Beef, hair,and sexy boots

I am a dedicated carnivore, particularly when it comes to red meat--or I used to be. I attempted to have a few (what I considered very small and thoroughly chewed) bites of Mr. Salted's steak a few nights ago and paid for it for the next couple of days. Not in any terribly disgusting ways that would offend the sensibilities of others if I described them--it just felt like I had a board lodged horizontally across my chest cavity for a couple of days. Logic tells me this means that the steak got stuck in the pouch. It was an extremely uncomfortable feeling physically, so much so that sleep was impossible that night. As the next day or two wore on I stuck mostly to protein drinks and very soft things, thinking they might help everything move on through. It took a full 48 hours to feel okay again. It scared me a little--I was getting ready to call the surgeons, but thankfully giving it time to work itself out seems to have been the right thing to do.

I found out at my nutritionist appointment a few days that most post-operative hair loss occurs from month three to month seven. (For those keeping score at home, this is month four.) As if on a time release, I blow-dried my hair the next day, looked down and was coated in my own hair--I had to lint-roll my shirt. Having three cats, there are lint rollers aplenty chez moi, but I was a tad freaked out. However, I am a big believer in keeping perspective, and the patented SaltedWithShadows technique in this instance included a gentle reminder that several people I know--all my age or younger--have had cancer in the last couple of years. All of them lost their hair at some point during their treatment, and one of them eventually lost his battle with the disease. In the end, I'm grateful for not only the obvious, but that I have hair at all (I have never had much hair, or favorable hair genes).

Today was an interesting day. I had to see my ankle doctor, who did not clear me to start working out--he wants to give it another month, even though the x-rays and ankle look like they are healing very well. (I joked that he gets better-looking every time he says, "Don't exercise for another month", although not to his face! I didn't want to scare the poor man.) I had on a new black dress, brooch, leopard-print tights, and new-to-me black leather boots--they come up to mid-calf. I had completely forgotten how confident boots make me feel--I haven't had a pair in probably twenty years. The recent U2 song about sexy boots annoys me, but I today I remembered a song from high school days that the Jesus and Mary Chain did that had the line, "I feel so quick in my leather boots/there's nothing else but me." (I don't remember the song title, but it was on the "Psychocandy" album.)

I always personally found boots a lot sexier than heels (in part because uncomfortable does not spell sexy to Salted and boots have never made me think of foot-binding or gotten my feminist hackles in a twist, unless they are those thigh-high stripper things with the ridiculous heels, which are not sexy at all in my book). Boots feel--and can sound--pleasantly powerful when you walk in them. I don't find the power of a domineering nature, but more of a confident one--the sound says, "Here I am. I feel good, and I'm not hiding".

Hiding is a theme/battle/motif/albatross with me (and with a lot of people that have body image issues, I would imagine). I have spent most of my life actively hiding myself physically. I have always preferred my clothes to be a size or two too big--I liked feeling lost in them, never caring how it might look because it made me feel safer. Ultimately, I never got to be "pretty"--and if I was indeed ever "pretty" (some men do like their jelly to jiggle), I never got to really enjoy it. I think I was finally ready to have this surgery and go through this process because, for whatever reason, I was able to deem it safe--in part because of my age. I have done and am still doing the work mentally and emotionally to make this process a healthy and viable option for long-term health. The operative word here for me is work: I know in my bones that I will always be doing some work somewhere on some layer of my being when it comes to this; the work never stops. I am hit with the work aspect of this in some fashion every day now--it is not comfortable to have people remarking on how I look all the time when I spent the last forty years hoping no one would remark on how I looked, at all, EVER. Even though 98% of the people in my immediate orbit are--thus far--supportive and complimentary, I still steel myself and wait for stones to be thrown, hoping the inevitable accompanying wince isn't visible on the outside.

