How many doctors.. does it take to find a tumor?

“You just eat too much.  All Americans are fat.”  The thinly skinned Danish skeleton man smiled coldly.  Refusing to even scan me or give me a fucking test.  I had told my husband I miscarried.  Why in the hell was I even there? 

“Like Hell I do.  I live on salads.  I have a HORMONE disease, called PCOS.,  I thought you were educated.  Stein Leventhal syndrome Ever heard of it?  It was first diagnosed back in ancient Rome”

I was not above throwing that man out of a window if I had to.  My intellect gets quite bitchy when I am challenged.

I diagnosed myself at eighteen, after my svelte frame bloated in the stomach and face. Found myself a doctor, got her to put me on Metformin and began a long harrowing lifestyle of low-carbing, weight training, swimming, walking, boxing, pilates and yoga, 1000 catcow a day, 100 pilates roll-ups exercising four hours a day up to eight- I wish I were kidding, just to stay in a size twelve at five eight.

My appearances obsessed Patrick Bateman Norwegian American Psycho clone, hubby, Lets just call him Patrick for short.  Looked disapprovingly at me.  “Do something NOW” I hissed.

He muttered something in Norwegian.  I grabbed him and got the hell out of there.  I was there at his behest not mine. I told him I had miscarried all the way back in January.  It was now April. I realize after examining this that the insistence I was still pregnant and needed to visit a midwife the day prior, Was because on my birthday a few days earlier I made it clear that he needed to start respecting me or I was leaving him.

I had a history with miscarriage.  Giving a psychopath any intel into how to take you down is always treacherous.  This time almost killed me.

Our first real date, after being friends for a year and a half prior,  I told him.  “If you want kids, I am most likely not your girl.”  Two weeks into our liason, He grabbed my midriff- still flat thin, God I miss those days.  And told me he was feeling a presence, an energy.  I was too, it was called horrendous morning sickness.  The minute those fucking hormones hit my body, I am so ill, its clear to anyone what is going on with me.

I denied it for two weeks before admitting.  Warning him I was likely to lose it, not to get attached.  I lost it, early January and called him to tell him that I had.  We took another test right before getting married.  “You can get out now, This is your chance. ” I warned him.  He reassured me if he ever wanted kids we could adopt.

I am a pragmatic woman.  When he first proposed to me that November, I itemized my projected value of housework, therapy, etc the goods of having a live in wife versus the cost of shipping me there and feeding me.  I actually made a fucking spreadsheet.  It did not matter.

Exactly a year later I was being witchhunted by a village as the slutty American succubus who seduced an innocent man-boy.  He was worth a million dollars just on his own, not to count the family fortune.  He was no innocent man boy.  He was closeted and kept hinting at his preferences, projecting them onto his brother, telling me just how difficult it was for his brother to be gay and never having acted on it in such a small village, in such a politically prominent family. Who I erroneously thought was gay til he let it slip I was more his type than my husbands.

Rubbing Patrick’s belly during a kidney stones episode after seven months of him refusing to touch me.  He exploded “I hate being touched by women, I hate animals! I hate being married to you!” He ran out of the house and disappeared for three days.

That day in April, before Dr skeleton’s attack.  I visited a midwife, Karin, who insisted for an hour that I was mad to think I was not pregnant and dead wrong about miscarrying because “Why else are you carrying that fat little belly” She booked a dr. to my protestation and then that song and dance above occurred.

I spent the entire year trying to get back in shape  Living on black coffee, salads with spinach, peppers, tomatoes, onions and a homemade french dressing and not much else.  My body went nowhere until I found myself at my sisters stoner haven, able to breathe again- well kind of it was pretty smokey as they were wake and bake little dragon people.   After a month away from the psychological torment of my husbands estate.  I nearly bled to death when shedding the lining and tissue.  It was cathartic.

Yes this is Scandinavian healthcare in a nutshell.  They will gaslight the fuck out of you for daring to know your own body.  They will shame you for having a disease you have to work out like a fucking Olympian to be fit, not all women with it have to work out that much but I did.

