Perfection

I've been listening to a lot of podcasts and Ted Talks recently.  Apparently, that's what you do when you hit mid life and start questioning your life's purpose.

My favorites so far are: Brene Brown, Jen Hatmaker, and of course Oprah Winfrey.  Some of it, even I think is a little far fetched or I know it already (eye roll...of course, I do...of course).  This is one of the reasons counselling for me, in the past, has been unhelpful.  I know it already.  I keep waiting for this epiphany when I go to counselling, like their questions will help me realize something about myself that I don't already know or that I haven't already thought of.  But I am soooooo introspective (read: worrier) I've already thought about that.  For about 15 hours.  Usually at about midnight, and I can only assume midnight is when I do my best thinking, seeing as that's when I'm wide awake. And it's quiet.  And everyone else is sleeping. 

But I keep hoping that if I keep listening to the strong, amazing, successful women something will stick.  Here's the thing, these women aren't talking about how to be amazing or successful, they're talking just about how to be.  Just how to be.

For years I've defined myself by my ability to be perfect and my ability to do things well. Really, really well.  Good grades, acing tests, meeting targets, exceeding targets - it's what I do.  Type A, perfectionism, they are my best and my worst qualities.  Imperfection is failure, and I cannot fail.  I love breaking the glass ceiling.  I love being the only girl at the boys table.  But also as a person who has diagnosed depression and anxiety, being able to control my environment has become a coping mechanism.  Or maybe something to hide behind.  I don't know if there's a difference.

Lately being perfect has taken it's toll on me.  It's exhausting.  It's making me physically sick (either that or I have a brain tumour - which is entirely possible...even if my doctor says it's not...)

Because -  brace yourselves - perfectionism - it's an impossible target.  I know this.  I know it on an intellectual level.  But on a personal, soul searching, heart wrenching level I find it so hard to accept.  If I'm not perfect or at least trying to attain some version of perfectionism, who am I?  What am I?

I'm at a crossroads.

Brene Brown asks what makes you brave?

For me, I've always followed the rules.  I'm really good at following rules.  They make me feel safe.  I mean, that's kind of what rules are there for - keeping everyone safe.  I'd make a great traffic cop.  I would break every record for traffic tickets - you could single-handedly replace every bridge in the lower mainland with the revenue I would create.  Because frankly, people get away with too much - rolling stops, driving slow in the fast lane, singles driving in the carpool lane, not wearing seat belts, and the list goes on and on.  I can feel my blood pressure going up just thinking about all the violations.   

I've tried to follow life rules as well as I can too.  Get a good, stable job.  One that offers a pension and benefits.  Some of that isn't just because I like rules.  Some of it is just practical because I have a child and I'm responsible for putting a roof over his head, feeding him, clothing him.  Following the rules is helpful.  He grows so fast these days that I literally would have to rob H&M in order to clothe him if I didn't follow the rules.

So if I were to be brave - I would break a few rules.  Life rules.  Rules I've made up for me and my life. 

Brene Brown talks about being vulnerable (which by the way, is very difficult to do and be when
you're perfect).  She says:

Vulnerability sounds like truth and feels like courage. Truth and courage aren't always comfortable, but they're never weakness.*

*pause*

*breathe*

Another very wise woman - my momma - says that being imperfect gives you the opportunity to experience grace in a way you can't otherwise.  Grace fills in the spots where imperfections leave cracks. 

The more you strive for perfection, the more imperfect you become.

I don't know how this story ends yet.  It doesn't end in one blog post, though, I know that. 

My good friend Jen...Jen Hatmaker, she says -

Simply speaking truth out loud is healing in and of itself.  When people courageously voice a true, hard thing, they've already stolen some of it's dark power before we offer one word to fix it**

*brenebrown.com

**For the Love - Fighting for Grace in a World of Impossible Standards  Jen Hatmaker

Mid-Life

Oh I know it's been awhile.

I haven't had much to say.  About anything.

Well that's not true.  I have lots to say about everything.  They're just not very important thoughts. They're more like rants and vents and there are plenty of crazy rants on the internet.  You don't need to come here to read that.

There it is.  In a nutshell.  I haven't been feeling very...important...

