Tag Archives: Breast

Sweating with the Oldies

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jeans_don't_fitMy birthday was last week. I’m forty-five years old, which doesn’t seem at all possible, but alas, the numbers don’t lie. Nor do I, actually. I’d so much rather someone know how old I am and say, “Wow, you look great for such an old broad” than lie about my age and have people think, “Damn…she looks rough for twenty-eight!” As much as I’d like to deny that I’m officially middle-aged, anyone who can multiply by two is aware of the undeniable truth. It’s unlikely, but if I do live past ninety, I probably won’t even realize that I’ve scored some bonus time.

This birthday also makes me just one year away from forty-six, the age my mom was when she was first diagnosed with breast cancer. Again, I’m not going to lie…that scares the shit out of me. Not to worry, I’m extremely conscientious about keeping up with my yearly doctors’ exams. I’ve been getting mammograms since I was twenty-six which means I’ve had my tit in a wringer nineteen times already. Squish! The good news is that, after having two kids and breastfeeding for a total of two years, my breasts are no longer very dense and hard to read on mammograms. See? Even droopy boobs can be a blessing in disguise. (I’ve been uncharacteristically optimistic lately. It’s kind of freaking me out.)

Instead of sitting around living in fear, though, I am dedicating the next year to eating right and getting back into tip-top shape. So, to kick off the year, Ad Man and I are just starting a cleanse. We actually had great results with the same cleanse about two years ago. It’s pretty hardcore. By the end of the six week program, we will have eliminated sugar, caffeine, alcohol, processed foods, gluten and most dairy from our diet. At the same time, we will add green smoothies for breakfast (a habit we had for about a year and a half before slacking off), meditation, nightly stretches, more sleep and, for me, more weight training and yoga. I tried to get Ad Man to do yoga with me once, but it wasn’t pretty. He prefers to run, go cycling or do kettlebell and I prefer him to do anything it takes to keep him sane.

I don’t want you to think that I’m going all preachy-preachy Gwyneth Paltrow on you. That’s not at all my intention. I’m just going to need all the support I can get, especially as I wean myself off my beloved sugar and caffeine and I know you, my dear readers, will keep me honest. In exchange, I’ll keep you posted on my progress. (I promise, there will be no horrifying “before” pictures of me in a workout bra and bike shorts.) If you want to join me, however, I’d greatly welcome the company! The cleanse we’re following is from the book Revive: Stop Feeling Spent and Start Living Again by Frank Lipman, M.D., which is a really informative read even if you’re not doing the cleanse.

So, let me know if you want to jump on the Operation Hot Bod bandwagon with me. I assure you, there will be no weigh-ins or public shaming. I actually haven’t stepped on a scale in years. I’d rather judge my progress by how my clothes feel and how my arms are looking in a sleeveless top. My goal is to deflate the old muffin top a bit and I swear, I will do my damnedest to hold off floppy “bingo arms” for as long as humanly possible. Living in Atlanta is actually good motivation for getting fit since, when it’s 90 degrees out with 90% humidity, I prefer to wear as little clothing as I can without scaring the neighbors. So, really, I’m doing this for them. You’re welcome, neighbors.

Enough of the Pink Already!

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pink_ribbon_soupI’d like to bid adieu and good riddance to October, also known as Breast Cancer Awareness Month.  My mother died of breast cancer in the middle of September, 11 years ago.  Every year, shortly after I’ve successfully navigated the crushing blow of the anniversary of her death, I’m faced with a big, pink bomb that explodes everywhere, covering every surface, product and event for 31 looooooong days.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m grateful for all the money raised and the awareness that is spread. Luckily for my daughters and I, breast cancer is no longer considered an embarrassing, somehow shameful disease that’s only whispered about with immediate family members. Dollars raised during the month of October every year go toward funding medical research that has resulted in earlier detection methods and more effective drugs to fight the disease. Women are now fully aware that they should be “feeling their boobies” monthly in order to “save the tatas!”

