The TaTas Are Gonna Be Okay: A Healthy Jaded Update

Hello my darlings!

This random post is brought to you by my recent slew of doctor visits to make sure I didn't have breast cancer. Yeah, man, you read that correctly. Thankfully, everything is cool: there is no cancer in my breast meat and therefore no tough decisions need to be made. I just needed to write this out and release it from my brain. I guess that's why I maintain this URL--am I right??

Annoyed beyond belief.
But mostly scared

Anyways... so I had my very first mammogram shortly after my 40th birthday, and it wasn't so bad. They didn't squish me up as terribly as I imagined and the appointment didn't take too long. I thought it would be weird to have my breasts manhandled in that fashion, but you know what? I've been seeing an OB/GYN since I was 18; I'm used to having my parts manhandled by now.

After the exam, the technician advised me that I might be called back for a second mammogram, but that it's common so not to worry if I get that call. Of course, I got the call. My boobies were too "dense" so I needed an ultrasound + a second mammogram to see better. Annoying but I knew it was essential.

On my second exam, which consisted of a long ass wait and repeat visits to the mammogram room and an ultrasound, the doctor says, "There's a few spots we can't identify. We're going to need to do a needle biopsy. This is common and I'm sure it's nothing." CHILD. I hate when medical professionals say that shit: I'm sure it's nothing. Like, maybe to YOU because this is what you do all the live-long day. But this is all new to me. Save the platitudes for your momma.

So then came the needle biopsy last week. It's exactly what it sounds like (especially if you have your MD from TV dramas like I do): the doctor goes in through a tiny incision with a needle to biopsy whatever the spots or masses in my breasts are/were. There was Novocain involved. I was awake. I felt nothing and everything. It was preceded and followed by a few additional mammograms. I was cold, annoyed, and on the verge of tears.

The other women in the waiting area with me were split between survivors and women just there for routine mammograms. I just didn't want to be there among the women who'd lost their hair to chemo, and maybe even lost some parts to cancer. It was all too much. I can't even imagine what I would have done if it had gone the other way.

I started thinking about my breasts a lot. About how much I've defined myself by them. How their size has always been a running gag among family and friends. How the insecure teen in me always thinks that's the only attractive part of me: whatever my size I can always count on them to bring the boys to the yard.

And MY HAIR! I didn't want to lose not even a strand of my beautiful, messy, greying hair! It's just as much of an identifier for me as my breasts are, and it was breaking me down to think I could lose both. And then I started to feel petty and stupid and beat myself up for thinking of such trivial things in the face of cancer. But you know, it's not trivial. These things ARE important. These are MY breasts. This is MY hair. And it's not fair to lose it to stupid ass cancer.

Fast forward to now, I can count myself among the fortunate who are breast cancer-free. It doesn't run in my family and my mom and aunt had already reassured me that they've also had needle biopsies that turned out to be nothing more than calcium deposits or something like that, so there was an excellent chance I would be fine, too. But there's always that lingering doubt when you have an important test like that.

And you know, looking over all this I just read, I realized that none of my worries included how I would pay for any of this, because I have great insurance. My doctors are amazing. I can see specialists whenever for whatever for free. But what about women who can't afford private doctors? How can our elected officials think it's OK to defund such an important institution like Planned Parenthood, when those offices are sometimes the ONLY resources women (and men!) have for annual screenings?

I don't know, I'm rambling at this point. I'm just feeling a lot of things and I wish I had a bigger platform to spread awareness and encourage women to get annual checkups and look after their whole self: mind, body, and soul. Maybe one of you reading this have that kind of platform. Maybe you can spread the word on my (our) behalf. Keep your doctor appointments. Take care of yourself. Take care of your sisters. You're not alone.

*smooches...with a set of healthy breasts, thank goodness*
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and now I can proceed with dressing inappropriately while I re-learn to appreciate my fun bags. OWWW!

And Now The Real Work Begins: A Healthy Jaded Post

So remember around Christmas when I hurt my back and found out it was because an angry, toothy alien was residing in my spine and was manipulating my body like a puppet master? And I had to go to physical therapy and not work out on my own?

Right, so I decided to use all of that as an excuse to gain back a whole bunch of weight and eat a bunch of bad-for-me foods while not giving an iota of a fuck. I went from being in the low 170s to almost back in the 190s. It's truly a sad state of affairs.

Obviously there are other factors at play here that are hardly any of your business, but the fact remains that I'm a whale. A WHALE. A MOTHERFUCKING WHALE. And it's all my fault (although seamless.com, Domino's pizza and Netflix had something to do with it, too).

