The Real Fairy Tale

Every girl knows the story line to follow, we don't even have to read from the cue cards we know how the perfect fairy tale unfolds; boy meets girl, they fall in love, get married and live happily ever after.   Sure I was the little girl who grew up on the farm, who more often than not was found covered from head to toe in mud, but I read those books and if I had only them to rely on to judge how I'm doing at this thing called life I'd be royally boned today.  See I got to watch a fairy tale unfold right before my very eyes, one more powerful, meaningful and real than any Princess who found her Prince Charming (who was clearly a necrophiliac and into running around kissing non-responsive women.  I really do wonder how that fairy tale ended, did he only get off if she "pretended" to be asleep?).

Before I continue this story I need to apologize to the lady who told it to me, she lived this experience and dealt with harsh judgment and probably a lot of shame.  When she told me this story she asked me not to talk to other people about this and I have respected that until now, I am not telling this story to place judgment on any of the people involved, I wasn't there.  All I can say is that I'm sorry Gramma I love you so much and miss you every day, but I need to tell your story so that I can heal this part inside of me that is hurting so much right now and to find the hope and strength I need to carry on and I hope you find it in your heart to forgive me, wherever you are.

My Gramma and I were best of friends, she was always so kind and loving - quick with a joke and she had the cutest mischievious grin ever.  I was so socially awkward growing up, I didn't have a lot of friends and I had a Dad who drank - this woman she made me feel so loved and she lived close to me too.  I spent a lot of time with her as a teenager, I'd drop in after school to talk to her when I went away to college we wrote back and forth and called all the time.  They were comfortable, but never rich by any means but she gave me a gift no money could ever buy, the gift of herself.  We had real conversations, I could talk to her about anything and I got to ask questions and ask about her life...this story is pieced from those conversations.

My Gramma Bernice and the love
 of her life, Grampa Jimmy.

She grew up with like a million (okay, probably 10 or 11) brothers and sisters and with that many kids they didn't have a whole lot of money but the way she talked about her parents I got the picture that where there wasn't an abundance in "things" there was in love.  She only attended grade school and then she worked at a store at some point and then she met my Grampa Jimmy.  I don't know all the details of this other than they had a relationship of some sort that he was her childhood sweetheart and then somewhere along the line they had a fight and broke up.  (I don't know all the details because although I appear to be perfectly fine with asking inappropriate questions - just ask my friend Leah who had to field questions as to whether the Church was okay with nuns masturbating - but even I have limits when it comes to those kind of details with grandparents).  Anyway she then met and married this other man and had my two older uncles and my Mom.  I never met this man, he's not my grampa.  He wasn't a nice man, he drank, spent all his pay on booze and then came home mean and violent.  They would have to run to get away from him into the ditch.  But this was the 50's (ish) and there was no supports in place then for battered women.  To have known my Gramma, this beautiful soul, the tiniest woman ever and to think of anyone laying hands on her or scaring her makes me physically ill - and not just because I know that experience all too well myself.

Then somewhere along the line my Grampa Jimmy came back into the picture and they got together.  Don't ask me the details of when or how, I don't know - and honestly, I don't care.  She divorced my Mom's Dad and married my Grampa and together they had two more boys - but he was a Dad to those three other kids from day one.  And again, I wasn't there - and I know there was a lot of hurt and anger on some sides but all I know is that my Grampa was one of the best men I have ever had the privilege to know.  He always had perfectly coiffed hair, he used this cream to smooth it back and he had a well trimmed beard - he was a quiet man but then he'd slide these great zingers in, he had a wonderful sense of humour.  When I was a little girl I would run and get the comb so I could sit on his lap and comb his mustache.  For a little girl whose father barely acknowledged her you don't understand how much that meant to me.  You can't even begin to imagine how hard it is to type when you're crying this hard.

They weren't the storybook perfect couple, my Gram swore like a sailor and because of her stomach issues (or so she said) she did have some flatulence issues which would piss my proper Grandfather off to no end.  He always said she did it on purpose... and her story probably would have rang true if she had wiped the damned shit eating grin off of her face.  I never once heard them raise their voices to each other, yeah they fought, but it was respectful fighting and there was no ill-intent there.  One of the best memories I ever have when I was in high school and we had this big bonfire and my Grampa put his arm around my Gramma and pulled her close - my parents aren't affectionate like that with each other - seeing their intimacy and how loving they were with each other - it still touches my heart.  Of course once when he was drunk he grabbed her boob and she was always goosing him, but they had romance too.  Are you really shocked?  It's my family! :)

I was in high school (the mid-90's) when my Gramma had a heart attack, I was there when it happened.  She threw up again and again and she was in such pain, laying on the bathroom floor and my uncle had to call the ambulance.  My Grampa never left her side, not once.  He went to the hospital every day, helped her to recover...held her hand.  He was her rock.  She recovered, thank God...and I remember us laughing about the book they sent home with her about having sex after a heart attack.   I was never more grateful in my life than when she came home and I knew that she was going to be okay.  It nearly tore my heart out watching her in that bathroom in so much pain, and I couldn't help her.

In the late 90's my Grampa was diagnosed with bowel cancer and it was my Gram's turn to become the rock - she never left his side either.  He had treatment and he was so sick...this vital, strong man just sat on that green chair in the living room or laid on the couch...the morphine making him so sick and pale.  Although he still found it in him to make fun of my car.  I was so proud, I had a Barney-purple Geo Metro, I drove it up close to the house so my grandparents could see it.  He got his can and looked out the door for a few minutes, said nothing.  Then out of the blue he says "it's small, has it been sick?"  Fucker.  lol.

