On Ice Cream (or, Attack of the Food Crazies)

Bateman, lovie, I adore you with all my heart, but when you bring home a carton of full fat chocolate chocolate chip ice cream, and we eat two neat little servings and put the rest away, and I say, “If you stay at my place while I’m in California, feel free to finish the ice cream,” what I really mean is that I’m going to eat the rest of the container the very next evening because, dude!, I’m starving on this diet, and there’s a carton of chocolate chocolate chip ice cream in my freezer (and not much else, see: diet, starvation). And hence I will be fat. And you will NOT LIKE IT.

That’s all, babe. Miss you LOTS.

Grand Romantic Gestures

Bateman and I were discussing Grand Romantic Gestures. We were also talking about recipes in Ladies’ Home Journal, Ferraris, and the latest episode of Beauty & the Geek. But then we turned to what his friend should do to win back his ex-girlfriend.

“Where’s my Grand Romantic Gesture?” I teased him. “Well?”

Bateman looked around the small room, incredulously. He threw up his hands. “Where ARE we?“

Oh. Right. We were in an exam room at my gynecologist’s office. I was sitting on an table with stirrups attached to it, naked from the waist-down, covered only with a white paper sheet. A large microscope that would be used to examine my cervix dangled from a pole nearby.

“Must be love,” I said between fits of laughter.

He shook his head in an exasperated sort of way. “Or something like it,” he muttered. But then he was laughing too.

Yesterday was … surreal. Bateman was with me the entire time except the five minutes during the actual procedure. Which didn’t hurt at all. I don’t know if it were the three Advil I took beforehand or if the Internets lied to me, but I made big deal out of nothing, let me tell you. The doctor must have thought I was crazy. I made the nurse hold my hand, and it didn’t even hurt.

“It’s over,” the doctor said after No Time At All.

“Really?” I squealed. “No, really, really? It’s OVER?”

She nodded. I’m officially nuts.

But, needless to say, I’m relieved. Glad I went and all that. Thanks to a combination of Advil, my boyfriend, and a very understanding nurse, it’s been a (mostly) pain-free experience. So far, anyway. And I probably won’t need anymore procedures.

And I’m glad too that Bateman was there with me. The HOUR AND A HALF that I had to wait for the doctor (part of which was WITHOUT PANTS) would have been nothing short of PURE TORTURE, given how nervous I was. I know he was less than thrilled to spend his day off at the ob-gyn’s office, but I couldn’t be more grateful. Sigh, I have a good one, huh?

—-

Also, I’m funny. Besides the INTERMINABLE WAIT, the other Worst Part is the informed consent sheet you have to sign before the procedure. Making sure you’re aware of, you know, all the ways you could die or be horribly maimed if the doctor screws up. “This doesn’t sound very good at all,” I said reading it.

The nurse laughed. Like: ohhh, ha ha ha, you’re in for a real treat!

When she left the room, I asked Bateman, “Did I say something funny?”

“It’s your delivery,” he answered.

I Did It

So, after all that — all the heartache, and the crying, and the regret — I decided to get the biopsy done after all.

I resolved last night to call the doctor this morning to see if my appointment were still available.  I figured I might as well give it one last go.  Not because of cancer, or the possibility of cancer.  Because of fear.  Overcoming fear.  Not letting it get the best of me.

I called first thing this morning.  And again.  And again.  Something like six times, I think.  I wanted to speak to an actual person, not voicemail.  (I go to a busy practice, what can I say.)  An hour later, I got through.  “This is a long shot, but …”  Well, apparently not that long of a shot.  They had a cancellation.  Today.  Not MY appointment, but close enough.  An hour earlier in fact.

So then I left Bateman something like two (million) messages, but of course, he was asleep and WHY IS HE ASLEEP JUST WHEN I’M FREAKING OUT WITH A BIOPSY LOOMING OVER MY HEAD IN FOUR SHORT HOURS AND OHMYGOD WHAT IF HE ALREADY MADE OTHER PLANS?  I didn’t really calm down until he signed onto Google Chat and I ambushed him with “I know it’s short notice but they were able to take me today at 2:45 …”

“‘Course,” he said.  Of course.  What ELSE does he have to do on his day off other than sleep to 11 and take his girlfriend to the gynecologist?

And then — flooded with relief — I felt really, really guilty about being such a bitch to him over the weekend (“I wouldn’t go that far,” he said).  OK, head case to him, bitch in my head.

And now I’m just waiting.  I have a lot of pent up energy, but I feel good.  I’m looking forward to seeing Bateman (ahh, love — when you’ll even go for a FREAKIN’ BIOPSY if it means more time with your significant other) and I’m proud of myself.

Funk

I was fine today – much better than yesterday, anyway, when I was so depressed I could barely leave the house.  I was fine, that is, until my mom called.