So I had to go back to basics, the things that worked for me the first time around. Enter my former personal trainer, Bryan Ortiz aka the Brooklyn Bad Ass, and his special brand of torture-disguised-as-fitness.

While I cried for Jesus, Bryan pointed & laughed & took pictures.

There's a long goddamned road ahead of me. I'm going to be stank, bitter, irritable and just downright nasty for at least six weeks as I retrain my brain and my body to embrace a healthy lifestyle again. And then I'm going to whine and cry and mope and overturn your desks and coffee tables in frustration. But eventually, I'll get back to normal. Whatever that is. Maybe.

You might want to steer clear of me until sometime after Halloween. Or Christmas, 2014.

*smooches...dreaming of pizza and cookies and gummy bears*
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OH MY!

I Remember Yoga: A Healthy Jaded Post

On Saturday, I decided that my back was feeling well enough to finally start yoga classes again. I dusted off an old Living Social voucher and strolled on over to Dou Yoga in Clinton Hill for their afternoon open level class. As instructed by my physical therapist, I let the instructor know about my back issues and all that before taking to the mat and assuming the position.

And well, it went as expected; I haven't taken a yoga class in about a year and I've been eating like a fool and sitting on my couch woe-is-me-ing about my back. So yeah, it hurt like a bitch.

Most of the time, I had to break formation to fold myself into child pose and take deep breaths. And cry a little bit into my mat. Every part of me wanted to roll up my shit and sneak out in the middle of the warrior poses--like a BAWSE--but some heffa was blocking my path to the door. So I stuck it out.

At one point, something I did angered my back to the point where sitting up straight was rather painful, the bad kind of painful, and I knew I was on the road to Overdid It-ville. But then, THEN, it was time for corpse pose, so I stifled the tears and told my back pain to shut the fuck up, and let go.

There was a moment when everything in me that was wound up tight unraveled. I had my eyes closed, legs akimbo, arms at my side, palms up, jaw relaxed, shoulders away from my ears, and my whole body unclenched. It was so serene, so peaceful, that I didn't know how to feel about it.

In fact, it scared me so much to be without worry for even a tiny moment, that my jaw tightened immediately and my old familiar aches returned.

Still, I had that great moment. Is that what happiness feels like? I've never experienced that before. Oh yoga, I can't believe we ever had to part!

*smooches...thinking of attending another class next week*
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here's hoping that yoga wasn't the culprit to my back all along!

This Is 38.

There is this shift in my brain lately. One that won't let me participate in any bullshit or give a crap about nonsense. It's making me think about responsible grown-up things and formulate a bucket list. It's also making me slightly more depressed.

For a second over the weekend one of The Voices busted out with a "We just need to start drinking again. We never thought this hard when we were drinking heavily. Remember how much fun it was to pass out and wake up hungry, thirsty and not giving a fuck about thoughts? THINKING IS FOR LOSERS!" But then one of the newer, more mature Voices put that Voice in timeout.

I also had a few new health issues to deal with this weekend, one of which is heat edema. OH JOY. This might just be the summer I break down and purchase an air conditioner. I cannot and will not walk around this summer sporting CANKLES like some Fatty McFatterton and not even have a baby in nine months to show for it!

My Kim K. swole-ass feet. UGH!

But newer, more depressing and introspective thoughts aside, all of my vain Voices reminded me that We're still cute.

Florida seemed to have agreed with me.

And as the days move on and We become less and less interested in carnal and youthful things, cuteness is still something We own. The Voices and I agree that We've got cuteness on lock. No one can take that from Us. At least not yet.

Thirty-eight just feels weird, though. Like, We're not in that 35 and younger crowd anymore, but We're not 40. It just feels weird. That's basically all I am at liberty to say.

*smooches...walking around in a daze all confused*
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I would blame the heat, but I know better

Pausing

"Did you say it? 'I love you. I don't ever wanna live without you. You changed my life.' Did you say it? Make a plan. Set a goal. Work toward it. But every now and then look around. Drink it in. 'Cause this is it. It might all be gone tomorrow." -Meredith Grey, "Grey's Anatomy"

A few months ago, I found out a family member, barely 40 years old, had open-heart surgery. Say WHAT, now? Yeah, if anything will make one stop and smell the roses is coming face-to-face with mortality and possible loss... Then there's my impending visit to see what changes, if any, have occurred in Uterine Fibroid Town.

