Rose's Cantina

Embed from Getty Images A conversation I had with an emergency room doctor keeps coming back to me. I was doing a story on fall prevention among seniors, for the  Canada Safety Council , and I asked this doctor about treating obese seniors who come in after falls. "What do you mean?" he asked. "Well, if they are obese, is there a greater likelihood of them losing their balance, and falling?" The doctor just laughed. "We don't see a lot of obese seniors," he said. "There aren't many of them around." I was shocked by that statement. He went on to say that the chances of seniors living into old age are remote if they are fat. The chances of getting life threatening illnesses such as cancer, heart disease and diabetes put them at greater risk for an early meeting with their maker. This conversation came back to me yesterday, as I was talking to my plastic surgeon who told me I had to lose 40 pounds before she would perform ...

One kilo, maybe two. Maybe one kilo on one side, two on the other. Two-thirds. The calculations are swimming in my addled brain. Even then I'll probably end up as a DD cup. Hot damn! That's the assessment of my plastic surgeon whom I met today, the very nice and spirited Dr. Rockwell, a renowned plastic surgeon at the Ottawa Hospital. They say she has fairy hands. The breasts that once nursed my children, and were the fantasy of news deskers everywhere, have thinned my skin and stretched beyond any recognition, like an over-used Slinky. About five pounds --that's what she needs to take off. But when it's over, in two short hours, I have the promise of becoming a normal person again instead of a self-loathing woman with Old Stripper Boobs. Sure, I'll have the scars to show for it, an accordion scar under the breasts, and ones around the nipples and straight down the middle. For a few weeks, I'll look like I did, in fact, fall off the turni...

Tomorrow is my scheduled appointment with the plastic surgeon to see if she is willing to save me from all this boob weight. I've been waiting for nearly two years for this appointment, and I'm really excited. I'm also a bit nervous, as I haven't yet met my goal of being a BMI of 30. Despite watching my diet and exercising like a maniac for a couple of months, I've lost all of two pounds. Here's hoping that the good doctor has one of those miracle weight loss pre-surgery diets. I suspect I will be learning to love Boost. Whatever it takes. Whatever it takes. Anyway, in preparation for my surgery, I've been conducting some research on the subject of breast reduction. A few weeks ago, I came across this terrific show on Lifetime called Atlanta Plastic. The reality show follows three African American plastic surgeons as they add and subtract human tissue from their clientele which is all black folks. I love this show because it's the first one...

That's me, front, second from the left. When I was in high school, I was a size 12, which today would be a size 8. I was proud of my tiny waist, it was a 23 as I recall, but my big hips bothered me. I wasn't delusional; I knew there was nothing I could do about them. There was no fat on them, just the hip bone. But I was aware of them. For years, I was jealous of girls I'd consider scrawny today. They got to wear see through jumpsuits made of bubble wrap, and maxi coats that hugged their lithe bodies. Me, I settled for clothes that were tailored, like the outfit in this photo, shirts that didn't cling, skirts that weren't too snug. I would have been the perfect private school girl. I realize now that my body shame started back in high school. It was hard to accept that I didn't have a perfect body, the kind the boys all drooled over. I was just an anonymous kid, the egghead, who hung out with the freaks and geeks in the audio-visual room. ...

When you tell people you're getting a breast reduction, you get all sorts of advice. Women, literally, crawl out of the woodwork to tell you they've had one, their aunty had one, or their best friend had one after high school. To a person, I've never heard "I hate the way they look" after surgery. Before was always worse. I mean, it's understandable. You've got to really hate your boobs to endure four hours of surgery. And you have to have faith that the surgeon who accepts your case doesn't disappoint. You don't want to wake up expecting you'll look like Charleze Theron, and you end up looking like Granny Clampett. It takes a lot of guts to get a breast reduction; it's not for sissies. And no chicken to my knowledge has ever said, "take the leg, leave the breast." I don't know why I said that, it just seemed funny to me. There is a lot of soul searching that goes into the process but when you finally commit, y...

