Summer Raindrops

Torrential downpour-

pummels flora and foliage,

violent raindrops

My Changing Body

I totally get the the above title is likely sending shivers down many of your spines because it is causing flashbacks of really awkward health classes in middle school.  I had that class in 5th grade, 7th grade, 9th grade, 10th grade, 12th grade and my freshman year of college. Despite the fact that my private Christian schools emphasized denying sexual urges at all times unless you are married, they were really into making sure we knew the details of what we were supposedly avoiding.  The above title may not be causing flashbacks if you are from a generation were discussing sex was verboten.  In that case, it is probably causing discomfort because I am discussing a taboo subject.

Me, with very few signs of aging!

Either way, putting the word "body" in the same sentence as "changing" freaks people out.  However, I am not talking about that kind of change.  Nope, this is not a discussion of puberty.  It is a discussion about aging.  And, I swear that aging is some sort of weird, slow version of puberty.  What follows should probably be filed under "too much information," so read at your own risk!

Take, for instance, facial hair.  Young men reach a certain age and they begin to grow coarse hair on their chins, upper lip and cheeks.  My 18 year old brother was just showing me his new found stubble.  It is so sparse he plucks each hair out individually.  I have chin hair as well.  I am not a 18 year old boy.  I am a 39 year old woman.  And I have enough chin hair to warrant THE USE OF A RAZOR!  Oh my god!  Ack!  This started when I was about 36 years old.  It appears to be getting worse.  My upper lip doesn't look too impressive either.  I tried doing laser hair removal, but let me tell you, that doesn't work for a woman with strong Germanic roots.  Really strong Germanic roots, strong Germanic roots that will not yield to a lousy laser tool.  I was attempting to warn my pristine 25 year old sister, in her perfect youth, that this was coming, especially since she is a brunette like me.  Her reply, "Actually, my hair stylist says I am a level 6 blonde."  Whatever, her time is coming.

Me now, a little rough around the edges!

There is also breast development.  Or decline, rather.  Gravity is not my friend.  At one point in my life, not to brag, I had so-called "perfect breasts."  I recently discovered this on Pinterest, which is a fount of information about things I really didn't need to know.  I attempted to find this pin for your edification but was unable to locate it.  Trust me, it is there!  As if it weren't bad enough to be mourning my youthful silhouette, I also have to know that I was once perfect!  Anyhow, those days are gone.  I am now the not so impressed owner of "sloped breasts."  I can't blame gravity entirely.  I had a daughter and I nursed her for a year.  After my breast milk came in, I went from a 34B to a 40D.  Clarification, for those of you men reading this, likely unfamiliar with breast sizing: what that means is I went from small and perky, "About a handful," a boyfriend once helpfully described, to pretty damn big.  As my friend Liz so eloquently puts it "You got visited by the Titty Fairy."  Yes, and once the Titty Fairy leaves, I get sloped breasts.  I am vain enough that I contemplated breast surgery.  I didn't want to augment anything, just return myself to my former glory.  Totally not happening.  In addition to the fact that I am not vain enough to spend that kind of money, I found out that sometimes the plastic surgeon has to cut off the nipples and relocate them.  Good grief, no way! 

Around the time I had perfect breasts, I also had the perfect hip to waist ratio, .70.  Scientists, who are wildly interested in sex, sexual attraction and reproduction of all species, determined that men judge women to be more attractive when the measurement of their waist divided by the measurement of their hips equaled .70.  It is more commonly known as an "hour glass figure."  I had that, too.  (Lest you think I am an example of perfect beauty or more vain that I will actually admit, please know that I am short, have hairy arms, wear glasses, have unplucked eyebrows and used to have a dreadful overbite.)  Age has added padding and eliminated my .70 ratio.  I am not sure of the evolutionary value of this, especially since our human ancestors generally didn't make it past 40 or 50.  I am going with the idea that my body is preparing to be a grandmother and is adding cushion to make me better for hugs. 

 OK, my kid is only 6 1/2 but I figure if I had reproduced at a more typical time, she'd be in her late teens, so it makes more sense.  I also tell my husband that he is lucky to have more wife than he started out with.  His reply, which makes him totally a keeper, is always "You were too skinny when we first started dating anyhow!"  He, by the way, is getting fitter and more muscular as he ages.  That is because he exercises more than he used to.  Let's just say I am a work in progress on that!

I am starting to sport some grey hair too.  The light that shines through my bathroom window in the mornings as I get ready perfectly illuminates the grey strands.  Thankfully, it appears that my shade of grey hair is a lovely silver.  I think I can work with that.  Check back with me, though, I might change my mind when there is more than a few silver strands sprinkled around.  