Everyone keeps telling me, "stop with the What-Ifs until you get results" but you know what? I have kids. And debt. And many pending projects. I need to have a plan A, B and C at the ready. If my fibroids have gotten significantly bigger, I will most likely have the myomectomy. Just typing that makes me sad, especially when thinking of the money I spent on naturopaths and holistic counselors to avoid that fate. But I need to be prepared for that outcome; that's how my brain works. I need worst-case scenarios planned out to help me sleep at night. I just need to lose my shit before I can make myself feel better.

So for the next few weeks, if I seem a little less accessible or enthused with what's going on in your life, you'll know why.

Now, please excuse me while I go eat my feelings...fuck a bikini summer: I want empty calories NOW!

*smooches...wishing the weather would get better & fix my mood*
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the sun would definitely lessen my stress levels. BLERG.

Wedding Weekend Shenanigans

You all know I went to Cathi & Mike's wedding in Massachusetts over the St. Patrick's Day weekend, so here's how that went down...

>Thursday night I was forced to sleep with two ACTUAL dogs. Yes, me, the woman who despises house pets more than anything. I'm telling you, people and their pets will forever confuse the hell out of me. How do you just let some filthy animal in the bed... *remembers some bad decisions made after many drinks in the club* Oh. Never mind.

>Friday we got all prettied up and got Cathi to the "church" on time. And by church I mean butterfly conservatory in Deerfield. We took pics, danced, ate and drank only a little (but of course I OD'd on champagne because I don't understand what "drink in moderation" means, so I had a bit of a headache). Nina was there looking FAB as always, and we helped make the wedding rather colorful (see what I did there? LOL!) Afterward Cathi strolled from dive bar to dive bar in her wedding dress (and me in MY bridesmaid dress) dancing and basking in all the attention. It was pretty great!

The Rowdy Girls!

Bridal Party

Babies!

Primitas!

>One of Mike's friends is desperately in love with me, after only seeing and speaking with me for what--ten minutes? Yeah, he's sprung. Can you blame him? Massachusetts' white boys really have a thing for ol' Jaded, let me tell you! (I may or may not be exaggerating, but go with it. Ego and such...)

>Saturday, Cathi and Mike, still wearing their wedding garbs, took to the streets to cheer on folks running in some 10K road race that happens every year. And they made the local news! I stayed behind because listen--I have Caribbean blood in me. We don't do outdoor events in winter weather. Besides, there was a DR vs. PR World Baseball Classic game on (we won, of course!). I love Mike and Cathi but...baseball, son. Baseball.

>Later that evening, an Irish car bomb set the tone for the night. This little white boy came over to ogle at Cathi's pigtails (and breasts) and it turns out he was the very same white boy I made out with back in 2009. To hear him tell it, I "mouth-raped" him and then tossed him aside, leaving him wondering if he should call 911. Then he tried to give me bedroom eyes and said, "You're a good kisser, yo." Clearly, since he still remembered me. Meanwhile, I would not be able to describe him to a sketch artist at all. And then he went in for the grope.

I don't remember passing out on Cathi's futon at the end of the night (fully clothed), but I do remember feeding the jukebox ($5 got us 12 songs!), losing horribly at pool (I'm so rusty!) and apparently, I tweeted this literary gem:

I think I wrote this in Gaelic.

Oh, Massachusetts. Just memories upon memories of foolishness.

*smooches...anticipating my next travel adventure*
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it will be soon and it will be FABULOUS!

"Several Herniated Discs": A Healthy Jaded Post

So the mystery behind all the ouchies in my back have been solved: all of my thoracic vertebrae have herniated discs. FUN, RIGHT? Right. So now I get to visit a physical therapist wherein I'll be told that I'm doing everything in my life incorrectly and that's why my back is fucked up. Or I'll get some exercises that will help alleviate the pain. Whatever. All I hear is CO-PAYS OUT THE YING-YANG UP IN THIS BITCH!!! Again, whatever. I have to see the PT, right?

Anyfucks, we cannot pinpoint what caused this so there's no point on harping on that. It's time to fix it as best I can and move on with my life, especially because this quack said it's okay for me to continue working out. BOOOOOO! (I'm lying, she's not a quack. She's a pretty awesome doctor, and coming from me you know that means a lot.)

But what I really want to address is, umm, the films from my MRI. I have questions.

It looks like the lizard baby from "V" right?

And now it has fangs!!!

