women’s health

Barbapapa Blues

“Therefore I tell you, do not worry about your life, what you will eat or what you will drink, or about your body, what you will wear.  Is not life more than food, and the body more than clothing?” Matthew 6:25
“If I say, “Surely the darkness shall cover me, and night wraps itself around me,” even the darkness is not dark to you; the night is as bright as the day, for darkness is as light to you.  For it was you who formed my inward parts; you who knit me together in my mother's womb.  I praise you, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made.  Wonderful are your works; that I know very well.” Psalm 139:11-14


“They don’t make dresses for sausages.”  That’s what a dear old lady in my Mom’s church choir used to say.  When I was a teenager, I thought she was a cute, little Finn lady with a great sense of humour.  She was short and looked ordinary enough to me – but I get it now.  She was right.  They DON’T make dresses for sausages.  I have entered my SAUSAGE ERA.  I’m a jumbo sausage.  More specifically, I am a HOT  Jumbo, Great Canadian Meat, Gluten Free, HIGH protein sausage. 

I should say I’ve been here before.  I had a brief reprieve from jumbo life when my health required a very restrictive diet.  For a few years, I was more of a CHIPOLATA sausage – small and skinny.  However, I have reentered the Jumbo arena, and let me tell you,  it sucks.

Body dysmorphia is a terrible LIAR.  When I was super thin, I was convinced I should be even thinner.  Whenever my pants size goes up,  I think I’m too heavy.  Either way, SHAME has me in its grip.  I wish I could take what Jesus says to heart and not give a crap about what my body looks like or, like King David, be grateful to be living in it for the gift that IT IS.

Sometimes, okay – NEVER I think about my body as a gift from God.  It’s hard to imagine why the DIVINE would find it a pleasing place to dwell, but God chooses it ANYWAY.  It doesn’t work as well as other bodies.  It IS worse for wear.  I’ve treated it poorly.  There are accumulated and genetic health issues I simply can not fix.  Most days, I am angry at my body, actually angry at MYSELF, and I’m a very long way from forgiveness and healing. 

A couple of months ago, while trying on my spring and summer clothes, I realized I had gained considerable weight over the preceding two years.  They were times filled with EXTRA STRESS that affected my self-worth, my family life, my social life, and my work.  I’d given up alcohol (long story) several years before, so I distracted myself with FOOD instead.  Apparently, eating a WHOLE chocolate bar every night adds up, and menopause weight is no JOKE, especially when it comes to stress eating. 

Depression is a reality in my little life. It ebbs and flows in currents that start as an ACHE in my heart that quickly takes hold of my brain. It turns me into an actress. I stop living and fall into the shadows of despair and self-loathing.  It’s  HARD to remember that the blanket of darkness that enshrouds me is NOT as it seems. The weight is a cosmic hug and a warmth emanating from heavenly light. This ISN’T just Bible Study stuff or things I HAVE to say because I’m in the God business.  God REALLY knows me and you  too.  God loves me and God loves YOU.  We don’t have to act, or change, or do ANYTHING at all.  Be yourself!  I am a living, breathing, hot, sweating, extra large creation OF GOD.

I’m good enough. I’m strong enough. And gosh darn it, people like me –  (SNL – anyone? Personal affirmations in the mirror? Nevermind)

I’m an agent of my Maker. Even if I’m a shape-shifter like the blobby Barbapapas, I used to watch on TV. ‘Clickety Click, Barba trick’- their bodies morph into whatever is needed – thin, thick, tall, short, big, small, narrow, or wide.  Who cares.  God doesn’t.

The world needs us so very much to be loving.  Love yourself so you can dig deep and find joy and peace in loving others with everything you are. No holds barred. 

PS. I’m still going on a diet and beginning a new exercise routine. It’s a way to love my body.  Chin up.

UNBUTTONED

I was called back by a VERY pleasant lady who looked me up and down as she absently sorted through a clothes rack.  She was fitting me with my DIGNITY.   She removed a gown from its hanger.  “THIS looks like it will work,” she smiled.  “Well, that’s not REALLY a gown, now IS IT?” I scoffed.  “She smiled, “well no, it’s a shirt.”  “FINE.” I sighed.  She pointed to a hole in the wall and directed me to, “Just step in there and STRIP everything OFF from the waist up.  Then cover up with your gow–umm–shirt.  You can leave your other things with your clothes.”  She walked away and left me alone to stew.

My thoughts raced. “Leave my purse which holds EVERYTHING that I could ever need to survive outside of my home? Set it UNATTENDED in a cubicle, on a bench almost TOO tiny to sit on?!’’ There was no lock, No Bolt, NO HOOK ON THE DOOR.  I’d have to trust there were no cubicle THIEVES lurking about.  “Oh God, I hope no one LOOKS behind this little door.” I cringed. I had worn my most comfortable, stretched out, ratty, stained, sports bra – because I didn’t want to FUSS around with anything more complicated.  If someone peeked in they would SEE IT, dangling sadly from beneath my equally worn out t-shirt. And no doubt, they’d eye up my precious purse, my SHIELD that keeps my anxiety from bubbling over.  Whomever looks would SURELY judge MY beloved bag as overstuffed and beat up. “What if they unpack it?! What if they SEE? What if some stranger I will NEVER see again FINDS OUT that I am most certainly weird with all my doodads and thingamajigs, first aid and crafting supplies, and chocolate, and some cookies for EMERGENCIES!”  I was beginning to have an anxiety attack so I shuffled through my purse to find my happy pills for quick relief.  (nothing illegal)