“Did you fast?” she asked, meaning for Yom Kippur.  The fact that she even had to ask showed that she already knew the answer.  So I didn’t bother lying.

“No.”

She paused.  “Why not?”  She asked this tentatively, like she didn’t really want to know the answer.  Laughed nervously.

“It’s just not important to me.”

“It used to be important to you.”

Whatever I answered was the equivalent of a shrug.

Then we moved on to the colposcopy.  “Are you going to the doctor this week?”

“I was supposed to,” I said.  “I canceled it.”

“It was supposed to be tomorrow, right?”  She sighed.  “I had a feeling you would.”  She tried to argue, but only half-heartedly.  She sounded almost resigned.  She either knew that she wasn’t going to convince me, or realized that I wasn’t going to go without Bateman and now Bateman  is going back to work.  I stood my ground and tried to sound tough.  I didn’t mention the guilt – how conflicted I feel.  How badly I want a do-over.

Especially because I’m not even entirely sure I want a do-over.  I’m still pretty convinced there’s nothing wrong with me.  I’m just angry at myself for being such a coward.

And then, of course, there’s the issue of Bateman.  I’m hurt that he never once told me to keep the appointment.  Maybe he thought it wasn’t his place to give me medical advice, or he felt awkward, but it came across as uncaring.  Like I was bothering him with something.  And I got the impression that maybe he even feels a little defensive – like: I didn’t give you HPV (even though he probably did) so why should I have to deal with this?

And – typical – he was out of town this weekend, just when I needed him.  Now that he’s home, I’m angry at him on top of everything else.  See, I’ve always had this impression that he says and does everything right … but not this time.  This time he really dropped the ball.  He didn’t even try to make me feel better.  He just suggested I reschedule the appointment (great, when?) or … he didn’t know.  “Well, I don’t know,” he said.

Obviously, I’m really angry at myself.  It’s not really his fault.  But the fact that I had to call my EX-BOYFRIEND of all people for emotional support at a time like this … well, that says something, doesn’t it?

God & Me

It’s Yom Kippur but I’m not fasting.

I’d fast if I had any desire to see my family — but I’m not feeling very festive. And behind closed doors, at least, I’m less religious — less than they even suspect. It’s weird being so out of sync with them on something as important as whether we all believe in god. Sometimes it makes me sad. Even though I think synagogue is boring, and I can barely sit through service without rolling my eyes, I do miss those moments of standing next to my dad as he sang along with his favorite prayers, sitting up a little straighter when he was called to read from the Torah, laughing in a whisper with my sisters, and then feasting on matzoh ball soup, chicken, brisket, and cakes galore at my grandparents’ house.

I don’t know when I became less interested in God. Maybe college, when I was trying on my newfound independence. Maybe it was when my sister married a Hasidic Jew and turned our home life upside down (separate meat and dairy dishes?) Maybe it’s the way Judaism expects women to spend their entire lives pumping out babies. Maybe it’s the way other Jews tend to judge each other — what you wear, what you put in your mouth, how closely you observe the Sabbath.

Bateman and I have the same views about religion — mostly. He’s less conflicted than I am — less angry, less guilty — because he was raised less religious than I was. My mom seems to think I’ll ramp up the Jewishness once I have children. Maybe. Who knows. But for now, I’m seeing how this watered down religion suits me.

Regret

I’ve canceled my colposcopy appointment, but I don’t feel good about my decision. What if — what if — what if — keeps ping pong balling around my head. After all, even with all my research, I still can’t find a clinical study that says I DON’T need to go; it seems I was appropriately triaged and the doctor is recommending the right thing.

Right now I’m trying to calm myself with the fact that it’s entirely possible — entirely possible — that my next pap will be normal. Many (if not most) HPV infections clear up on their own. Regardless, cervical cancer grows very slowly — over a decade or more. Waiting another 12 months before taking action won’t, well, kill me.

I still feel like crap though. I feel like crap because the intelligent, conscientious, health reporter in me knows that I should go for this colposcopy whether I want to or not. I feel like crap because my parents are going to be on my case big time about this. I feel like crap because I let my fear run amok — what will I do the next time I get sick? Ignore everything until I die an untimely death at the age of 33? What will I do when I’m pregnant? I sure hear THAT hurts a lot. I feel like crap because Bateman had been ridiculously quiet about what the hell I was supposed to do — he said it was FINE if I didn’t want to go, and since he was telling me what I wanted to hear, I took it as gospel. But maybe he was just placating me, and that makes me MAD. I feel like crap because I trusted him to help me make a decision and he let me down.

Anyway, it’s too late. What’s done is done. Going now would mean waiting at least another two weeks for an appointment and then having to go all by myself because I wouldn’t have anyone to take me. Well, I wouldn’t have BATEMAN to take me. HE was supposed to make all the difference. But now he’s going back to working 300-hour days, and that’s that.