If anyone reading this is or knows a radiologist, please help a sistah out because I'm not trying to be a host to some sort of angry alien being who's trying to take over the world through me. OH MY GOD WHAT IF THIS ALIEN CONTROLS THE VOICES?!?!?

SEND. HELP.

*smooches...not blaming WebMD for once*
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those films are mad suspect...

Trial & Error: A Healthy Jaded Update

Here's what's been good: I've been eating breakfast everyday. While that is a huge accomplishment on my part all by itself, please hold your applause until I tell you how healthy and amazing my breakfast has been. Oh, wait, I guess I just did. So yeah, over the past month, I've made it a point to eat a breakfast loaded with good, lean proteins and healthy fats [insert crude joke about oral sex here]. I also tried to incorporate some grains in the beginning (Ezekiel bread was recommended] but it left me feeling bloated so I nixed that and substituted good carbs like sweet potatoes and plantains. Afterward I down four different liquid supplements: vitamin D, cod liver oil (fermented), evening primrose oil and B-12.

SIDE NOTE ABOUT THESE SUPPLEMENTS: The vitamin D doesn't really taste like anything and neither does the evening primrose oil. And the B-12 jsut has a Tussin-esque essence to it but I can manage. That fermented cod liver oil, though...GOD HELP US ALL. That shit is so disgusting! I mean, you think you know what it tastes like because you've probably taken cod liver oil pills in the past but no. NO. This isn't a pill, this is two teaspoons (in a shot glass) of LIQUID. FERMENTED. COD LIVER OIL. I can still taste that shit in the back of my throat hours after I've taken it. BLECH! Aaaannnnnddddd I think I may be allergic to it to boot! Ever since I switched over to the fermented oil (I was taking the regular Norwegian type before) my throat has felt weird and closed off. I stopped taking it this morning and opted for the non-fermented one, which I'll take over the next few days and see if I notice a difference. (Hopefully this won't lead to a visit to the ENT although, fuck it, let me schedule an appointment anyway.) Also, they're expensive!

So far this has helped me focus in the morning, so I make sure and get most of my tedious TO DO items done before lunch when my productivity and my energy levels are high.

What's not been so good: I'm still working on not snacking at work (it's tough when you know there's a whole drawer full of Swedish fish and potato chips just five feet away) and finding the right meal at lunch that won't induce the itis and help me continue to be productive until it's time to go home. Regulating my blood sugar after 12pm has proven to be my Achilles' heel. GRRRRRR!

I've also not conquered night-eating NOR have I managed to get to bed at a decent hour, and those are KEY in improving my overall health. And finally, I continue to struggle with committing to my physical fitness (in fact, I just froze my gym membership until April because let's be real- I barely go when it's nice out. Now that it's tundric weather? Fuggetaboutit!) and to reducing my stress levels via meditation. Basically I'm still not putting my emotional and mental health first.

In the end, will any of these things I'm doing improve my fibroid situation? I won't know until April after my physical & OB/GYN visit. In the meantime I will continue to press on and fight the good fight.

I swear, I'd better live to be a zillion years old after all this...

*smooches...playing scientist with my own body*
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here's where my science background comes in handy

It's No Longer About Weight Loss: A Healthy Jaded Update

I've been to see another holistic counselor. It's not cheap, but I'm choosing to see it as a necessary expense in my quest to find peace in this skin.

I realized the error I made with the others: I was focused too much on losing weight. "I want to drop about 20 more pounds" would always come before "I'd like to do something non-surgical about these fibroids." With this new counselor I did the reverse. I told her in no uncertain terms that I care not about weight loss anymore; I just DON'T want to go under the knife. I want to not have these things pressing on my bladder and colon. I want to feel better!

After a couple of sessions and a plan of action, I feel confident this will work for me. Of course, it's requiring a lot of discipline on my part, and you already know how rebellious I can be. More than anything, though, I'm working on wrapping my head around the lifestyle change I have to make for the long haul. I can no longer avoid it. Forty is creeping up on me and before you know it HERE COMES FIFTY!

Of course, once menopause sets in the fibroids cease to be an issue, but in the meantime I'm in a battle for my health. If, as a side effect of living cleaner, I happen to lose a few pounds here and there, well goody for me.

*smooches...working on being a better me*
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again.

A Lesson From My Blog Break

First- MY BAD that I forgot to greet you all when I came back from my blog break with some crunktastical tunes like I usually do. What a terrible host I am! Rock out to this and we'll call it even, yes?



So. I took a random two-week break from blogging, brought on in part by some natural disasters, as well as my need to reassess what is important in my life and what isn't.