But, even my mother, while battling the disease, was sick of the “pinkwashing.” Shortly before her death, she told us that she wanted any donations made in her name to go to the Muscular Dystrophy Association, not to breast cancer.  She felt that breast cancer research had plenty of money and that it was time to give other diseases the same attention.  And, that was more than a decade ago!  I can’t imagine what she’d think these days when pink ribbons are as ubiquitous as Kim and Kanye.

My objection to breast cancer awareness month is a little more personal and maybenfl_pink_ribbon even selfish.  I just need a fucking break already!  Imagine this…you have a loved one who has, sadly, died from being shot in the head with a cannonball.  Communities are up in arms about the number of deaths caused by cannonballs every year, so a month is designated as Cannonball Awareness Month.

Baby blue is chosen to be the color symbolizing the fight against cannonball deaths because, you know, boys mostly use cannons and baby blue is for boys.  Your orange juice has a baby blue ribbon on it saying “Be aware!  Cannonballs kill!”  You go to get your nails done and pick up the special, limited edition nail polish in a lovely shade of baby blue for Cannonball Awareness Month. Professional football teams replace their usual shoes with baby blue ones and paint an enormous baby blue ribbon on their field.

There are countless fundraisers for cannonball awareness.  The nightly news has a special series about the dangers of cannonballs and the anchors interview the tearful relatives of those who lost their lives to cannonball injuries.  You just want to pick up a few things at Target and there are kids’ t-shirts saying “My mommy is a cannonball-to-the-head survivor!”  Your vitamin bottle has a baby blue ribbon on it.  Your Kleenex box bears a lovely pattern of baby blue ribbons.  Your favorite magazine contains articles about people who died of cannonball injuries, inspirational stories of cannonball survivors and tips about how to avoid being hit in the head by a cannonball.

Everywhere you turn, there’s a reminder of your friend or family member whose death is still a raw spot in your heart.  And every single baby blue ribbon makes you sad because you still desperately miss the person who died from being shot in the head with a cannonball.  Maybe they also make you scared because people in your family have a long history of being hit with cannonballs and there’s a good chance it could happen to you.

If I sound bitter, well, that’s because I am.  Can we please start supporting other causes? How about colorectal cancer?  Or Alzheimer’s disease?  Or, at the very least, if we’re going to stick with boobs, can we focus on an aspect of breast cancer that doesn’t get enough press like the number of young women who are diagnosed every year? Consciousness has been raised.  Let’s now focus that consciousness where it’s most needed instead of just painting everything with one enormous, pink brush.

I’m begging now.  Can we all just go back to spending the month of October freaked out by the fact that there are already Christmas decorations on display?!

Can’t You Get These Things To Stand Up?

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I recently read an article on the Huffington Post by Emma Gray titled, “23 Things Every Woman Should Stop Doing.”  Luckily, it was written by a woman because if a man tried to pull that off, the entire female readership of Huff Post would be hunting his ass down.  But no, this was written by one of our own, so I think we owe it to ourselves to hear her out.  A quick perusal of the article indicates that I’m doing many things wrong.  For example, I have flagrantly and repeatedly done all of the following: apologized too much, obsessively untagged every unflattering photo of me that ever existed online, felt like an imposter when I’ve accomplished something in my professional life (it took me years to be able to refer to myself as a lawyer without smirking), held on to toxic friendships (of course I’m not talking about you) and complained about my body as part of my constant mental monologue and, out loud, to others.

This last infraction is a big one, especially for those of us who are the parents of girls.  Much has been made recently about how a mother’s body image affects that of her children.  I know I need to be better about not putting myself down in front of my kids and I’ve been making an effort to do so.  However, Biggie and Smalls don’t read this blog (mainly because Mommy has a potty mouth) so I’m reserving the right to break the “rules” just this one time.

mom_tattooMany parents choose to celebrate their children by getting a tattoo in their honor.  Now, it’s no secret that I have a few tattoos.  So, occasionally, someone will ask me if I have a tattoo for my kids to which I invariably reply, “Hell, no!”  Those two darling girls have already branded my body in so many different ways, I feel no need to give up any more real estate to them.  And, luckily for you, dear reader, one of the things I do best (remind me to add this to my resume) is over-share.  My natural inclination, when I’ve done something wildly embarrassing is to, first, swear I will never tell another living soul about it and then, second, immediately post it to Facebook.  I just cannot hoard a good story, even at the risk of my own pride.