He died when I was away on a work trip to Vancouver.  I didn't get to say goodbye.  I didn't get to tell him I loved him and how much he meant to me and when I walked into the funeral home and saw him laid out in that casket I cried like I never have in my whole life.  And my Mom, the woman who was never a hugger came over to me and folded me in her arms and I wept.

The night of the wake I asked Gram if I could stay over with her and she said yes.  I remember we were getting ready for bed, they had a waterbed and a wall with carpet on it - wow, the things I remember..anyway we both just got settled and we were talking for a little bit about Grampa, the wake and how much we both missed him.  Then there was silence.  I looked over at her and said "Gramma, did you fart?"  Thank God it was a motionless mattress because she quite literally shook with laughter, we both had tears in our eyes from laughing so hard.

She never married again, or dated... she was still in love with him and really I still always felt his presence in that house, sitting in the green chair.

Some time in the early 2000's Gramma got diagnosed with Colitis, she was really sick could eat barely anything without it ending in some sort of explosion.  Still, she had the best sense of humour ever, we could always make each other laugh.  She's always come into my parent's house and grab the leaves of this plant by the door and literally maul it and ask if it was real....my Mom was like "yes, ya bitch, stop wrecking it."  Man she would laugh.

I have very few pictures from my wedding, but
this one I cherish with all my heart. 

When I got married a friend gave me beanie baby bride and groom bears - my Gramma collected beanie babies and I helped her to find some to add to her collection.  Anyway, we went to a family potluck and I brought the beanie babies to show Gramma.  Oh how she fawned over them, I packed them away and didn't think about it again.  Well two weeks later in the mail I got a package, in it were the two beanie babies with a note that said "don't you love us?"   Bitch.  So then Steve & I moved into our first apartment together in Bowmanville, she and Mom came to visit.  I took them for the very brief tour (it was tiny but beautiful and by the water and you could hear the train), we sat and chatted it was great.  Two weeks later again I get a package with the beanie babies in it - she had stolen them!  Well I fixed her little red wagon, at my wedding I bought another pair of identical beanie babies and enlisted the help of one of the groomsmen to help with the massive prank.  So at our head table we had all these flowers, candles, etc. and my set of the beanie babies...well at one point I removed them and hid them under the table and then our grooms man stood up and announced "someone stole  the beanie babies!" and then everyone from the head table looked at my Gramma.  She was mortified!  I laughed my ass off and then pulled out the other set and gave them to her.  lol....she took it like a champ.

SIDE NOTE:  An even better story of revenge around my wedding was that my Dad always used to say that I was the mail man's kid - the mail man being Perry Grandell who wasn't even the mail man when Mom was pregnant, but whatever.  He really wouldn't let it go, so I put an announcement in the local paper that said Perry Grandell and Gwen Gray (my Mom) along with William Gray are happy to announce the wedding of their daughter....  It caused quite the stir.  And go figure, Dad was pissed.  Tight assed bitch. Ha!

My Gram and I stayed close and I called her all the time, she was like my go-to person when something good happened, hearing her voice just made me happy.  I never really told her about the bad stuff, I don't know why - I guess I didn't want her to be disappointed in me and of all people she could have related the most.  I don't live in regret, but there are days that I wish I had reached out to her, but it's hard to reach out to anyone when you're busy punishing yourself I guess and I forgive myself for that...and I know she does too.

Not long after my wedding my Gramma got gall bladder cancer....with mets, well everywhere.  She died just before her birthday in July 2005.  I remember her laying in that bed, so damned little and in so much pain and I was so filled with anger that this woman, this beautiful, wonderful woman had to suffer so fucking much, I was rocked by the unfairness of it all.  She never complained, when I went to go see her in the hospital - she'd ask how I was what was going on in my life.  We still had real conversations, even in that hospital where she spent her last days. I told her I loved her every time I left, I hugged her when I saw her and I hugged her even tighter when I was leaving.  At then end when they called the family in I was the last one to arrive, everyone else had went in and said their goodbyes so I went in alone and I sat with her.  She wasn't conscious.  She looked so damned peaceful and even though she was in a room by herself the room felt full, and I knew she wasn't alone.  Think what you will, I don't have to defend myself but I saw little tiny pinpricks of light around her bed and whether they were angels or relatives who had already passed on who came to be with her, I felt at peace knowing she wasn't alone.  I held her hand, I told her I loved her and I hope that she heard me.

So what does this have to do with my story?  Why did I have to tell hers?  Because their story is all that gives me hope some days.  I have hope that there are men who love their women and don't yell and scream and hurt them and then call that love.  I have hope that there is a time for romance....sickness, love, everything, every wonderful, beautiful, painful part of this life still left to live.  And listening to this song I think what I got out of spending time with my Gramma in the hospital is that she didn't need me to make things better for her, she didn't need me to take away the pain (although I really, really wanted to more than anything), she needed for me to treat her like a person.  She needed me to make it okay to laugh, to cry, to hug....to just be.  And from the other side as someone who is going through this right now I get the perspective of maybe not knowing what to say.  The other lesson I have learned is that I can't live my life wrapped up so much in my own pain that I escape and live in my head because I miss out on all the wonderful people in my life and being there for them - and that's not okay with me.  I can't escape from life.  I'm handing in my title, I don't want to be the Queen of the great escape anymore.

I have been vulnerable and scared in my life and before I used being overweight as my shield, to make people not want to be near me - and now, now when the pain feels so overwhelming and like my body is betraying me that feeling of being vulnerable and scared has increased tenfold because I feel like I couldn't protect myself.  I need to remember, I'm not in that place anymore.  I'm safe.  I have beautiful, wonderful friends who love me so much, I've never had a greater outpouring of love and that's what I need to immerse myself in, the love - not the pain.  How can I not be living my very own fairy tale?  I have friends who are throwing me a farewell to my uterus party and sure it would be cool if the uterus-shaped cake Amie was making me had strawberry jam in it so that it exploded when I cut into it - but her way is good too.

