Hemorrhage in Aisle Three...

WARNING: There is an abundance of female information in this post

There I sit in Canadian Tire, my ass on the lowest rack in the Home Decor Aisle.

Fists in the air...  "THIS CAN'T BE HAPPENING!!!"  

"Ma'am?"

For a moment, I morph into a Mesopotamian Demon.   Laser beams from my eyes - poor kid backs up, hands in front of him in placation...

"Do NOT call me Ma'am..."

From The IT Crowd

Sharp stabbing knives in my ovaries.  I growl.

"Are you alright?"

"I. AM. FINE.  I just need a second to... SWEET MOTHER OF... I'm fine.  It's okay.  I'm sorry.  No need to be alarmed."  I pry myself off the rack, just finding my footing before another cramp hits me.  I grab onto a Debbie Travis basket, willing myself not to pass out.  "Breathing.  I'm breathing through it.  
I. AM. BREATHING."

"Is there anything that I can do to help?"

"Can you perform a hysterectomy?"

Blank stare.

"Never mind.  I'm good... really... I just have to... FOR THE LOVE OF...!  Give me a freakin' break here!" 

And that's when my uterus tries to fall out.  Cramping one moment and the next my lower body is doing its impersonation of the monkey from The Fly.  You know how it feels when you walk in muddy gravel in bare feet?  That's how I feel inside.  Wet.  Squishy.  Pointy.  Things between other things.  I catch a glimpse of my face in a mirror.  I am fish belly white - my blue eyes the bluest they've ever been.

I start for the door.  I will Kegel my way out of the building.  100 feet.  I just have to get 100 feet.  Every muscle in my body supports those Kegels for the entire 100 steps.

I'm pretty sure that when I sit my ass in the car I lose consciousness for a split second.  Thank God when I'd noticed a bit of spotting that morning, I'd taken precautions and thrown in the Diva Cup.  I drive home, Wagnerian arias filling the car, every time a cramp hits me. 

Amoeba-like, I ooze my way up the steps to my house. I collapse on the front hall bench.

"Hello, love," David calls from the kitchen.  "Did you have a good..." He walks out to greet me.  "Holy crap!  Are you okay?"

"DRUGS.  I NEED DRUGS!!!" 

"Again?  You're having your period again?" 

"YES."  

"Didn't it just stop 2 days ago?"

"YES."

"That's messed up."

"YOU THINK?!?"

He leads me to the kitchen.  Sits me down at the table.   He then goes to the bathroom, grabs me drugs and pours me about a litre of water.  "Here.  Take these.  Drink this.  All of it. You're dehydrated."

"Can you feel the ounces of blood that are now leaving my body, through my defective cervix too?"

"No, but I do appreciate the graphic reminder."

"I could be more descriptive."

"Not while you're drinking a litre of water you can't."

I'm dreaming of an anorexic Christmas...

How did she do it?  Vera Ellen, I mean.  How could she even stand, let alone DANCE, in White Christmas?  We watched it the other night, the girls and I.

Yeah, we sang along.  Yeah, we rolled our eyes at some of the nostalgic schtick.  Yeah, we got teary-eyed when  General Waverly came into the dining hall.   And yes, watching the horses pull that frickin' sleigh around the road as the set flew out leaving the open barn door to show everyone that there was a true Christmas miracle of fluffy falling snow, made us all go "Awwwwwwwwwwww..."

And yet every time Vera Ellen danced, all we could focus on was how she was doing it, given that she had the Body Mass Index of a cadaver.  I'm remiss - the first real dance, (not in the Sisters floor show) the one with Danny Kaye out on the pier, when she was in a longer skirt, didn't freak us out.  But from the time she appeared in that yellow outfit in the train scene - with her seemingly CGI'd waist - we winced.  I swear to God, that I, with my large peasant hands, could have spanned her middle.

At one point you see her ribs through that top. From then on - the movie became bitter-sweet for me. This beautiful, graceful, accomplished dancer, wearing high-necked costumes in every single shot - her legs so thin that you could see the tendons...  it was like seeing a car crash on the highway, I couldn't look away.

She hadn't always been this emaciated.  If you look at her just a few years earlier - her face was rounder, the waist not quite so wasp thin.  She looked fit.  She looked strong.  She had muscle.

From On The Town

From Wonder Man

circa 1950

Once you've been up close and personal with someone suffering from anorexia, you recognize the signs.  For me it was seeing a girlfriend from high school about 6 months after graduation.  There'd been rumors of her having an eating disorder in school, but until I saw her, with her shoulders bare, I hadn't believed it.  We were at a movie theatre, she was sitting behind me.  I turned around to say "Hi" and could see immediately that something wasn't right.  Her shoulders and collar bones stuck out, seemingly misplaced on her torso.  I stuttered, desperate not to blurt out something inappropriate.  In my head, all I thought was, "Why?!?"  Why did she do this to herself?  Why?  She didn't have extra weight.  Not that I could see.  She'd been sporty - been on teams.  She always looked healthy and fit.  But there, in that movie theatre, she looked frail.  She looked brittle.  I was afraid that I'd break her.