Blonde

I spent three hours Friday getting my 'do did. I decided if my hair is going to fall out--or even has the possibility of falling out--that I should try to go back to something more toward my natural color, which is dark blonde. I have been dyeing it red for many years, and prefer it that color by far. The dye had faded and it was starting to grow out, so I thought my hairdresser could put a tone or two in it to make it more natural and then pull it through a cap to frost it and give me some highlights for a little lift. (Every time I've tried to go back to my natural color, it's come out like really bad wig hair with absolutely flat, and often fugly, color.)

I've been dyeing my hair since I was seventeen, not counting the Sun-In in junior high. I've always done it myself--this was my first professional color job. I could really tell the difference. My stylist is great--I've been seeing her for almost three years, and she does a fantastic job on Mr. Salted's hair too. She was having a slow day, and she has a salon attached to her house, so it was very casual--we munched on cut cantaloupe and she would take me out in the sun from time to time to make sure we both liked the color. I love going to her because it's not one of those snooty salons where you feel like you have to dress up to go in there, and she's the kind of woman you want to go have a margarita with, funny and interesting. I think it's going to grow out well--I just wanted it to be one less thing to worry about right now. I still don't like blonde as well as red on me, but I don't hate it as much as I thought I would either.

Preparation

My last day of work pre-op was yesterday. Everyone was very sweet. People keep asking me if I'm excited, but I don't know if that's the right word. I'm a whole lot of things--freaked out, scared, resigned, hopeful. The potential of a good outcome excites me, but really, it's hard to be excited at the thought of getting your intestines re-routed and living on liquids for several weeks. A couple of people have given me cards, which I appreciate. I know I will look at them when I'm feeling gross and they will cheer me up somewhat. People are either acting like this is something horrible or just ignoring the significance of it, never the twain shall meet, it seems. It's interesting. I don't want to plan much of anything for the next few weeks because I just don't know how I'm going to feel, and then I have the ankle surgery and CAN'T plan anything.

It has been insanely hot for the Pacific Northwest, in the triple digits at times. It was 105 in my car yesterday on the way home. I did the pre-op phone call with the hospital and my first question was "is it air-conditioned?" They don't want me wearing even my wedding ring to surgery, which I don't like, but I guess I understand their reasoning. I can always have Mr. Salted hold it for me and give it to me when I'm in the room, after the procedure. It's a simple band--no one is going to shake me down for it.

I've been stocking up on everything, and trying to think of everything in advance. I need to order some more vitamin supplements. I went and put in the prescriptions for the post-op drugs in at Walgreen's--I think it was Valium, Dilaudid and Prilosec/omeprazole. I get Valium and Dilaudid because I'm allergic to everything with codeine or synthetic codeine, so I can't do Percocet, Vicodin, Oxycodone, Hydrocodone, Darvocet, etc. I have to wear a scopolamine patch for 24 hours before surgery; that's to offset nausea, apparently.

I decided--given the very real possibility of hair loss--to go back to my natural color, so I'm having that done tomorrow. I'm not thrilled about it, but it will be one less thing to worry about, and I want to see what my hair is going to do before I dye it any more. (I just hate my natural color because I think I look more like my father when I have it, so maybe it will be a good lesson in self-acceptance for me.) I also bought about six bandannas at Walgreen's--99 cents each, what a bargain! (A friend of mine told me to buy some cute scarves and rock it like Rhoda. That's the plan.) There is a lot of baldness and alopecia in my family, and a lot of thin hair. I'm one of the latter.

I have not done real well on this low-carb thing. They told me 40g per day, but good days have been more like 50 or 60 carbs. I *totally* blew it yesterday--that was the only day I really have. Someone brought in a huge bag of peanut M&Ms, and I probably ate thirty of them before I could make myself quit. (I don't know how I'm going to leave that stuff alone--I'm hoping that knowing I will get violently ill is going to do it.) All I wanted for dinner was mashed potatoes, so I had some with crumbled bacon in them. (They were sooooo good.) But I haven't eaten any bread or cake or rice or pasta this whole time, and I'm trying to maintain the low-carby thing for the today and the next three. I have actually lost about five pounds just in the last week and a half. (No wonder I'm so tired.)

I gave some of my extra-big clothes away. That felt good. I'm looking forward to getting rid of more of them.