My great-grandma, Anice Ida Leach.  I want to be like her when I grow up

I haven't yet encountered the more serious consequences of aging, just the cosmetic ones.  And, I haven't hit that "powerful, magical time of menopause."  Those of you in menopause, who just spit out your beverage on your computer screen or hand-held device upon reading that sentence, please know that is not my phrase.  It is a phrase in the recording I listen to when I am on hold with my doctor's office. I am not kidding!  From what I can tell from my friends going through menopause, the only thing powerful about it the hot flashes.  My attitude about aging may also change when I hit menopause, so we will have to do a recheck on that one too!

Despite the cosmetic features that are going awry, I appreciate getting older.  I like life more now than when I was younger.  I have much less angst and anxiety.  I have less anger and frustration.  I also appreciate what I have and am not constantly thinking "life will be good when..."  Life is good right now, even when aspects of it suck.  I feel more settled into my frame, even if it is a few sizes larger and more steady on my feet.  There is less tension in my shoulders. 

My great-grandma holding my mom in 1956

As far as I can tell, this is because inner beauty increases with age.  Time allows us to see that waiting in a long line, being stuck in traffic, dirty laundry and dirty floors are simply inconveniences.  It also allows us to see that we can weather the worst that life can dish out.  Those lessons create people who are warmer, are more likely to see the good all situations and are better at handling difficult situations. 

It seems like a fair trade, I lose my physical beauty and gain inner beauty.  I think I will take it.

Reflections on Vomit, Part 4

10/08/06-16 weeks pregnant, still not sure why I smiled in these pictures!

When I was 19 years old, I was diagnosed with Major Depressive Disorder and prescribed an anti-depressant, Prozac. I eventually switched over to Celexa and Wellbuturin. This combination helped significantly, although I often had mild to moderate symptoms during the winter months. Prior to being pregnant, when I thought I would plan my pregnancy, I decided I would gradually wean off my medication because it would be better for the developing baby. Best laid plans and all that. I couldn't hold anything down long enough to absorb it into my system. I stopped taking my medication very abruptly, which is the worst way to do it.

The abrupt decrease of anti-depressants in my system and the unrelenting illness sent my mood spiraling. If I wasn't sleeping or vomiting, I was crying. I didn't feel suicidal, but I wasn't exactly thrilled with being alive, either. The helplessness and hopelessness caused by being sick was compounded by not having an anti-depressant in my system. It was brutal but there wasn't much we could do.

My buddy, Sully.

Once I started taking the anti-nausea medication, Phenergan, and I'd had a respite in the vomiting my mood improved significantly. I was able to sit on the porch or on a lawn chair in the front yard, accompanied by my dog, Sully. I was able to talk on the phone and check in with an on-line support group. I was concerned about my depression, so I met with a psychiatrist. We determined that I would try to manage my mood with supplements. That didn't last long.

My boyfriend and I had a very necessary discussion on finances. The stress and upset of that conversation triggered nausea and before I knew it the vomit had returned. Then I didn't just cry, I wailed. Loudly enough that my boyfriend had to step outside to make an emergency call to his mother. Even then, he could still hear me. My fragile sense of well-being was completely shattered. After his mom came over and talked me down, we determined that a new plan was necessary to deal with my depression. After another appointment with the psychiatrist, I started taking Prozac again. He explained that there was little chance it would cause permanent harm to the baby. Being severely depressed could cause harm to the baby and it was important to have me as functional as possible. 

The second sonogram, showing the "bubble" in my belly.

Around the fifth month, I was able to walk and drive in a car without vomiting. I was so physically destroyed that walking from one end of the grocery store to other exhausted me for days afterward. I had to be careful though, too much exertion would cause, you guessed it, nausea and vomiting. It was worth it though. After being confined to my bed for three months and only my home for an additional two months, everything seemed amazing. I was in awe of the colors and a trip to Michael's Craft Store was a wonderland. The beads and ribbons and pretty papers and flowers and stickers were the most wonderful things I had ever seen. It was like being reborn. I truly can't describe how spectacular everything appeared. 

Our Tiny Dancer looked a lot like her momma! That is my baby picture on the upper right.

In October we had another sonogram to ensure that the baby was developing normally.   The technician was able to determine that we were having a girl!  We got a picture of her profile, which was very familiar to my mom.  She sent a picture taken of me when I was about 1 week old.  Our baby looked like her momma! And, I felt the baby move for the first time.  It felt like a little bubble rolling back and forth across the inside of my abdomen.  It was like a bubble of renewed hope. 

 You can read the other segments in this series here:

Part 1
Part 2

Part 3
Part 4

Part 5
Part 6

Rocket Haiku

 

On the pre-launch list: Clean the kitchen

Sunday's pre-launch list-

     Prepping for Monday's rocket ride,

hurled through the week. 

