Weighty Issues

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When I was first diagnosed with cancer, amid the fear of death, treatment and hair loss, I managed to have the stupidest, most-vain thought I possibly could: “Maybe at least I’ll get skinny!”

Fucked up doesn’t even begin to cover having such a thought, but I’d be lying to you if I didn’t secretly hope I’d lose a little weight during chemo. Getting skinny when you have cancer is not a good thing. It means you’re not eating. It means you’re probably throwing up. It means you’re not well.

Yet there I was, hoping to drop a few pounds. Insane, right?

I’ve never been a super-skinny person. I’ve also never been very overweight. Like most people, I fall somewhere between–not obese, but I could stand to drop a few pounds.

My mother was always overweight. Even as a child, she was chubby. Three pregnancies and the stress of making ends meet while raising a family did nothing to help her situation.

Not to say she didn’t try mightily to change that. My childhood is filled with memories of my mother trying everything–from Weight Watchers to Richard Simmons to that wacky “Stop the Insanity” lady–to drop weight. We ate fat free cheese before they figured out how to make it edible (remember how weird that texture was?). My sister and I played while my mom walked lap after lap around the track of a local school.

But no matter what she tried, she couldn’t seem to shake the extra weight.

And she hated it. I have just a few photos of her because she always shied away from having her picture taken. When we went on vacation, she rarely went out on the beach during the day–staying indoors until evening, when she could walk on the sand fully clothed.

Though she never once did anything to make me feel like I needed to lose weight (even though I went through a pretty chubby period between third and sixth grades), seeing her struggle stuck with me. And it instilled a deep fear of gaining too much weight.

Fast-forward to today. For most of my adult life, I’ve done a pretty good job keeping my weight under control. Sure, I got so big during pregnancy that I’m pretty sure I had a couple of moons orbiting me, but I managed to drop all that weight (and then some) afterward.

But this cancer mess has thrown me all out of whack. Between my oophorectomy-induced menopause and Tamoxifen (apparently, “Tamoxifen tummy” is a thing), the numbers on my scale keep climbing. In fact, just this morning at my yearly physical, I realized I’ve apparently gained two pounds.

Sure, a little weight gain isn’t a huge deal in the grand scheme of things. But when you’re actually trying to lose weight, get in shape and be healthier, it’s a bit dispiriting. I’ve joined a gym and actually go, and I’m keeping track of what I eat, for the most part. I’m actively trying to make better choices.

And honestly, my weight has become more than just a vanity thing at this point. Carrying extra weight can put you at higher risk of cancer–particularly breast cancer, as fat cells have been proven to produce estrogen. If you had estrogen receptor-positive cancer like I did, that’s not a good thing.

So, what am I to do? For now, I plan to push forward and continue the good habits I’ve adopted–regular exercise, more fruits and veggies, less red meat, etc. I’m also really going to try to cut back on refined sugar (a monumental task for someone with a massive sweet tooth).

I’m also going to try my best to stop thinking about the numbers on the scale and focus on ones that matter even more–my blood pressure, my cholesterol, my vitamin levels. Hopefully, even if I never reach my goal weight, I’ll still become a stronger, much-healthier person in the process.

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Tentatively Hopeful

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A new year has arrived. Last year at this time, I was positively euphoric for a fresh start. 2016 was one of the worst years of my life, and barring some major catastrophe, 2017 was poised to be better at least by comparison.

And it was. Last year was a pretty great year for me. I had several surgeries and started my adjustment to life as a survivor, but these were all things I could manage. Health stuff aside, things were pretty great in other parts of my life, too. I went to my favorite city with my sister, visited Seattle and Oak Island for the first time, rocked out to a reunited Guns ‘n’ Roses, listened to Andre Leon Talley talk fashion, celebrated my 20th high school reunion and spent so much time just simply enjoying life with the people I love the most.

So, as I approach this new year, I’m…well…a bit nervous. Call it paranoia or superstition, but I can’t help having this sinking feeling that the other shoe is going to drop after having such a great 2017.

I know this is irrational, but irrational thoughts are pretty much de rigueur for cancer survivors, particularly those of us who were already a little neurotic before the Big C wrecked our lives.

That said, I’m trying to seize this year just as I did 2017. I’ve decided that this is the year I “take my body back.” With pregnancy, motherhood and nursing, then cancer and the ensuing treatment, I feel like my body hasn’t been my own since 2013. So, I’m really focusing on being as healthy as I can be. I’m joining the gym in my office park so I’ll work out regularly, and I’m really trying to be serious about changing the way I eat.

I’m also trying to continue the practice of self-care that I’ve dabbled in this past year. That includes things like evening baths, massages, meditation and acupuncture. These things just make me feel good. I’d also like to get back to yoga on a regular basis, too.

I know that I will not always hit the mark with these goals. But, I’m really trying to stick to them and be as healthy and strong as possible. There are few things in this world I can control, but I can at least buttress my defenses in case I need to fight.