In my last pile of crap, I told you all about the temple that is this middle-aged body. Now let’s break down some of the other stuff that has happened in my life since we last chatted in June. It’s not a huge update because I just had some organs ripped out two weeks ago. #baglessupright

When people ask what my 2020 summer was like I say, “Tropical,” because it sounds better than, “the humidity gave me a lot of armpit rash.” I decided to try natural deodorant because I figured it would make me superior to people who wear cheap, normal-person pit-stick. Well it turns out I’m super allergic to natural deodorant and my pits were on fire for two weeks after only ONE APPLICATION OF THE STUFF. I had a red pitzema that extended by about a foot from my chicken wings in every direction. So now I’m using fancy French deodorant that is scent-free and costs $20 which is more than I spent on underwear last year.

I’ve been on a high dose of iron to improve my anemia for almost a year now. My doctor told me to take my pills with a dose of vitamin C to improve absorption. A week before surgery I ran out of vitamin C and 2.0 offered to pick some up for me. When he returned he called out, “How many of these pills do you take a day?” And I said, “One. Maybe two if I’m feeling like a nutter.” And he said, “Okay, I got you enough for a couple years.”

Here’s the thing: I had to take that torso-sized bottle with me to the hospital for my pre-op appointment because they need to see all of your meds and supplements. Did that massive bottle make the pharmacist snort real loud by the computer station? You bet.

My best enemy Mrs. Rutherford cut her finger REAL bad with a knife a few months ago and when I asked how it happened she said, “Well, I was making a salad…” And I thought: of course you were. NO GOOD COMES OF SALAD.

Sometimes when people who don’t know me very well ask why I hate the Rutherfords so much I say, “Uh, you’ve met them, right?” And when they follow up with, “Yes, but wh–,” I cut them off with, “Why don’t you try thinking a little harder, okay? Just… think.”

We had a municipal election here in the fall and because The Virus can’t take a hint, most of the candidates didn’t do much in the way of door-to-door canvassing. One day I found a brochure tucked into our screen door, so I read it and then saved it for 2.0. When he got home from work I handed him the brochure.

2.0: Hey! I used to date this woman in high school.

movita: Really? Wow. What a coincidence!

2.0: I wonder how she knew I lived here?

movita: What’s that now?

2.0: Like, I wonder how she found out I live here?

movita: Well… I don’t think she did, honey. She left brochures in everyone’s doors.

2.0: Do you think she’s seen me around?

movita: Um… no. She lives in our neighbourhood, she’s running to represent our district. She stopped at all the houses on our street. See? There’s one in the door over there, and another one at that house. She’s not stalking you. 

2.0: Uh, okay, sure. Then why did she draw A HEART on my brochure?

movita: What heart?

2.0: (pointing at the brochure) There. Right there! See?

movita: That’s not a heart. That’s the ‘eb’ in her name. Your girlfriend has bad penmanship.

2.0: Not it’s not! Lemme see. It’s definitely a hear– oh wait…

I was afforded two weeks of residual pandemic entertainment as brochures continued to land on our doorstep. So in the evenings when 2.0 returned home from work I could say stuff like, “Hey, I saved this brochure for you. Did you date this guy too? It’s signed G with a heart. Wait, hold on… nope. His name is Gary. It just says Gary.”

Christmas was a low-key affair because I was deep into pre-surgery isolating and that meant I could only hang with 2.0 and my parents. My brother lives in France with his family, and… that country has really embraced the virus if you know what I mean. My sister lives in Toronto, so travelling was possible, but would also require two weeks of quarantine when she arrived in Nova Scotia. She considered it, but when our mother started saying things like, “It’ll be fun! We can slide meat under the door to you,” Haddy opted to stay put.

So we spent two weeks eating and playing games and using The Zoom to show Haddy the meat we would have shoved under her door had she been there in person.

When 2.0’s mummy was alive she used to bake a lot of treats over the holidays. She’d make everyone’s favourites including a special item I call: Pink Icing Squares. No, I don’t know what the hell they are made of. No, I don’t have the recipe. These were one of Gary’s favourites (2.0’s dad), and quickly became my favourite when I started the greatest love affair in history with 2.0. Now that 2.0’s parents are not with us, Derek’s sister Kim has taken over the baking. This year she sent him home with about a dozen trays of squares including:

I love my sister-in-law.

My sister, on the other hand, sent me this:

So… almost as sweet.

This nativity scene popped up in my neighbourhood in December, and I immediately took pictures to send to friends. I felt the pumpkin baby Jesus really elevated the display.

Later when scrolling through the photos I noticed that my phone thinks two of the wise men and Joseph are friends of mine.