I think Pink says it best:  "I'm terrified of the dark, but not if you go with me."

















Love,
Wendy
xo

My pen is a razor and I have been bleeding...Anthony Beal

We accept the love we think we deserve. --Stephen Chbosky

I've given this quite a bit of thought, and I'd say in excavating my past relationships that this has been the problem all along.  I thought I had done a lot of work around this in the past year and a half, made changes in how I felt about myself and what I deserved but there is still a hesitancy, not believing that I deserve good.  Even after agonizing and working up the courage to work towards things I want, I run away the minute there is a bump in the road - I interpret those bumps as an indication that I'm not enough, that no one would ever want me and that I am flawed beyond redemption.  

This has been what my mind has struggled with since weight loss surgery, I thought what I was fighting against was the half life of not being able to physically be a part of the world - well now I am and that hasn't fixed the core of the issue.  I have been so busy fighting fat, fighting cancer...fighting with myself - half in love, half in hate with myself and I realize that's the problem.  I'm fighting all the time but the fat - it's part of me.  The cancer - it's part of me too.  I'm not usually a stupid person but man I have been dumb as shit, I stopped losing weight right around the time I abandoned the promise I made to myself that I mattered and I would do everything to take care of myself and work towards health and happiness.  

I don't know why I thought my inability to salvage a marriage that was sick on so many levels was all my responsibility - but I thought it was, I thought I should have been able to fix it, fix him, fix me.  And it would have been our 11th wedding anniversary on April 6th and I miss him, not the bad times and the fighting and the anger, but I miss him.  He was the first man who ever loved me when I was massive and felt so ugly inside and out.  And now that so much has happened health-wise a lot of the bullshit has just been cleared and I realize I love him, he was the first man I ever loved and in my heart I will always love him.   

I have avoided writing about him, I told myself it was because I didn't want to bad mouth him, and that's true... but not the whole truth.  I think the real reason I haven't written about him is because it hurts so fucking much.  He was my best friend - and good or bad (and yes, there was a lot of bad) - and sometimes I still want to pick up the phone and tell him about my day.  I wanted it to be a good goodbye with him, in our marriage we had tons of time for blame and I didn't want our divorce to be about that.  I realize now that I have done myself a disservice by not writing about him, he is part of me - I carry him with me and to not honor that and work through the pain has only added to the weight on my shoulders - and today I let that go, it's not mine to carry anymore.  I don't need to to bad mouth him, I don't need to excavate the past and lay it out for the world to see.  I've found peace with him and I can honestly say that I will always be happy that he was in my life and at his heart he is a good man, his intentions are so pure but like me he just didn't have the skills to make a relationship work: communication, self-worth...I could go on but there is no point.  All that matters is that I wish the best for him, love for himself, romance, happiness and health and I know he wishes that for me too.  So today I raise a glass to "Steve & Wendy" and I will be sad, just a little but the devastation, the guilt and blame, it's gone.  

One day there will be romance in my life, I know now I will not always be alone.  I still come with flaws and scars, but they are beautiful and so am I and for the person who is worthy of my love and trust well we will build a life on mutual respect and support.  

This song, it means a lot to me...and I dedicate to Steve & I to the love we shared and the love that is still to come in both our lives. 

Cancer: The Drinking Game

12 hours, 45 minutes until my appointment with the surgeon.  It seems really, really real now and I'm petrified - so scared of the unknown.  I know that I should be focusing on questions to ask, plot out how I'm going to navigate the next few months but I can't do it.  There is something in my brain that is just not letting me process this whole thing, my brain feels so fuzzy and I am beyond overwhelmed. So, I'll do what I do when I am put into a situation I don't feel equipped for - stupid shit.  So here it is, I've decided to deal with this diagnosis by creating a drinking game.  All I need is a flask and a shit load of alcohol and then the rest just works itself out.... so here are the rules...

For every time someone uses the following words I'll take a shot:
Abnormal
Early Onset Menopause
Cells
Prognosis
Biopsy
Numbness

For any of the following words full on beer bongs:
Side Effects
Recurrence
Removal
Chemotherapy
Radiation
Explosive Diarrhea


Oh fuck, who am I kidding?  I just want my Mommy. :(

Cancer is an Asshole.

My Ren & Stimpy shirt always makes me feel better.

XXXX
hey
does cancer hurt
like right now?

Wendy Gray
the cancer part doesn't.  it's the cysts on my ovaries that are rupturing that hurt

