Thanks, Universe

I grew up in a margarine household. I am so Team Butter now it's not even funny but growing up, it was all margarine, all the time.

Opening up a new tub of margarine was a big deal to me and my siblings. My mom used to buy the big tub from Costco so even though we're a family of six, untouched margarine was a rare occurrence. The surface of a fresh tub of margarine is a sight to behold. Smooth, creamy, unsullied by crumbs, with the perfect little knob in the middle where the stream of margarine flowed into the tub. This little knob, or the margarine's "belly button" as we called it, was the highest prize amongst us kids.

We would eagerly anticipate the opening of a new tub of margarine. When we noticed the old tub running low, we would strategically time our margarine consumption to better our own odds of being present when the new tub was opened. When the day finally came that the old tub was scraped clean and the new tub ceremoniously took its place in the middle of our table, my siblings and I would campaign to be the lucky one who took the margarine's belly button. We couldn't tell you what we did in school that day but we could say, with certainty, which kid opened the last tub of margarine, even though it was months before.

The negotiations did not go smoothly. Feelings would be hurt, alliances would be forged, promises of future support would be made, and finally, my parents would tire of our bullshit and instruct one of us to just eat the damn margarine belly button already. My dad would physically cringe as the victor would scoop the little knob of margarine from the pristine surface. One does not scoop margarine, you see. We do not mar it with craters. We live in a society. We scrape the top of the margarine in a uniform fashion and we do not leave crumbs behind goddammit. We aren't animals.

But he gave it to us; despite his feelings on proper margarine management, my dad let us kids scoop the damn margarine belly button every time (but heaven help us if we left toast crumbs behind).

It seems insignificant, the defacing of a tub of margarine, but it's just one tiny example of how kids are literally the worst and grandkids are sent as some sort of retribution from the universe.

Grady is the light of my life. He is my heart and soul and my very favourite boy. He is also challenging me in ways I've never experienced. This morning I made chocolate banana muffins for breakfast. My stubborn picky eater attempted to "pick out" the banana because he didn't like how it looked. He couldn't taste the banana. The texture of the banana wasn't the problem. He just didn't like how it looked. There were no banana chunks or slices; I had mashed the bananas thoroughly before mixing the batter. But my mash job was obviously sub-par because he was able to discern a few banana bits. I sat and watched, in broken silence, as he crumbled an entire muffin in an attempt to remove the few offending bits of banana. And it made me think back on my childhood margarine belly button brawls and wonder: why don't we eat our young?

Genetic Accident

So much has happened in the last month and I want to write about it all, if only so I have a record I can point people toward when they ask me when I'm going to "give Grady a sibling" (barf). But it's tough. Every time I try to write I get that horrible pinchy feeling in my chest and I write without exhaling or punctuating. I have a lot of saved drafts is what I'm saying.  

So let me share the bare bones and I'll try to work through the rest later.  

I had surgery on the 18th and then again on the 25th. It turns out my miscarriage was actually a partial molar pregnancy, which one emergency room doctor thoughtfully referred to as a "genetic accident." (It took everything in me to not retort "you're a genetic accident!")  

I am doing okay(ish). My GP referred me to the reproductive mental health unit because I've had some difficulty sleeping and I feel the itch of impending anxiety scratching at the periphery but they can't see me for five weeks so I need to figure out a new plan. I have options, i just need to figure out a game plan (something I find difficult to do when I'm struggling. I flounder. Floundering is not useful but it's where I am currently.) 

My hormones are decreasing as expected, it just takes time. I've been downgraded to weekly blood tests from every 48 hours so that's nice. This Friday's blood test will likely show that I'm officially unpregnant and I'm looking forward to that finality.

We've been told we can't try to get pregnant again for a certain amount of time and if you aren't a Friends fan, I apologize, but if you are a Friends fan, think back to when Ross and Rachel get back together at the beach house, and then Ross actually reads the letter (18 pages! Front and back!) and they have the big fight where they break up again and Rachel is all "we are sooooo over!" and Ross is all "FINE BY ME!" That was me when the doctor said not to get pregnant. I know it's all too fresh to make any big decisions but I am SO OKAY with not trying for another baby right now. Maybe forever. 

Anyway. I'm here. Alive. Almost unpregnant. Almost okay. 

Vim & Vigour This, Butthead

This is the way it works, right? Write about my newfound zen-like perspective and then get riled the fuck up over a cancer magazine called "Vim & Vigour"? I'm trying to be accepting of the process and not get all worked up over stupid shit like doctors who are late for appointments or who didn't order the correct blood work for the other doctor, which means the other doctor sends me for another blood test, which means I have had at least 1 blood test per week for the last month. I'm trying. And for the most part I'm succeeding. But then I'm given this magazine all about cancer and it's called "Vim & Vigour" and I just want to punch the person who came up with the name.

I mean, I get it. Calling the cancer magazine "Doom & Gloom" is bad form. And calling it "Fuck, This Really Sucks For You, Here, Have a Cookie" just isn't practical. But there has to be something better than "Vim & Vigour."

I have encountered a lot of false cheerfulness throughout this process. Which is fine, whatever, if you want to slap a big grin on your face and talk about how lucky I am to "only" have thyroid cancer (the Best! Cancer! Wheee!) because it makes you feel better, fine. Have at it. Don't let me (and MY feelings about MY cancer) get in your way. But don't start telling me how I "should" feel. Don't say that my lack of vim and/or vigour is me being negative. I'm not being negative. I'm just not doing a goddamn happy dance over the fact that I have the "good" cancer.

So. Cancer. Kind of a roller coaster.