It’s the closest I’ve ever been to religious.

Oh, hey. It’s been a while. Like, eight months. I’ve been away so long that as I’m typing this I’m also trying to re-learn how my site works because there have been upgrades and I’m befuddled.

When we last talked my uterus had tried to assassinate me. I had a blood transfusion and was put on medication that cost about the same as buying a pony. A not-great pony, but a pony nonetheless. All the stress and anemia and adjusting plans and putting stuff on hold and trying to keep my insides inside of me and eating beef and blood tests and appointments made me feel not much like writing. (Still good at sentencing though.) So here we are all these months later and I kinda miss you guys. Let’s catch up!

You’ll be pleased to know that I have crafted two posts for you with a lot of rambling, run-on sentences, and a bunch of information you didn’t ask for. In this post, we will discuss the magic that is my body.

In the next more-fun post I’ll tell you all about all the other stuff that has been going on since we last talked. Spoiler alert: 2.0 is as entertaining as ever. I assume you will all skip this post and move on to the funner post when I publish it later this week. I mean, I would.

My pony medication was basically a 2.5-month summer love affair that allowed me to do a good portion of my outdoor photography season. The Virus was almost non-existent here for a couple of months, so distanced human interaction was allowed. It was awesome and busy and I loved every second of it.

Then my medication was recalled and I was afeard to leave the house for a few months.

I stepped away from teaching. It was supposed to be my last year before transitioning into my new career (prolly dance photography but I read an article about panda nannying and that looks pretty cool too). Teaching seemed impractical given the… instability of my insides. Plus my shituation put me at a higher risk for Covid complications which made being around a lot of humans a bit daunting. Surgery would also require a two-month break because teaching advanced ballet can be quite physical. (I mean, the way other people do it.) So I haven’t been in a dance studio since March when we were shut down in the first wave.

Guess what? I feel better than I have in years! Except for my uterine-area, of course. Like, no more body pain. I’m a new woman!

The second wave of The Virus arrived here in October, and around the same time, I learned I’d be having a total laparoscopic hysterectomy with bilateral salpingectomy. #fancy

In case you’re wondering, I had a bad case of submucosal fibroids. If the word ‘submucosal’ bums you out, you aren’t alone. It’s right up there with ointment and squirt. Fibroids are very rarely cancerous, so I’m grateful for that, and the pathology reports will be back soon to confirm. But the ER doctor described them as ‘real troublemakers’ as far as fibroids go. They are also the rarest kind, so as always I am an overachiever.

By mid-November, I started isolating when I learned that I wouldn’t be allowed in a hospital if I inadvertently visited a potential Covid-exposure site. I left my house for daily walks but was about it. Sometimes 2.0 would take me for a car ride like a dog.

I’m not gunna lie to you: I loved isolating. Didn’t miss society a bit.

Because Nova Scotia is a small place our Health Authority releases a list of potential exposure sites every day. Actions like this have made us one of the safest places in the world right now. The lists are very helpful for contact tracing, but also make 2.0 and I realize just how little we interact with the general public. In the evenings when they release lists, I read the locations off and 2.0 responds to each with: nope. Never been. No. What even is that place? Nope. Never heard of it. Is that a restaurant? IT’S A GYM?! No. No. Nope.

On December 23 I got the call that I’d be having surgery in January. Honestly, it was the best Christmas gift a gal could ever get. I was feeling pretty tired of feeling pretty tired, and the anxiety of the past several months was really getting to me. I even considered watching some reality tv. That’s how bad it was. I was excited and terrified and thought a lot about how I was going to be naked on a surgical table inflated like a whale carcass in front of a bunch of strangers.

FYI, this is what you face when you have to take yourself to a doctor’s office these days:

You really get the distinct impression that you might not be leaving in anything other than a body bag.

And then it was January 11. Surgery day. The whole thing is surreal now. First off, I came through with no complications, so that was great. But I imagined being wheeled into the operating room asleep. Like, I wouldn’t see the room or most of the people who’d be seeing me naked. And they’d stand over my resting body saying things like, “Aw, look at that pocket-sized creature. She is enchanting.” But no. I WALKED into surgery. A nurse led me through a set of swinging doors to the brightest room I’ve ever been in. Brilliant white, sky-high ceilings, equipment everywhere, and a bunch of doctors and nurses bustling around. I climbed up onto the bed (slab?) and one of the anesthesiologists cracked a few jokes. It’s a teaching hospital, so honestly, I think the jokes should have been better, but no program is perfect. My surgeon had two residents by her side. There was a second anesthesiologist starting a new job at the hospital. And there was a nurse standing beside me who talked to me until I fell asleep. I’m most grateful for her kindness because I wanted to curl my body into a tight ball.