...and I have been feeling very insignificant.

2017 has not been a very good year for me.

I mean, no one has died.  We all still have 10 fingers and 10 toes each.  We have both eye balls.

Here's the issue.  Actually, there are two issues.  I've known they were coming, yet they still seem to have snuck up on me me and I don't know where to go from here.  So here it is...

I turn 40 next month.  And I have a teenager.

F - O - R - T - Y

How did this even happen?  What have I done with the past forty years?  Where did they go?  I still feel like I'm 30.  Or 25 even.  Now I know what all those 60 year old men meant when they say on their dating profiles that they don't feel their age and identify with women 20-25 years younger than they are.  I feel like that.  I feel like it was just yesterday that I was graduating from high school with my whole life in front of me.  Now I wonder if my best years are behind me.  Did I squander it?  My life?  All those years?  Is it too late?  I should have accomplished something really, really huge by now.  I should have written a book or changed a life or created something really amazing.  I feel like that's what 20 year old me would have expected of me.  But now I don't even know what success looks like.

I should have my shit together by now.  I should be comfortable in my skin. 

Shouldn't I?

Q has turned 13.  He's in high school this year.

It was just yesterday I had a blonde, curly haired toddler running around the house with a hot wheels car in one hand, calling me 'mama', and falling asleep with his hand on my face.  Now, he's got feet bigger than mine.  With hair on his toes.  HAIR ON HIS TOES, PEOPLE.  Do you know he shaved for the first time on Wednesday?  He shaved the peach fuzz on his top lip that was getting darker and darker, almost by the day. He has thoughts and feelings separate from my own.  In face, purposely separate from my own.  Because you cannot agree with your mother.  You just cannot.  It seems like I blinked and he grew in the second it took.  I miss my baby.  I miss smelling his hair and apparently it's 'weird' to do that now. 
 
All of this has made me realize that I am powerless to stop time.  I cannot just ask to stop the ride so I can catch my bearings and figure out my next steps.  Life is going to keep going whether I participate in it or not. 

I don't want to waste the rest of my life mourning the past.  I've spent most of the year doing so and it hasn't gotten me anywhere.  I want to feel like I still have something to give, even though I'm (almost) 40.  Okay, so I'm not 20.  And who knows, maybe it's a good thing.  I can't change it, so I better accept it. 

But here's the thing.  Party stores sell supplies for 40th parties that say, "Over the Hill".  What is that nonsense?  Over the hill?!?!  What hill?  Was it a really small hill? 

I'm not sure I am ready to embrace 40.  Or embrace that I have a teenager.  I mean, I'll embrace the teenager - if he'll let me... 

This Gets Messy

I kind of feel like I make God roll his eyes in frustration at least 10 times per day. 

Maybe more. 

Like, I know God doesn't swear...but he might let out a little "fffffff" out once in a while in my general direction before he catches himself and bites his lip. 

Because I'm difficult.

In the past year, seemingly without any (okay, much) input from me I have:

1. Finished paying off over $10K after a very unsuccessful relationship
2. Scored my dream job
3. Had a 5lb, 6 inch diameter *benign* tumor removed (along with my uterus...)
4. Been told I have glaucoma and then told all previous signs of glaucoma have gone
5. Found a home in my dream neighbourhood, so Q can go to our dream high school and play for our dream minor hockey league
6. Lost 10lbs...

And those are just the MAJOR things.  I've also seen my BFF twice, been to Toronto to see the fam jam, went to Hawaii with Q for a week, and booked a two week vacation that takes us across the country.

That reads like a pretty fantastic year.  And of course, I am so so *so* thankful.  And I know that I have been blessed because all of these things have been beyond my power (especially the weight loss...I have no idea how that happened).  Paying off the G's, I'm not going to lie, was realllllllly hard...but I did it and it's done.

Here's the thing...

I feel like the kid at Christmas who just woke up, ran downstairs, opened all the amazing presents and then looks around at all the gifts with big elephant tears and a wobbly chin and says, "but where's the unicorn?  I really, really, really wanted an unicorn.  I *asked* for an unicorn."

I really thought my unicorn (a.k.a. husband) would have shown up by now. 