I saw that girl in 1987 - almost 30 years gone now, and the image of her, with her bones protruding, has kept with me.  I kick myself for keeping quiet.

Seeing Vera Ellen dance took my breath away, but not for the reasons it should have, not because she could do things with her feet that I couldn't fathom, not because she made her movement seem effortless, not because she was a spectacular dancer.  And she was.  God, she was talented!

I wish that I could have been there to tell her that.  I wish that someone had told her that.  That someone had let her know that she was perfect, just as she was.  I wish she could have seen herself through someone else's eyes - could see her talent and ability and beauty and believed in it.  I wish that her disease hadn't skewed her perception to the point that she looked like this:

White Christmas has become a cautionary tale for me.  I know, not very Christmassy, right?  It just got me thinking is all. Hold your girls tight - let them know they're perfect as they are. If they can't see it, if their mind is playing tricks on them, set them straight - get them help.  You want to have them around for always, not just at Christmas time. 

You know you're old when...

So this is how it goes is it?  I now injure myself sitting.  I came home the other night, and I ached, oh how I ached.  I could barely walk.  My hips, my knees, even my ankles refused give me support.  Apparently they were going out dancing, maybe speed skating or snowboarding while I was.... what?  Blacked out?  Had my nightcaps begun to excise actual time from my life?

What had I done?  NOTHING!!!  I went over my day.  I hadn't been running, I'd walked to work.  How was it different??  HOW?  The only thing different was that I'd worn heels.  Small wedged heeled boots. And then, later that evening, I wore a part of emerald green heels for an event at which I was performing. Am I reduced to that?  Wearing a pair of 3 inch heels prompts a bout of ... what?   Bursitis?  How is that even possible?  I shouldn't even know about bursitis!  I am 45 freaking years old!  But there were the joints of my legs - causing me such pain that silent tears rolled down my cheeks as I crawled up the stairs to find anti-inflammatories.  What had I done?  It couldn't just be the heels... could it?

Didn't hit me until yesterday when I was sitting in the family room, in front of the ottoman, gearing up to wrap more Christmas presents.  My hips and knees complained as I descended.  It didn't feel right - put stress on my already sore joints.

My lightbulb moment happened when I reached for the ribbon.  Oh, sweet merciful Jesus!  I had injured myself wrapping presents. That is what I've come to.  Sitting on the floor causes too much strain on my body.  I look like this hardy, stalwart girl - broad of shoulder - with now matronly hips, strong thighs...  but in actuality I am Camille - one sit away from rheumatism and one breath away from consumption.

So, here's what I'll be required to do from now on.  Calisthenics in the morning.  You know, to limber up so that I can... SIT.  I'd better start doing something.  Women in my family are long lived.  It'll be a painful next 50 years if I don't get my shit together.

And here I'd thought I'd just been horny...

Period.  Last week.  Mon - Friday.  Growling, irritable, drugged up, clutching the heated blanket.  Then the weekend arrived, and I felt GREAT!  Fantastic even.  Randy.  Giving David those looks - waggling of the eyebrows - half-smiles and suggestive telepathy.  Couldn't get enough of him.  We'd finish one bout of naked wrestling before, barely giving him time to breathe, I wanted more.

Should have recognized the signs.  I always get horny... right before my period.  So I shouldn't have been surprised Monday morning when I discovered that Aunt Flo was back.

WHAT THE?!?  OH COME ON!!!

Two days people.  Two frickin' days.  After months of relative regularity, the roller coaster seems to be back.  Not quite the Leviathan, but definitely Behemoth-like in annoyance level.  Irritated by everything.  The cats meowing, the kettle taking too long to boil, David asking me, "What's wrong love?"

"NOTHING!  NOTHING IS WRONG!  I have NO reason to want to weep inconsolably NONE!!!  Other than the fact that my hormones have apparently decided to go on freaking WALKABOUT! and I can't do ANYTHING about it!!!"  I then face planted onto the keyboard.

David made a move as if to come an hug me - though better of it and stayed where he was.

"I need to watch something stupid with animals in it."

Feeling like WRATH personified?  Try this instead:

Heather, the pug-faced girl.

Last winter, to ward off cold air chest pain, David purchased me my very own Cold Avenger / Darth Vader mask.

 

Well, it's winter once again, and though Ontario's November was pretty damned temperate, December has been colder than a witch's tit the last little while.  Not generally a problem for most stalwart Canadians, but cold air for Heather?  Cold air, in my lungs, precipitates chest pain.  I was a bit late on my way to work one morning, so I decided to run.  BAD IDEA.  When a person runs, they breathe air faster into their lungs.  Which, come winter time, is cold air.  And my lungs?  Are cold air pussies. I arrived for our staff meeting tinged a little green.  My boss took one look at me and said,

"You're not having a heart attack are you?'

"No, no heart attack.  Just chest pain.  We're good."  I gave a weak thumbs up.