I found in my research, severely abused children often develop issues with their blood sugar.  I keep myself in balance with mostly low carb but fuck if I am going to give up my avocado toast now just because some wank in his parents basement online demands I be string bikini ready for them.  No thanks.

I had gone through this before, as my abuser Patrick knew.  Once at twenty-four (I use ages because its better to picture someone in an empathetic scenario knowing their age than listing the dates.  I think its academic and cold just to list dates.

I had just gone through a divorce and was sitting at my pc, wondering if I should not have dumped my boyfriend.  A friend I briefly was involved with, when my brother who is a bit intuitive in moments of spaced out wisdom said “Wouldn’t it be weird if you were pregnant?”  At the same moment, my exes friend said “Hey I just thought, it would be mad cool if you were knocked up too.”  So I got a test.  A thin, pale pale pale pale pink line.

Barely visible shimmery light pink, so thats a no.

Not knowing much of HCG and how it can be present a bit after a miscarriage. I assumed I would menstruate.

Until my belly popped out.  Wtf.

Me during that tumultuous and painful time.  Its so awful.  I took it for the boyfriend and I hated looking into the camera so I look sideways.  Not being coy.  I just hate how the lens feels spiky.

ears24me

The first thing I did was buy Hip Mama’s book because I was terrified of losing my sophisticated wit and knowledge to children’s dinosaur obsession and worrying if plastic will kill them.  I bought nine books just in case.

I tried losing the belly.  I had just gone from the size L of an abusive marriage and swollen illness body (PCOS is exacerbated by stress.. so if you have a narc, you are going to struggle a lot more.   To a Small.  I still have this tanktop a friend sent me, size S because I was amazed I fit into it with such ease, just a month and a half after throwing my abuse narc first husband out on his ass.

After a month I was dragged to a doctor.  This woman was a joke.  She knew I had a retroverted uterus and yet insisted I knew nothing in suspecting I might be knocked up.  I did not pass the stick test that time, when I suggested a blood.  She laughed and treated me like I was crazy- suggesting I was faking pregnancy to get back at my last exhusband or for attention.   So I never got it.

A toxic friend kept dragging me to doctors.  I swear to God it was for her amusement at this point.  I was just trying to lose the belly I had suddenly put on.  The second and third visit with a woman who is best described as the little buggy-eyed  fashion designer from the Incredibles in a white coat, with frizzy grey hair insisted my “fat was compacting” What the HELL.   No scan, no palpating, no proper exam.   Simply in her expert opinion, my fat was compacting and I need to stop eating Mcdonald’s.   I live on tuna and vodka lady.  I don’t touch fries.

Not listening.  I went to several doctors after that under threat of torture from my well meaning grandmother.  Nothing.  No scans offered.  Not even private pay and with several thousand at my disposal.  That October I was having intense pinching, stabbing, searing pains (cysts bursting) I went to an ER at a Saint Mary’s in GR michigan.

I told the nurse.  I have not had menses in nine months, I just need some medication because I think its a cyst.  I get them sometimes.   She shoved me into a wheelchair and refused to let me go, blocking the exit.  Calling ER to prep for a “delivery” Tuning out my protestation that I was likely not pregnant at this point, I just needed some pain medicine.  After her deception.  I was treated like a junkie and they tried to convince me I needed rehab.  It was traumatic.  Ten years later, I get shaky even typing this from the memory of being bullied and emotionally abused by the other nurses.

During those months in between my precious Hell, My father Dracul the cult leader, was simultaneously telling family “I was faking the pregnancy for attention. ” No offense to more plus sized sisters but I prefer being as fit as possible.  The intimidating Amazon who can kill you with her thighs kind of fit.  And also that, if I were having a baby he would steal it from me because I was unfit.

In short, nobody around me was supportive and they took that time to trumpet their own, undeserved dislike of me except that narcissistic first exhusband.  He offered to marry me to raise a baby not his own.  Kind of awesome of him.  I remarried him later for that one.  Foolish of me but it was three yrs without a single meltdown on his end and only kind, giving friendship.  That changed when I signed the license.  I had three men offer to marry me when we thought I “might” still be pregnant.

I am sad to say I never spoke to my extended family in person again from his smear campaign.