XXXX
are you scared

Wendy Gray
yeah

It's weird, I knew I had the appointment on March 4th to get the test results for the biopsy but for some reason the week before I experienced this rush of energy, it was like a switch got flipped in my head and I felt such hope and drive, something that has been missing for awhile.  There was no reason, just a bubbling of joy inside me that couldn't be contained. My intuition, it's usually bang on and I know when bad - or good things - are coming, but I was way off on this one.  I had a lot of people offer to go to the appointment with me, but I turned them all down, part of it was because I didn't want to put anyone out...but that wasn't the whole reason.  The big reason was that I felt like I had to do this on my own.  I have held onto this guilt and shame, that part of me that believes I deserves cancer and the pain the comes with it, I've believed that this is all mine to bear - I damaged my body by letting myself be so fat and unhealthy and felt so dirty and ashamed of the things I have done when I was hurting so bad. I thought I let that go, came to peace about it all, but cancer came to call and all of this insecurities and blame and shame just came to rest in my heart.  And I hate cancer for that....I hate that it stole that gentleness I had found for myself, the love and confidence I worked so hard to find.  I got really overwhelmed and I reverted back to my old ways of just pushing things down and pretending that I wasn't scared or hurting - and beat the shit out myself verbally and mentally.  It was a brutal beating, one I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy.  And I masked it, I masked that fear with anger...blinding hot anger at cancer, the situation, myself.  Then on Wednesday night I lost it.  I was putting my hair in a ponytail, getting ready for bed and I caught sight of myself in the mirror - and that girl I saw looking back looked about 8 and so scared and lost and I broke.  I cried myself to sleep that night...and the next.  I didn't get much sleep in the next few days, but I found something in that time - peace with myself.  I have told myself that I have to be strong...but I don't want to be strong anymore, I want to be real....and the reality is that this shame and this blame isn't mine anymore and I'm done punishing myself with it.  I really saw myself in that mirror - something I haven't seen a long time and I realize I've been hiding, I haven't been real and those things that I have tried to keep hidden, those imperfections - they have gained too much power - robbed me of joy.  So here they are, the scars - the imperfections...and they can hold no power over me anymore.  

This scar on my hand, the white line that follows just below my thumb it's from carrying beer bottles around when I was 3 and dropping them on my hand.

When I was 7 I was riding my bike down the hill near my house, I hit a pothole in the dirt road and flew over my handlebars, landing on my hand - I walked home crying, blood running down my face - there's still a dent there, but it has faded - I think only I can see it.

...
This is the scar I woke up to on my belly when they were only supposed to take a cyst but ended up taking the ovary...and my hope.  For years I tried float away from my body and make myself believe that this body wasn't mine.  Today I trace the scar with my finger, it feels kind of neat...it's not ugly, just another battle wound, proof that I survived.

In 2011 I had weight loss surgery - 5 little cuts where they opened me up and re-arranged my guts...and gave me back my life.  They look like little bullet wounds intertwined with the stretch marks.  I never wanted these scars to heal, I wanted them to stay red and angry so I would never forget the price I paid, the pain.  But I don't need that reminder, I will never forget.

When I was big I would never wear my hair in a ponytail, my neck it was so fat it looked like I had a hump and there was an angry line where the base of my neck met the hump.  I cried the first time I wore a ponytail and there was no hump....I still do some days.

So here I am, imperfections and all.  Nothing hidden.  This is just me.  And I'm still scared but I'm scared and I'm free.  Whatever happens next I am making a promise to myself: cancer isn't going to take anything from me, shame and guilt, there is no place for it anymore.  Oh there are going to be weak moments, but nothing is going to take my joy, my bliss, the fire in my belly or the beauty in my life.   I will reach out to those people who love me and allow myself to be cherished and loved.  I will take risks with my heart.  I will find someone that deserves my love and trust and for that person I will hold out my bruised and beautiful heart and it will be good.  I'm suiting up kids, full-on super hero mode - my own hero.

XXXX

Hey bud, I am so glad to hear that you are feeling better.

Wendy Gray

Thank you XXXX, it's been a rough year but I'm not giving up.

XXXX

I like to think of these little jolts of super power as vines and we just swing from vine to vine. It's pretty fun sometimes, right?

Wendy Gray

That is pretty much the best analogy I've ever heard to describe it.... ya when I'm in my super hero/power mood I have so much fun. Inappropriate fun, sure but better than being a miserable bastard.

XXXX

Let's build more vines.

Not Princess - Queen!

"To be a princess is to play at life.  To be a queen is to be a serious player....The purpose of life as a woman is to ascend to the throne and rule with heart."

- Marianne Williamson

Love

Love is great, love is grand, but love ain't chemotherapy - it's not going to magically turn some sick fucker into a healthy fucker. - Dan Savage

Some people use public transit as a means to get to work, but for me it has become so much more, a time to reflect, relax, annoy other commuters and to just stop the busy-ness and focus all on me. This morning I had a moment when I was sitting in the bus shelter, texting friends and making plans, Facebooking others and checking in, responding to inappropriate posts people had put on my wall (I really appreciate this part) and I realized how very much I am loved. I am surrounded by it, by love, kindness and caring of friends and family, I'm encircled by it - when I am in a dark place all I have to do is reach out my hand and a million hands reach back, pulling me out of that place. Even when I let the darkness take over and I am so overwhelmed that I can't reach out they come to me in the darkness and sit with me in my pain, hold me and love me.

There are a lot of goals I have made for myself out of this whole experience with weight loss, recent ones; weight loss, health, travel... but the biggest one, the one that has been in my heart for ever is to not be lonely. I wanted to not be that fat little girl who spent every recess sitting against the cold brick wall of the school watching others on the playground laughing and playing and feeling so utterly alone and beyond sad. But like all other goals that I thought would be achieved by wishing and hoping for a miracle this too required work - hard work. With weight loss it has been moving my bum, eating well, being accountable to myself. Travel meant taking responsibility for my finances and saving. Health - being my own advocate and kicking and fighting until I am heard - well, I'm working on this one. But to not be lonely...well that has been work too, work on myself. The biggest part of my loneliness was that I didn't even love myself, didn't believe that I deserved to be loved and cared for. That has been hard, sifting through the past discovering truths and dispelling lies.... looking in the mirror and loving the woman behind those eyes. It has meant exposing my hurt, myself, my core to the world  on Facebook and on my blog and being vulnerable, open to rejection, ridicule. And more importantly it has meant being a friend - inviting people into my life. And this is a work in progress. But today this writing by Rumi says it all.

Love came, 

and became like blood in my body.

It rushed through my veins and 

encircled my heart.

Everywhere I looked, 

I saw one thing.