IMPORTANT: My family and close friends//My well-being//Writing//Living my life like it's golden.
NOT IMPORTANT: Everything else.

One thing I have discovered during my break is that I cannot do everything. I cannot fix the world (at least not by myself). Also, I cannot help someone who is not open or ready to receive my help (you can lead a horse to water and all that good stuff). And I especially can't, or rather shouldn't, help someone who did not request it. This revelation alone will lift so many weights off my shoulder.

Y'all not about to have me out here going crazy trying to make your life better while fibroids the size of Mount Kilimanjaro continue grow in my uterus due to adrenal fatigue because I'm allowing myself to get stressed with your bullshit. Nah, son. Those days are over.

I wish you well, I really do, but not at my own expense. PEACE.

*smooches...chillin' like a villain*
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heart disease runs in my family, too, so I can't fuck around with my blood pressure

Occupational Hazard

From the moment I rise until I begrudgingly pull away from social networking sites at 3AM, I'm in front of a computer typing articles for work or snarky Facebook statuses. It's all taking its toll on my brain (you read this blog, right?), back (I can barely drop it like it's lukewarm these days) and sadly, now my wrists.

See Exhibit A:

The writer's life

I guess it doesn't help that I also sleep ON my arm in the fetal position...

*smooches...fucking it up for myself*
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one day I'll get it right. allegedly.

More Jaded Facts For Your Case Files

I'm feeling generous; here are some more facts about yours truly, in case you were DYING to get to know me better:

1- I'm not a picky eater, but if you put eggplant or salmon on my plate I will fight your face and go on a hunger strike. My grandmother used to cook eggplant and force me to eat it even though the texture reminded me of phlegm. The trauma of it all remains with me always.

2- I abuse every bit of power ever placed in my hands; because of this I've agreed (with The Voices) to never run for any kind of office. If you put me in charge I will be mean and rude and make everyone working for me cry or feel true fear.

3- I looked up my name on iTunes (I also google my name often) and found these songs. Yes, I'm super-vain like that. And look, they're both love songs, because everybody loves me and I'm so loveable men are moved to create songs about me telling me of their love :)





4- During a consultation with someone I sought alternative treatment from, I admitted out loud that I stay up late at night because I'm not ready to accept the reality of the next day, especially if I haven't done anything productive. It's like "Oh look, nothing from the TO DO list is done. You can't go to bed until you do these things because tomorrow you won't have time." Next thing you know it's 3AM and all I've done is watched clips of those hens fighting on "The View."

5- Much to my chagrin, I'm very in tune with my body, and I know the millisecond it's not going to feel well. I can also feel almost every aspect of my reproductive cycle, especially when I'm ovulating from my right side. And let me tell you, it's quite painful. It's also scary as hell; reminds me too much of my own mortality. But on the plus side, if I ever want another baby, I know to wait until I'm ovulating from the left side a.k.a the non-retarded ovary/fallopian tube.

*smooches...wondering what will be left to say in my memoir*
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oh who am I kidding; I leave so much out I could fill TWO memoirs! now tell me 5 things about you :)

I Have A Juicer...

...so now I can stop acting as if I like y'all and we're on the same level. Unless, of course, you're a member of a CSA or the Park Slope Co-op, in which case OF COURSE we're BFFs!! How else am I going to get my hands on the best, locally grown, organic fruits and vegetables I need to juice myself toward optimum health?

In the meantime, feast your eyes on my new baby, gifted to me by a sweet co-worker who cares about my well-being:

I'm calling her Betty. Betty the Breville Juice Fountain. HATE ON ME HATERS!

*smooches...getting way too big for my britches*
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I'm going to blame it on the Republicans; they're this month's villain du jour!

172.6: A Healthy Jaded Update

I wasn't going to write this post until after I met with the GYN surgeon about my fibroids, but why wait for depressing news when we can discuss my great news instead?

For about a month, I've been meeting with a personal trainer twice a week. Coupled with this GOD AWFUL detox cleanse I've been on for the past two weeks, it appears that, while my uterus situation hasn't changed, I've dropped almost 10 pounds!

That's right, folks- even though I've cheated on this cleanse here and there, and I've yet to get to the gym except for the training sessions I have with Señor Evil Trainer Meany Face, I managed to get oh-so-close to the 160s, which is my fitness dream come true. I mean, you guys can't even imagine how excited I am to be at the precipice of dropping a dress size and some inches! But let's not get ahead of ourselves...lets just relish in this 172.6 reading from the Stupid Idiot Scale that I found hidden in my room (I thought I had thrown it out months ago!).