Embed from Getty Images Yesterday was a banner day for me. I finally got my consult with the plastic surgeon which will take place on March 14 at 1 p.m. Nice. That's the good news. The bad news was a follow-up phone call to the family doctor. "The surgeon will not operate on anyone who has smoked in the last year," said the assistant. No worries, I have been smoke free for 59 years. "And she will not operate on anyone with a BMI (Body Mass Index) of over 30." This got my back up. BMI is a great way to determine how much weight a person has to lose, but it doesn't take into account the fact that I'm wearing two bowling balls on my chest. In my opinion, that's equivalent to putting the fix in, throwing the game, handicapping the round. I began to protest, but realized it was useless. Even without the 10 poundage on my chest, my BMI is still about 33, meaning I have to lose 35 or 40 pounds. Yes, Virginia, I am obese, a fat ass, a...

Embed from Getty Images Do you see this lovely nine pound baby? Isn't it a beautiful wondrous creation? Try strapping it to your chest and walking around with it every single minute of the day. This baby represents the total poundage of my two breasts. My girls are not symmetrical and neither is a baby. My left one is 5.1 pounds while the other is exactly 4 pounds. So it's sort of like carrying a child's gigantic head on one side and the rest of it on the other side. No wonder I have horrible back problems. I'm literally taking on water and listing to one side. For years I've been on a quest to find out exactly how much my breasts weigh. The Internet, that font of information, was no help at all. There are no evidence-based articles on this subject at all. It's awkward to weigh a boob, given its location, in order to get an accurate measurement. WikiHow suggested this method. Measure water into a big bowl that is sitting on a cookie sheet, a...

One thing I won't miss, after my breast reduction, is visiting the big girl store to purchase bras that cost more than a bottle of George Clooney premium tequila. I go to places called Addition Elle, and Pennington's, where they also sell tents advertised as dresses. These stores are chock-a-block full of friendly fitters who proudly show off their own girls in cheap looking jersey material. Jersey is usually what they sell skinny girls who buy at Old Navy and H&M. Jersey is sold at the big girl's store for what you would pay for silk anywhere else. I suppose it's because of the yardage needed to cover a larger frame. I'm not using the word "fat" here because fat is a term that is offensive. I am certainly not fat, but I am big boobed at a size 42 H which is the retail term for Huge. I cannot buy tops anywhere else but the Huge Girl's Store because they don't fit around my boobs. Sometimes, I can get shirts at Value Village but tho...

I received an email from a gentleman today. He had read my blog about the fact I'm getting a breast reduction. He asked me some interesting questions, and I'm going to answer them here as frankly and honestly as possible. He felt that I was being a bit cavalier about what amounts to major surgery. He asked me if I had any doubts. The answer is: Boy did I! I have been talking about getting a breast reduction for 25 years. I never did anything about it because, well, back in the day, they were pretty spectacular. I didn't like them, but others did. They caused me grief but they also got me jobs and a lot of free drinks and dinners. The Prime Minister told me I had real talent even though I'm sure he never read any of the letters I wrote on his behalf. Pierre, you old hound dog, you. For someone with low self-esteem, that was pretty awesome. Mostly, I was afraid of all the urban myths. I heard that sometimes the girls stop being twins and one becomes...

Today I learned that I will finally have breast reduction surgery. I am both terrified and elated. No more blisters from the underwire. No more side boob sticking out as I try in vain to stuff my size 44H boobs into a 42DDD. No more shopping at Ottawa Tent and Awning for a bra that costs more than a bottle of George Clooney tequila. Today, I start an occasional series on my journey through my surgery, and the reasons why. I want people to know that breast reduction surgery is not just cosmetic surgery. It is life and soul saving surgery that no woman to my knowledge has ever regretted -- except Kanye West's mom, but she shouldn't have also booked three other procedures to save time. This is serious business, four hours on the operating table; it's not for narcissists and it's not for sissies. Here is the first post I ever wrote, back in 2014, around the time of the Jian Ghomeshi sexual harassment debacle at CBC It's about how my big boobs played a huge ...

#85183166 / gettyimages.com Right now, your BMI is 35, said Dr. Ben. After the breast reduction, you'll be 30.1. So, I'm not obese? No, you're just overweight . I stood in front of Scott the other day, in my underwear, and showed him my rapidly shrinking middle. He couldn't believe it. I had to show him in my underwear because, to the outside world, I don't look a hell of a lot different. And that's because of my boobs, cup size G. They are all you can see when I'm coming at you. They hide the middle, giving off so much shade that it really doesn't matter what the rest of me looks like. Nothing can live under there. To repeat a hurtful joke once told to me, I haven't seen my feet in years. And so it was, at my last physical, I asked Dr. Ben to book me a breast reduction, something I've been fighting for years. I always thought that breast reductions were selfish things in a world when women were losing their lobes to canc...