Love's name written

on my limbs, 

on my left palm, 

on my forehead, 

on the back of my neck, 

on my right big toe…

Oh, my friend,

all that you see of me

is just a shell,

and the rest belongs to love.

- Rumi

When my feet are in stirrups you laugh at my jokes!

The box of letters I wrote my Gramma Hazel while I was in College that she kept till the day she died.  I added the ones my Gramma Bernice sent me to the box - this is the most treasured item I own and when I feel down and lost I re-read these letters and I find strength to move forward and reading those letters from 20-year-old me, I fall a little in love with that girl who was so idealistic and funny.... and become so damned sad that I nearly threw it all away and killed myself.  If only I could have seen then what I see now.  (By the way, the return address on that envelope said Wendy Einstein-Gray - I thought I was so damned clever, but fuck it I made the Dean's List I was impressed!

It's a pretty nice view I have from my cozy bed, it looks super cold out this morning, one of those sunny, crisp days where you just know your snot is gonna freeze the second you step outside.  Still, when my grandparents were alive often on these cold Sunday mornings we'd all bundle up - the whole gang, my family and aunts, uncles and cousins - and head back to the woods where my grandpa had built a cabin nestled in this little clearing.  In general I have a shit memory but to this day you could blindfold me at their front porch and I could lead you through those trails they had cut through the bush to that clearing.  That sweep of lawn that used to have those four big oak trees (I think they're oak. Fuck it they're big, I got that part right anyway).  There are only two now, the one up by the road they cut down when I was in my teens, it was messing with the power lines, Grampa cut a big whiskey barrel in half and put on top of that stump and filled it with soil so Gramma could plant flowers in it............

..........On a totally unrelated to this blog note, in an impressive feat of driving I managed to put my Dad's truck up on top of that whiskey barrel when I was learning to drive.  I got freaked out when I had to turn and instead of putting on the brakes I just pressed harder on the gas.  Long story short, Grampa made one killer speed bump which luckily stopped me and the truck from barreling (pun intended) into their living room.  Funny enough my Dad was not even a little bit impressed with my mad driving skills.  Oh well...back to my story...........

My Uncle Donald... aka: The Fucker.
Funny, even those people who he
wasn't related to called him that.  He
teased me and tormented me as a kid, but
I know that's how he showed me that he
loved me.  And I love him, more than he'll
ever know.  When I was a kid and stayed
at my grandparents house for dinner
he'd do anything to drive me nuts
like take his half eaten pork
chop and put it in my mashed potatoes.
Anything to make me yell at him.
Or, I'd call to talk to Gramma and he would
answer and instead of passing the phone
to her he'd try to get me to tell him what I wanted
and when I wouldn't he'd hang up on me.
Such a fucker - yet my favourite uncle and yes,
it should have been my
Dad who said the words "I loved you
from the moment you were born", but
coming from him it was just as sweet.

Where was I?  Right, the Stephen King-like long ass description of a lawn.  So anyway, past the lawn to where the cars were parked - in the summer time Gramma planted rubarb and peonies (to this day peonies are my favourite flower) in alternating bushes beside Robert's shed.  It's weird, Robert (my grampa's Dad) had died decades ago, yet it always remained his shed.  The chicken coop was to the left - the place where my fear of chickens was born.  In the fall when it was time to kill the chickens my bastard uncles would force me to hold them and I'd inevitably drop the damned things because I got creeped out by their talons of doom.  Then they'd make me hold the string that they had tied around the chicken's neck as it was placed between the two nails on the block of wood - you would think that I would find some small satisfaction in knowing that one less chicken would be on the earth to plot against me but I didn't have time for that as they'd toss the newly severed head at me making me scream.  Then you had to pass the barn where we used to explore and play in and through the gate to the field.  That field sometimes had cattle grazing in it and we would have to jump the electric fence - and not stand too close to that fucker Uncle Donald who would try to grab your hand and then the electric fence so you would get the shock.  The wind whipped across that field because there was no trees to buffer it and between that and dodging fresh cow patties that was probably the least fun part of the trip...but once you got to the end of the field and entered that gate oh that is when the fun started.  My grampa had a whole "graveyard" of old cars and trucks back there from the 50's onwards.... it was almost creepy and cool at the same time seeing those abandoned cars and making up extraordinary stories about them in my head.  There were probably 30 or 40 of them, half of them that my Uncle Allan (the mechanic) would restore when he was younger and use in cop chases with my Uncle Donald.  When Grampa died the auto wreckers came through and took away those vehicles and I felt a sadness at that time I couldn't quite explain.  Then came the actual forest, that path was full of cedar trees that just smelled so damned yummy, the air was so clean and crisp and we'd all frolic and play - some jerk would eventually take one of the snow leaden branches and grab it so the person behind them got covered in snow... or barring that a snow ball fight would ensue.  That path wound through the woods, you could hear the creek trickling in the background...and it was so warm there, sheltered from the winds.  The path split at one point and if you went to the left there was another, bigger clearing where the tree that got hit by lightning was but if you went to the right that led to that special place - Grampa's Shagging Shack.  It was a little wooden cabin with a wood stove, it was far from fancy yet it had Grampa's old recliner there and their old kitchen set and of course the obligatory topless Sunshine Girl pictures.  Just in front of the cabin was this perfect spot that was surrounded by huge cedar trees (yes, for sure they were cedar trees)...and we would build a fire and put hay bales around it and talk and roast hot dogs and marshmallows and talk and laugh.  Those days, they were magic.  And when your hands got cold you would go into the cabin and the heat from that wood stove would warm you right to your bones.  Oh how I miss those days.

