In my cancer story, the diagnosis and treatment was a huge, out-of-nowhere inconvenience in an otherwise fabulous life that I believed I had the right to see fulfilled. And I didn't need to breastfeed my son to fill him with all the potential of a healthy young man. Except in MY mothering story, I had to do everything possible to nurse him, simply because I wanted to, I was driven to. I believed it was my right.
Throughout my elementary years I was a pudgy kid. By the time my lingering baby fat had fallen off I had learned to think of myself as overweight, unattractive, and lazy. I wore layers to hide my body, never went swimming in a group, and was a chronic dieter until my early twenties when I essentially stopped eating altogether. I eventually climbed out of that hole but here I am at twenty-six and I find myself feeling like that fat kid all too easily.
Tom's birth experience was drastically different to what I'd been hoping for and expecting. Instead of a calm, quiet drug-free home birth, I ended up being whisked to hospital in an ambulance, and having every intervention I'd hoped to avoid. Immediately following the birth, I knew that my physical recovery would take a while. What I didn't realise was how long it would take to recover mentally.
When I was little, my rendition of "house" always included pretending I was a single mother struggling to make ends meet. I'm not sure if my eight-year-old self could foresee the future, or if I was just making do with the fact that I didn't ever have a boy to play my "husband." I dabbled in dating as a teenager. By "dabble" I mean my relationships never lasted more than three months and most were more like a few days. I just never had much interest in men (or women, for that matter), sexually speaking.
I have a new "back to basics" attitude when it comes to my son's school lunches this year. I'm limiting as much prepackaged items as possible and increasing my own homemade items — with spectacular results.
For the past eight years I have been battling severe endometriosis. Three surgeries, two rounds of medical menopause, and four doctors later: I am pregnant. But getting here wasn't easy. Because of my endometriosis it was automatically assumed that I would have a difficult time getting pregnant and therefore my doctor wanted to put me on Clomid. Given that I had just gotten over another round of menopause-inducing hormones, I wasn't about to add more synthetic hormones to the mix. So I refused the prescription and decided to try to conceive for at least six months before taking a serious fertility drug.
Anyway, after discussing barfing at length with a few people, someone brought up the notion of refusing to throw up in a toilet. "Uh, why?", I asked naively.
Charting is a super, insanely useful way to get really amazingly in touch with your body and your cycles, but if you're not careful, charting can drive you super insane.