There are major issues today with American healthcare and abusing women, especially those who private pay and do not have the resources at the time to buy a battery of unnecessary tests.

I went to a holistic specialist who gave me some tips in drinking blue cohosh to get my body aligned.  I shrank back to normal within four months. The pregnancy hormones episode had put me into a 2x.  From a small/medium size ten at five ft nine.

After I remarried, one year later I found myself immediately pregnant within two weeks, miscarried within two months and my body blew up again this time from a medium to a 4x within five months time.  I was so full of liquid I could not move or eat.  The best I could manage was a meal a day and no not 4000 calories.  I saw a doctor friend of my mother, who mercifully took pity on my plight of six doctors prior and made an appointment insisting I listen to her once in my life and go.

right after surgery

I had great insurance, she scanned me without abusing me and scheduled surgery.  I had three of the largest benign ovarian tumors she had ever seen.  That it was upsetting it took six doctors for them to finally diagnose me.  So in a year and a half I went from tigers ears pic to this..

She estimated I had been carrying them since my belly randomly bloated up a size my senior year of highschool.

My abusive marriage made it difficult for me to melt.  I was eating a spartan diet, I was swimming all day long.  Doing the aforementioned training regimen of weights, pilates, walking six miles a day to no avail.

When I separated from my ex I immediately shed it all, I realized my autism made me far too rational.  To me if it was logical it could be forgiven.  If you tried to murder me, but your reason was logical.  I would forgive you.  It had nothing to do with weakness or that oft abused term codependence.  It was simply, I operated from a logical perspective, my intuition and greek mindset were constantly at war within.

I ignored my emotions, my cues, How my body responded to certain people or memories.  I started journaling about my toxic family.  It took six months after separating to get back into my normal size range.  A 4x to a medium I was in before my surgery.

If your inner child does not want your weight to budge. Its not going anywhere unless you stop eating all together perhaps.  I know I low carbed and trained like I was going to the Olympics.  Nada

 

So Patrick the second exhusband, who married me to be a beard and give him an heir unknowingly and lied about everything he was to even get a date with me.  Used that shameful, painful traumatic history to his advantage.  My friends call it Norwegian Rosemary’s baby.  It was a brilliant move on his end.  I once wished I could be that evil at times.  Imagine what life must be like with no conscience.

My intuition warned me guys.  I hid in my walk-in closet on the day of our wedding and when he found me I tearfully told him,  I miscarried.  You are going to go crazy and I am never going to see you again.  I woke up telling him this several times for months.  It was not a self-fulfilling prophecy.  I was even given the date he would lose  it.  October 12th.   He spent months accusing me of faking the pregnancy, logic no longer worked.  In trying to explain I had miscarried i JANUARY.  I started to believe him after all I was in constant pain, not allowed to drink.

I am an educated woman.  Trained in counseling techniques, hypnotherapy, NLP, its all just fancy mindfuckery and asking the right questions, lets be honest.

Yet I managed to marry two Narc types.   Both of them played the game to the hilt.  Well behaved, witty, intellectually charming, gentle hearted, artistic animal loving philanthropist types until I was owned by that inky slip of paper.

I carried so much shame, guilt, blame and rejection until I realized how well, mentally ill, emotionally stunted people around me tried to shame me for following the signs.

I am a believer that you trust your intuition but I equally take into account facts in a medical capacity.  Each time I was incredulous that I passed a test.

Fact- I stopped menstruating, after being a small size my belly popped.

Fact- my breasts were leaking milk.

Fact- it was not pseudocyesis I neither feared nor desired pregnancy, I was apathetic.

Fact- Nor do I desire attention.  Being in the public eye now is a special kind of hell but I want to encourage others , empower and uplift them.

Fact- I passed a stick test with a faint shimmery light pink each time.  Fact- I had no energy each time, terrible morning sickness episodes.

Face- I am a beer slut and I live for a good drink- not chick drinks so much as whiskey sours, craft beers and martinis with a bowl of olives and I willingly abstained every “pregnancy” just in case my facts were true so I did not have a baby with flippers.