Why am I telling this story?  Because I'm stuck in my bed, the pain has reached the level where I can't breathe without it hurting and my stomach is upset and I have to focus on something good or this will consume me.  I'm hurting from the Oncologist appointment where they took the biopsy to test for uterine cancer and the bleeding and pain hasn't stopped since.  Everyone asks me why I didn't take someone with me to my appointment but there is just that part of me inside who feels that this is my fault - that I didn't take care of myself, let myself get so fat and I brought it on myself so I need to deal with the consequences on my own.  I know that's stupid, I do in my head, but it is my heart that needs convincing.  I have never felt so much dread going into a hospital ever before - because I had walked this walk before, I had a cancer diagnosis and I knew what was coming.  So in typical Wendy fashion I started cracking jokes.  The doctor who instructed me to put my feet in the stirrups didn't even crack a smile.  I panicked, tensed up knowing what was coming next and that probably made it even worse.  I sobbed through the entire procedure.  The tears ran down my face, I couldn't stop it, I couldn't control it the intense, sharp pain of her using that instrument inside me was unbearable.  The nurse held my hand as the doctor kept telling me to relax and I fought the urge to kick her in the face.  It probably only took ten minutes for her to get the sample but it felt like hours.  And all I kept thinking was please God, make this stop - I can't do this anymore.  After she was done they left me to get dressed but I couldn't, I just sat there and sobbed, covered in blood and doubled over in pain. Finally I was able to get dressed and walked to the bus stop and took the long bus ride home.

So now I have to wait until March 4th for the results - a full year since the original problem and referral took place so until then I am going to focus on me, continue that archaeological dig of my past - sift through the debris for the truth - because as I mentioned before my memory is shit and I really need to look to find the good and the wonderful of who I was and who I am and looking through these photos I think I am finally getting a glimpse of that.

Gramma Hazel & my niece Montana

My Gramma Hazel  was so proper, an English teacher and Sunday school teacher to boot.  She still had that sense of humour about her though - I remember when she was 80 how she was listening to a rock station every morning to listen to the DJ's daily funny - it was always a pretty inappropriate joke.  When I was little she lived across the street and would come and babysit me while my Mom was off driving the bus.  She made every little thing special - she would make us tomato and mayo sandwiches and serve them on my little table and chair set my Uncle Donald had bought me.  When my brother and Patricia & Elyn would stay over on New Year's Eve she would always have a little bottle of champagne and give it to us in fancy mini plastic wine glasses.  She died a few months before my wedding - and I was devastated....she was such a huge part of my life.  She was classy, generous and she had such a solid sense of self that I always admired and still try to attain.  Her faith in God was unwavering but equal to that was her faith in herself and I carry a part of her with me that brings me such comfort.  She was so
different from my Gramma Bernice, she came from a more affluent city background, she definitely had more education and she was very, very practical - and I loved her - still do actually, but in a way that
was so different from my other Gram.  It's weird though when I went to college and all the stuff around the sexual abuse came out, it was her who I told about it all - wrote about it to.

My Gramma Bernice and
Uncle Doug

This lady... oh how she holds such a tender place in my heart, I loved her smile and her laugh...still when I'm sad I think about her and her laugh and it brings me such comfort.  My Gramma Bernice (my Mom's mother), she was my rock in the world.  I always knew just how very much she loved me and thought I hung the moon - because that look in her eyes was reflected in mine.  She faced some really rough times with an abusive first husband - but she persevered and left that bastard and married her childhood sweetheart.    Because of her I have a love of Smarties, she used them to teach me how to count and my colours and at Christmas time when she was doing her baking and making her special Smartie cookies she made a batch just for me.  She found humour in everything... .and she suffered, oh how she suffered with colitis and then the cancer.  When I am hurting and scared I think of her and of how brave she was, how she handled things with such grace.  I love her and miss her every day - and I am so happy that she was in my life, she saved me.  It's funny, she never had as much money as my Gramma Hazel but she gifted me with something I have treasured far more than any gift I have been ever given - she shared herself with me.  She talked about her past, how she felt....about who she was as a person and she gave me the space to share the same with her.  If I'm even half the woman that she was I will be happy.



Me and my best friend Patricia (we are the two standing on the ground), I was always taller than her, but looking at this picture I wasn't that big - I thought I was the size of a moose.  Trish and I always joke that we were put in the crib together, but it's not far from the truth.  She has always been in my life, she knows me the best of anyone in the whole wide world. She knows my fucked up family and laughs when I tell stories about them.  I never had a sister, but she pretty much was.  I love her with all of my heart - and I consider

Me and my best friend Patricia - that's her sister Elyn on the float
doing her Canada's Next Top Model pose.

her family mine....although I'm still not that cool with vacuuming when I go to her parent's house or going down the stairs to that creepy ass basement to get bread from the freezer.  Some of my best memories of my life involve her, a lot of times at my parents cottage laying on the dock and looking at the expanse of stars and talking about everything that was in our hearts....or just laughing and being highly inappropriate.  Even though we have had times where we didn't even live in the same country when we came together it was like we had never left each other's side. This woman, she was God's gift to me and I hope she knows how much she means to me.

Grampa Jimmy (R) & Len Barr (L) at New Year's Eve

And then there's my Grampa....yep, the dude with the Kenny Rogers beard and festive hat.    I can't even look at his picture without wanting to cry.  He was such a good man, when I was a little girl he would let me sit on his lap and comb his mustache.  He treated my Gramma Bernice like a Princess, yeah he was human and he would get mad but he also had such grace and love in him.  He was tender and in my world men weren't tender.  He was a father to kids that he didn't have to be, he was respectful and loyal and amazing.  He stayed by my Gramma's side when she had a heart attack, they were each other's best friend and when he had cancer and was on morphine and snapped at her he cried because he had hurt her and apologized profusely.  If I ever decide to pursue a relationship in the future it will be with a man like my Grampa, I won't settle anymore.  I remember after he died and we went back to my Gramma's house after the funeral and I swear I saw him in that green chair in the living room - his presence never left that house.  When my grandma died and my aunt and uncle took over the place I felt like I couldn't go in that house anymore because it would be too painful to be there without them in it but once I did I felt such peace because I knew that they would have wanted my Uncle Allan and Aunt Donna to live there - things were as they were supposed to be.