And then it was over. You just wake up and everything is done. No one says a word about how they heaved your legs into a set of stirrups or how they got the hospital-issued underpants off you.

I stayed overnight in the hospital. Showed ’em just how good I am at fainting. Slept a little, and was in total awe of the nurses caring for me. They are saints, people. When someone helps you get on and off a toilet when you can barely stand? That’s some holy being level shit. When that same person prepares a hot facecloth to wash the day off your face? You could weep.

The first couple of days at home were a little rough but very manageable. I stopped my pain medications before the week was done. I’ve been going for two walks a day since day three post-op. I’m up and about all day save for an hour of rest in the afternoon. And though there’s still a lot of healing for my innards to do, I’m feeling stronger every day.

It’s generally 6-8 weeks before you’re cleared for 100% normalcy, and I went into the surgery a little weak, but I’m well on the way. 2.0 has been an incredible nurse. And by incredible I mean strict.

He’s been filling my body with fruit and veggies, making me drink lots of water, helping me in and out of bed, and doing all the chores around the house. He checks my incisions, yells if he thinks I’m doing too much, and helps me put on socks when my swelly belly gets in the way.

On the weekend 2.0 hit the grocery store for more healing foods and brought home two special treats to be consumed in “small portions” at his discretion “when needed.”

When I asked why he put them on the floor he said, “Because you can’t reach anything down low.”

I know a lot of you are wondering what happened to Ginger 2020. It might even be why you’ve pushed through this endless update. You were probably thinking: she’d better be here to tell us she lost the use of her goddamned arms. And I didn’t want to pile on to the misery some of you experienced in 2020, but…

I wasn’t feeling up to it. That’s it in a nutshell. IT’S ACTUALLY A LOT OF WORK YOU GUYS. Like, three weeks straight in front of a computer emailing, organizing, formatting, and writing. Three weeks of people emailing to say: I CAN’T FIND MY ENTRY ON YOUR BLOG! Three weeks of me emailing back to say: that’s because the competition hasn’t started yet. Honestly, I was worried that I might Marlena Evans a few people.

I know that Ginger is something that some of you look forward to every year. Yes, this says something about you, and yes, that something isn’t great, but I get it. I have no doubt that 2021 is going to be a better year, and that Ginger will make a triumphant return. So if you’re trying to avoid humans and keep busy in isolation, you might wanna get a jump on things.

That’s it, pals. The story of my body. Happy New Year! I think we’re gunna be a-okay.

I know what you’re thinking: what the hell, movita? Where have you been?

I had some big plans for this pandemic. I figured I should make the most of my unemployment and divided my house into 15 small zones (rooms, hallways, staircases, entryways) for deep cleaning, purging, organizing, and trim painting. I got eleven zones done. It was time consuming, but I felt good. Real good.

And then my body double-crossed me.

Remember when I told you I was anaemic? Well, it turns out there was a reason for it and that reason became very apparent in the 24 hours before I had to go to the emergency room. I’m fine, and I’m going to spare you the sanguinary details, but let’s just say SHIT GOT REAL.

I’d just like to give a shout out to my uterus for waiting until a global pandemic to betray me in the most graphic of ways.

That was 2.5 weeks ago. They ran tests, did imaging, gave me a diagnosis (not life-threatening, Ethel, don’t start a GoFundMe page), and put me on some medication to keep things under control. They told me that it was very good that I had come to the ER because I had lost a lot of… life-sustaining essence.

2.0 handled the whole thing like a champ, waiting for hours in the hospital parking lot because he wasn’t allowed to accompany me during the pandemic shutdown. When I asked if his workmates were okay without him that day, he said, “Of course. Don’t worry a bit.”

When I asked if he told his workmates why I was at the hospital he said, “I told them you fell down the stairs. It just seemed easier.”

A few days ago I had more blood work done. An hour and a half later my doctor’s office called and told me to go the hospital immediately. Within 15 minutes of arriving at the hospital, I’d had an electrocardiogram and blood work done. A few hours later I was receiving a blood transfusion. And a few hours after that I was at the pharmacy picking up a new medicine that will cost $1200 to keep my insides inside of me. #worthit #probably #luxuryuterus

So, there are some problems with my lady parts and I may require surgery. And there are a number of amazing health care workers in this city who have now seen me at my most vulnerable and corpse-like. Not one even batted an eye as I stood holding my crotch in the middle of their nursing station asking about soaker pads.

