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A couple of days off have left me feeling far more human. I still can't wait for my holiday at the end of the month. But a quiet weekend, a couple of long telephone calls with my mother, a pleasant meal out at Bistro One in Southampton Street, some brilliant contemporary dance from Northern Ballet at the Linbury Studio (& what a gorgeous little theatre that is; I'd give my eye teeth to be able to use it >sigh<), plus getting my fantasy western past the 100,000-word mark today; yes, after two days of that, I feel more like me.
I've also discovered that crying jags are, like non-specific bouts of depression, frequent symptoms of the perimenopause. While not exactly cheerful news, this does at least help me to place my weird attack on Friday evening in perspective. Yup, I'm a menopausal woman, folks. Be afraid, be very afraid...
The only alternative to going through the menopause is to die first. Which I should prefer not to do. Even when it is chaos, even when I am worn out and depressed, and work is hectic and I am trying to get used to using a ticketing system that has the electronic equivalent of several limbs in plaster (& one perhaps tied-on with string), even then, I enjoy my life. I know I will die one day; maybe tomorrow, maybe not for another forty years. Why wish it any sooner, when I have so much I want to do with my time?
Anyway, if anyone was worried (& I know one person at least was; bless you, dear heart), don't be. I'm okay. It was just one of those days, a day that started well and went sour. We all have them from time to time.
I've decided to step off the 5:2 diet wagon again for a while, though, since I don't know that this is a good time for being hungry. It isn't as if anyone but me cares if I am stout or not, after all. I was trying to diet because I dislike finding it harder to run for a bus, not for my looks (or lack of them). But right now I think self-care is the order of the day. That needn't mean self-indulgence, but it's not self-denial either. It means enjoying that lovely fresh grapefruit I had for breakfast, and the extra pumpkin seeds I put in my cereal. It means not feeling harried into doing things I don't want to do, not feeling I have to apologise for being an introvert. It means showering in the morning and using conditioner in my unruly rag of hair, and wearing my good clothes even on non-work days, not because anyone is looking, but because I will feel better if I am clean and do not look like a windswept tramp. It means going out of the office for some air, and taking the time to say hello to friends and not sit in a slumped heap feeling sad in the summerhouse like a neglected toy. It means all sorts of things, but it does not mean trying to lose weight. Not at this moment in time. Life is too pressured to add any more pressures just now.
On with the motley tomorrow, anyway. Little by little we'll get there. My life seems to be full of half-resolved stories, and little by little I'll get to tell them all, or have them told to me.
Who knows, tomorrow I may get a breakthrough of some kind at work. I may learn that my job is secure (gods, I hope it is!). I may get a procedure for a month-ahead report on unconfirmed provisional bookings, or one for last month's figures, or a new process to simplify another task. If work stays hectic, nonetheless I may find something wonderful in bloom, or be paid a compliment, or run into a friend; I may have the chance to help someone, or simply hear a good joke. Someone may like my singing or my writing, or may just need a cup of tea that I can make them. Of such small incidental things much happiness is composed.
Meantime, all of you who I cried over on Friday; I'm sorry if I worried or embarrassed you, and I hope you are all well, and I love you all. Even the ones I don't know. Look after yourselves.
I'm not going to delete Friday's post. I've thought about it, but it seems a false note somehow. One should not hide from the shadows; they will still be there, notwithstanding, so better to be comfortable with that. It's all part of life's rich pattern.
Showing posts with label self-care. Show all posts
Showing posts with label self-care. Show all posts
Sunday, 11 May 2014
Saturday, 5 October 2013
Tenderisation and aging
Did you know that the NHS had effected a downward extension of the age for free mammograms? Nor did I - until I got called for one. I'm 47 and as of some time last year, I'm in the age range. Yesterday I had my first-ever breast screening appointment.
Stop reading now, by the way, if you are of a squeamish disposition, or do not like thinking about the fact I have boobs, or do not like the fact I'm prepared to mention them in public. Because this may be a TMI post.