I put on the shirt.  It was sufficiently LARGE.  It took some time to do it, but I buttoned it right to the top. “Oh good. I get to stay hidden,” I thought.  Then I stepped out and crossed over into the room with the MACHINE.  The clamp, squoosh, and contort your boobies machine.  “There you are,” sang an anxiety free voice.  Come on over and stand here.  I’ll need your right arm to come OUT of the sleeve so your whole right side is ACCESSIBLE.  “So I should UNBUTTON the shirt, then?”  “Yes, please UNBUTTON the shirt.”  It took what felt like TOO MUCH time, it felt like undoing the buttons on my wedding gown.  So MANY tedious buttons.  I pulled out my arm.  “Okay dear, come forward, get really close, put your arm around this side of the machine to BOOST you up a bit.  Now I’ll just scoop you up,”  that’s what she said, “I’ll just SCOOP you up,” like it was nothing, like this wasn’t embarrassing at all. She moved me around and let the machine grab me a few too many times.  After we repeated the sequence with my other side, through which she repeated her cute little phrase THREE more times, “Now I’ll just SCOOP you up,” the procedure was complete. I sniffled.

“Okay. It’s time to button up. You’re done.”  I frowned. “Why do you suppose these gown-shirts have buttons?” I asked.  “Things would go much more QUICKLY and EASILY without them, don’t you think?”  She laughed.  “You’re right!  I never really thought of it THAT way before.  I guess it is to PRESERVE your PRIVACY as you cross the hall.” I was NOT smiling.  I buttoned ALL the way up AGAIN and returned to my designated hole in the wall. 

It looked like everything was STILL in order.  I carefully UNBUTTONED that darn shirt one more time and slipped on my topside clothing and walked out,  hooping the shirt into the laundry trolley and trying to look DIGNIFIED .  “Oh the humanity!” I thought to myself.  “Why did I have to struggle to button up and button down, and button up and button down in order to endure such a simple (and important) routine test. I mean, I could have just been given a regular hospital gown or a buttonless wrap-around to hold against myself as I crossed the hall, and from which my arms could be easily released. Fiddling with buttons with NERVOUS hands was NOT comfortable.  But don’t worry, it’s OKAY. I  re-emerged relatively undamaged. It’s cool. I’m cool. I survived. “Me, over here, I am COMPLETELY FINE with everything!”

Being UNBUTTONED is neither LESS than or EQUAL to being unhinged, unfastened, undone, unbound, uncaged, unfettered, UNLEASHED. The breeze was alarmingly TIT-illating (heh heh) under that stupid gown-shirt.  My upper body felt a fleeting and awkward freedom.  Isn’t that the nature of FREEDOM? It is a slightly UNCOMFORTABLE adjustment, not unlike exposing your highly personal BITS, only to be squeezed back into realizing the weight of what you are doing, and then the RELIEF of being released by from the vice of the mammography machine? 

Being Canadian, I know I am particularly blessed that I CAN take a physical test that could be life saving.  Upsetting as it may feel, access to doctors, nurses, technicians, equipment and medicine is part of our collective Canadian freedom.  Being given the ALL CLEAR, or maybe more so, NAMING a problem, ultimately UNCAGES you. When you realize that YOU have been UNLEASHED you suddenly feel like you can rise to ANY challenge.  “You see that machine? I CONQUERED that.  You see that misogynistic barbarian over there?  I will beat him, TOO.  Any taste of freedom is a welcome one, be it personal, communal, national, or global. For me, being UNBUTTONED at my little appointment reminded me of all that I have to be thankful for.  [insert awkward segue] As a Christitan,  it reminded me of all that I want to heal and all the hurt I wish to unburden from you, from everyone. It’s easy to SEE the injustice in the world – we have moments when our FIGURATIVE restrictive clothing is unbuttoned and our bodies are freed – your boobs, your bellies, your appendages are TEMPORARILY LOOSED to hang as they are meant to.  In the presence of others, our personal freedom can feel weird and uncomfortable.  Sometimes following Jesus’ example is uncomfortable.  He doesn’t tell us to FLASH people with shocking skin reveals. He simply invites us to walk with them. To steer each other toward the freedom of knowing we are worthy, valued, and loved whether we can unbutton quickly and effectively or not!  This is good news! Can you see the potential our freedom has to free OTHERS? Jesus doesn’t promise that we will be spared from ALL discomfort, worry, or pain.  He promises to SEE US THROUGH. To be our protective wrap as we cross the hall and the cover we need after any blow.  We are invited to leave our satchels and extra shoes behind, abandon our baggage to travel light, to walk in THE light. 

Maybe, one day, the gown shirts will be fitted with velcro strips and the process will become less humiliating.  Maybe, one day I’ll be strong enough to just REMAIN metaphorically unbuttoned and OPEN to whatever is coming and be UNAPOLOGETICALLY MYSELF, a beloved and precious child of God.  I want to be an advocate for all who are bound.  I want to preach the need for us to take care, and I seriously just want to SCOOP you all up so that you can see where you’ve been fettered and where there is room to LOOSEN the grip and be free.

PS.  You are supposed to be weird.  That’s how God made you.