at the oncologist to make sure that "our" cancer hasn't returned. My body, my complications, my pregnancy.
There are all kinds of "we" in a relationship and parenting. "We are becoming parents." We are expanding our family." "We have decided to adopt." If we want society to be more inclusive of fathers in the parenting process, then let's stopped referring to fathers as "babysitters". (I can't tell you how many times I was asked who was was babysitting the kids while they weren't with me. Really? They're with their completely competent other parent.) Let's stop looking at dads changing diapers as some sort of frickin' miracle and assume that a grownass man can deal with a poopy diaper. Let's stop admiring stay-at-home and single dads as some kind saint who has become eversomuchmore enlightened than the rest of their gender. My mom refers to this as Kramer vs. Kramer syndrome. Millions of single moms manage to raise kids to adulthood and no one hardly blinks. One guy does it and they make a damn movie about it and glorify his "sacrifice". How about if we just take it as a matter of course that you are included in absolutely everything equally EXCEPT the pregnancy and you just let us have that one thing without getting all butthurt and sulky.
I'm sorry, but fuck you too, Procter and Gamble. Have you seen that ad for Pantene Shampoo that tells women to stop apologizing? My whole television watching life has been chock full of ads from the likes of Procter and Gamble depicting skinny made-up glamour girls tossing their hair and saying things like "Don't hate me because I'm beautiful." Now they've decided the way to sell shampoo is to lecture women on how to talk. There may be women who find the message empowering and it may have a practical application in the business world, but I sure as hell am not going to take it from a multi-billion dollar corporation who is only interested in my shampoo dollars.
I also want to know if they are planning the companion commercial that instructs men in how to be more deferential, more apologetic, more compassionate. Women apologize because they care. They care how their actions impact others, they care about being inclusive. They sometime care about looking nice, but most women I know care about being nice. "Pretty is as pretty does," my grandmother used to say. I like to think that the kindness we women have spent our lives cultivating even while carrying a load of pointy rocks in our chests, and 9 pounds of "love goblin" in our bellies is something to be emulated and prized. My words, my space, my kindness. So yes, fuck you Pantene, you don't get to tell me what to do, I got your hashtag right here #shinestrong and just this once I'm not in the least bit sorry.
George Will Mansplains "Rape Privilege",
Some Guy in North Carolina Whines about Mila Kunis and
Procter and Gamble continues to Tell Women What to Do.
#1
There have been some very eloquent and profound responses to George Will's column, "Colleges become the victims of progressivism". This isn't one of them. My very visceral and instantaneous reaction to his column was, "Fuck you, George. You don't know the first thing about what it is like to be a woman and a victim of sexual assault." If there were rewards and privileges being handed to anyone who claims victim status I'd be the first in line. Hell yeah, gimmee some of those fine benefits that are due me as a survivor of sexual assault. I'm ready for the entitlements, status, reparation, compensation and hallelujah glory that is owed me.... I sense I may be waiting a very long time for my goodies.
Women have all kinds of reasons for reporting and not reporting assault. Trust me, people are NOT speaking up because they want attention and think they're going to get some sort of special treatment. There are more compelling reasons to stay silent than to speak out. I know stopped speaking out about my own experiences when I figured out that my story was the only part of of what happened to me that I truly owned. My words, my history, my struggle, my survival. The most painful part about being a sexual assault survivor is not the telling of the story, it's when that story is appropriated and changed to fit someone else's world view. Even when it's done with good intentions, say for instance when using an assault story as a shining example of bravery and survival, the experience is reshaped to make the listener more comfortable. I stopped talking about my experiences because I couldn't bear to hear how the telling became flattened, diminished and all smoothed out like a polished stone. The story inside me still feels to be all points and jaggy bits that open fresh little wounds all the time. Tell me oh Great Mansplainer, where is the privilege in a heart full of glass?
#2
Then Mila Kunis did a very funny bit on Jimmy Kimmel telling men to stop using the phrase "We are pregnant". It was a fluff piece, done from the perspective of a very pregnant woman and it made me laugh because I remember thinking the exact same thing when I was pregnant. Not long after, a couple of people posted links to this guy who found her bit "troubling and hurtful" and wrote "An Open Letter to Mila Kunis: A Response to Taking the 'We' Out of Pregnancy".
