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

Drama Queens

This probably sounds strange, but I have a soft spot for middle school girls.  I think they are adorable.  The ones around 11 or 12 years old, full of drama and woes, packed into an outfit you know makes their mothers cringe.  The girls that are moody and slam the bedroom door daily.  So called "Drama Queens."  Wide eyed, gangly and agog on a daily basis.  Those girls are my favorites. 

Under the snotty attitudes and excessive make-up reside young girls trying to establish the foundations of their adult identities.  Brain development causes them to notice more than when they were little kids. Noticing brings more thoughts and feelings.  They don't usually have the tools to deal with these thoughts and feelings.  Something called "neural pruning" occurs at this time as well.  The developing brain kills off a bunch of brain cells in preparation for massive brain development. Thus the moods and drama.  The moods and drama cause most sane adults to head for the hills rather than deal with a preteen girl. 

The adults that can't escape from these girls, also known as their parents, often become totally exasperated and take them to a therapist.  When they end up in my office, I work past the snotty exterior.  I know that the girl with the teased hair and "goth" clothes will become a 4.0 student and the star soccer player in high school.  The awkward one with no fashion sense will grow to be the leader of the debate team.  The girl locks herself in her room and cries at the drop of a hat will get her doctorate.  I know this because I have seen it.  I have gone through middle school about a dozen times at this point.  

They are my favorite because I get to help them figure out who they are.  I get to call bullshit on stuff like acting dumb to get a boyfriend and point them towards self-worth based on their inherent value as a human.  I help them look past stereotypes and learn to make thoughtful decisions.  I get to see them make discoveries about themselves and the world around them.  I get to teach them about integrity, honesty and trustworthiness. I get to do this and how is that not one of the coolest things in the world?

Sometimes the Fates Give You A Gift

And in my case, it was a small order of fries.  Yep, fries.  Sorry it is neither profound nor deeply meaningful.  After going to the store, my husband and daughter decided that they were hungry.  I was a bit hungry, too, but with food allergies, I don't usually eat away from home without some kind of planning.  Also, I am a food overlord and I think most fast food is from the devil.  However, hungry family usually overrules the overlord.  So we headed to Burger King, which was the closest and easiest option.  I can have french fries, which contain nothing I am allergic to and taste delicious despite their ties with evil.  However, ordering said fries is pretty fraught, because I feel guilty when I violate my food overlord dictates.  And, like most every woman in the country, I think I should lose 10 pounds.  Eating the devil's fast food is not a way to lose 10 pounds.  So, exercising determination and will-power, I did not order fries for myself.  We paid at the first window, picked up at the second window and pulled out of the drive through.  My husband starts laughing, which is not his usual response to fast food.  We are stopped at the exit of the parking lot, so I look over at him and he grins as he hands me a small order of fries.  "Looks like the Fates think need fries today," he says.  I groan and laugh.  I ate the fries.  Who can argue with fate? 

Reflections on Vomit, Part 2

The only day of vacation I wasn't sick

In my case the nausea started at about week five or six, the middle of July 2006. We went on vacation around week seven. We cut our vacation short because I was nauseated and couldn't get out of bed. I attempted to go to work around week 8 when our vacation was over. I made it through one day and was vomiting so much I couldn't drive myself home. I pulled over in a parking lot about two blocks from the office and had a friend come get me. That was the last thing I did until October of that year. My life became nothing but nausea and vomiting. I lost over seven percent of my body weight in less than two months. I thought I might lose my baby. I thought I might die.

I vomited so much and so violently I blew out the blood vessels in my eyes. I vomited so forcefully my bowels and bladder emptied without my consent. I vomited so frequently I lost track of how many times I vomited when I reached 20 in an one hour period. I vomited on the bed and apologized to my boyfriend as I did it because I knew I could do nothing other than vomit. I vomited while showering. I vomited when I ate anything. I vomited when I drank water. The ring of my cell phone caused me to vomit. I vomited in plastic bowls, the toilet, my plate of food. There. Was. Nothing. Other. Than. Vomit.

My boyfriend was my life line. We had been together only a year when I got pregnant. He did the grocery shopping, cleaned the house, took care of the dog, paid the bills, took care of the details of my emergency medical leave from work, held my hair while I threw up, helped me take showers, emptied bowls of puke, went to the store dozens of times a week to try to find something, anything I might hold down, if only for a few minutes, held me when I cried, and cried and cried.

Eventually, when I was on medication and could have some time without nausea, I joined an on-line support group for women with HG. Many of these women were abandoned by their significant others, often emotionally and sometimes even literally. Husbands and boyfriends just couldn't cope and they checked out mentally, started an affair or moved out completely. I cannot even fathom surviving without him. I have very little memory of those first few months of sickness other unending nausea, vomiting and utter desperation. However, I do remember hanging on to the life line that was him.