I laid in my bed surrounded by these pictures and I felt so very loved at that moment, but it is still so hard some days to reconcile that girl who was adored with memories of feeling so ugly and damaged and broken inside.  I do an exercise with groups - I have them sit in a circle and in the middle I put an object - usually a cardboard paper towel tube and I color it all different colors so if you are sitting on one side of the circle you won't see the same thing someone on the opposite side of the circle will see.  The lesson is about perspective and seeing things from someone else's point of view.  I think I need to learn that lesson, perspective and what other people are seeing, not just my tiny point of view that is coloured with my own self-judgment and shame.

I had a friend (who shall remain nameless) email me a picture - when I saw it I stopped breathing, that ugliness of the past it was there again in my face.  My immediate thought was to judge, to look away from that girl and pretend she wasn't me.  Then I read the note my friend wrote with it....

I'd like you to meet my friend Wendy from grade school/high school. She is a zany girl and always laughing and cracking jokes. 

I kinda wished I was more like her. I was always worried about what people would think. I think that's why I chose photojournalism in school. I was comfortable behind the camera, it gave me power or a shield. It made me feel like people actually wanted me around, like I wasn't just some afterthought. 

I always wanted to be confident like Wendy. 

This was taken the last day of grade 13 right before exams. We went down to the locks and had lunch. I think we had Mary Browns Chicken. 

For some reason, you had a pinwheel. 

I always wanted that joy. 

Makes you think.

Yes, it really does.  This friend who I always thought had it all: a kick ass personality, boyfriends, popularity.... well she was hurting too and I was so damned wrapped up in my pain I didn't see that either and I missed out on having an even deeper friendship with her than I could have.....but like the blog is named, it's not too late.  

It took a lot of courage for me to post that picture of myself - part of me thinks that people will say look how fat she is and ugly, but I need to let that go.  I need to love that girl, love me....all parts of me, and those things that I bring into the light - the pain I share, the vulnerability they only help me to be someone better, freer.  

And there are still days when I feel so lost, so scared and overwhelmed about the future and what it holds and I don't know if I have the strength to go on but I'm going to keep playing this song - it is my new anthem - and I'm going to keep playing it till I believe it.  

Thank you friends for letting me share myself with you. xo  

Wendy

Until the Fat Lady Sings, or Gets Weight Loss Surgery, loses a shit ton of weight and has a fabulous fucking life.

 The nerve of those Whos. Inviting me down there - on such short notice! 

Even if I wanted to go my schedule wouldn't allow it. 

4:00, wallow in self pity; 

4:30, stare into the abyss; 

5:00, solve world hunger, tell no one; 

5:30, jazzercize; 

6:30, dinner with me - I can't cancel that again; 

7:00, wrestle with my self-loathing... 

I'm booked. 

Of course, if I bump the loathing to 9, I could still be done in time to lay in bed, stare at the ceiling and slip slowly into madness. 

But what would I wear? 

I did something I never thought I'd do after all that I have been through, after how hard I fought; I gave up.  I gave up on me, my dreams, my hopes...I found myself in a pit of despair so deep I didn't know how to get out.

I have had PCOS (Poly Cystic Ovarian Syndrome) for over a decade now - basically that means that I get multiple cysts on my ovaries - I know, clever name.  My period has never been regular, going from gushing the amount of blood one expect from a stabbing victim to not having a period for literally years.  When I was finally diagnosed it was with the discovery that I had cysts on both ovaries they did surgery laproscopically (through my belly button) and were able to remove the cysts.  At the time they told me it was because I was fat that I had this problem and that I needed to lose weight, etc. which of course at that time I was too fucked up to heed that advice but I sure took it to heart.  Again the cysts came back, this time the size of a grapefruit on the one, it damaged it so much that when they did the surgery this time they were forced to take one of the ovaries and part of the other one.  I was told at the time that there was a chance that my remaining ovary would come back and start to work but again, I had to lose weight.  Next came the pap smear and the abnormal cells that were later determined to be cancerous - a quick d&c and that was taken care of.

I didn't have a period for years after that second surgery where I lost my ovary, no sign that my body was functioning in any way, shape or form.  And I put that dream of babies into the back of my mind, tucked it so far back in the recesses that I didn't have to touch it, to feel that pain but it was always there.  I told myself that my marriage wasn't stable enough to bring a baby into - and it wasn't, and I don't say that to lay blame at anyone's feet because it took two of us to form the relationship and two of us equally and in our own ways contributed to the instability and the insanity.  Here's the thing about me, don't ask me where I get it from but there is this stream that flows through me that even in the most desperate, sad, scary times and that is hope.  This optimism that some way, some how things will work out and inevitably they do, maybe not how I envisioned them working out, but work out they do.

When I had weight loss surgery and lost 30 pounds prior to the actual surgery because of that devil's nectar Opti-Fast the day of my surgery who should appear but my period - of fucking course, because it was inconvenient and the worst fucking timing ever, but there it was - my period.  A sign, surely that my remaining ovary was actually working and more importantly that the chance for a baby was indeed possible.  If you have read my blog (and shame on you if you haven't) then you know what happens next, I lost a shit ton of weight, got so healthy and strong physically and fell and got back up again repeatedly.  And still, my period was irregular maybe once every 3 months but hell, it was there.