What has helped: clearly the training. Not only is it forcing me to stay on budget (read: cut back on takeout since I can no longer afford it) but having that one-on-one help from Señor Evil Trainer Meany Face has really maximized my time in the gym. It's also taught me that

a) crying is OK, but it's not going to sway Señor Evil Trainer Meany Face one bit. He will still make you finish all your reps and not even offer you a tissue!

b) when you work out so hard that you feel vomity, trainers think it's funny.

c) my body can do so much more than I give it credit for.

d) my core? It's weaker than a motherfucker. And

e) thirty minutes feels like thirty hours when you're balancing on a Bosu ball while lifting weights and squatting. But these new sneakers helped!

Great support AND a Vibram sole!

Other things that have helped:

a) wanting to look good naked. Who doesn't want this?

b) fear of the diabetes that killed my grandmother (this fear has fueled my motivation).

c) Cathi's upcoming wedding; I must look FLY for my Boston White Boys!

d) eating better. I can't deny it; it helps. And

e) knowing if anything is wrong with your insides. I'll explain--

I was told that my liver enzymes were a bit elevated and that I was Vitamin D deficient; this is a direct result of a poor diet, which I'm working on. I was also informed that I have a slightly deviated septum AND that I still have my adenoids (you're not supposed to have them anymore as an adult); this means I have to be sure I'm using my neti pot every night AND that my environment is clean as a whistle.

Once you get these results from the doctor you can't UN-know them, and you are pretty much compelled to do something about it and take better care of yourself. Which is what I'm doing.

No six-pack or Kardashian booty, but MUCH improved!

And the results have been FAB!

*smooches...inches away from wearing a carnival costume to work*
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you know I will...

Some More Information On My Uterus: A Healthy Jaded Update

Let me just say, I'm not sharing all of this to gross y'all out, I promise! You just never know who is reading this stuff and if they can benefit from what's on this blog. I know I never knew a damn thing about fibroids until I had them. Never in a million years did I think anything would ever be wrong with my uterus, seeing as I've managed to get pregnant and have babies without problems (except that one time). But here I am and this is what's what.

I went to see my new primary care physician, Dr. Amazing, and she was able to break shit down for me in the most awesome of ways. I think I love her, but it's too soon to tell.

Anyway, she pulled up the medical records I brought over from the Devil's OB/GYN Office and began to paint a picture of what's going on in my nether regions. First, my uterus measures 14 x 10 x 8.7 cm. There are currently THREE fibroids claiming Squatter's Rights in there: a subserosal fibroid measuring 6.1 x 5.8 x 5.7 cm; an intramural to submucosal fibroid measuring 1.1 x 1 x .9 cm; and a subserosal fibroid measuring 1.9 cm. Below is a diagram of what all that means.

In case your math is fuzzy, one of the fibroids is damn-near half the size of my uterus. HALF THE SIZE. Just chillin', taking up room and tormenting my life. Allegedly. One of these bad boys is pressing on my bladder, causing me to have to use the bathroom not even 20 minutes after having something to drink. I also suspect one is pressing on my large intestine, but I won't go into detail as to why.

So after realizing all of this for the first time, and being assured that these are benign tumors that could very well be left alone, Dr. Amazing discussed the different surgical options at my disposal, should I opt to go that route. There's a hysterectomy, myomectomy, uterine artery embolization (the three she discussed with me briefly), and myolysis and MRI-guided ultrasound surgery (the two she did not discuss with me or shrugged off as experimental). She then referred me to a surgeon so that I can truly understand the risks and benefits of any of these procedures or of leaving shit alone until menopause (apparently these suckers will just become a non-issue and die off once my period stops harassing my life).

Y'all know I'm anti-surgery at all costs BUT it doesn't hurt to meet with this surgeon and see what she has to say. I made an appointment for the 23rd and in the meantime have armed myself with three books:

• Fibroids: The Complete Guide to Taking Charge of Your Physical, Emotional, and Sexual Well-being by Johanna Skilling (Side Note: K saw this book and was 100% disgusted at me worrying about my 'sexual well-being' LOL!)
• What Your Doctor May Not Tell You About Fibroids by Scott C. Goodwin, Michael Broder and David Drum
• It's a Sistah Thing: A Guide to Understanding and Dealing with Fibroids for Black Women by Monique R. Brown

I cannot go into this blind; doctors--even Dr. Amazing--can be too scissor-happy sometimes. Before I make any final decisions I need to know all the facts science can provide at this time.