Oh for fuck's sake and fuck you too, Paul. You don't get credit for being pregnant and you don't get to claim anything other than being a loving partner and support person. Your desire for inclusive language comes dangerously close to the way men talk about women's bodies as property, as something they should have decision making power over. Let's be really, really clear - pregnancy belongs to the person who's body is changed forever by growing a couple of human beings inside her. "We" don't have permanent edema from tissue damage. "We" don't have hemorrhoids that never went away from pushing out 9 pounds of baby. "We" are not going to be breastfeeding for several years and suffer the plugged ducts, raw nipples and soaked shirts. "We" did not have a hysterectomy due to cancer caused by a virus that we most definitely shared. "We" are not going in for 3 month checks at the oncologist to make sure that "our" cancer hasn't returned. My body, my complications, my pregnancy.
There are all kinds of "we" in a relationship and parenting. "We are becoming parents." We are expanding our family." "We have decided to adopt." If we want society to be more inclusive of fathers in the parenting process, then let's stopped referring to fathers as "babysitters". (I can't tell you how many times I was asked who was was babysitting the kids while they weren't with me. Really? They're with their completely competent other parent.) Let's stop looking at dads changing diapers as some sort of frickin' miracle and assume that a grownass man can deal with a poopy diaper. Let's stop admiring stay-at-home and single dads as some kind saint who has become eversomuchmore enlightened than the rest of their gender. My mom refers to this as Kramer vs. Kramer syndrome. Millions of single moms manage to raise kids to adulthood and no one hardly blinks. One guy does it and they make a damn movie about it and glorify his "sacrifice". How about if we just take it as a matter of course that you are included in absolutely everything equally EXCEPT the pregnancy and you just let us have that one thing without getting all butthurt and sulky.
Open
Letter to Mila Kunis: A Response to Taking the “We” Out of Pregnancy -
See more at:
http://goodmenproject.com/featured-content/open-letter-mila-kunis-response-pregnancy-jvinc/#sthash.rf2DyMcU.dpuf
Open
Letter to Mila Kunis: A Response to Taking the “We” Out of Pregnancy -
See more at:
http://goodmenproject.com/featured-content/open-letter-mila-kunis-response-pregnancy-jvinc/#sthash.rf2DyMcU.dpuf
Open
Letter to Mila Kunis: A Response to Taking the “We” Out of Pregnancy -
See more at:
http://goodmenproject.com/featured-content/open-letter-mila-kunis-response-pregnancy-jvinc/#sthash.rf2DyMcU.dpuf
#3I'm sorry, but fuck you too, Procter and Gamble. Have you seen that ad for Pantene Shampoo that tells women to stop apologizing? My whole television watching life has been chock full of ads from the likes of Procter and Gamble depicting skinny made-up glamour girls tossing their hair and saying things like "Don't hate me because I'm beautiful." Now they've decided the way to sell shampoo is to lecture women on how to talk. There may be women who find the message empowering and it may have a practical application in the business world, but I sure as hell am not going to take it from a multi-billion dollar corporation who is only interested in my shampoo dollars.
I also want to know if they are planning the companion commercial that instructs men in how to be more deferential, more apologetic, more compassionate. Women apologize because they care. They care how their actions impact others, they care about being inclusive. They sometime care about looking nice, but most women I know care about being nice. "Pretty is as pretty does," my grandmother used to say. I like to think that the kindness we women have spent our lives cultivating even while carrying a load of pointy rocks in our chests, and 9 pounds of "love goblin" in our bellies is something to be emulated and prized. My words, my space, my kindness. So yes, fuck you Pantene, you don't get to tell me what to do, I got your hashtag right here #shinestrong and just this once I'm not in the least bit sorry.
Friday, May 2, 2014
The Lady Business Happy Dance!
Today was my two year anniversary and the cancer doc gave me the "All Clear"! My feet are doing a Lady Business Happy Dance!
Monday, April 28, 2014
Lady Business Pity Party: An Open Letter to a Pushy Photographer
Dear Festival Photographer-
I know it was your job to to photograph each and every dance group performing at the dance weekend. I felt for you having to round up hyper kids and overwhelmed adults and make them look good for the festival photos. And you had to deal with me - the hot, sweaty clogger, blind without her glasses, snapping "I think we know how to stand," when you directed us to place our feet just so. No I didn't smile and, no, I didn't care. You just wanted to take our picture and get us out. I just wanted to cry.
