Suck It Up, Buttercup!

That’s it- I’m done wallowing. Done. Done-teh-de-done-done.


Fuck that noise. No, seriously. I mean, I think it’s ok to have moments, and I’m still mad as all hell, but I gave myself some time to grieve and was just…wallowing. Like a pig. There’s no reason for this. None. Ok, cancer, but there are, without exaggerating, millions of people in the world with cancer. There are amazing, beautiful women who’ve gone through what I’m facing and have dealt with it. I needed to grieve the loss of not only my breasts but also my estrogen and progesterone (because they’re about to be turned off faster than you when your kids walk in during “magic” time) and the year of my life that I get to donate to this nonsense. I am allowed the grief. But it’s time to pull the plug on the pity party and move on.

I lost a lot of weight in the last year. A LOOOOOT. One of the stupidest aspects of my wallowing is that I stopped moving my body much and began to eat things that I’d learned to say no to. It started when my emotional slip-‘n-slide resulted (much faster than I could’ve imagined) in needing to take disability leave from my job. See, I sell things, and I need to have my personality turned on in order to do so. It is impossible to do that when your world was just turned over and shaken up and all of your careful planning, your astral alignment, the zeitgeist you’re in the middle of, is rendered moot. Plus it sucks to keep interfering with an already-chaotic retail schedule to go to the doctor or have a test run. It wasn’t only my time that was valuable and being manipulated, so that added to the stress. Since my family’s health insurance is from my company, being employed is a BFD. But I couldn’t work. I was having anxiety attacks, spacing out, and was generally too messed up to be there. And this is without even having surgery! I was literally calling in cancer to work!

This is how it felt:

“Hi, it’s Lex. I can’t come in today. I have cancer and I can’t even.”

Boss “Ok, do you think you’ll be ok tomorrow? I need to make sure the store is covered.” (Look we are practical people.)

Me “I think so. It’s just that today I’m cancering, and I feel like cancer. Cancer cancer. People, talking, not sure about tomorrow because I might be cancering again. Cancer? I will. Cancer. Thanks. Bye.”

It is embarrassing to have to admit that you’re going on disability early, that you can’t even give your job the attention it needs and deal with the stupid health stuff on your own time till you absolutely have to leave for surgery and treatments. But, to be really honest, I think I might have had a wee bit o’breakdown if I’d gone in one more day. So, yeah, I’ve called in cancer for a yet to be determined time. This way, I get to keep my insurance and get a bit of income to pay the bills that I so intelligently doubled over the past year. That brand new car and awesome cell phone multi-line plan aren’t looking so fantastic right now, but at the same time I really like them. Besides, the minivan was a horcrux and it killed off another piece of my soul every time I got in it. I like the Mazda CX-9 I bought a million times better. (This is like me saying Bye, Felicia to the mom-mobile.)

So, I haven’t been at work in 2 weeks now, I’ve been allowing myself to eat more foods that are on my “Lexa, I thought we talked about this. You know better. Your ass is literally screaming at you to stop” list. It’s a terrible combo. I don’t look as good and I don’t feel as good. Uh, no. I bought far too many great clothes that are just a tad on the slightly overstuffed side in the last couple of weeks for this! Yesterday I let myself have some treats because it was Independence Day (‘Murica, Hells yeah!) and decided that it was also D-Day. As in, De last day I eat this crap. (It’s delicious, but for real.) I made a s’mores lasagna and my 14 year old, Z, called it a Diabetes Casserole. Brilliant, that one! Yes! We all had diabetes casserole, watermelon, strawberries, pink lemonade, and enjoyed our day. Want to know something? The sugar rush gave me a massive headache & I had to have some salmon (protein) to off-set it. Come to Jesus moment, right there. Yep.

Let’s sum this up so far, shall we?

1) Not working, limited income, staying home, hanging out in my fabulous bed (that’s the truth, I love it more than I can express & it was worth the line of credit we took out to buy the adjustable base and the two-2!-promotions it took to earn the mattress), and being lazy as all hell because I can’t even. Which sucks.