Reason Number 568 Why You Should Not Have Animals

QT Pi aka, Cow Pie

Week before last, mere moments before we were going to step out of the door and head off into the day, I heard the words no busy parent wants to hear.  "Mom, it smells like poop in here."  This was followed by "And it is not QT poop smell."  QT Pi (pronounced, "Cutie Pie") is the pregnant stray cat

that we had recently adopted.  She smelled so bad that I nicknamed her Cow Pie.  We were all very familiar with her stench.  

If it wasn't QT, then that left two possible culprits, our other cat Shzung Lee or our St. Bernard, Kona Bear.  Shzung Lee is a mostly outdoor cat and pooping the the house is not her M.O.  She prefers to vomit partially digested cat food and on one occasion, a mouse.  She wasn't in the house at the moment and hadn't been since the previous evening.  The list of suspects narrowed down to Kona Bear.

Closer investigation revealed that as Kona galloped in delight up the stairs and around the living room, she left a trail of poop paw prints.  Awesome.  I have to get my kid to daycare, so I can go to work and I have poop all over the living room.  I try to leave some wiggle room in our morning routine to accommodate for snags.  I didn't have enough wiggle room to deal with poop paw prints.  I dragged the dog outside and sprayed off her foot.  She again galloped in delight up the stairs and around the living room, but this time her foot was only soggy.  Everything is cause for celebration when you are a St. Bernard.  I sprayed each spot with carpet cleaner, called it good and left.

Shzung Lee

 After I sent a text to my husband about the mess, he kindly volunteered to wash the dog and shampoo the carpet. Our friend, (who keeps an orderly house with three boys), upon hearing of the most recent disaster, said "Well, reason number 565 to not have a pet."

Kona Bear Naughty-Pants

A couple days ago I found a few granola bar wrappers and a puddle of vomit.  Kona Bear strikes again. Reason number 566.  Two nights ago, there was an empty bag of what might have been trail mix.  Kona Bear, of course.  Reason number 567.  Today I found a bag of apple chips by her bed.  Apple chips that, by the way, were in a closed drawer last I knew.  Reason number 568. 

Five Dads & A Messy Family Tree

If my family was a tree, it would look like this!

I have five dads.  I have my #1 dad, Richard, who is my biological father.  My #2 dad, Karl, also known as "Dear," is my step-dad.  I also have a father-in-law, Duke, and step-father-in-law, Bill V.  Finally, there is my brother's biological dad, Bill A.  That's a lot of dads.  It makes for a tangled family tree.  

This conglomeration of dads came about because of divorces and remarriages.  Inherent in these divorces and remarriages, are tough transitions.  Rearranging family ties, readjusting relationships, forming new relationships and grieving past family ties, all these things are present in a family with five dads. 

This was not necessarily done gracefully.  Getting a divorce or being a child of divorcing parents is one of the most stressful life events. In fact, in my case, there have been tantrums, swearing, threatening to move to foreign countries, filling out immigration paperwork to move to a foreign country, therapy appointments and crying. 

Father's day makes me think of all these things, which I believe, is not the original intent.  Wikipedia states that "Father's Day  is a celebration honoring fathers and celebrating fatherhood, paternal bonds, and the influence of fathers in society."  Sometimes it is hard to feel celebratory with a family tree that is a tangled mess.  

On Father's day I as posted pictures of each dad on Facebook, I realized that each dad has had a profound influence on my life today.  This influence is either because of their relationship with me as I was growing up or because of their relationships with my husband and daughter.  So many good things have come of having five dads, it is hard for me to really be unhappy about all the upheavals.  Of course, I sometimes wish that I had experienced less pain and fewer transitions.  But to wish that would also be to wish away core elements of my self, my relationships with others and my life.  

It is hard to wish those things away.  Even though I can't say that I have a perfect life, or I am perfectly happy or perfectly anything.  I still live an imperfect life that is messy and complicated.  But it is a life I choose.  I choose to embrace all aspects of my life, even those I didn't like, because all those events have lead me to my life and my self.  

Reflections on Vomit, Part 3

Tiny Dancer- 8/10/06

Somewhere in the haze of the first trimester, when the nausea and vomiting were at full power, we had an ultrasound. The doctor wanted to determine if I had a single fetus or multiples. Women carrying twins (or more) have HG more frequently than women carrying single babies. I already had a strong suspicion that if I made it through this pregnancy, I wouldn't be going for another one. I really, truly hoped for twins. Then I could get two for the price of one and be done with the whole mess! This was not the case for me. I had one, tiny dancing baby doing the quick-step all over my womb with a giant head and little stubby limbs. My boyfriend called it “Tiny Dancer” from then on. I hung on to the image of Tiny Dancer, because it reminded me I wasn't just sick, I was pregnant. It was incredibly easy to forget.