It's been two years since my surgery (a radical hysterectomy for cancer) and while my recovery has been just fine according to my doctors, it's been painfully slow for me. I've always been a fairly active person, working as a house painter through my college years and as a theatrical scenic artist after college. I've danced various types of social dance (contra, couple dance, international, a little Morris and vintage dance) for most of my life and I've been dancing with an Appalachian clogging group for the last 11 years. At this point in my recovery, though, I have about half the stamina I had before the surgery and even a short time dancing leaves me winded and exhausted.
Most of the time I'm happy with my progress and feel almost normal, but there are moments where I become Cancer Girl all over again. One of those times is when I see my teammates looking fresh as everbloomin' daisies after a 10 minute performance and I stand beside them red-faced, sweating and panting. I feel the waistband of my tights digging into my scars, my bra straps digging into my shoulders and my calves already starting to cramp. Sweat dripping off my chin, bangs plastered to my forehead, mascara raccooning around my eyes. I'm already starting to ache all over and know how much I'm going to hurt the next day because my muscles haven't caught up to the inevitable post-menopausal weight gain and shift in my center of gravity.
And you want to preserve this ghastly moment for all time.
Honestly I could have handled it if you just took the shot and left me alone. But after I changed and came back for my things you had to stick that damn camera back in my face crowing, "There I got it!" You're lucky I just turned away and you weren't sweeping camera bits off the floor.
I don't know why you felt entitled to my image or why you couldn't respect my desire to exercise at least a little control over how I present myself. I would have loved a picture with my dance group where I looked relaxed and dry and more my happy self, but I ended up angry and sad and painfully self-conscious that you captured the wretched feelings, not the nice ones. And I'm furious that I let it get to me leaving me weepy and fragile for the rest of the night and wishing I could go back and say the right thing to make you stop.
I'll get over feeling sorry for myself. I'll find healthier ways to respond to situations that make me feel discouraged about my slow progress and my changing body. I may even get stronger and learn how to set my limits when I tangle with people who don't know when to back the hell off.
And you, Pushy Photographer, I hope you can remember that when someone shares their image with you it is a gift, not something you are entitled to take. Every person who gives you a glimpse of their story deserves your respect and compassion. Love your subjects and the images reflected back will be glorious.
----------------------------------------------
A few of the many portrait photographers that get it:
Humans of New York
JJ Tiziou
Riverhouse Photography
Sandra Parks
Bill Tucker
I know it was your job to to photograph each and every dance group performing at the dance weekend. I felt for you having to round up hyper kids and overwhelmed adults and make them look good for the festival photos. And you had to deal with me - the hot, sweaty clogger, blind without her glasses, snapping "I think we know how to stand," when you directed us to place our feet just so. No I didn't smile and, no, I didn't care. You just wanted to take our picture and get us out. I just wanted to cry.
It's been two years since my surgery (a radical hysterectomy for cancer) and while my recovery has been just fine according to my doctors, it's been painfully slow for me. I've always been a fairly active person, working as a house painter through my college years and as a theatrical scenic artist after college. I've danced various types of social dance (contra, couple dance, international, a little Morris and vintage dance) for most of my life and I've been dancing with an Appalachian clogging group for the last 11 years. At this point in my recovery, though, I have about half the stamina I had before the surgery and even a short time dancing leaves me winded and exhausted.
Most of the time I'm happy with my progress and feel almost normal, but there are moments where I become Cancer Girl all over again. One of those times is when I see my teammates looking fresh as everbloomin' daisies after a 10 minute performance and I stand beside them red-faced, sweating and panting. I feel the waistband of my tights digging into my scars, my bra straps digging into my shoulders and my calves already starting to cramp. Sweat dripping off my chin, bangs plastered to my forehead, mascara raccooning around my eyes. I'm already starting to ache all over and know how much I'm going to hurt the next day because my muscles haven't caught up to the inevitable post-menopausal weight gain and shift in my center of gravity.
And you want to preserve this ghastly moment for all time.