Fact- Estrogen begets estrogen and that explains the belly adipose getting thicker, because my hormones were yet again fucked- thats a medical term trust me.

Fact- I am a slightly proud of my athleticism, vain health nut at my most stressed.  I do not overeat and I eat healthy pregnant or not.  I would not gain weight eating my strict health nut meals,  I think of pumpkin seed sunflower avocado toast and eggs as the great meal ever,  I live for salads, meats, veggies and I used to train like a Beast until  I hurt my hip last year.   This year is the most relaxed I have been with my diet in my lifetime.

 

See how the facts lined up? Every single fucking time.

I am not crazy and I never was but sick twisted people around me.  No longer allowed in my life.  Wanted me to think I was.. why?

I apologize to twenty-four yr old me : You were not fucking crazy.  I am sorry I almost put us in an asylum but fifteen people around me were trying to make us doubt facts and a shimmery positive stick test.

I apologize to twenty-six year old.  Firs,t sorry I remarried him, Second, I never should have shamed you because you weren’t a perfect size ten anymore it was so bigoted and bitchy of me.

I would never do that to a friend.  You deserved better and its fucking sad it took seven doctors to finally dx you properly.  Especially with a history of endometriosis and PCOS.

I apologize to thirty-two year old me.  You aren’t crazy even if a stalker father in law obsessed with your singing and body, Constantly asking why you aren’t fuckable anymore, the pinch faced mother who hated you and a sick twisted man too scared to share his true self with the world want to make you doubt your body. Nor the abusive midwife or skeletal doctor who thinks all women should be impossibly tiny.  The main food group there is coffee and cigarettes.  Just like France.

Facts do not fucking lie.  It would have been irresponsible to deny the facts in the offchance one did hatch.

Thats right, I fact-checked.  It is what we aspies do best.  Follow the facts.  Now I know to trust my intuition more than some white coat who thinks its funny to abuse someone for their country of origin.   And I am damn proud I stood up to him and scorned him right back for his lack of knowledge as a gyno.

I am happy I told my father in law to back the fuck off and stop popping in to talk to me without pants or ask what I was cooking.  I am celebrating that I told anyone who abused me, shamed me or tried to make me go to an asylum because my body likes to cling to her dead tissue, to fuck right off.

What really hurts me is I was so busy trying to explain my fact checking to everyone who attacked me over this that I never got to mourn when I could feel the absence.

I got a D & C every time, months after the fact.

My body is back to normal. I fight like Hell and do anything it takes to get my health back to Amazon who can beat you up status. 14055024_1270185789658675_5821104773958761233_n

Today my partner suggested I talk to my uterus.  She *the Uterus* is sitting at a bar, drinking Martinis and smoking.  Very sad.  Because we never grieved.

Nobody around us until my business partner JalenJoyce ever suggested we were allowed to grieve.  I am not one to ever wait for permission but my pregnancies broke me temporarily.  Having the obvious gaslighted by sick twisted souls.

It put me at an impasse.  A place of confusion.  Between trusting intuition, Facts and words others reported like facts to emotionally abuse someone they knew relied on their gift to see through deceptions, but also knew if someone is in my inner circle it is more difficult for me to establish a deception.  Because I am so rational, forgiving, push it down we have more to do efficient.

The greatest waste of your time is ignoring your emotion, your body cues and not letting yourself process grief or an abusive relationship.

It is an ongoing process and writing this hurt like fucking hell, it took me a week to even get to this place I could put it out into the universe.  Anyone who pretends their life is a flawless, fantasy filled existence, The veritable bowl of cherries in Barbies dreamhouse and tries to “coach” you tto be perfect like her.  Is dodgy as fuck, I think.  Yes that is an actual term of measurement dating back to 10th century Briton.

I would rather someone say, “Yes, I can still be a fucking mess.  But I fight like Hell, I laugh at the absurdity of things and I love how its a hell of a good story. “

halloween2016

 

My most recent photo.  It was my first smiling photo in over sixteen years. I never allowed cameras at my weddings.

I love it.

Its a milestone of healing and a truly happy life and wildly nurturing healthy relationship.

~Nola

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