Seeing the ultrasound didn't create any warm fuzzy feelings. I think part of the pregnancy process, for most women, is bonding to their unseen baby. I am not sure because that wasn't part of my pregnancy. I bonded after she was out because I was never certain that I would get a baby out of this ordeal. My version of bonding was ensuring that I didn't hate my unborn child or lose her or die, but not in that order. The correct order was don't die, don't lose the baby, don't hate the baby. It is difficult to say which of those tasks was most difficult. No fetus equals no illness. Many women with HG feel resentment and anger towards the developing baby. Then they feel horrible guilt because what kind of woman hates her own child? I will tell you what kind of woman hates her kid, one that is horribly ill and can barely function! My strategy for dealing with this was to hate my body and my malfunctioning reproductive system instead. If my daughter could have been incubated in another woman, that woman would only a 1% chance of being sick because it is the mother's biology that causes the problem, not the fetus. It was my body that had the problem. It was my body that responded to pregnancy hormones as if they were poison. It was my body that was not suitable.

Medication for pregnant women is a problem. Early efforts to give women something to treat nausea in the 1950's or 1960's resulted in serious birth defects. Nothing really had been done since then. My obstetrician explained that making medication for pregnant women and pregnancy-related diseases was not worth the risk to pharmaceutical companies, who were afraid of being sued. There was no medication that was known to help the disease that the doctor could say was safe for my baby.

08/09/06.  8 weeks pregnant, don't ask me why I am smiling!

By the end of the first trimester we were desperate. I was prescribed Phenergan, a medication used to treat allergies and motion sickness. My doctor stated that there probably wouldn't be any side effects that would harm the baby. At any rate, there could be harm to the baby if I continued being dehydrated and malnourished. By then I had lost 7% of my body weight. We decided the risk was worth it because I truly believed I might die if I continued with such severe symptoms. Blessedly, the Phenergan eventually stopped the vomiting. After being on it for a couple months, the nausea lessened, too but only if I took my medication exactly on time, ate only “safe” foods and didn't over exert myself. The only side effect for me was incredible drowsiness. I slept so much that I lost a few months. The only thing I remember is my boyfriend waking me up to give me medication and spoon some food into my mouth. 

By the fifth, or maybe sixth, month of my pregnancy, the medication was working well enough that I could eat. I could eat my “safe” foods but what was safe would abruptly change for no good reason. Initially, breakfast was a bowl of oatmeal. At some point, breakfast became toast. The rest of the day I ate only chicken noodle soup. That was followed by tomato soup with a tuna sandwich and dill pickle. Then it was a hot turkey sandwich from a local restaurant but without the turkey. Then it was cream of mushroom soup and goldfish crackers. I was never, ever able to drink water. Water was instant vomit. I had to drink Vitamin Water, which is a “enhanced water beverage.” This made exactly no sense, but whatever, I was pretty sure I wasn't going to die. In the seventh, eighth and ninth months of my pregnancy I could eat more variety and was able drink tea.

I couldn't cook any of this myself, until about month six. Until then, my boyfriend rearranged his work schedule so that he could come home and feed me. He recalls being so sick of cooking the same thing that it would make him feel nauseated to open the can of soup. This is especially true for cream of mushroom soup. He still cannot stand the stuff. Cream of mushroom soup only comes into our house twice a year, for Thanksgiving and Christmas Day, to make green bean casserole for my younger brother. He has to make it himself, because it ruins our appetite.

I have not had soup or Vitamin Water, or any other flavored water beverage in seven years. I strongly dislike all soup or Vitamin Water. Actually, it goes beyond strongly dislike. I have a conditioned food aversion. Wait, let me correct that. I have conditioned food aversionS. Plural. Those food items are so strongly associated with nausea and vomit, mere exposure to them creates nausea. In fact, as I sit here an write, I feel nauseated. I also have the funny feeling in my mouth that you get before you throw up. There is a good chance I will have to take a break before I finish writing this, to let the nausea subside. This is actually an improvement. For the first three or four years after my pregnancy, I couldn't even look at a PICTURE of soup! Hearing someone even say the word soup brought instant nausea. If there were ever the need to discuss soup, we had to spell it, ESS OH YOU PEE. Vitamin Water was much the same. I avoided the soup aisle at the grocery store, never went down the section that had bottled beverages. There was a total and complete ban on both those things in my home or anywhere near me. I have been gradually exposed to soup, so I am able to look at soup cans, smell soup and even prepare soup for my daughter. I don't breathe while I make the soup, however. I hold my breath. I can only smell soup from a distance, not close up. I will never, ever, ever, Ever eat soup. EVER. Same goes for the Vitamin Water, except I haven't made any improvement with Vitamin Water because there hasn't been exposure. I will never, ever, ever, Ever drink flavored water, either. EVER. Well, maybe I'd consume those things if I were to starve again but I highly doubt it! 

And it is still not done... to be continued.

You can read:

Part 1
Part 2

Part 3
Part 4

Part 5
Part 6