Honestly I could have handled it if you just took the shot and left me alone. But after I changed and came back for my things you had to stick that damn camera back in my face crowing, "There I got it!" You're lucky I just turned away and you weren't sweeping camera bits off the floor.
I don't know why you felt entitled to my image or why you couldn't respect my desire to exercise at least a little control over how I present myself. I would have loved a picture with my dance group where I looked relaxed and dry and more my happy self, but I ended up angry and sad and painfully self-conscious that you captured the wretched feelings, not the nice ones. And I'm furious that I let it get to me leaving me weepy and fragile for the rest of the night and wishing I could go back and say the right thing to make you stop.
I'll get over feeling sorry for myself. I'll find healthier ways to respond to situations that make me feel discouraged about my slow progress and my changing body. I may even get stronger and learn how to set my limits when I tangle with people who don't know when to back the hell off.
And you, Pushy Photographer, I hope you can remember that when someone shares their image with you it is a gift, not something you are entitled to take. Every person who gives you a glimpse of their story deserves your respect and compassion. Love your subjects and the images reflected back will be glorious.
----------------------------------------------
A few of the many portrait photographers that get it:
Humans of New York
JJ Tiziou
Riverhouse Photography
Sandra Parks
Bill Tucker
Monday, December 2, 2013
Continuing Adventures with the Lady Business
Me: Ow, ow, ow, my back hurts. It's weird, it feels just like PMS except I haven't got any PMSing hormones or ladyparts.
BBE: Well, maybe you have an Imaginary Friend.
BBE: Well, maybe you have an Imaginary Friend.
Friday, May 17, 2013
This is so much better than cancer...
A year ago this week I was having surgery; today I'm opening
boxes of our new cd and beaming gratitude rays all over the place.
Dear ones, consider this your annual reminder to take care of your health and get all your screenings. There are people who love you and sweet adventures waiting for you, too! (Cats are optional.)
For more about our band and recording go to Coracree.com
To read about my Lady Business: start here.
Dear ones, consider this your annual reminder to take care of your health and get all your screenings. There are people who love you and sweet adventures waiting for you, too! (Cats are optional.)
For more about our band and recording go to Coracree.com
To read about my Lady Business: start here.
Monday, March 25, 2013
About My Lady Business: Picture Day
I go in for my 3 month Lady Cancer check-up and darling doctor J sees that I'm due for a mammogram. He says he also wants to do a manual breast exam. Fine. Whatever. I've been getting these since I was a teenager and it's no big deal. Thankfully there was also a female nurse and a female resident in the room when this slightly surreal conversation happened: I'm laying there with one hand flung over my head wondering if my deodorant was holding up or (worse) if it was forming unsightly little pit pills, when he says,
Doc: "You know," [push poke push], "they are no longer recommending manual breast exams. Just mammograms." [mush poke]
Me: "Really?
Doc: "Not even self exams. Other side"
Me: "Then why are you still doing them?"
Doc: [sigh/headdrop] "I don't know." [poke push]
Me: "And yet you're still touching my boob..."
So today I go for my mammogram at my local hospital. After dealing with two hospitals in the last year, I tend to forget things like where I parked so I've learned to take a picture of my parking level. Today was M3.
The place I go is very nice with real cloth gowns, nice dressing rooms with forgiving lighting and even a cappuccino machine.
I think grown-up should get merit badges too.
Today was my 10th mammogram!
Doc: "You know," [push poke push], "they are no longer recommending manual breast exams. Just mammograms." [mush poke]
Me: "Really?
Doc: "Not even self exams. Other side"
Me: "Then why are you still doing them?"
Doc: [sigh/headdrop] "I don't know." [poke push]
Me: "And yet you're still touching my boob..."
![]() |
| Where I parked |
The place I go is very nice with real cloth gowns, nice dressing rooms with forgiving lighting and even a cappuccino machine.
![]() |
| Stylin' in the cloth gown! |
![]() |
| Disney Princess dressing rooms! |
![]() |
| Caffeine! |
I think grown-up should get merit badges too.
Today was my 10th mammogram!
