But if I’m fitter and stronger, perhaps I can better outrun the defense of the other teams so I don’t end up out on my ass. While I’m pretty proficient at American Sign Language, I really want the degree behind me. I want the protection of having a college degree no one can take away from me. And to do that, I need to maintain my scholarship. And to dothat, I need to keep my pretty head out of the boards, and in the game.
I just need to figure out how to do it.
CHAPTER 10
Victoria
(PRESENT DAY)
“We’re going to do a quick internal ultrasound, okay? From the list of symptoms it sounds like your PCOS is off the rails a bit, and we need to figure out what’s going on.”
For such a commonly diagnosed and suffered condition, it feels like it’s so stupidly misunderstood by so many. It’s taken three different OBGYNs but I finally found one who speaks polycystic ovary syndrome. Once my ultrasound is complete, and she’s shown me the pretty pictures of my “very beautiful” uterus, as well as the cysts all over my ovaries, I’m in the stirrups all over again for my pap smear.
Shortly after Wyatt was born, Mom had cervical cancer. Since she was adopted and we don’t know her family medical history, and since I have my own up close and personal relationship with cysts on my ovaries, it all makes me high risk. So I like to keep on top of my annual well-woman exam.
I want to live a long and healthy life, not just for my baby boy, but for myself as well.
“We’ve talked about your diet, Victoria. But we haven’t really mentioned exercise.”
Tension sinks its claws into my muscles as I go stiff. The assumption by most doctors, hell, most people, is that because I’m fat, I eat like shit and don’t move at all. But it’s actually not the case. I’m hoping because my new OBGYN, Dr. O’Flaherty understands the condition, she’ll actually listen to me when I tell her I’m not a lazy shit who sits in the drive thru of McDonalds all day every day eating Big Macs and drinking milkshakes.
Ugh. Fuck. I could definitely go for a strawberry shake right now. With super salty fries. And a Big Mac.
Okay, fine. Fat girls like shitty food too. But it’s notallwe eat. Or at least it’s not allIeat.
“I swear I’ve tried everything.” My palms are slick as I wipe them on the thighs of my jeans. I’m so tired of being fat shamed and judged. I really just want to find someone who’s going to help me. “I’ve done Couch to Five K twice. I’ve done cardio classes.”
She sits back in her chair, nodding, no sign of judgment or disbelief on her face. “Have you ever lifted weights?”
“No.” I fucking hate exercise. As soon as I realized Couch to Five K wasn’t working for me, I wanted to quit. Walking is a pointless waste of time. And I don’t have the patience or self-confidence to learn how each of the torture devices in the gym work.
“I have PCOS too.” The admission takes me aback, but it makes sense now why she’s more sympathetic to my story, since she’s lived the same issues I’ve lived through. “And I can out-lift my husband in the gym.”
She goes on to tell me that with PCOS there’s a surplus of estrogen in my body, and—long story short—if I lift heavy shit in the gym, my muscles will absorb the excess hormones and “crap” in my body to repair the micro-tears you get from weight lifting.
“I recommend you try thirty minute sessions, three times aweek. That should be enough to start. And I’m going to put you on Metformin for insulin resistance. We’ll start at 500mg for two weeks and then step up to 1000mg, okay?”
Tucking the piece of paper with my notes about Metformin into my purse, I nod, tears welling in my eyes. It’s so nice to finally be listened to by someone who knows what the fuck they’re doing. She’s answered every question I had on that piece of paper, before I even got to ask them.
“I’d suggest you get a personal trainer for the first while, too. So you can learn how to do things the right way.”
That’s never going to happen. I’m so tired of buff gym people with their judgy judgment, and their side-eye shade. Okay, fine. That might not be completely accurate, but that’s how it feels. Anytime I go to a gym, I feel judgment.
I wouldn’t know where the hell to start to find a personal trainer in my area. There are flyers on bulletin boards all over campus, but I’d never train where people from my classes might see me. Cringe. Can you imagine? There could be someone near Mom’s, but how much will that cost? I don’t have that kind of money or time.
I thank Dr. O’Flaherty, pick up my prescription, and read about the delightful side effects of Metformin when I get back to Mom’s.
“Mama!” Wyatt has no chill. He runs at a solid eighty every day. When he’s really feeling it, he dials it up to a hundred and three.
The kid is a bundle of joy and sunshine. Sometimes it’s a hard pill to swallow, as it reminds me of his father. Loki’s big vibes are hard to forget—his lopsided smile, his zest for, well, everything, every single thing made that boy freakin’ happy.
Except, as it turns out, me.
What feels like shards of emotional glass slide under my nails and deep into my skin. Reliving the memories about my one-night stand with Wyatt’s father never ends in a good place.It’s always a back and forth battle in my chest. I wouldn’t trade Wyatt for the world, but I just thought?—
“Mamaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!”
I guess not answering him the first time made him go bigger for round two. If I keep ignoring him, he’ll just get louder and louder.