"Chest pain...?"  The rest of the table then turned to look at me.

"No, no, it's okay.  It's not cardiac related.  All good.  See?"  I pummelled my chest like a silverback gorilla to show my strength.   Then I had to stop because I really wanted to lie down and die.

So the Cold Avenger / Darth Vader mask came out again.  It actually does help warm up one's breathing air... you know, the face-accessory equivalent of sand-bagging for an impending flood.  The only problem is,  I'm pretty sure I have the wrong size.  I didn't think that I had a ginormous face, but  if I wear my Cold Avenger mask so that the nose part is in the right place, it only goes down to right below my bottom lip and I get chin chafage, and if I wear the cup thingie below my jaw for comfort, the nose part smooshes my nose down and I become a pug with all their attending breathing issues.  Which, if you're already having chest pain, makes it kind of hard to do anything physical on account of the fact that you already want to pass out from not being able to breathe through your nose.

The plus side for all this, is that I can't help but laugh at myself when I'm walking.  Chortling, snorting, at times braying, laughter.  And laughing?  Even with the attending chest pain, always makes me feel better.  I'll willingly cop to being a little Sally Sunshine, 'cause there are worse ways to start my day.  Besides, if you can't laugh at yourself, you're pretty much fucked.

Put the garland down!

Our cats, who usually maintain relative order in our home, lose their minds when the Christmas decorations come out.  They dance on counters, bask on top of tables...  We routinely find the dining room table cloth all askew, salt and pepper shakers asses up, chairs knocked over.  All three cats looking up and saying "It wasn't me."  Apparently, I need to cut a piece of carpet pad - you know the non-slip kind - for our dining room table.


We have three cats.  Minuit, the crotchety, Steve the mellow and Lola the sneaky. The Christmas trees went up last weekend.  (If I could afford to have a tree in every single room of our house, I would.  Why?  Because Christmas makes me crazy. CRAZY with HOLIDAY JOY!!)   Every waking minute since the erection of said trees has been spent policing the impending destruction of them. The Dining Room tree barely up, Lola was 5 feet up its trunk, golden eyes peering at us from its faux greenery depths.  This is a cat who likes to sleep on top of the pointy edged Victorian radiator in the bathroom, so I guess that balancing on wire spoky branches poses her no challenge.

"Ha-ha!" she meowed.  "I am here!  IN THE TREE!!"

David and I shared a glance.  "We're going to need heavy-gauge fishing line."

Remarkably - I came back from Canadian Tire having only purchased the fishing line.  Do you know how hard that is for me to do?  Especially when they have colour-coordinated aisles of Christmas decorations?!?  It took everything within me, not to grab the white 7-footer under my arm, scan it in the self-checkout and run wildly about in the parking lot shouting "TREE NUMBER THREE!  TREE NUMBER THREE!!!"

Instead, I came home sans extra tree (cue sad Charlie Brown music) and David secured screws to the tops of door frames and underneath the fireplace mantle so that we could tether the trees, you know, just in case...

"LOLA!  Get down!  DOWN!!!"

"You are no fun."

"STEVE!! DROP IT!!"

"But it feels so good in my mouth."

And Minuit there, sitting in the POÄNG sniggering at me and them, licking her paw and running it along her ears.  Lying in wait.

Rustle... rustle... rustle...

"MINUIT!  Put the garland down!"

Best Christmas Present Ever...

I have been taken in by British department store John Lewis.  I didn't even know that  John Lewis existed before today, and now here I am tearing up - TEARING UP - at an animated commercial.  Albeit an animated commercial that celebrates Christmas with woodland animals all to a lovely soundtrack by Lily Allen, but it's still a commercial for Cripe's sake!

What is it about the holidays that gets us all so sentimental?  Are those early Christmas memories imprinted on our DNA?  Does wonder, joy and excitement become part of our cellular structure, providing that we've had wonder, joy and excitement in our lives during the holiday season?

Getting nearly apoplectic with excitement when you see the first snow?  Opening the gift that you thought only Santa knew of?  Watching a parent/friend/partner/spouse/child open the perfect present.  And by perfect present I don't mean expensive - I don't mean put yourself into hock to get your honey a diamond encrusted watch.

The best Christmas present that I ever received was a calendar.  We had just moved to a smaller town from Toronto.  Rissa was only about 2 1/2 years old.  David handed me this thin, poorly wrapped gift - I could tell from its dimensions that it was a calendar.

"Open it up," he said.

He had booked babysitters once a week for three months.  Friends, relatives, local teenagers - all booked from January to the end of March  - 12 dates.  He'd arranged babysitting for 12 dates.  He didn't just know what I wanted, he knew what I needed.  I needed to get out.  I needed not to be the one to plan things.  I needed to remember what it was like to be a person and not just a parent before I lost my mind.

He knew.  He still does. 

Best present ever.

ps. if you're not quite in the holidays spirit - YouTube the rest of John Lewis's Christmas commercials - if they don't bring tears to your eyes you don't have a soul.