This is where God rolls his eyes.

When Mr. Ex and I broke up 9 (nine!) years ago, I had this overwhelming sense of hope that my husband was just around the corner...but here we are nine years later, and my hope has turned to apathy and cynicism and bitterness.

Our move this time is a little bittersweet, because I said the last time I moved was that the next time I moved I would be married.

I AM NOT MARRIED

And not only am I not married, I am nowhere close to being married.  I'm not even dating.

Some people don't need/want to be married.  They're good on their own. 

I am not that person. 

I crave that companionship.  I don't want to be making all the decisions anymore.  I don't want to be the one that unclogs the toilet.  I don't want to be the one to blame every time I forget something at the grocery store.  I want to cuddle.  I want to Netflix and chill, people.  I want to go on vacations together (I've never actually done that, can you believe it?!?!).  I want to make horrible dinners and burn the food.  I want someone else to pay a freaking bill once in a while.

I feel like if I *had* a uterus it would be shrivelling up by. the. day.  It would look like a raisin.  I'm not even kidding, you guys.  I'm not 25 anymore.  I am getting older by the day.  My age almost starts with a 4 and ends with an 0.  Men my age are looking for 25 year old virgins who want to start a family.  You know what that leaves me?  Probably with pervs and 60 year old's...haha. ha. My life feels like the best years are behind me. 

I'm *trying* to find inspiration and I'm trying to not feel sorry for myself and I am trying to feel overwhelmingly blessed and thankful and happy.

WHY can't I just be happy?

Okay....you guys totally felt it this time too...

God just rolled His eyes again. 

I AM a Hockey Mom

I'm not exactly sporty or athletic or coordinated.  In fact, I would say that I am the exact opposite of sporty and athletic and coordinated.  I believe I suffer from a hand/eye coordination problem.  I've been known to miss catching keys that have been thrown to me from two feet away.  I've been known to lose my breath half way up a flight of stairs.  I've been known to (often) trip over my very own feet.

And this is nothing new.  I HATED sports in school.  Like, even bolding and capitalizing that word does not show the extent of my school sports loathing.   To answer the question:  I don't know how I can miss kicking the ball that is right in front of me.  I don't know.  Okay?  I just don't know.  It boggles my mind too.  I mean, I line the ball up with my foot and I look away for a split second and it's almost as if someone moves the ball...

But I also must confess that because I a) didn't enjoy sports and b) am a perfectionist, I never really put much effort into it either.  I kind of have this *life motto* that if I'm not perfect at something right away, I should just give up and try something else instead.  I am, for instance, very good at reading.  And so I continue to do that.  I also think my voice sounds great in the shower and the car, so I continue to belt it out while sitting in traffic. 

All of this to say that I really just didn't *get* sports.  I have on occasion fallen asleep while "watching" hockey.  I think it's the sound of the announcers voices and the skates on the ice and the crowd cheering, it lulls me to sleep like a lullaby (or melatonin, come to think of it.)

I certainly can appreciate the hard work and determination that goes into any sporty goal and I can well imagine how rewarding it must feel to be part of a winning team or to accomplish a life long dream.  It's just never been anything I've experienced before and so I can imagine as long as I want, I'll never know how an athlete feels (although, sometimes when I have to run to my car when it's pouring rain, so I sort of get it...)

When Q was six or so, he heard his dad and I talking about starting a joint savings account for him so he would have a little something for post secondary education. 

He said:  What if I don't go to University?

Me:  Oh you'll be going.  Whether it's trade school or college or university, you'll be going.

Q:  It's just that...well...I'm pretty sure that I'll be playing in the NHL by then, so would it be okay if I went to University after that??

It was then we decided to put Q in skating lessons and over the next two years we watched him glide through four levels of skating with such determination.  He went from falling and stumbling and tripping and well...falling...to the skating coach saying she had taught him all she could and it was time for power skating (which, btw, is exactly what it sounds like...lengths of the rink, doing squats, in skates).  It was an inspiration to watch him set goals for himself and then work hard to meet them.  It made my heart proud.  I was a skate mom.  Smiling in the stands while he skated backwards and forwards and sideways and pivot. pivot. pivot.

