Privilege

I have privilege.

I am white.  I am married to a white man.  He supports me in everything that I do.  I am a member of the American middle class.  I am well educated.  I have a stable job that I am fairly compensated for performing.  For the most part I do not experience workplace discrimination.  I own my own home.  I have good credit.  I walked into a bank, applied for a mortgage, and walked out with a pre-approval letter.  It was easy.  I own two well-maintained and reliable cars with insurance for both. And if I wanted to replace one of the cars, I could do that today.  I have money in my checking account.  And my savings account.  And my retirement account.  I am able to budget my money to go on vacations and for home maintenance.  If my car or my furnace breaks unexpectedly, I can get them fixed without enduring financial hardship. I have excellent medical insurance, the money to pay my co-pays and deductibles, and the knowledge to advocate for myself. I have the means to purchase and cook healthy and nutritious foods.  I can take time off if I get sick and not worry about job security.  Aside from a few grants that I was eligible for in college, I have never received government help of any kind.  I have a copy of my birth certificate (two, actually). And my social security card.  I have a passport.  I have a driver's license. Heck, I even have a gender neutral name, so if you see my name on paper you can't immediately tell if I'm a man or a woman.

I have it pretty good.

I am not rich and I never will be.  I do not say any of this to brag or draw attention to myself.  I worked my ass off to get to the point that I'm at today.  Aside from my own hard work, perseverance, and resilience, I acknowledge that I wouldn't be where I am today if not for luck and a few people who entered my life at just the right time to mentor me and guide me and give me a swift kick to the ass when necessary.  People who saw more in me then I saw in myself.  And I acknowledge that it could all disappear in an instant.

This is privilege.

But it hasn't always been this way for me.

Beyond being white and straight, I spent a good portion of my life not being able to tell you any ways that I had privilege.

I had a childhood where I grew up fast.  I shouldered responsibility that wasn't age appropriate.  I endured things that no child should endure ever.

If you asked my high school teachers, they probably would have told you that I had equal odds of making something of myself and of being an unwed mother of three on welfare and cooking meth to sell in my free time.  I was smart, I just didn't have a whole lot of direction back then.  My high school guidance counselor told me that she didn't know why I was bothering to go to college because I'd never finish.

I worked my entire way through college and paid my tuition myself with wages and loans.  Many (most) of my peers didn't have to work.  There were a few semesters where I wasn't sure if I'd be able to return to school because of money.

I was without health insurance from ages 22-25, despite working full time at a low wage job.  I had the misfortune of getting sick and requiring hospitalization at one point.  It took me five years to pay off this bill, and that was after they gave me a "discount" because I was considered low income.

There was a point in my life where I had to make the choice between keeping the lights on and buying groceries.  I got very creative with Ramen Noodles.

If not for Planned Parenthood, I wouldn't have been able to afford birth control or checkups.  Like the time I found a lump on my breast.  It turned out to be nothing and went away on it's own, but I knew that it was nothing to worry about because of PP.  They gave me low cost birth control too.  It's no secret that an unplanned pregnancy at that point of my life would have drastically altered my life trajectory.  I don't think I'll ever be able to repay them, though through my regular donations, I'll do my best to pay it forward.

There was a time when a car repair or unexpected bill would have put me in crisis mode.

I overcame a lot.  So much more then I'm willing to write about publicly.

I know what it is like to struggle every single day.  I vow never to forget this.  I also know privilege. I vow to not use my position of privilege to judge others, and instead to use my voice to advocate for them.

Knowing all of this combined with my previous posts about politics in my country, you'd have every reason to assume that I marched in the Women's March.  I didn't.  I believed in every single thing that the march stood for.  I wanted to be there.  Up until the day before I planned to go to the sister march in my city.  I wanted to use my voice for those who are trying like hell to claw their way out of the cycle.

My anxiety won on that day and I didn't go.  I think I'll regret not going for the rest of my life.

I did, however, stand with all of my sisters who did march.  I am so proud of them.  I was with all of them in spirit.

The march was important to me because I believe that the most qualified person should be the one who gets the job.  I've been passed over for a job despite being more qualified than the person chosen simply because I lacked a penis.

The march was important to me because I believe in equal marriage.  I believe the government should have no authority to prevent two consenting adults from entering into the legal contract of marriage.

The march was important to me because I believe in equal pay for equal work.