Friday, January 11, 2013
Lady Business Rant of the Day - Bra Shopping
I HATE shopping for bras because
1) Sizing is inconsistent from brand to brand
2) It doesn't really matter because no one carries my size
3) On the off chance the store has my size, it's invariably in the back of the bottom rack
4) so I end up rummaging around in a pile of underwear on my hands and knees
5) and if that wasn't humiliating enough
6) there is the whole issue of the unforgiving dressing room lighting.
7) Also they put too many bras on each rack, so every time I move I knock something down
7) and it was about 90˚ in the store so I was sweating and swearing and knocking crap over
8) right in the middle of the Oh-so-delicately named "Intimates" Department
9) so by the time the store announcer with the most remarkably nasal voice made her 6th announcement for sportswear I was
10) morphing into Psycho Shopper from Hell and reconsidering my commitment to non-violence.
11) I got some nice cookie sheets, though.
Wednesday, August 22, 2012
Like we needed to be told this....
Golden ratio discovered in uterus
Belgian gynaecologist measures reproductive organs of 5,000 women and finds that the most fertile have 'mathematically perfect' dimensions
Golden ratio discovered in uterus | Alex Bellos | Science | guardian.co.uk
Friday, June 8, 2012
Lady Business 1 - Stupid Cancer 0
I had a follow-up today with Dr. J who poked around, peered and prodded and said I'm healing up nicely. The pathology reports were in and they confirmed that the cancer was confined to the cervical canal, and was .5 cm x 1.3 cm. No cancer was found in the uterus, ovaries, tubes, surrounding tissue or in any of the 27 lymph nodes he removed. (No wonder I felt like I had been kicked in the gut by a horse.) He'll take my results to a pathology review at the end of the month to run the diagnosis by other doctors to see what they think, but he's pretty damn confident I won't need any further treatment. Yippee! I'll need follow-up visits with him every three months for two years and, if all stays clear, I'll drop back to every six months. I'm back at work, sit-down computer stuff only, and no dancing or heavy lifting for a couple more weeks, but then I should be good to go!
Here are some things people have wanted to know:
Do you feel like something is missing?
No, in fact there is a lot of swelling after a surgery like this, so there's a bit of pressure, bloating and tenderness. Kind of like the worst PMS ever. With cool scars.
What happens to the place where the uterus was?
I'm assuming the other abdominal stuff sort of slurps on over like jello on a warm day. The uterus isn't all that big, so it's not like there is a big space in there to be filled up.
Do you have stitches?
There are internal stitches that will dissolve. Externally I was super-glued closed. I love that. I feel like a big walking craft project.
How's the whole bladder thing going?
This is the hardest thing to deal with. He spent 4-1/2 hours rummaging around in my abdomen, so predictably there is some nerve trauma. Once the Creepy Catheter was out, I had to learn to pee again. You know how newborn babies cry and you have no way of knowing if they're hungry or tired or wet or in pain? Well none of the nerve signals from my nether parts were what I was used to feeling - my Lady Business would start howling and I had to figure out what the heck it wanted me to do. Let's just say each trip to the john was a new adventure. Hey, at least I'm not incontinent.
What does it feel like?
I won't lie, it frickin' hurts and certain things hurt more than others. Driving sucks, walking is hard, but playing guitar is fine. Painkillers are the best invention ever, right after super robotic surgery. I get tired at unexpected moments, but less so every day. I have some hypersensitivity which means stretch pants and granny panties for a while, but to be honest that's how I dress most of the time anyway. As the nerves sort themselves out and come back to life, I experience new and different pains. Good because I was spared having to feel all the pains at once, not so good because I'm really ready to stop taking painkillers.
How does it feel to be a Cancer Survivor?
In a celebratory moment I sent a message to friends that read: "I didn't just survive cancer - I took it out back and kicked its malignant ass." I was Indiana Jones shooting the guy with the whip - my treatment was quick, aggressive and, most likely, very successful.
In the past couple of weeks I've been thinking a lot about my identity as a cancer survivor and realized that I don't feel all that comfortable wearing that label. The main reason is that there are people, including several close friends, who have my undiluted admiration and respect for the horrific treatments they were willing to endure in order to beat cancer, including repeated rounds of chemo, radiation and surgeries. Some survived, some didn't, but they all fought like hell and I'm in awe of their strength and courage. Compared to what they went through, my treatment was a minor inconvenience. I am undeniably privileged to have access to the best health care, full insurance coverage, flexible work hours with sick pay and an absolutely astounding community to support me. I didn't survive so much as lay back and let people feed me soup and chocolates for a couple of weeks. Assuming the badge of Cancer Survivor feels a little like wearing a T-shirt proclaiming "I Survived the Tea-cup Ride at Disneyland" or getting a Purple Heart for a paper cut.