But now...

Now...

...I'm a Hockey Mom. 

(respectful awe-filled pause)

(maybe some angels singing)

I go to practices at 6:00am.  (OMGoodness...it's actually a thing)

I spend weekends at the rink.

I cheer in the stands until my throat gets sore.  And forget about it when he scores.  I lose my mind. 

I yell helpful instructions like, "GET IT OUT" and "KEEP IT IN" and "SKATE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" and lately, "HUSTLE BOYS!!!"

I know all the names of all the kids and yell their names out sometimes too, just to keep it real and encourage them all equally.  I know most of the rules (and make up the rest...they're fondly referred to as the *Mom Rules* - For example: If they've really hustled, it's not icing because I mean...they skated all the way to the other end...they're tired.  And also, the losing team - us, usually - should get an extra player to even things up).

We've been on a losing streak and a short winning streak and then another losing streak.  No matter how much I cheer.  Sometimes they just don't listen to my direction.  We have a great group of families this year and we are so invested in our kids.  Not necessarily in winning, but in life experience.  We cheer when they win.  We cheer when they lose.  We cheer when they try really, really hard.  We love them whether they win or lose.  We feed them whether they win or lose.  We're good like that. 

I've learned more this year about sports than I have my whole life.  Yes, the rules of the game, but also something so much more important.  I've learned what it means to be part of a team for these kids. 

Becoming a team is so much more than just a few kids on the ice.  It's being a part of something that's bigger than yourself.  And that's a new concept for kids.  It gives them a community. 

It's determination.  It's passion.  It's skill.  It's selflessness.  It's encouragement.  It teaches consequences and follow-through. 

The kid I see on the ice is a different kid than the one I see going to school.  He's confident, he's outspoken, he's assertive.  He sees what he needs to do and he does it.  He skates until his lungs burn.  He works together with the other boys towards a common goal.  Watching some of them play together is like watching poetry.  Poetry!  Can you believe it?  Like a finely choreographed poetic dance. 

Gah!  I get goosebumps.

And there is nothing more rewarding to watch. 

I get it now.  I get the valuable lessons learned on the ice, or the court, or the field.  I am so grateful to be able to experience it with Q. 

I can say with pride that I am a Hockey Mom. 

And who knows, after watching the determination my kid has - he might just make the NHL one day.  And then I'll be a Professional Hockey Mom, which I think pays a bit more.  Haha.

In the meantime, we're probably going to get our arses handed to us at the tournament next weekend, but dang, it'll sure be worth it. 

Arts and Crafts

Since I have loads of extra down time this close to Christmas, I decided to make my two year old niece a quiet book as her gift. Who am I kidding?  It was really just as fun for me to make as it will be for her - if not more so.  It turned out pretty good, if I do say so myself. The idea behind it is to support fine motor skills and make learning colours and counting fun. 

Felt is a really good medium because for a few reasons. It doesn't fray, it's thicker than most other fabrics and you don't need to sew everything - a glue gun works nicely. For the writing I used 3D fabric paint, as markers tend to bleed on felt. 

This one helps to teach how to button and unbutton clothes - without the pressure. Inside is a heart ❤️

This is to help counting. The tops of the cupcakes come off (glue gunned Velcro) and you can match the number to the corresponding number of sprinkles. 

Again, all the colours are Velcro'd on and can be taken off and matched with the corresponding colour. 

Our family is spread across the country so this is a really good visual. From Nana and Grandpa to Auntie Nancy and Uncle Peter, it's now easy to show little N how close (or far away) all her loved ones live. 

This one with the beads help counting, too. 

The zipper helps fine motor skills and the marshmallows encourage counting. And for a monster, it's pretty darn cute. 

Finally, the hearts help match with colours and can come off the close pins (fine motor skills). 

I sewed the pages together back to back to hide any business and keep the 'pages' a little firmer. I'll use binder rings to attach all the pages together. Then, it's off to the post office so it will make it to Ontaio for Christmas!

I wonder what will keep me occupied this week.....

Post Op Revelations

Okay, I'm going to try to keep from getting too sappy and emotional - but no guarantees....