I had been told it wasn't a very nice experience, and I can now agree wholeheartedly with that. It is very uncomfortable, physically. But on the other hand, in every respect where they can make it less horrible, they do (or at least Charing Cross Hospital in Hammersmith do). I had the chance to choose an appointment date and time that suited me. When I arrived, I was seen promptly (I had taken a book and a bottle of water and was expecting a long wait, but I was into the screening room on the dot of three o'clock). The radiologist was female, and was friendly, kindly, sympathetic and chatty - yet at the same time she also managed to be unintrusive and decorous. That can't be easy when you spend your working day handling other women's tits like so many slices of steak to be tenderised. She was gentle, she primed me for what the machine would feel like, and gave me tips on what I could do to minimise the discomfort (basically, relax, keep breathing, keep still, and don't hunch your shoulders).
As those of you who know me face to face will be aware, I have fairly big breasts. Not huge, but a good size all the same. A lot for the machine to take into its plastic maw. As they are also pretty firm for their age, they were very resistant to being squished. Large firm breasts are apparently the most painful when being screened, I was told. I've never wished for a pair of droopies, indeed have always been rather proud of my perky pups and how well they were standing up to the joint tests of time and gravity, until yesterday!
As for the machine, well; speaking in particular to those that haven't ever had a mammogram, everything you've heard is true, I'm afraid. Two x-ray plates are taken of each breast, and to take them, your boobs are put between two surfaces and then squashed hard. Really, really hard. The upper piece comes down and down, pressing your breast onto the lower piece, until you think "Crikey, that's a lot harder than I expected, ouch!" - and then it comes down a fair bit more after that. It is very uncomfortable indeed, and I was impressed with the fact my boobs sprang back into more-or-less their normal shape afterwards. I don't seem to have any bruises, either, which was worrying me (I bruise easily).
Results in about two weeks, and I shouldn't be called back for three years.
Then I went to an optician's appointment, after that, to have a light shone in my eyes, and my eyelids turned inside-out (yuk yuk yukk) and be told me new contact lenses seem to be a good fit. I've now signed up for monthly renewables instead of the long-wear lenses I used to use. It's going to cost me more, but not an appalling amount - £144 per annum instead of about £110 - and it means I can get a much higher-water-content lens, which apparently is good for older eyes.
I dunno; older eyes, older boobs >sigh< it's all starting to wear out on me...
Well, one of the pluses of being older is being more aware of one's condition, and quicker to spot if one is not in top form. Coming out of Charing Cross Hospital I realised I was feeling slightly shellshocked, and peculiarly tired for the middle of the afternoon. Once, I would have given myself a talking-to, told myself to ignore it and tried to soldier on. But nowadays, instead of doing that I went and sat down for a while, and had a hot chocolate and a slice of millionaires' shortbread in a cafe. No-one gains, if I try to force myself to conform to some arbitrary external standard of "what one ought to be able to deal-with"; while if I recognise when I'm a bit shaky, and treat it accordingly, everyone gains, starting with me.
I read an interesting article this morning on depression, and thought "yes, I am skirting along the edge of this at the moment - there it all is in black and white, & I am not being self-indulgent and whiny; it's real and I recognise those symptoms". So I have to sort-out and implement a plan to make sure I look after this older body and older mind of mine. Plenty of sleep, healthy food, adequate and appropriate exercise, come off the computer an hour before bed, see friends and family from time to time, be kind to myself, and go back onto the earlier-nights-and-Sleepytime-tea in the hope of breaking through the pattern of insomnia that has grown up over the last few months. And don't nag myself for being inadequate.
To finish on a more cheerful note, last night I totted up the total number of words I've written since last June. Taking into account the completed "Gold Hawk", the new novel I've just started work on (which is a western - odd, but there you go, the Muse turns as the Muse wills), the fairy tales, a good deal of fanfiction and some other unfinished stuff, I've written over 330,000 words of fiction in the last 15 months. Not bad, not bad at all. Even if some of it is drivel, that's still all good writing practice.
Stop reading now, by the way, if you are of a squeamish disposition, or do not like thinking about the fact I have boobs, or do not like the fact I'm prepared to mention them in public. Because this may be a TMI post.