Technically, yes, I survived cancer, but I'm not sure I want to shape my identity around not dying of a disease. There are so many other parts of my life that are way more important to me - family, friends, music, dance, art....Cancer Survivor is just way far down on the list. I also discovered that it galled me to think of it as "My Cancer". That little f**ker invaded my Happy Place and I couldn't get rid of it fast enough; the last thing I want to do is sound attached to it. My mom suggested that if I'm ever tempted to discuss cancer with possessive language, that I consider using the phrase "My Beloved Cancer" instead. Thanks, Mom, as always, you know just the right thing to say.
Also I don't look good in pink.
Here are some things people have wanted to know:
![]() |
| As if... |
No, in fact there is a lot of swelling after a surgery like this, so there's a bit of pressure, bloating and tenderness. Kind of like the worst PMS ever. With cool scars.
What happens to the place where the uterus was?
I'm assuming the other abdominal stuff sort of slurps on over like jello on a warm day. The uterus isn't all that big, so it's not like there is a big space in there to be filled up.
Do you have stitches?
There are internal stitches that will dissolve. Externally I was super-glued closed. I love that. I feel like a big walking craft project.
How's the whole bladder thing going?
This is the hardest thing to deal with. He spent 4-1/2 hours rummaging around in my abdomen, so predictably there is some nerve trauma. Once the Creepy Catheter was out, I had to learn to pee again. You know how newborn babies cry and you have no way of knowing if they're hungry or tired or wet or in pain? Well none of the nerve signals from my nether parts were what I was used to feeling - my Lady Business would start howling and I had to figure out what the heck it wanted me to do. Let's just say each trip to the john was a new adventure. Hey, at least I'm not incontinent.
What does it feel like?
I won't lie, it frickin' hurts and certain things hurt more than others. Driving sucks, walking is hard, but playing guitar is fine. Painkillers are the best invention ever, right after super robotic surgery. I get tired at unexpected moments, but less so every day. I have some hypersensitivity which means stretch pants and granny panties for a while, but to be honest that's how I dress most of the time anyway. As the nerves sort themselves out and come back to life, I experience new and different pains. Good because I was spared having to feel all the pains at once, not so good because I'm really ready to stop taking painkillers.
How does it feel to be a Cancer Survivor?
In a celebratory moment I sent a message to friends that read: "I didn't just survive cancer - I took it out back and kicked its malignant ass." I was Indiana Jones shooting the guy with the whip - my treatment was quick, aggressive and, most likely, very successful.
In the past couple of weeks I've been thinking a lot about my identity as a cancer survivor and realized that I don't feel all that comfortable wearing that label. The main reason is that there are people, including several close friends, who have my undiluted admiration and respect for the horrific treatments they were willing to endure in order to beat cancer, including repeated rounds of chemo, radiation and surgeries. Some survived, some didn't, but they all fought like hell and I'm in awe of their strength and courage. Compared to what they went through, my treatment was a minor inconvenience. I am undeniably privileged to have access to the best health care, full insurance coverage, flexible work hours with sick pay and an absolutely astounding community to support me. I didn't survive so much as lay back and let people feed me soup and chocolates for a couple of weeks. Assuming the badge of Cancer Survivor feels a little like wearing a T-shirt proclaiming "I Survived the Tea-cup Ride at Disneyland" or getting a Purple Heart for a paper cut.
Technically, yes, I survived cancer, but I'm not sure I want to shape my identity around not dying of a disease. There are so many other parts of my life that are way more important to me - family, friends, music, dance, art....Cancer Survivor is just way far down on the list. I also discovered that it galled me to think of it as "My Cancer". That little f**ker invaded my Happy Place and I couldn't get rid of it fast enough; the last thing I want to do is sound attached to it. My mom suggested that if I'm ever tempted to discuss cancer with possessive language, that I consider using the phrase "My Beloved Cancer" instead. Thanks, Mom, as always, you know just the right thing to say.