First of all, I feel it's really important to point out that years and years of watching Grey's Anatomy and ER did not prepare me AT ALL for this experience.  Like, at all. 

First revelation:  This is the most vulnerable I have felt in my life.   I really (really) like to be in control, and in this particular situation I had no control at all.  Looking back, I honestly do not know what kept me from running from the operating room (it might have had something to do with the hospital gown...) but I actually felt calm going in.  The room was cold.  The table was small.  The faces were unfamiliar.  I had only met the surgeon once before for a total of 20 minutes, and here I was trusting her to cut me open, take out an organ, and sew me back up.  And I get that nurses do what they do every single day, but for me it was all completely new so it would have been nice if one or two of them laughed at my stupid jokes to ease the awkwardness...

My mom tells me I have been saying *me do myself* since I was two years old.  So this was really an exercise in trusting and relying on others to help me do what I could not do myself...like sit up and walk. 

I also felt completely vulnerable trusting that my body would do what it needed to do in order to heal.  For me, this was terrifying.  Would it fight off infection?  Would the stitches take?  Would it know how to mend itself back together?  Thankfully, the answer is YES, but it was anxiety provoking, to say the least.  For those of you following, the deets:  My tumor was benign, no cancer or precancerous cells found, and approximately the size of a 18-19 week fetus.  I have a 5 1/2 inch scar that is healing awesomely.

There is nothing like something like this to make you realize how completely um...fragile...we all are.  Driving home from the hospital, I was conscious of every single car, every single red light, every single speed limit.  Like, OMG people....slow down....don't you know we could all die?!?!?!  Do you want to die!?!

Revelation #2:  I have to say that I have a HUGE appreciation for women who have C-sections (read: more than one...)  I mean, recovering from major surgery and looking after a new born baby?!?!?!?!  And doing this more than once!?!?!?!?!  Seriously blows my mind.  Women are power houses.  And the resiliency of people who have gone through horrible things like cancer, multiple and/or invasive surgeries, or extreme pain absolutely ASTOUNDS me.  Humans are amazing creatures and capable of enduring so much.  Like, two of the three people I shared the hospital room with who SLEPT THROUGH THE NIGHT, despite the guy in the bed beside me who cried all night long, and the incessant beeping of the nurse call button or the monitors.  Who sleeps with all that going on?  Obviously someone with good sleep meds.  But in all seriousness, to anyone who has ever gone through something outside of the norm, you have my admiration. 

Revelation #3:  I HATE being stoned.  I don't need to spend much time on this point.  Just that I would rather be in a bit more pain and be able to finish my sentence coherently than being higher than a kite.  This is a bit upsetting for me because I was looking forward to legitimately and legally being high on Percocet. I mean, I didn't even have enough of an attention span to play Candy Crush.  This must be a Type A quality...

Revelation #4: Attitude is everything.  I don't miss my uterus.  At least not yet.  I think if it were my arm or a leg that was missing and I could actually see it was gone then I would maybe grieve it a little more.  But I can't see that it's missing.  I don't miss it.  And at the end of the day, it wasn't really a choice.  It had to come out.  I come from three generations (at least) of Miller women who have had the same thing.  I am grateful.  Grateful that we found it so quickly, grateful that I am healing well, grateful that there were no major complications, grateful that I am still ALIVE.  I have a beautiful son (who....well, let's face it....everything is riding on him now as my only biological heir.  He has a lot to live up to...I hope he doesn't crack under pressure...hahahaha, just joking....he's doing pretty well, so far....). 

Revelation #5:  Single parenting SUCKS.  For the first 10 days I had a difficult time even looking after myself, so Q stayed with his dad.  He would come and visit for a few hours.  It made me realize this:  It is impossible to be a *parent* every other Wednesday and Sunday.  When Q came over for a *visit*, he was shy,quiet and things were awkward for the first little while.  I had things planned out so that we could make the most of the time we spent together.  We played board games and worked on some homework and had a cuddle session on the couch.  And then he would leave.  I didn't feel like a parent.  I felt like a friend of the family.  My opinion on co-parenting: Unless a parent is physically or emotionally abusive or there are extreme circumstances, parents should be allowed to parent their child equally - regardless of how inconvenient it might be for the other parent.  It was the worst, most helpless I've ever felt as a parent.  You cannot establish a strong relationship once a week.  It is impossible. 

