Mirror Mirror on the Wall.....
As I'm writing this my plan was to wake up - always a good start - make a cup of tea and watch Frasier whilst breakfasting on bananas, pears and grapes. Maybe throw in a glass of fresh pineapple juice if there was room. The combination of vitamins and nutrients mixed with cheesy humour would surely kick start my expanding arse into a brand new, productive day?
If this is what had happened then yes, undoubtedly it would have helped. What I hadn't reckoned on was the half eaten 'share bag' of Maltesers laying next to me on the bedside table. Before I realised what i was doing, my hand was inside the packet scooping out the irresistible balls of maltiness, and shovelling them into my mouth 4 at a time.
By the time my brain caught up with my hand movements it was too late, i'd tasted the nectar. There was no time for flicking each ball into the air and catching them in my mouth as per the tv ads, I was lost in the moment.
I've always had an addictive personality, never being able to eat one or two biscuits, or one chocolate without feeling the urgent pull to finish the packets. I'm a long term smoker, who following a 6 or 7 hour sleep feels the need to make up those nicotine free hours with 4 ciggies in a row the second I wake up, and until recently if I had one glass of wine, I'd have as many as it took to knock me out. I mostly intended to be good, but something always got in the way - a friend inviting me for a drink on a hot summers day when I had planned on decorating the hallway, or as just happened, a half full packet of Maltesers carelessly left within reach would start calling me.
Willpower is not my middle name.
The consequence of my addictive, overindulgent nature is that I have never been what people describe as a skinny minnie, always seeming to be at least a stone or two overweight. With the immobility that comes along with repeated surgeries and their recoveries, together with the change in taste buds following the intake of various drugs and potions I found myself in a lose, lose situation. Sudden, overnight menopause only added to my weighty problem, and within a year of Lenny hitching a ride in my body I found myself wobbling in parts I wasn't aware could wobble. To this day my thighs resemble a prize winning pink grapefruit and as for my tummy - a baker would have the time of their life kneading that into an award winning cob.
My thoughts on my own body have yo yo'd drastically back and forth since the day I was informed that Lenny had set up residence in my spine, wavering between concern that i should only be feeding it with fresh, whole organic produce and thinking 'what the hell, life's too short not to eat cream cakes'. What it ultimately boils down to is that I can spend whatever time I have left dutifully forcing myself to eat foods I mostly dislike with probably no effect whatsoever on my prognosis, or I can eat what I fancy when I fancy it and have a damn good time doing so.
I often wish I could be more like Lola - who however beautiful she actually is, has no awareness of this beauty. She doesn't wake up in the morning wondering if it's going to be a fat or thin day, or if her fur will need a session with the straighteners. She doesn't force herself to run 10 laps around the living room followed by a dozen star jumps, though you'd be forgiven for thinking this is exactly what she gets up to every night at 3am. Lola eats when she's hungry, drinks when she's thirsty and has no hangups about flopping onto the floor with her fuzzy fat belly hanging out for all to see.
Oh to be a cat.
As I write, I'm in the eat whatever takes my fancy camp and weight, to me, is no longer relevant so long as I have clothes that fit me.
There have to be some perks to this whole cancer thing right? I found mine in a rather obvious place. Having had a double mastectomy with no reconstruction I now find my chest flatter than any other human beings chest I've ever seen. It's an odd sight to get used to as not only are my 36DDs missing, but so are the nipples that used to reside in the middle of them. My freshly operated on chest was the first I had ever seen minus nipples, and it's seriously weird.
Where's the perks in this, I hear you ask. Here's one - I can be any size I feel like being on the top half of my body. I have taken it upon myself to purchase different sized prosthetic breasts to slip inside my 'oh so discreet' mastectomy bras so that in theory I can go out to a pub and stand at the bar a neat little size 36A, disappear to the toilets and return a whopping 38F. I've not put this into practice yet but I can imagine the faces of some of the leery old alkies in the local Wetherspoons. And don't forget the ultimate smack in the face I could give to members of the pub football team who are under the impression that yelling 'get ya tits oot fa the lads' is even remotely amusing when I reach inside my bra, remove my 38F whoppers, drop them on the bar and stand triumphantly flat as a pancake in front of them awaiting a response.
Not forgetting of course the benefit of no one ever knowing if I'm feeling a bit chilly ever again.
As it stands now, I'm trying to find the new 'normal' me. I'll never be the person I was before Lenny gate crashed my party, either in body or mind. I would dearly love to be able to get back to the 5 mile walks along the beach that I used to enjoy so much. They helped enormously with my mental state and I know I would benefit so very much from them for both my physical and mental health since diagnosis.
But it is what it is.
If I could just juggle my pain medications to the point where I'm not functioning on auto pilot, where I can spend more than one day a week being productive whilst moving this tired aching body of mine, I may be able to build up some stamina and get out to that pub where I can make half the male population in it turn as white as sheets as I flop my ample silicone assets out on to a table, hopefully shutting the leering gobshites up forever.
For the time being though I'll just occasionally peer in the mirror with a pensive look asking 'mirror mirror on the wall, who's the freakiest of them all?'