Why am I telling you all of this? Filling your heads with nightmares? Two reasons:

1. I told you about that time I almost pooped my pants, so it only seemed right to keep that over-sharing going.
2. Some of you have been sending me messages to ask if I am alive. (I am.) I’ve been a little preoccupied with staying alive Netflix so please consider this post my answer to all inquiries.

As I waited for my blood transfusion (it takes a while to find blood equal in value to mine), I got really hungry. I had a granola bar in my bag so I wandered out to the nurse’s station and asked if it was okay to eat it. The nurses checked my chart and then called a doctor over.

Doctor: What’s that you need?

movita: I was just wondering if I can eat this granola bar before my blood transfusion? Like, is there any chance the oats will clog the tubes?

Doctor: Oats?

movita: Yah. It has oats and apples in it.

Doctor: Oh, the equine diet! I didn’t hear you.

movita: I guess I was a little… hoarse.

Nurse: Alright, you two. I think what the doctor is saying is that you can go eat your snack.

Doctor: Get off your high ho–

Nurse: NO.

When I was receiving the gift of blood/life I told a nurse just how grateful I was that someone had donated their ketchup for me. I told her that I would, without a doubt, return the favour in the future. She looked at me, touched my hand and said, “That’s lovely. But no one is gunna want any part of you for quite some time.”

And we laaaaaaauuuuughed.

So that’s my update for now. I really am fine and now that I’ve received the gift of hemoglobin I’m up and about and feeling like a real, live human again. I have lots of other news to tell you when I’m feeling a little less lazy. For example, 2.0 is now best friends with a crow. And some recent searches for adult diapers has significantly changed the targeted advertising I’m seeing on Facebook. (I’m not complaining.)

By the way, if you are able to donate blood, please do. The people who get it really appreciate it.

Yesterday 2.0 hollered from the basement and told me to, “Turn on the news. Hurry!” I immediately turned the television to a national news network. I watched a COVID-19 press conference for 45 minutes. Absolutely nothing new was announced.

When the update ended I met 2.0 in the kitchen.

movita: I watched the news conference but I’m not sure what you wanted me to see. Maybe I was too late?

2.0: There was a guy on there that looked like Kenny Rogers.

movita: Wait…what? You wanted me to stop what I was doing to see a guy who looked like Kenny Rogers? Not hear an update about the crisis?

2.0: Yah.

movita: But you didn’t mention the Kenny Rogers lookalike. 

2.0: No. 

movita: And you can see how I might think they were making a major announcement? Because you yelled at me frantically to turn on the news?

2.0: I guess. But I figured you’d know what I wanted you to see as soon as you turned on the news.

movita: Can you can understand why I might have been a little concerned? Frightened even? 

2.0: Maybe for second. But then happy because you’d have seen the Kenny lookalike. 

movita: But I spent 45 minutes watching a news conferenc–

2.0: You saw him though, right?

movita: Who?

2.0: Kenny Rogers.

movita: I don’t recall seeing anyone who looked like Kenny Rogers. 

2.0: Well, this has been a complete waste of time.

movita:

2.0:

movita: I think we’re going to have to lay down some new ground rules. 

.

HEY! My homeland (Nova Scotia) has just declared a state of emergency and I’m quite sure that I’m not supposed to be sitting next to my window or using my computer but I thought you might NEED me and my run-on sentences right now so here I am. The world feels upside down and 2.0 shoved his elbow in my face when I tried to kiss him the other day. These are the times we live in. I’m still out here living my best mediocre life and you’re still out there reading the crap I put on the internets so… I hope my words bring you a comfort equivalent to a well-stocked cupboard of toilet paper.

The dance studio that employs me has been shut down thanks to The Virus. Our shows have been cancelled, examinations postponed. Generally, we adhere to an unless-you’re-bleeding-from-the-eyes-the-show-must-go-on policy, so this is uncharted territory for us. Like a lot of you, we’re out of work. The dance community is made up of a lot of self-employed, hourly wage earners without benefits. I’ll be okay because 2.0 is still working and even if that changes we will be fine for a while, so I’m very grateful and I’m not even being sarcastic.

Some dance schools are launching online classes which I find rigoddamndiculous because I’ve been telling my dancers for years that you can’t learn ballet on YouTube (#jobsecurity) and the whole point of coming to class is not YOU SEEING ME but ME SEEING YOU and telling you how much something you are doing sucks. It is my greatest joy. Dance is passed body to body, like a virus. I need to be near you to spread my virus knowledge to you. So these days I’m more concerned about my eyes rolling out of my head than I am about catching COVID-19.

Related: I’m definitely going to get murdered to death by the dance community in the coming days.