I thought I’d feel relieved about this. I thought I’d be HAPPY. But all I feel is this terrible sadness.

Canceled

… the biopsy, that is.

I have several journal entries that I could copy and paste here that might help explain WHY I would play Russian roulette with my health. Me. Someone who not only covers health care for an international media outlet, but is also the daughter and girlfriend of medical professionals. A million horror stories at my finger tips.

And yet … the simplest reason is this: I just don’t want to go. Don’t. want. to. Now, yeah, sure, no one WANTS to subject herself to this sort of thing. But I don’t even want that end result: peace of mind. I just want to get off this horrible abnormal pap smear roller coaster. Enough already. Let’s stop pretending that this is something more than it is. Statistics are on my side, but I don’t pretend that I would ever advise anyone else to do something as stupid as I just did.

I canceled my biopsy for no other reason than because I plain and simple don’t want to go.

Swimming with the Fishies

I went swimming yesterday.  I haven’t been swimming — in a lap pool — since … well, since no time I can remember off the top of my head.  Ocean? Yes.  Hot tub at a spa in Madrid?  Bliss.  But a swimming pool where one needs to remember how to do the crawl and the breast stroke — and do them consistently up and down and back and forth?  Ha.

It’s been awhile.

The gym branch near Bateman’s apartment has a pool.  Since he was working yesterday, and I was staying at his place, I decided to don my bathing suit and hit the water.  I purchased my very first pair of goggles, threw a beach towel over my shoulder, and headed to the gym.

Swimming, I now know, is not like riding a bike.  I huffed and puffed and chocked on water for the first three laps at least.  (“Like an old lady with emphysema,” Bateman said, as I regaled him with my swimming tale — complete with sound effects — over dinner.)  Even when I finally got the hang of the side stroke, I still felt like my late goldfish Flippy (may he rest in peace) during his last days of life, when he struggled to hold himself upright as he wobbled around the tank.  My muscles hurt.

It’s weird because I used to be a good swimmer.  When I was a kid, that is.  Not fast, not competitive, but capable.  I used to love it.  And I still consider myself to be in good shape — on land, at least.  Not so, apparently, in water.

The 70-year-olds put me to shame.  I stayed in the “loafer lane.”

But the hot tub was nice.  And the sauna.

Also, non-sequiter?  Want to hear one?  OK, you know what else is nice?  Coming home from work and finding Bateman cooking shrimp scampi in my apartment.  After we barbecued salmon, corn, and potatoes on his balcony last night.  The boy?  Is so cute.  You totally just want to squeeze him.  Yes, YOU would — even you.  (But you can’t, cause he’s mine, so hands off!)

My job for this dinner is to pick out the wine.  I’m toasting to Bateman having two weeks of vacation — his first since residency started and only break till late-February.  I’m not going to waste this time, either.  I’m going to squeeze him LOTS.

This is kind of morbid but …

Remember when I said I wanted to lose five pounds? Well, I lost those five pounds.

I was too distraught to eat anything more than a handful of Cheerios or a few carrots for dinner on both Monday and Tuesday. I don’t binge when I’m upset, and I’m grateful for that. Instead I lose all interest in food.

This morning I stepped on the scale and — woo hoo — slid right into my skinny jeans. I’m strangely, eerily proud of this fact.

All I can say is that today was better than yesterday. I couldn’t get a biopsy appointment for another month, because they were booked up over the next two weeks, and then I’m in San Francisco. So … it just kind of seems like something far away. In the way-distant future. Like something that could right itself between now and then.

Also, Bateman said he’d come with me.  I’m almost looking forward to it now.  A date at the gynecologist’s.  (He’s a doctor; I’m figuring he’s mature enough to handle spending an hour in a pink and girly waiting room.)

I think I’ll eat tonight.

Decision Point

I have a mantra. I repeat it to myself whenever I’m scared. It goes:

Always choose your happiness over your fear.

I’m trying to tell myself that this is a blip, this biopsy thing. Most likely, it’ll be fine. And if it isn’t fine, then at least it’s easily correctable. In two, five, 10 years from now this will all just be a bad dream.

If I take care of things.

Otherwise, I could be throwing my entire life away — my HAPPY life complete with a great career, and a great family, and great friends, and hell, even great skin — because I’m afraid. And who would choose that? Who chooses fear?

I’m going to have to repeat this mantra a lot over the next day or week or month or so, because I still don’t believe that I need to go for this test. My parents are LIVID that I’ve even consider not going, but Bateman has tried to be the voice of reason. He told me that what I need now is food and sleep (fringe benefit of all this? being completely unable to eat.) And I need support, not a parental meltdown, and eventually I’ll make the right decision. And then he said, “Listening to your dad lecture you about gynecology tests is definitely the worst part of the whole experience.”

For some reason, after six hours of near-continuous crying, THAT was thing that cracked me up.