2) Eating like a fat-ass. Limited quatities, but you get the idea. Size 4’s don’t eat diabetes casserole and pesto and cookies and potatoes. Truth bomb. Especially not size 4’s who used to be size shut-your-stupid-mouth-you-don’t-need-to-know’s. I like the size 4 life and would like to continue. Ok? So there. I’m vain.

3) My new clothes look less than stellar and I feel even more like junk and oh, by the way, cancer eats sugar so let’s keep feeding the beast, shall we? That’ll feel better. It’ll *totally* make recovering from surgery and any subsequent treatments that much better if I’m already feeling fat and shitastic.

I’ve spent some time in the last week or so researching the ways I can eat better and not be on the very strict diet that works for me but is also too restrictive for recovery. I am trying to figure out low-calorie, low-carb (or low-glycemic index, I should say), plans that are livable for both me and my family. That’s the tricky-dicky part, dear. When it’s just me, I eat clean beautifully. But five kids and a super picky, change-averse husband really make this a tough one. So far, I’m looking at a couple of options, and the ones that make the most sense are lowered animal protein as well. Just one teeny tiny problem, I can’t have soy. Why? One, it’s generally gross. Don’t lie. Two, you know it’s a natural estrogen replacement, right? No? Yes. Since I’m killing off my atomic ovaries, I need to limit my already low-soy consumption to negligible levels. That stuff is in everything, too. Oh, and I’m not a big fan of shakes and smoothies. It’s the consistency. Yuck. Just no, for the most part.

Dehydrated veggie chips are good, though. I’ve looked into getting a dehydrator so I can eat them as snacks. I can’t believe I admitted that. Good grief.

Also, I need to workout again and am going to admit something else that I realized last week, thanks to a couple of my friends who were like, dude, you are a lazy bitch and need to get off that soft ass. I’ve been paralyzed by fear of eating better & working out because I’ll lose them for awhile. I’m afraid of starting something else that I really like only to have it snatched away like everything else. If it took me fifteen years to enroll in college again and there wasn’t anything like cancer in my way, just kids, then how am I supposed to feel like exercising while cancering. For the love of all things! But I also am rejecting the gift of the soft, flabby, starting to re-expand ass that I’ve so generously given myself. How is that soft ass going to possibly empower me or help me to break the shackles of treatment that are about to bind me? It can’t! It can’t. I need to give myself the gift of something body-positive to counter-balance what breast cancer takes. No one can make my body better. No one. Only I can help myself to make it less worse. Think about it. It’s going to be worse, and I can either make it hella worse or less worse. I think less worse it the best shitty option here. Anyway, so yeah, I need to get back to eating better as a part of living not as a means to an end and moving my body to get stronger and have something I like about it to replace the things I won’t like any more. These are the things I will work toward. There isn’t a choice, really.

Here is a bit of my internal conversation:

Suck it up, Buttercup! You’re fat, soft, and weak. Is this the you that you want to deal with right now?

-No, but I like birthday cake, and pizza, and potatoes, and pork, and cereal, and sometimes ice cream, and the diabetes casserole was yummy!

Are you f’ing kidding me?! Did you not experience the same thing I did when you zipped up those skin-tight jeans?! That was a complete embarassment! Muffin top city! And breathing isn’t optional, you know. Was it comfortable in them? No? Your fault.

-I know. But what about…and what if I can’t…and tired…and whine whine whine.

I am so ashamed of you. Get off of your ass. I am a hot bitch and you’re ruining it! Also, cake *is* yummy, but those pants aren’t going to be in style forever. Do you want to be forced to give them to Z and have them be baggy on her while you sit there like a schlump, cancering all over the place? No? I didn’t think so. Let’s do some stretches and for the love of all things QUITCHER BITCHIN!!!!! Damn!

(case closed. Round 198,595 goes to Sassy Badassy)

That’s my dialogue. Obviously Lazy Fat-Girl Lexa is dumb. Sassy Badassy Lexa won. She needs to keep winning and not laying around crying randomly and cancering around the house. That’s lame. And I do believe that we’ve established that I, my love, am not lame.

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