In addition to crushing poverty and the probable collapse of my photography business in the coming months (#cheerful #optimistic #nothinggetsmedown), this unexpected period of unemployment means no walking through the door at 10 PM to learn that “Dorey really likes pizza sauce!” That’s what 2.0 told me last week when I got home from teaching. “She was crazy for the stuff!”

It also means that I don’t get to answer questions from my teenaged students such as, “Do you have any balloons in your bag? Like, some that you aren’t using right now?” Who the hell carries balloons around with them? (Other than a clown, obviously.)

I started stocking up on pandemic supplies a few weeks ago – a can of soup here, a box of pasta there. And I picked up some extra toilet paper long before people started hoarding the stuff. Still, though we have plenty of toilet paper for the two of us, 2.0 has been tracking the number of squares I use with each bathroom visit. “How many squares?” he’ll shout through the bathroom door. “Four? That can’t be right! Count again!” It’s a lot of pressure because sometimes I forget to count before wiping and it seems to make 2.0 very antsy.

Social distancing and isolation have afforded me some time to catch up on chores, writing and some online learning. It also means I’ve had to spend way too much time looking up internet acronyms like FTL, IMO, SMH, etc. Are people really too busy to just write actual words? How many of these people are rushing off to do emergency brain surgery? You can’t just write ‘in my opinion?’ WRITE WHAT YOU MEAN FFS.

Last night 2.0 brought me dinner in bed. I’m not sick — I was trapped under Dorey. He filled ramekins with leftover mashed potatoes and cheese and then put ’em in the oven till they were toasty, and warmed some leftover pork chops. Behold:

If you’re wondering why he cut my meat for me? I AM TOO. Am I sick and just don’t know it? Does 2.0 know something I don’t know? Has he found some of my teeth around the house?

A couple of weeks ago I slipped on our back steps and took a bit of a tumble. I didn’t hurt myself – other than my pride – and when 2.0 got home I told him about it, looking for a little sympathy.

2.0: Oh no! Are you okay?

movita: I’m fine. I didn’t hurt myself. Just a couple bounces off the ol’ ass, but I don’t feel like I hurt anything. 

2.0: Because of your extra padding?

movita: 

2.0: 

movita: What. Extra. Padding?

2.0: From your… coat?

Recently I went to the doctor and had some routine blood work done. My sister had been nagging me to get my vitamin D levels checked because hers recently tested very low and I guess she was hoping she could take someone down with her. She asked me 32,548 times to get tested so doing so seemed like the only way to get her to shut up.

The day after a lady took blood out of me, my doctor’s office called and said my doctor wanted to see me as soon as possible which is rarely a sign of affection and usually a sign of something-is-wrong-with-you. When I walked into her office she said, “Now before we discuss your blood work I’m just wondering if YOU have any questions or concerns about how you’ve been feeling?”

And I said, “No, but judging from the tone of your voice I’m guessing you THINK I should have some questions.”

Turns out I’m severely anaemic. Like, my blood is broken and my heart is ‘struggling.’ When my doctor showed me the numbers on my tests I said, “Oh, that’s not so bad,” because 94 out of 120 seemed like a decent grade but my doctor said, “Noooooo, that’s very bad,” and then gave me a look that said: it was nice knowing you. So now I’m taking pills and demanding lots of extra attention from 2.0 because I shouldn’t have to fetch my own snack food or the remote control for the foreseeable future given how ill I am.

By the way, my vitamin D levels were above average. And yes, I realize I wouldn’t have known I was dying if my sister weren’t so annoying.

Recently, when watching the commercial below, I turned to 2.0 and said, “Imagine being the guy who can now list ‘Stuck Poop’ on his resumé,” which started an argument because 2.0 refused to believe that the actor was playing the role of a trapped turd. So we rewatched it. Twice.

movita: See? That guy is poop.

2.0: No.

movita: Yes! He’s stuck. He’s CONSTIPATION. 

2.0: No!

movita: Yes. Look, both people in that commercial are in long, twisted waterslides. Those waterslides are INTESTINES.

2.0: NO! 

movita: Yes. And that guy? He’s stuck. He’s stuck in the poop shoot. But the woman? She slides right through. She’s happy poop. Weeeeeeee! 

2.0: No. No way.

movita: Wake up, man! You think that pool is accidental? Or is it a TOILET BOWL?

2.0: But… oh my God… really?

movita: Yup. 

After a few minutes, 2.0 was convinced and now when the commercial comes on 2.0 points at the man on the waterslide and yells, “Look, honey! It’s you!” Because the pills I’m taking to save my heart also cause constipation and this is my life now.

Stay healthy, friends!