The march was important to me because I believe in affordable, high quality childcare options and reasonable paid maternity leave.

The march was important because I believe that the government has no business legislating my medical care.  That should be between me and my doctor.

The march was important to me because, on the intake paperwork for my recent surgery, I was asked if my husband consented to the procedure.  No.  My uterus.  My body.  My choice.  Period.  He doesn't get a say.  Of course he supported my choice, but that's not the point.  I shouldn't need his signature to get medical care for my body.

The march was important to me because I believe that there has been systematic discrimination against non-white populations in this country (since it's inception) and that we haven't done enough to right those wrongs.

The march was important to me because I believe that all Americans (and citizens of the earth) should have insurance and access to medical care.

The march was important to me because I believe that a person should be able to practice the religion of their choice or no religion at all.

The march was important to me because discriminating against a person because of their race, gender, sexual orientation, economic status, zip code, or any other reason is wrong.

The march was important because washing your hands on the way out of a public restroom is far more important to me then the parts that the person in the next stall who is minding their own business while taking care of their biological functions was born with and whether or not they correspond to the sign on the door.

The march was important to me because violence against women is not ok.  Women shouldn't have to worry about being catcalled just for walking down the street.  Women shouldn't be called a whore for their clothing choice.  Women shouldn't have to be wary of accepting a drink because it might be spiked with something that will incapacitate them.  Women shouldn't be grabbed by the pussy or raped behind a dumpster.  And they definitely shouldn't be victimized over and over and over and over again when they have the courage to report it.

And finally, the march was important to me because we cannot normalize abhorrent behavior and hatred.  Our president needs this message more than just about anybody else.  Because if our president normalizes these behaviors, I shudder to think of what it means for my country.  By not speaking out against poor behavior and by not apologizing for his own deplorable behavior, he normalizes it.

I suspect that there will be many more opportunities to march in the future.  I will not miss those. And I think it's important that all of those who are lucky enough to have privilege make the commitment to advocate for those who don't.

A belated welcome to 2017

It's hard to believe that this is the first time I'm sitting down to write a post since last year.  Well actually it's not, I have a couple of posts that I'm chipping away on, but they're not done and I don't know that the timing has been right for them anyway.  I'm also woefully behind on blog reading too, and I promise to catch up.  Eventually.  But as for tonight, I thought I'd give a brief update.

So what's been going on with me?

Anxiety.  Surrounding the impending inauguration of the president-elect and what it means for my country.  Even if I could get past the fact that he is a deplorable excuse for a human being (and I personally can't), his behavior since winning the election has only frightened me more.  So many people have so much to lose.  On the bright side (if you can even call it that), Las Vegas has the odds of him being impeached within six months at 4-1.  I have a feeling that I'd better get used to my constantly burning stomach, because even if he is impeached, the vice president-elect isn't a whole lot better.

After several glorious months of my hormones having their shit together and behaving like would normally be expected in a woman my age, they're giving me a run for my money this cycle.  The near constant spotting is back.  So are the hot flashes.  Insomnia is back with a vengeance.  Whether because of the sleep problems or the hormones or the increased anxiety (or some combination of the three) my concentration and focus ability are extremely limited.  It's not that I don't want to write, it's just that I literally have no brain power to do so by the time the end of the day comes and I have time to write.  Like I told my doctor a few months ago, when everything is normal, I'm great, but when things are out of whack, I feel like I'm teetering on the edge of completely losing it.

Working out is going really good.  I'm down about three pounds since we started, so a little under a pound a week average.  While weight loss wasn't my primary objective (getting into shape and feeling better both mentally and physically were), I'm not going to complain about it.  I'm getting in four or five workouts weekly, and focusing on a mix of cardio and weight lifting.  I'm going to schedule a couple of visits with a trainer within the next couple of weeks, because I want to incorporate a few more exercises into my repertoire, and I want to make sure my form is good so that I don't hurt myself.

I'm actually amazed at how good working out is going and how good I feel.  I'm doing things and feeling better doing them then I have in at least 10 years.  I know that the lap to remove endometriosis/cysts/fibroids wasn't a magic bullet, but virtually all of my pelvic area pain since the surgery has been gone.  I did overdo it in the gym one day and mildly aggravated the pain, but with a day of rest it went away, and now I know an exercise that I can't do (scissor kicks, if you were curious).  I was worried that I went and screwed everything up and I'd be back to where I was before for about a day though and I was beating myself up pretty hard.  But it went away and I'm trying harder to be nice to me.