Also I don't look good in pink.
Wednesday, May 30, 2012
Part 6: The Catheter and the Hat
OK, just one more post about Creepy Catheter and then I won't bring it up again.
Yesterday I had a post-op appointment with Dr. N because my surgeon Dr. J is out of town this week. The receptionist scheduled it for the hospital closest to my house, but I'm not sure she was really clear on what I was supposed to have done.
The waiting room at this particular Cancer Center was ginormous and science fiction surreal, except for the obligatory TV blaring in the corner and the unsettling Cancer Magazines scattered across the tables. I give the receptionist my name and she says "I don't work for Them, but I'll let Them know you're here." Mom and I sit down to wait. And wait. Aaaaannnnnd wait. Every 10 minutes or so someone would come out of the back wander around the waiting room, watch the TV for a while, ask if I was SallyAnne and then wander out again. Eventually the doctor comes out and starts heading for the exit. I say to Mom, "He doesn't look too tough, if you create a distraction I think I can take him down before he reaches the door." Considering the catheter and incisions, we thought better of it and he returned a couple of minutes later.
I was called back to the examining room and the nurse took my vitals and described the process of removing Creepy Catheter and left me to change. Dr N. turned out to be absolutely delightful. He went over what he was going to do in plain language and used just enough humor to put me at ease without feeling forced. Also I'm a sucker for an accent and the streak of New York City coloring his commentary just killed me.
A Foley Catheter is an ingenious device. A thin tube is inserted through the urethra and into the bladder. After it's inserted a little balloon on the end in the bladder is inflated with water, holding it in place. The other end goes to the urine catching bag. When it's time to remove it, they deflate the balloon via a special valve and pull the tube out. Here's the thing, though, they needed to know that after they removed the tube, my bladder was functioning and I could fully empty it when I peed, otherwise they were going to have to reinsert the tube. This was completely unacceptable to me, particularly because I was unconscious when it was originally inserted.
The only way to be sure was to fill my bladder to almost bursting with a measured amount of water via the tube, take out the blasted thing and then have me pee into a urine catching "hat" to measure the amount coming out. Dr. N starts squirting water in and he says "You should start feeling like you have to pee." A little more, and "If you were watching TV you might consider peeing at the next commercial." Still more and "Forget the commercial, you have to go now." "OK now you're starting to curse me out in your head." A total of 200cc and he deflates the balloon, pulls out Creepy Catheter and sends me off to the bathroom, which is down the hall, around the corner and down another hall.
As I sit up, the water is threatening to squirt out and I say, "Gimme a paper towel" slap the sucker between my legs and go dashing down the hallway in my TSA socks, robe flapping in the breeze practically knocking over radiation patients in desperation. On the way the nurse says, "Gee I hope nobody is in there." Yeah, you think!?
The bathroom was open and she put the pee hat in the john and left me to it. I was determined that unholy piece of aquarium tubing was not going back in. Sure enough I must have pulled excess water from my kidneys and even my swollen feet because 200cc went in and 250cc came out. "Pee on Demand" now gets added to my list of superpowers.
One last bit of fun with the pee bag before I got rid of it. I wore mine strapped around my shin the same way we wear Morris bells and so thought it would be entertaining to give it a May Day Makeover.
Yesterday I had a post-op appointment with Dr. N because my surgeon Dr. J is out of town this week. The receptionist scheduled it for the hospital closest to my house, but I'm not sure she was really clear on what I was supposed to have done.
The waiting room at this particular Cancer Center was ginormous and science fiction surreal, except for the obligatory TV blaring in the corner and the unsettling Cancer Magazines scattered across the tables. I give the receptionist my name and she says "I don't work for Them, but I'll let Them know you're here." Mom and I sit down to wait. And wait. Aaaaannnnnd wait. Every 10 minutes or so someone would come out of the back wander around the waiting room, watch the TV for a while, ask if I was SallyAnne and then wander out again. Eventually the doctor comes out and starts heading for the exit. I say to Mom, "He doesn't look too tough, if you create a distraction I think I can take him down before he reaches the door." Considering the catheter and incisions, we thought better of it and he returned a couple of minutes later.