Revelation #6:  I have amazing people in my life.  I'm not going to lie - I was feeling a little sorry for myself when this all first happened.  Because if you're married and something like this happens, you have someone to bounce things off of, someone to help you make decisions, someone to wake up in the middle of the night and say *What if...* or *Will you still love me if...* and I didn't have that.  I had to make decisions on my own and then deal with the repercussions...on my own.  What I will say is that I have an amazing group of friends and family who have totally rallied around me.  From my brother and sis-in-law who would FaceTime with my niece after afternoon naps to my mom who came to stay with me for two weeks and did everything for me to my BFF who dropped everything to come and stay with me for a week less than a month away from Christmas to those who checked in with me daily just to see how I was doing.  I know these people all had things to do, commitments to keep, lives to live, and they put it all aside to be with me.  It means so much more to me than I could ever say. 

Revelation  #7:  Faith is an amazing thing.  Faith is hard.  It's trusting in something and Someone you cannot see.  But I can honestly say that I would not have been able to get through this without faith. Faith that there is something bigger than me and a plan that I cannot see.  I find comfort in knowing that God's hand is in everything.  It has united me with people from all ages, races, and walks of life.  I have had people praying for me and we've been brought together by our belief that The Big Guy Upstairs has the final say - not some dumb tumor.  While I certainly don't feel invincible, I know Someone who is, and He's got His eye on me.  I'd seriously recommend this faith thing to everyone and anyone who is searching for something more. 

Those are my main revelations.  The Type A, OCD'er in me would really like there to be an even number of revelations, but what are you gonna do about it, right? 

Seven is my lucky number, so I guess it all works out in the end. 

Happy Birthday To Me

Being a hypochondriac, I tend to avoid the doctor.  Because if I went to the doctor every time I thought something was wrong, I would be there every other day.  It amazes me that that, with all the things that could go wrong, more often than not our bodies are well oiled machines. 

However, in the spring I kept getting bacterial infections - Strep throat, UTI's.  My period, which was always consistent, knocking on my door every 28 days was becoming a very unexpected visitor, coming whenever it wanted and staying for longer than I would like.  And being a total B**** while it was here.

So I went to the doctor.  We did the whole 9 yards of testing and were relieved to find that the only thing out of whack was my blood sugars.  Low enough that I was not diabetic (yet) but high enough to warrant some radical lifestyle changes in order to ensure I would not be diabetic within the next few years. 

I started by cutting out sugar.  This, for me, was almost as hard as quitting smoking.  I love sugar.  In everything.  I have sweet teeth, not a sweet tooth.  Once that was done, I cut out gluten, dairy and red meat.  Within weeks, I had lost 8lbs and 2 inches from my stomach (probably from bloating...).  I was feeling great.  People were noticing a difference.  Clothes were fitting looser. 

Then I felt it.

I wasn't quite sure what "it" was.  It was hard and it was in my abdomen.  I knew I had been eating better, so the thought crossed my mind that under the layers of fat that had been shed I had rock hard abs and wouldn't have to worry about doing 100 sit ups every night and every morning.  I was also hoping the same phenomena would show itself in my behind and thighs. 

I was in the doc's office getting results for something else and this voice in my head kept saying, "Tell her about it.  Tell her about it.  Tell her about it."  So I did.  Prefacing it with my, "I know I'm a hypochondriac, but..."

This led to a very awkward moment whereby I had to tell my doctor 3 times I was sure I was not pregnant because I have not had sex in a very long time and I was certain that was a necessary link in the pregnancy chain.  My doctor should not play poker because her poker face sucks.  She went white and very serious and had me in for a CT scan within days.  The next day the result:

I do not have rock hard abs.

I have a rock hard tumor.

In my uterus.

The size of a melon.

Days after that, I had appointments with specialists and biopsies were booked.

Ten days later I was sitting in the specialist's office when she told me it has grown even more and is now sitting just under my rib cage.  I look...pregnant...  Two minutes into our visit, we had booked a total hysterectomy for the following week.  That's this coming Monday.