And finally, my grandpa isn't doing well.  He's 85 and basically his body is worn out and is slowly shutting down.  A week ago he had a stroke while in the hospital and the medical staff wasn't confident that he'd wake up from it.  He did wake up, is doing better, and he even went home yesterday (though at this point "doing better" is relative).  Apparently resiliency and stubbornness run in the family. There's also been quite a bit of family drama, but I'll spare you that.  Facing his imminent death has brought out a whole bunch of unexpected "what's going to happen to me when I get old" feelings.  I have a post brewing about that.  A huge shout-out to Cristy for talking me down from my minor freak out and helping me put things back into perspective.

So that's a brief update.  Mainly I wanted you all to know that I'm not dead.  I want to catch up on blogs soon, because I miss reading, and I feel out of the loop.

I am not 20 anymore

I mean obviously.  But 20 doesn't feel like 15 years ago.  At least not in my brain.

What brought on this realization?  Hubs and I joined a gym earlier this week.

At 35 I do not have the body, stamina, muscles, endurance, drive, etc. of my 20 year-old collegiate soccer player self.

I know joining a gym sounds cliché with it being (almost) a new year, but it's something that we'd been tossing around for a while, so we finally bit the bullet and did it.

I've worked out three times now.  I can barely lift my arms and I feel muscles that I forgot I had. Oddly enough, I'm loving it.

I feel 35 though.  Or maybe 85.

The soreness will be worth it once I begin to see progress.

Gray space

For a few years, during the hardest part of infertility and after, I couldn't enjoy kids.  It was just too painful.  Of course I slapped a smile on my face and pretended to enjoy myself, but really it was a lie. But that seems to be changing.

My middle niece, my youngest sister's middle daughter, is special to me.  She's nearly four now.  I was there when she was born.  I held her before either of her parents.  She's a really cool kid.  She's loud, busy, adventurous, uncoordinated, and sharp as a tack.  She's always been drawn to me.

Not surprisingly she was a source of great pain too.  An ever present reminder of everything we didn't (and later found out that we couldn't) have.  She was conceived right around the time I was starting to worry that having a baby wouldn't be as easy as tossing birth control.

When we did Christmas with my family I got to spend a lot of time with this particular niece.  She and I are both early risers.  On our last morning there, I was up before anyone else in the house.  She must have heard me, so she got up too.  We made breakfast together, apple pie and toasted cheese sandwiches, her choice*.   After breakfast we cuddled up in the recliner and read a few books together.  We spent at least an hour together before anyone else woke up.

I absolutely cherished this experience.  It felt so special to me, and I think to her too.  But it also left me longing for a little boy or girl of my own to cuddle.  Definitely a weird gray space of where I held happiness and longing at the same time.

The takeaway is that I'm having an easier time being around kids and enjoying it, and that makes me happy.

*When you're an aunt, you get the discretion to feed nieces and nephews whatever they want, so naturally apple pie was a perfectly acceptable breakfast choice.

Coming up for air

The last few weeks have been crazy.

Professionally, it's been one of the busiest and most challenging (but also invigorating and satisfying) months of my professional career.  I am so fortunate to work with a group of people who make those days where I both leave and return home in the dark and barely see my husband much more bearable.

Personally, we spent the past two weekends Christmassing with family.  First, my family, then hubs' family.  Usually it's my family that presents the most challenges/triggers, but this time it was ok. Fun, even.  Of course there were a few "ouch" moments, but I know that this will probably be the case forever, or at least for a long time, and I was able to take them in stride.  There were even a few special moments, one of which I have a post brewing about.

Although typically boring, time with hubs' family isn't usually hard.  This time, however, was a bit different.  I learned that his cousin (two years younger than hubs) and his wife were having a baby when they walked through the door carrying a new baby.  While a first cousin, I wouldn't exactly consider this side of the family close, and we typically only see them once or twice a year.  I'm sure that hubs didn't know because he knows me well enough to know to inform me in advance of any social gathering where there is a pregnancy or infant.  I took it in stride and learned that "I feel a cold coming on" is an effective cop-out for holding a baby.  It wasn't as hard as it would have been even a year ago, but it still left me gobsmacked for a bit.  It seemed like most of the day there were two themes of conversation: breastfeeding and our president elect.  I did not wish to engage in either of these conversations so I found the bathroom to be a welcome escape.