Please feel free to share any experiences you or your loved ones have had with this. It all helps!

*smooches...gearing up for the long haul*
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there's a light at the end of this tunnel, right?

Twenty-one Days: A Healthy Jaded Update

For most of October, my diet will mainly consist of this:

and this:

and then towards the end of the 21 days I'll be reintroducing these:

All in the name of getting my body right.

Jesus be an electrified fence around Atomic Wings...

*smooches...gearing up for the battle FOR my life*
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no more kid games; time to get really real, son!

Rope Pulls & Box Jumps: A Healthy Jaded Update

Listen- I've not done a lick of physical activity since my last post. I had all manner of good intentions, but the pull of Netflix and potato chips was stronger. Watching episodes of "Til Death" and nacho cheese Doritos are the perfect Jaded Escape. But it's not healthy so let's move on.

This morning I met with my new trainer, Hector, for the first of a two-day-a-week, five-week training schedule. CHILD.

First of all, I decided to schedule these sessions at the ass-crack of dawn in Manhattan, when the only people riding the rails are scary, scruffy-looking, blue-collar Russian and Mexican men who side-eye me as if I walked in donning a swastika and an INS badge. Excuse me, Ivan and Paco, I'm just trying to get my workout on. Go back to your Daily News, coffee and buttered roll. Mmmmm, butter...

Secondly, WHO SCHEDULES WORKOUTS IN A DIFFERENT BOROUGH AT THE ASS-CRACK OF DAWN, ON A WEDNESDAY, RAQUEL?

Finally, OUCH. Being out of shape blows.

I didn't take a "before" picture, weigh or measure myself because I have a good mirror. I know what's not working on my body ::looks at midsection:: and I know what needs to be done. I'll know I'm #WINNING once my jeans stop creating this muffin top situation and my bra doesn't pronounce my back fat to the world. I'll know everything is okay when I can run up the stairs and not feel winded or dizzy (although I'm pretty sure the dizziness is the result of something else. No, not a baby. My uterus is out of commission right now, remember?) and I can bench press Mari. And if in the end this gets me some good ass sleep at night? Bonus!

But let me just say this: Pulling that god-awful ogre-rope with a 40-lb kettlebell weight attached to it, and jumping on and off some stupid little platform, is something the devil made. I'd better be able to kick Ivan and Paco's asses after these five weeks or I'm gonna eat some faces!

*smooches...bitter because I had to wake up so early*
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also? fuck jumping jacks!

Insurance Won't Cover What I Need: A Healthy Jaded Post

Normally these updates deal with my fitness journey, include a photo of my ever-expanding jelly-belly and list whatever Challenge Of The Week I'm involved in to get a better body. Today, however, I'm discussing my journey to get right on the inside.

So we already know my uterus and surrounding lady parts are acting a fool (you can read about that here); it's annoying and sad and annoying. Yes, annoying TWICE. What's worse is that the alternative treatments I want and need (you know, as opposed to letting some butcher get all up in my nether parts and remove perfectly good organs) is not covered by insurance. Namely, the services of a naturopathic doctor.

In case you're not hip to the latest in new-agey lingo, the American Association of Naturopathic Physicians defines their beliefs and members as such:

"Naturopathic medicine is based on the belief that the human body has an innate healing ability. Naturopathic doctors (NDs) teach their patients to use diet, exercise, lifestyle changes and cutting edge natural therapies to enhance their bodies’ ability to ward off and combat disease."

This is right up my alley.

But when I finally found an ND that I thought would be perfect (given reviews, etc), I find out that she, and other NDs in New York, are not covered by medical insurance. BY LAW. Because they aren't allowed a medical license. What the fuck, Cuomo?? Why not?!?! (Click HERE to sign a petition to change all this.)

It was a setback I wasn't prepared for. I had to cancel the appointment I made because it was just too costly and sought out a highly-praised MD in Chinatown that boasts the use of "holistic treatments" for patients. Thankfully, after I found this magical Chinese doctor, the ND wrote me back and offered me a lower fee on a sliding scale. HOT DIGGITY DOG!! Clearly, there are still amazing and generous people in this world. This ND knows nothing about me except that some evil OB/GYN is threatening my uterus and she wants to help.

So now I have an appointment with the ND and then next month I see the MD. All three of us will come up with a comprehensive solution to this annoying (times three!) problem of mine...and then in ten years I can start enjoy (NOT) menopause in peace!