Today, I took my tired-looking self over to see Sheila Mackay, a registered nurse who works at the Facial Surgery and Cosmetic Centre of Ottawa. Sheila is the angel who sticks needles in my face, and I love her. She gives me Botox and Dermal Filler to fill in my craggy good looks. A lot of people will say: "what a ridiculous thing to do" or "you look just fine the way you are; you should love yourself more" or --- and I really hate this -- "I don't need that stuff. I've earned every wrinkle." I say, good for you. If you want to look like a topographic map, that's your right and I will defend to the death your right to look like the Canadian Shield. It's true, I don't look that bad for 58. With the help of hair dye and makeup, I can pass for 50 even younger because I don't have a face that looks like an unmade bed. I don't smoke. I have a nap nearly every day. I eat my veggies. I exercise. And I get my eight hours ...

I was noodling around the Menopause Canada website, and decided to calculate my Body Mass Index. It was 32, which is still fat, but a lot less fat than the 36 where I started out. By the way, I challenge the BMI because you calculate it based on your height and weight and it doesn't take into account that I have at least 10 pounds of boob weight, which I didn't ask for, unlike Anna Nicole Smith who is pictured above. Oh well, at least I know I'm making progress thanks to two years of personal straining at the Athletic Club in Trainyards and those magical diuretics Dr. Ben prescribed me along with my blood pressure medication. Speaking of blood pressure meds, I found out this week that I am not supposed to eat grapefruit while on them. And according to Doctor Oz, who is the expert on everything, I'm not supposed to take Ibuprofen either. What a shock. Grapefruit and Advil are among my favorite substances. Along with tequila, which I've decided it's time...

Okay, so the picture didn't work out exactly as planned. There were no calls from TMZ. No trending on Twitter. Not even one comment. I showed it to Marissa, thought she'd be horrified. She just chuckled. I still think it's good to see pictures of yourself from afar, to see what others see when you accidentally forget to lower the blinds. Besides, I wanted to know what it feels like to have your privacy invaded by paps who intent on smearing your photo all over the tabloids. Now I know how Kirstie Alley feels. It reminds me that I have to discuss my breast reduction with the doctor today. Look at how dippy and slumpy my shoulders are from the over-the-shoulder-bolder-holders. Unfortunately, my naked blogging seems to have had a negative effect on my numbers which are the lowest they've been since I started blogging. Better take the picture down. I seem to be scaring away readers.

There's a sign on the desk at the Ottawa Women's Breast Health Centre at the Civic Hospital asking fellow travellers to dump out their change into a jar. The centre is expanding and needs the support of those who use it. I used it yesterday, and dutifully donated my coffee money to the cause. My donation was pretty pitiful considering most of the money in that jar was in the form of fives and tens. I didn't have more on me, or I would gladly have given it. Catch ya later. Yesterday was my call back from the breast-cancer screening I had done two weeks ago. The radiologist noticed a small "nodule" which one of the technicians explained was a "density", and he wanted to get a better boo at what it was. So my left breast was squeezed and contorted, slathered with cream and examined with an ultrasound paddle. Then I sat in a pretty little room with several women of all ages, shapes and sizes while I waited for the verdict. In the short half hour I ...

I finally realized last night that I have become, officially, unhinged. This happens to me once in a great while when I'm under an enormous amount of stress. It's been a bad economic time for our family with Scott changing jobs, Nick not having one, and me working only six months of the year as a magazine editor. Our rent is too high and our bills were getting away from us. We also have a Mastercard that we've been unable to pay off for years now because of the crushing interest payments. We've made some course corrections in the last month or so which will finally make our living situation manageable. Our plan is to have all the debt paid off in two years and finally start saving again. It's not that we're spendthrifts but we've faced several crises in the last couple of years that started to sink us. It began with the toxic oil spill on Smyth Road. We had to make an emergency move which, despite having insurance, started to eat away at what savings...