I had been told it wasn't a very nice experience, and I can now agree wholeheartedly with that. It is very uncomfortable, physically. But on the other hand, in every respect where they can make it less horrible, they do (or at least Charing Cross Hospital in Hammersmith do). I had the chance to choose an appointment date and time that suited me. When I arrived, I was seen promptly (I had taken a book and a bottle of water and was expecting a long wait, but I was into the screening room on the dot of three o'clock). The radiologist was female, and was friendly, kindly, sympathetic and chatty - yet at the same time she also managed to be unintrusive and decorous. That can't be easy when you spend your working day handling other women's tits like so many slices of steak to be tenderised. She was gentle, she primed me for what the machine would feel like, and gave me tips on what I could do to minimise the discomfort (basically, relax, keep breathing, keep still, and don't hunch your shoulders).
As those of you who know me face to face will be aware, I have fairly big breasts. Not huge, but a good size all the same. A lot for the machine to take into its plastic maw. As they are also pretty firm for their age, they were very resistant to being squished. Large firm breasts are apparently the most painful when being screened, I was told. I've never wished for a pair of droopies, indeed have always been rather proud of my perky pups and how well they were standing up to the joint tests of time and gravity, until yesterday!
As for the machine, well; speaking in particular to those that haven't ever had a mammogram, everything you've heard is true, I'm afraid. Two x-ray plates are taken of each breast, and to take them, your boobs are put between two surfaces and then squashed hard. Really, really hard. The upper piece comes down and down, pressing your breast onto the lower piece, until you think "Crikey, that's a lot harder than I expected, ouch!" - and then it comes down a fair bit more after that. It is very uncomfortable indeed, and I was impressed with the fact my boobs sprang back into more-or-less their normal shape afterwards. I don't seem to have any bruises, either, which was worrying me (I bruise easily).
Results in about two weeks, and I shouldn't be called back for three years.
Then I went to an optician's appointment, after that, to have a light shone in my eyes, and my eyelids turned inside-out (yuk yuk yukk) and be told me new contact lenses seem to be a good fit. I've now signed up for monthly renewables instead of the long-wear lenses I used to use. It's going to cost me more, but not an appalling amount - £144 per annum instead of about £110 - and it means I can get a much higher-water-content lens, which apparently is good for older eyes.
I dunno; older eyes, older boobs >sigh< it's all starting to wear out on me...
Well, one of the pluses of being older is being more aware of one's condition, and quicker to spot if one is not in top form. Coming out of Charing Cross Hospital I realised I was feeling slightly shellshocked, and peculiarly tired for the middle of the afternoon. Once, I would have given myself a talking-to, told myself to ignore it and tried to soldier on. But nowadays, instead of doing that I went and sat down for a while, and had a hot chocolate and a slice of millionaires' shortbread in a cafe. No-one gains, if I try to force myself to conform to some arbitrary external standard of "what one ought to be able to deal-with"; while if I recognise when I'm a bit shaky, and treat it accordingly, everyone gains, starting with me.
I read an interesting article this morning on depression, and thought "yes, I am skirting along the edge of this at the moment - there it all is in black and white, & I am not being self-indulgent and whiny; it's real and I recognise those symptoms". So I have to sort-out and implement a plan to make sure I look after this older body and older mind of mine. Plenty of sleep, healthy food, adequate and appropriate exercise, come off the computer an hour before bed, see friends and family from time to time, be kind to myself, and go back onto the earlier-nights-and-Sleepytime-tea in the hope of breaking through the pattern of insomnia that has grown up over the last few months. And don't nag myself for being inadequate.
To finish on a more cheerful note, last night I totted up the total number of words I've written since last June. Taking into account the completed "Gold Hawk", the new novel I've just started work on (which is a western - odd, but there you go, the Muse turns as the Muse wills), the fairy tales, a good deal of fanfiction and some other unfinished stuff, I've written over 330,000 words of fiction in the last 15 months. Not bad, not bad at all. Even if some of it is drivel, that's still all good writing practice.
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