In May I discovered that again the lining of my uterus was again thickened and because of my history my doctor referred me to the Oncologist I saw at Sunnybrook.  It twinged with me then that possibly this baby thing was going to be affected, but I didn't let it overwhelm me and I still had it, that hope and even if it was cancer that I could beat it like before.  I even went so far as to ask for a referral for a fertility specialist and I went to that first appointment and I quickly realized that this couldn't be an option for me - not with the state of my marriage and I put it on the back burner.  Next came the discovery of a "mass" above my uterus.  Again, I tried not to freak and I held it in - told few people - and held onto that hope.  I made the decision to end my marriage in August and I'm not really going to go into it here but needless to say it was many things - mostly my fear of cancer and what that would mean, but to say it was only that reason is a lie and right now I can't talk about that, maybe one day, just not today.

Anyway, a few weeks ago I developed this pain in my belly...well actually it started in my belly, went to my side, my back and finally my chest.  It was horrible, it made me keel over and I went to the hospital but pretty much shrugged me off as nothing.  Last Tuesday the pain got so bad that I said fuck it and drove myself to the ER.  After hooking me up to a morphine and doing xrays and an ultrasound two days later I had the report from the doctor.  In addition to the stuff I already knew about, the mass, the uterine lining - I now had cysts on my ovary AND cysts where the missing ovary should be.

I bruise so easily.

Call it intuition or whatever, but from that first visit to the ER when the pains started I knew what this was.  I had felt this pain before, the twisting and rupturing of cysts in my belly.  I became frozen inside - there's no other word for it.  I literally stopped feeling anything.  I went to work, put in crazy hours, came home and went to sleep.  I avoided friends, I avoided Facebook.  I avoided life because that sense of being frozen, it was my protection.  It saved me.  Because I lost my shit at that moment.  Hope died.  After all the weight I had lost, how hard I fought it still wasn't enough and I had failed.   And that little nasty voice in my head, the one that I have tried so hard to overpower came back.  That I didn't deserve a baby or love or support.  I punished myself....the most evil kid in school couldn't come close to how I bullied myself.  I did everything I could not to feel, because I thought if that sadness, that hurt, that anguish came up even a little bit I wouldn't be able to handle it - that I didn't have the strength to deal with it anymore and that I didn't deserve those tears because I did this to myself.  My friends, my beautiful, wonderful friends...they called me, texted me, Facebooked me...and I couldn't bear to talk to them.  I shut them out.  I froze them out.  I froze myself out....I did the very thing I promised myself I'd never do ever again and that's give up on me.

That second visit to the ER, that's what started the thaw, maybe it was the morphine - it is delightful stuff - but my guard came down and everything spilled out. And I cried.  I cried doing the dishes, I cried making my bed, I cried in the shower, I cried in my doctor's office, I cried on the drive home, I cried at Shopper's Drug Mart (which made the cashier pretty damned uncomfortable to say the least)... I was written off work until November 30th and the walls, just crashed in.  Without work I had nothing left to hold onto anymore.  The depths of that sadness were like nothing I've ever felt before and I thought I've known pain, I wasn't even close.  And the anger, with God, with myself was a burning hot rage that took my breath away.  It sounds horrible, and yeah, it really was and on the other hand it was the best thing that ever happened because whatever part of me that wasn't ready to give up reached out to my friends.  And their forgiveness and understanding, I don't know how I ever deserved to be so blessed but I am so grateful for each and every one of them.  I called my Mom and she came and got me and took me home and has been taking care of me ever since.

I have some perspective of this all now, given that I've been weaning myself off the morphine - 1 day sober, I'll take it and I realize that even though it has felt like pretty much the worst thing to happen in my life ever that there are victories to be found in this experience.  One, I didn't eat my way through a refrigerator of food.  Two, I didn't leave a trail of sexual partners and condoms.  Three, even though it took me awhile to get there I actually responded in an emotionally healthy way to this situation.  I cried when I was sad because that is the correct response to sadness, not eating a cookie.  I cried when my heart was broken because that is the correct response to heartbreak, not degrading my body with strangers.  I cried because I was afraid and lonely...because THAT is the correct response to fear and loneliness not finding 700 ways to self-destruct in an epic fashion.  Yes, it took me awhile to reach out to friends, but I forgive myself for that and they forgive me too.

Thanks to a much needed dainty foot of a Southern gal up my frozen Canadian ass (thank you Carolyn DeDeugd) and the sweet, loving friends and family who have surrounded me in light and love I woke up this morning with a new resolve.  I'm not going to give up.  Not on me, not on my dreams.  So I checked my work emails, worked on some stuff that needed to be done and I bundled myself up in some warm woolly socks over my pyjama bottoms, put on my Mom's rubber boots and a thick jacket over my pyjama top and I went for a walk through the field with my boy.  Sure I could have probably used a slow moving vehicle sign strapped to my ass that's how slow I went but the fresh air cleared my head, the movement eased some pain in my body and I took that opportunity to take down the banner, pop the balloons, throw out the horns and wrap up this pity party.  I got on the phone and harassed the gynecologist office until I got an appointment (December 3rd) - I have an appointment with the oncologist December 17th.  I re-affirmed in my mind what my goals are - and have been all along.  I want to be healthy and happy and damnit I want to be a Mom.  So I'm going to take this one step at a time, weigh my options.  And if this means a full hysterectomy - which the chances are pretty high of it being what needs to be done then I am getting my financial life in order and my power of attorney (thank you Amie Heaslip-Cosgrove) and do what needs to be done - on my terms.

Hope, it's not dead and neither am I.