As most of you know, after having a child, no matter whether that child was conceived and carried by you or not, your body will never again be your own.  At the very least, it will be subject to the opinions of, and a running commentary by, a tiny person who should just mind his or her own damn business.  Which reminds me of a great story.  My friend A, was once taking a shower with her daughter who was about 4 years-old at the time.  Her daughter looked up, put a hand under each of my friend’s breasts and tapping them lightly as if she were trying to gently put them back into place said, “Can’t you get these things to stand up?”

So, in commemoration of my vow to stop publicly criticizing my body (trying to control my thoughts is a losing proposition), and in the spirit of Shit My Kids Ruined, here is an inventory of my body parts noting any damage caused wholly or in part by childbirth and motherhood.  My feet are bigger and my legs are more veiny.  The area north of my lady bits now bears a charming c-section scar, though I suppose that’s a fair trade off for not peeing on myself when I sneeze.  The things I was hoping would get bigger (my not-at-all womanly hips and my flat butt…curse you, Dutch ancestors!) didn’t and the things I really didn’t want to get any bigger (my boobs) did.  And, while my boobs didn’t shrivel up and fall off after a total of two years of breastfeeding as I had feared, like my friend A, they’re not exactly in the same position and it takes a little more effort (expensive bras) to get those things to stand up again!

My daughters also seem to feel that my body is here solely for their amusement.  (My husband does too, but that’s a whole other topic.)  The girls like to play with my boobs while I’m reading bedtime stories, jiggle my squishy belly and play “booty drums” on my arse.  Seriously, it’s like having a never-ending unpleasant date with a handsy college kid.

motherhood_barbie_dollWhich brings me to the two parts of my body most profoundly changed by motherhood…my brain and my heart.  As for my brain, well, let’s just say the old gray mare just ain’t what she used to be.  I walk into a room and promptly forget why I’m there, I have the concentration of a toddler, I can’t remember the names of people I see on a weekly basis and the stories I tell no longer necessarily contain a beginning, middle and end.  I would describe a conversation with one of my other 40-something, mom friends as more of a dusty, unraveling tapestry than a road map.  Granted, some of these things may be due in part to entering my 40s, but since these changes began at the same time as my first pregnancy, this is my story and I’m sticking to it.  When this mental downward slide began, I mentioned my concern about it to my psychiatrist.  He told me not to worry, that I was a busy mother of two young children and a swiss-cheese brain was just a natural side effect.  This gave me no comfort until he said, “If you’re aware that your mind is a little fuzzy and you forget things, all is well.  It’s when you start forgetting the things you’ve forgotten, then it’s time to worry.”  Luckily, I’m fully aware that I’ve become a bumbling idiot.  So I’ve got that going for me.  Which is nice.

It is, however, my heart that has taken the most shrapnel in the process of becoming a mother.  My favorite quote about parenthood is “Making the decision to have a child is momentous. It is to decide forever to have your heart go walking around outside your body.” (Elizabeth Stone)  It is the absolute best possible description of the transformation that occurred the moment I became a mother.  Like my stomach, my heart is now squishier and, like most of the rest of my body, my daughters have claimed complete ownership of it.  I am no longer the pragmatic law student who could help defend a medical malpractice case involving a baby without blinking an eye and even just the trailer of a movie about a child abduction now has me running to the lobby for more popcorn.  My newly squishy heart is also the cause of the Seven-Year War between it and my brain over whether to go back to work and seek my fortune out in the “real world” or stay home and bathe in every wonderful, maddening, hilarious, heartbreaking, mundane moment of motherhood.

All I can say is that, as the years fly by and my body becomes more and more of a science experiment, I will do my very best to give it the honor and respect that it deserves.  And if I ever hear of Emma Gray of the Huffington Post complaining about those extra 10 pounds or mentioning her budding jowls and chin hairs, that bitch is going to have some explaining to do.  (Sorry to call you a bitch, Emma.  I’m not a “professional” writer and sometimes I stoop to using expletives when I’m at a loss for words.  I hope we can be friends.)

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