Monday I will join the hundreds of thousands of women who have gone before me with reproductive "issues" and total hysterectomies.  Two of which are my paternal grandmother and aunt. 

Monday I will no longer be able to have any more biological children.

I've been trying to figure out how I feel about that.  My whole life, I thought for sure I'd have oodles of children running around with my blood running through their veins.  When Q's dad and I split, I thought for sure someone else would come along to make that dream happen.  And now, here we are...he (whomever *he* is) hasn't shown up yet, and now my uterus is exiting stage left (or abdomen, lower right).

Here's the thing, I think I'm totally okay with it.  Like, I've forced myself to try and get really sad over it - but I just can't.  Maybe I'm in shock, because from finding the mass to surgery date has been just under a month.  But maybe, I'm just okay with it.  I would rather choose life, than hope for something that might not ever happen.  My life has taken many twists and turns that I certainly have not planned, but every twist has turned out better than I could have ever planned.  The truth is, I'm relieved.

I'm relieved I found it.

I'm relieved I listened to that little voice in my head.

I'm relieved the doctors have moved on it so fast.

I'm relieved soon my organs won't be so squished and my lower back won't hurt and my tummy won't feel so bloated and it won't feel like I have to pee every 5 minutes. 

I'm relieved technology has come so far that this is considered a *low-risk* operation and that my gynecologist is totally hip and wears Fluvogs.  I feel like I can trust some one's judgement in the operating room if I can approve of their fashion choices. 

And then let's talk about the blessings:

No more periods.  NO more cramps.  4-6 weeks of spa (I mean, recovery...) time.  And like 10lbs instant weight loss.

Also, I have been reminded over and over again just how am blessed that I have so many wonderful friends and family around me who have listened while I've processed things out loud, who have been praying for me, and who have been gifting me with awesome things to do with the next six weeks of free time that I have on my hands (adult colouring books and the newly released Humans of New York book).  Any my mother, who has dropped everything to nurse me back to health.  What would I do without my momma?

I wasn't going to blog about this, because it's my uterus.  And that's kind of private and uncomfortable and taboo and gross.  But here's the thing...women everywhere are suffering from similar things.  A mom on Q's hockey team is going through the same, and a colleague at work, and a dear friend, and so I thought it's a shame for us all to be suffering in silence.  Let's talk about it and not be shamed. 

Let's talk about it.

Because it's not going away. 

Fibroids, tumours, endometriosis, cysts.

They're not going away.

So tell your story.  I bet there will be at least 10 women around you, suffering from the same, and wishing there was someone to talk to about it.

Women have to be there for other women.  We *get* each other.  Every experience should unite us in our womanhood. 

I don't know if mine is cancerous.  Once it's out, they'll send it to the cancer agency and they'll run tests and also go over the two biopsies I've already had.  Chances are very low that it is...so I'm remaining optimistic.  But I'll be sure to tell you all about what they find, because I want to know all about it.  How much it weighs, what it looks like, does it have teeth (ala steven king....)?!?!?!  Right???  Who wouldn't want to know??

This whole event has actually strengthened my faith in God, my faith in the knowledge that whatever happens, I'm in His hands.  It's been so comforting, and I am filled with peace.  In fact, for the past month, I've had this song in my head that I used to sing as a little girl in church:

I'm in His hands
I'm in His hands
Whatever the future holds
I'm in His hands
The things I cannot see
Have all been planned for me
His way is best, you see
I'm in His hands

So funny I haven't though about that song in probably 20 years and lately I've been humming it every day.  I know this isn't something I was expecting and it certainly wouldn't be on my list of life plans, but it's happening and I know that how ever it turns out, I will be okay.

And....

I'll never have another period again.

Which leads me to this thought:

Maybe PMS isn't a thing, and I'm just this way...

I guess we'll find out.

On Monday morning, at about 11:15 if you're not doing anything please say a little prayer for me.  Pray that God will guide the hands of the surgeon (and that she picks super cute scrubs for the operation), that He will assist my body with pain management and healing, and that everything will turn out the way He has planned.

A-men.

And the hospital better throw a rocking party, because it will be the third anniversary of my 35th birthday on Tuesday.