As I'm writing this my plan was to wake up - always a good start - make a cup of tea and watch Frasier whilst breakfasting on bananas, pears and grapes. Maybe throw in a glass of fresh pineapple juice if there was room. The combination of vitamins and nutrients mixed with cheesy humour would surely kick start my expanding arse into a brand new, productive day?
If this is what had happened then yes, undoubtedly it would have helped. What I hadn't reckoned on was the half eaten 'share bag' of Maltesers laying next to me on the bedside table. Before I realised what i was doing, my hand was inside the packet scooping out the irresistible balls of maltiness, and shovelling them into my mouth 4 at a time.
By the time my brain caught up with my hand movements it was too late, i'd tasted the nectar. There was no time for flicking each ball into the air and catching them in my mouth as per the tv ads, I was lost in the moment.
I've always had an addictive personality, never being able to eat one or two biscuits, or one chocolate without feeling the urgent pull to finish the packets. I'm a long term smoker, who following a 6 or 7 hour sleep feels the need to make up those nicotine free hours with 4 ciggies in a row the second I wake up, and until recently if I had one glass of wine, I'd have as many as it took to knock me out. I mostly intended to be good, but something always got in the way - a friend inviting me for a drink on a hot summers day when I had planned on decorating the hallway, or as just happened, a half full packet of Maltesers carelessly left within reach would start calling me.
Willpower is not my middle name.
The consequence of my addictive, overindulgent nature is that I have never been what people describe as a skinny minnie, always seeming to be at least a stone or two overweight. With the immobility that comes along with repeated surgeries and their recoveries, together with the change in taste buds following the intake of various drugs and potions I found myself in a lose, lose situation. Sudden, overnight menopause only added to my weighty problem, and within a year of Lenny hitching a ride in my body I found myself wobbling in parts I wasn't aware could wobble. To this day my thighs resemble a prize winning pink grapefruit and as for my tummy - a baker would have the time of their life kneading that into an award winning cob.
My thoughts on my own body have yo yo'd drastically back and forth since the day I was informed that Lenny had set up residence in my spine, wavering between concern that i should only be feeding it with fresh, whole organic produce and thinking 'what the hell, life's too short not to eat cream cakes'. What it ultimately boils down to is that I can spend whatever time I have left dutifully forcing myself to eat foods I mostly dislike with probably no effect whatsoever on my prognosis, or I can eat what I fancy when I fancy it and have a damn good time doing so.
I often wish I could be more like Lola - who however beautiful she actually is, has no awareness of this beauty. She doesn't wake up in the morning wondering if it's going to be a fat or thin day, or if her fur will need a session with the straighteners. She doesn't force herself to run 10 laps around the living room followed by a dozen star jumps, though you'd be forgiven for thinking this is exactly what she gets up to every night at 3am. Lola eats when she's hungry, drinks when she's thirsty and has no hangups about flopping onto the floor with her fuzzy fat belly hanging out for all to see.
Oh to be a cat.
As I write, I'm in the eat whatever takes my fancy camp and weight, to me, is no longer relevant so long as I have clothes that fit me.
There have to be some perks to this whole cancer thing right? I found mine in a rather obvious place. Having had a double mastectomy with no reconstruction I now find my chest flatter than any other human beings chest I've ever seen. It's an odd sight to get used to as not only are my 36DDs missing, but so are the nipples that used to reside in the middle of them. My freshly operated on chest was the first I had ever seen minus nipples, and it's seriously weird.
Where's the perks in this, I hear you ask. Here's one - I can be any size I feel like being on the top half of my body. I have taken it upon myself to purchase different sized prosthetic breasts to slip inside my 'oh so discreet' mastectomy bras so that in theory I can go out to a pub and stand at the bar a neat little size 36A, disappear to the toilets and return a whopping 38F. I've not put this into practice yet but I can imagine the faces of some of the leery old alkies in the local Wetherspoons. And don't forget the ultimate smack in the face I could give to members of the pub football team who are under the impression that yelling 'get ya tits oot fa the lads' is even remotely amusing when I reach inside my bra, remove my 38F whoppers, drop them on the bar and stand triumphantly flat as a pancake in front of them awaiting a response.
Not forgetting of course the benefit of no one ever knowing if I'm feeling a bit chilly ever again.
As it stands now, I'm trying to find the new 'normal' me. I'll never be the person I was before Lenny gate crashed my party, either in body or mind. I would dearly love to be able to get back to the 5 mile walks along the beach that I used to enjoy so much. They helped enormously with my mental state and I know I would benefit so very much from them for both my physical and mental health since diagnosis.
But it is what it is.
If I could just juggle my pain medications to the point where I'm not functioning on auto pilot, where I can spend more than one day a week being productive whilst moving this tired aching body of mine, I may be able to build up some stamina and get out to that pub where I can make half the male population in it turn as white as sheets as I flop my ample silicone assets out on to a table, hopefully shutting the leering gobshites up forever.
For the time being though I'll just occasionally peer in the mirror with a pensive look asking 'mirror mirror on the wall, who's the freakiest of them all?'
Comments
Post a Comment