He felt like he was drowning or stuck on an island of sickness. No one really understood what we were going through and no one had ever heard of HG. He says that I didn't want anyone around, even when I was feeling better. I don't remember that. I do remember my mother-in-law and my friend coming over, bringing flowers and a card from work. I was so out of it, that I would immediately fall asleep after they said something and wake again if they spoke. Later they told me that I just wanted them to leave. I think that was around the time that I started taking medication to combat the sickness.

I had very few options. Many women have their symptoms of HG resolve or at least lessen by the second trimester. My boyfriend and I had decided that I would “tough out” the first trimester and hope that I was one of those women. We figured that my body could survive malnutrition and dehydration for a couple months. I was not one of those women. My nausea and vomiting continued unabated. I would attempt to hold down chicken noodle soup or Vitamin Water long enough to for some nutrition to absorb but essentially, I threw up everything.

How I spent most of July, August & September 2006, if I wasn't vomiting

 To be continued, again!

Part 1

Part 3
Part 4

Part 5
Part 6

Reflections on Vomit, Part 1

Last winter I sat in the dentist's chair with my mouth propped open. The sounds of the drill and the music from my MP3 player mingled in my doped up brain. I listened to one song in a continuous loop for 30 or 40 minutes before I realized it was the same song. Bits and pieces of the conversation above my head floated through as I contemplated the events in my mouth. “Preparing” a tooth for a “crown” involves more than a pep talk. The smell of my tooth being methodically drilled away was acrid and pungent. Luckily, three Ativan neutralized the anxiety portion of my brain, so I could consider my fate placidly.

The recovery was misery and once I healed from the first four hour procedure, I still had three more procedures left to do. It hadn't been all that long ago that I had sat with the dentist and reviewed the results of the x-rays. The results were impressive, and not in a “you are going to have all your teeth when you are 84 years old” sort of way. I had 17 cavities and was in need of at least one crown with the possibility of a root canal. He was shocked that I didn't have any pain. I told my mom and she nearly cried over the loss of my healthy teeth. I nearly cried considering that I was looking at $3000 of dental work.

Seventeen cavities makes it seem as if I have very poor hygiene or smoke cigarettes or drink too much pop or something. Something very, very wrong has to happen to get 17 cavities in 6 years.

 Friday, March 14, 2014 marks seven years out of that something very, very wrong. Seven years of out of my tour of duty. Seven years past the battle of my life. It is seven years being past Hyperemesis Gravidarum (HG). HG is a severe illness that strikes less than 1% of pregnant women. According to the Hyperemesis Education and Research Foundation, HG “is a severe form of nausea and vomiting in pregnancy. It is generally described as unrelenting, excessive pregnancy-related nausea and/or vomiting that prevents adequate intake of food and fluids. If severe and/or inadequately treated, it is typically associated with: loss of greater than 5% of pre-pregnancy body weight (usually over 10%), dehydration and production of ketones, nutritional deficiencies, metabolic imbalances and difficulty with daily activities.” It usually resolves by the second trimester but often lasts the entire nine months.

I think I am ready to write about it. I wrote about it while I was pregnant and then I stopped. After my daughter was born, I didn't want to speak of it, write it, think of it, remember it, know about it. I wanted to have my baby in my arms, drink water, eat what ever I wanted and never, ever vomit again. My little girl is turning seven this week. She is a beautiful, glorious girl. She is smart, sweet, athletic and the spitting image of her dad. We are having a celebration with our friends and her family. She is super excited because she is having a pool party and her best friend will be there. She doesn't understand how much of a celebration this really is.

Not only is this a celebration of her seven years of life, it is a celebration of living through the war that was my pregnancy. It is not just a celebration of creating life, it is a celebration of not dying and not losing my baby. It was a war against my body as it turned against me. Shockingly, horrifically turned against me. Any joy and excitement stripped, replaced with fear, nausea, vomiting, helplessness, grief. It was daily battle to survive and grow a baby. This battle cost me 9 months of my life, $43,000 in debt, my teeth, the ability to eat entire categories of food, future children and a whole host of other things that I probably don't even notice because it has been etched into my self and is no longer identifiable.

My pregnancy seemed normal enough at the beginning. I peed on the stick of home pregnancy test and a plus sign showed up in the “indicator window.” We weren't trying for a baby and I hadn't really expected to see a plus sign. I had been confident in my math skills when figuring out if I needed to use birth control one particular afternoon five weeks previously. Here's a tip, never do math during foreplay, especially if you are bad at math! My husband, who was my boyfriend at the time, went into a daze and repeated several times “What do we do now?” He also tripped and cut his foot open on the baby gate we used to corral our dog. We were pretty stunned, but my biological clock had been screaming for the last year, so it was a happy event to see the unexpected plus sign.

To be continued...

Part 2

Part 3
Part 4

Part 5
Part 6

A Poem to My Small Self

Little girl within-
    frightened, choking, with no breath.

Take my adult hand.