Junk in the Trunk

“Well, you’ve gained some weight.”

These words were uttered to me with a half laugh from the lean male nurse who was sent in before the dreamy cardiologist to ask the routine ‘how are you feeling’ questions. This week, along with the usual ‘have you noticed any swelling’ and ‘when do you feel dizzy’ inquiries, I was shot with this lovely observation. 

My first instinct was to throat punch him.  This is not something you have a light guffaw over with a redheaded woman who is in hormone treatments. I kindly reminded him of this fact and he causally replied, “yeah, I guess it’s only a couple of pounds.”

Now I was well aware of these pesky couple of pounds going into the appointment because I weigh myself daily to watch for any internal swelling caused by medications. I actually love my scale, because it says ‘you look good’ on the top in big cheerful letters and each time I step on it I hear Jerry Seinfield in my head saying “you are so good looking” like I’ve just sneezed. So no matter what the number says, I always step off of it with a smile.

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I was originally told that with chemo I could gain 15 to 30 pounds, and then more with the hormone treatment, so the fact that it is only a couple of measly pounds makes me feel quite proud of myself. But none-the-less, when the nurse stated this fact all I HEARD was….

  • how could you do this to yourself?

  • you aren’t going to cure yourself from cancer this way.

  • the seams in your pants must be crying out for mercy at this point.

And this is what really bothered me, not the insensitive delivery from the nurse, rather that my natural instinct was to shame myself. I was more than fine with these pounds before I walked into the office, so why allow him to make me feel any different?

It never ceases to amaze me how I can take anything someone says, and spin it around as an insult or jab at myself.  It’s like I’m constantly on the hunt to find confirmation that yes, I do indeed suck and need to feel more guilt than the average person.  It’s time to officially fire my own fear and judgement from the job of ‘comment translator’.

The reality is, I can interpret comments anyway I want, so I will choose to hear them with a positive edge, or better yet, be like a duck on a rainy day who lets things drip off me instead of using it as an opportunity to make myself feel guilty or small.

It all comes down to being kind to myself… and frankly, I love the junk in my trunk!