But traveling for the holiday season is over, and now I can take a deep breath and relax.

Recovery is going great.  The scar below my belly button is still a bit sensitive, but otherwise I feel healed.  I'm even back to wearing jeans!  Dare I say that I even feel better than I have in years.  I'm not nearly as tired, and I'm starting to realize how much pain that I was in every day now that it's gone.  Now that it's been a full month, I'm going to start incorporating some basic, low impact exercise back into my routine.  I'm anxious to get back to it, but am cognizant not to push it too hard.

I hope to write a bit more over the next couple of weeks!  In the unlikely event that I don't write again before Christmas/Hanukkah, I wish everyone who reads this a happy or at least not terrible holiday season.

Follow-up appointment

I had my post-op follow-up with my gynecologist on Tuesday.  Everything was pretty much what hubs told me after the procedure.  She found one small spot of endometriosis and removed it. Despite being small, it was actually quite complex to remove because it went so deep into the tissue.  She also drained two ovarian cysts and removed three fibroids.  The fluid that came out of the cysts was clear so they are not endometriosis related.  The pathology on everything came back as not malignant (which wasn't a worry, but it's nice to know).  Everything that was found and removed was on the right side, which was where the majority of my pain has been for a really long time.  My incisions are mostly healed and are looking great, and everything on the inside, while still a bit tender, is healing as it is supposed to.

And I wore jeans tonight, without discomfort, for the first time since before the procedure.  I only wore them for an hour or so, but I think that my self-esteem needed it.

I already had my first period after the surgery and there weren't any noticeable differences, but both my doctor and I agreed that it started so close to the surgery that it might not have been the best period to judge if the surgery is going to help the pain at all.  What I do know is that for the first time in I don't even know how long, I haven't had any spotting or cramping after sex, and I'm not going to lie, I hope it continues.

The "treatment plan" going forward is to call her if there are any changes or pain that concern me and to have my IUD replaced when it's time (in 2020).  Otherwise she doesn't need to see me again until my annual in September.  So now I just need my lady parts to make it nine months without acting up.

I'm still getting really tired pretty quickly, but I'm not sure if this is that my work life is pretty crazy right now, or that I'm still healing, or both.  I'm doing ok with normal day to day lifting, but I'm taking it easy with the heavier stuff.  Hubs is still carrying all of the dirty laundry downstairs and then back upstairs when I have it done and making sure the garbage gets to the curb and such.  I'm looking forward to getting back to exercising, but I think I'll give that a few more weeks to give the muscles in my abdomen more opportunity to heal.  Right now I'm making sure I stretch every day and do a few yoga type things that I know.  I'm trying really hard to not overdo it, which is hard, but necessary.

Honestly, I feel validated that she found something that could potentially explain the pain, that it's not all in my head.  And pissed that she's the first gynecologist in over 20 years of talking about my terrible periods and pain that listened for long enough to actually investigate.

Oh, and I apparently metabolize anesthesia pretty quickly.

Traditions

December has me feeling melancholy again this year.

My sister, the one who had the baby on Valentine's Day, is loving creating memories with her son, and she's loving sending me pictures so that I can share the experience.  Which I love.  And I hate.  I really am so happy for her that she got her much wanted baby and that she's creating traditions with him.  But damn.  Every picture leaves me with an intense sense of longing.  I'm not going to lie, it's an unwelcome reminder of what might have been if things had worked out differently.  I don't know if this will ever go away.

This has made me think a lot about traditions.  And how hubs and I don't really have any.  We put up a Christmas tree and decorate it.  We send out holiday cards (which are a big hit again this year, based on early feedback).  We have a few little decorations that we put up around the house.  We have a Christmas countdown calendar.  But it doesn't feel magical like Christmas felt when I was a kid.  It doesn't feel fun or festive.  It doesn't feel anything.

But I also think that traditions can't be forced, that they just kind of happen the first time and then are repeated over time.  So I don't know.  I guess we have the next forty years or so to fall into some traditions for the two of us.

In the meantime, we'll spend this coming weekend doing Christmas with my family and next weekend doing Christmas with his.  Survival will be the name of the game.  Then Christmas will be at home, and hopefully we'll manage to have some fun and make some memories.

I hate how this month makes me feel.