I was called back to the examining room and the nurse took my vitals and described the process of removing Creepy Catheter and left me to change. Dr N. turned out to be absolutely delightful. He went over what he was going to do in plain language and used just enough humor to put me at ease without feeling forced. Also I'm a sucker for an accent and the streak of New York City coloring his commentary just killed me.
A Foley Catheter is an ingenious device. A thin tube is inserted through the urethra and into the bladder. After it's inserted a little balloon on the end in the bladder is inflated with water, holding it in place. The other end goes to the urine catching bag. When it's time to remove it, they deflate the balloon via a special valve and pull the tube out. Here's the thing, though, they needed to know that after they removed the tube, my bladder was functioning and I could fully empty it when I peed, otherwise they were going to have to reinsert the tube. This was completely unacceptable to me, particularly because I was unconscious when it was originally inserted.
The only way to be sure was to fill my bladder to almost bursting with a measured amount of water via the tube, take out the blasted thing and then have me pee into a urine catching "hat" to measure the amount coming out. Dr. N starts squirting water in and he says "You should start feeling like you have to pee." A little more, and "If you were watching TV you might consider peeing at the next commercial." Still more and "Forget the commercial, you have to go now." "OK now you're starting to curse me out in your head." A total of 200cc and he deflates the balloon, pulls out Creepy Catheter and sends me off to the bathroom, which is down the hall, around the corner and down another hall.
As I sit up, the water is threatening to squirt out and I say, "Gimme a paper towel" slap the sucker between my legs and go dashing down the hallway in my TSA socks, robe flapping in the breeze practically knocking over radiation patients in desperation. On the way the nurse says, "Gee I hope nobody is in there." Yeah, you think!?
The bathroom was open and she put the pee hat in the john and left me to it. I was determined that unholy piece of aquarium tubing was not going back in. Sure enough I must have pulled excess water from my kidneys and even my swollen feet because 200cc went in and 250cc came out. "Pee on Demand" now gets added to my list of superpowers.
One last bit of fun with the pee bag before I got rid of it. I wore mine strapped around my shin the same way we wear Morris bells and so thought it would be entertaining to give it a May Day Makeover. Saturday, May 26, 2012
It Takes a Village to Kick Cancer's Ass (page 2)
The gift that took my breath away was a community quilt designed and constructed by my dancing friends in under two months! It was brought over two days after my surgery and I've barely been able to take my eyes off of it.
A quilt is an incredibly powerful and transformative gift – a tangible reminder of how we love and care for each other. Every square speaks to me of the dazzling community we have built together; each unique piece blending to a swirl of comforting color and light. Every scrap represents a moment we have shared. Every stitch a healing thought, a prayer, an intention of good things to come, not only from the quilters themselves, but from all of my friends, family and extended community.
Two extras made this gift even more special. The first was that Rachel Winslow photographed each quilter with their piece and sent me the photos:
The second was the nod to this blog when the name block on the back was framed by Flip-flop fabric. It made me laugh a lot!
Wednesday, May 23, 2012
Part 5: It's All Fun and Games Until Sombody Loses a Uterus (1)
It was a four-hour surgery where Dr J removed uterus, ovaries and lymph
nodes in the groin and near the aorta. I'll get pathology results in a
week or two, but he said he didn't see anything alarming. Of course,
that's what they said about my cervix too, so hopefully I don't have
some kind of mutant stealth cancer. Anyway I was in at 6:30 am and out at 8:30pm the same day. Yes folks, radical hysterectomy is now an outpatient procedure. Not even any stitches or bandages - they super-glued me closed and sent me on my way.
| This is me about an hour after I woke up |
Even with cool robotic surgery and delicious narcotics afterwards, hysterectomies hurt. The incisions are much higher than I expected, but I'll spare you the gruesome photos. I have bruises in some unexpected places and I try not to think about what position they had me in while I was out.
Catheters are extremely annoying and I'm every bit as creeped out by it as I'd thought I be.
| Catheters are creepy |
Also I haven't had cotton-mouth like this since that experimental period in the 1970's.
| Ice chips please |
I did get some lovely hospital jewelry.
| That's my ID band (with a barcode!) and two allergy alerts. |
| Stylin' |
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