*smooches...learning more about red tape than I ever wanted to*
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thank goodness the issue isn't more serious...damn HMO!

My Vagina (Uterine, Actually) Monologues

Am I still a woman without all the parts that biologically make me a woman?

This is the question that has been plaguing me since last week when I left my gynecologist's office, right after she said the word "hysterectomy" to me. I'm only 37 and she was so quick to snatch my uterus out of my life.

Let me backtrack.

A few years ago I was told I had three very small non-cancerous fibroids growing in my uterus. No big deal, it happens to a lot of women and we just needed to keep an eye on them. This year's exam made my doctor say, "You uterus seems enlarged," words I did not want to hear. I knew those words would end in surgery and a loss of my reproductive abilities, something I'm too young to deal with.

I guess what made it worse- besides the self-deprecating thoughts of being useless and possibly undesirable because of a missing part that signifies ones mortality and old age- is the cold and callous way in which the doctor, excuse me, RN, delivered the news (plus the fact that there's a cyst on my ovary, "But those come and go so no need to worry about that just yet"), as if she had better things to do and I was in the way of those better things. As if my uterus and all the psychological repercussions attached to losing said uterus didn't matter.

Well it does matter, to me. Maybe I don't really want more kids or maybe I do. What if I'm with someone who has never had kids? What future family can I offer him? What if I don't want to lay on a table and put my life in a surgeon's hands? I've had surgery before and it didn't go so well.

And then thinking of that messy ordeal reminded me of all (well, the two) pregnancies I had that I so cavalierly discarded and walked away from without remorse. My latent Catholic tendencies couldn't help but think this was my punishment.

I don't know, I'm rambling at this point. All I know is that for a week now I've been walking around rubbing the area on my tummy where the fibroid is growing out of control, making me look three months pregnant, and feeling sad. K is going off to college next year and N is following in her footsteps faster than I care to think about. Maybe I didn't want any more babies but maybe I do. And I suppose I was prepared to lose my uterus to menopause but this...this just doesn't seem fair.

You'll excuse me if I tend to be a bit more attitudinal these days than usual. I'm trying my best not to fall apart.



*smooches...still pondering what to do next*
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but shout out to Cathi who really talked me down off the ledge about this whole thing and gave me some really good and practical and loving advice; it helps to have a friend who has studied medicine. love you girl!

Stress Is My Trigger: A Healthy Jaded Post

Confession time, folks: Healthy Jaded has fallen off the wagon, sadly. About a month ago I was dealing with a stressful financial situation, mixed in with a stressful career situation and topped off with a stressful health situation, and that trifecta of stress triggered all of my bad habits. They all resurfaced. Even the bad habit of not giving a fuck and wanting to stay home and wallow in my not-giving-a-fuckedness.

The results are, well, I feel AWFUL. My allergies have kicked into high gear, my skin looks blah, I'm sluggish, fatigued and sad most of the time. I look like a sickly person and I haven't even gotten the final diagnosis yet! And to make matters worse, my last doctor visit proved what I've been trying to deny-I've gained some weight back. It may or may not have pushed me over the edge and caused me to buy food from the Halal cart on Church Ave everyday this week. Allegedly.

The weight gain did slap some reality into me, though, that being: "Raquel, if you don't snap out of it now, everything you've worked toward and all the money you invested into these improvements will be for naught. And no one will ever want to fuck you ever again." (That last part might not be true; I've seen some truly FUGLY pregnant women so clearly somebody is fucking them. Still, don't tell my brain that.)

I realize now, finally, for real, for real, that I do not know how to manage stress and I never have. As soon as I come across an obstacle I freak the fuck out and reach for a bag of potato chips. Or order 2 pizzas. Or bury myself in some Haagen Dazs. And we all know that this DOES. NOT. WORK. But try and convince my brain of this...

Where am I now? Theoretically, I'm enthusiastically motivated to continue eating right and participating in frequent physical activities. I've even purchased some more workout-related Groupon vouchers in the name of getting back to Healthy Jaded status. The reality is that I'm struggling with thinking positively, and until I hear the final word from my doctor, straighten out my money or see some more progress on my writing career I don't know if I'll survive it all.

Feel free to show up at my door with Paleo-friendly casserole dishes and cash gifts. And the number to a literary agent who is going to make shit happen!

*smooches...hoping I haven't let you down*
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I'm thinking up ways to handle the stress, don't worry.