I hate the war that vaccinations have become.
They are good. Really, really good.
But there are times when they aren't as good as they are supposed to be. And that is when I really get the "other side" that opts to take their chances.
Like 3 months ago, when Pebbles had a severe reaction to her DTP booster. It took a full month until her leg looked normal and she was back to normal behavior.
It scared the living daylights out of me.
It was recommended that we report the reaction to the CDC - so when I went to the first of many follow-up visits, I mentioned it to Dr. Grumps (not his real name) - the partner of our regular pediatrician, who is very competent, but has very a patriarchal, authoritarian bedside manner which makes me hate having to schedule an appointment when he's the one open. Dr. Grumps dismissed it. "Sometimes we over-react and assume it is the vaccine and it isn't," he said. And then he pumped Pebbles full of antibiotics - sure. Over reaction.
Day 1. Vaccine. Totally fine kiddo.
Day 2. Morning. Totally fine kiddo. Small red spot.
Day 2. Afternoon. NOT AT ALL FINE kiddo. Enormous (her whole thigh) red/purply/rashy looking thing all over her leg. Her leg is 3 times its normal size. She's cranky. Low fever. Leg is burning hot. She won't let anyone touch it.
Weeks later, after massive antibiotics (the follow-up one causing nausea/diarrhea for several days), her leg still looked abnormal, she was still cranky, she still wasn't sleeping. She still wasn't the same child "before". The doctor still insisted it wasn't CDC-worthy because it was so rare. So rare, because no one ever reports anything?
I began researching - turns out it IS uncommon according to the CDC. It is NOT as uncommon as they think, however, based on the number of parents sharing pictures and reaciton stories about the DPT vaccine. Pictures that looked just like Pebbles' leg.
Yesterday was Pebbles' 18-month well baby checkup. I skipped the vaccines. Call me a horrible mother. Call me un-informed or ill-informed or paranoid or "one of those people".
Or call me terrified and cautious. She'll get the vaccines. Just slowly. One vaccine at a time. And not while she's still battling another ear infection.
I am dealing with my own medical issues at the moment. I just cannot have another "well baby" turn into "month-long-sick-baby". Yes, I know it means she could contract the disease of the vaccine I skipped. But right now, the risk of reaction is far more prominent in my mind than the risk of delaying it slightly.
Call me one of those mothers. I'll understand. Hopefully you do too, because I'm already lumped in the "oddity" bucket a lot lately.
(p.s. I should note, Woodstock got her chicken pox shot for pre-school two weeks ago - so it's not like I've abandoned the vaccine wagon all together. Just delayed it a little more than I normally do).
Showing posts with label Health. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Health. Show all posts
Thursday, March 03, 2011
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
Breaking the Silence
I'm back. Again.
The holidays are over, there is hope winter might end before the next one begins (if only because the high has been above freezing lately - the mid-winter thaw always reminds me that while there is still winter left, it isn't forever), and every day a blog composes itself in my head that never makes it quite down on paper.
So for the 1/2 a reader that is even still interested: I am back. :) Tomorrow.
In the last two months we've had Pebbles' scary vaccine reaction, two bouts of bronchitis, asthma issues, the issuance of inhalers for 75% of our household (thank you very much, Frontier inversion), a flirtation with motion sickness resulting in a very stinky kiddo & carseat and an emergency side trip to my aunt's since we were an hour from home, a variety of colds, an ear infection, a funky viral rash and the return flareup of whatever digestive ailment has plagued me since my early teens. No one will ever believe me again that we rarely get sick. I maintain we've been passing the same virus back and forth and it just manifests different ways - made worse by the Frontier's toxic January air.
It has been exhausting. Naps have been disrupted. Nightime sleep has been upset. Work schedules have gotten creative. And the house looks like a bachelor pad.
This too, shall pass ... hopefully without anymore recycle germs.
The holidays are over, there is hope winter might end before the next one begins (if only because the high has been above freezing lately - the mid-winter thaw always reminds me that while there is still winter left, it isn't forever), and every day a blog composes itself in my head that never makes it quite down on paper.
So for the 1/2 a reader that is even still interested: I am back. :) Tomorrow.
In the last two months we've had Pebbles' scary vaccine reaction, two bouts of bronchitis, asthma issues, the issuance of inhalers for 75% of our household (thank you very much, Frontier inversion), a flirtation with motion sickness resulting in a very stinky kiddo & carseat and an emergency side trip to my aunt's since we were an hour from home, a variety of colds, an ear infection, a funky viral rash and the return flareup of whatever digestive ailment has plagued me since my early teens. No one will ever believe me again that we rarely get sick. I maintain we've been passing the same virus back and forth and it just manifests different ways - made worse by the Frontier's toxic January air.
It has been exhausting. Naps have been disrupted. Nightime sleep has been upset. Work schedules have gotten creative. And the house looks like a bachelor pad.
This too, shall pass ... hopefully without anymore recycle germs.
Thursday, September 02, 2010
The Return: Numbers Lie
SIDE NOTE: I'm back to blogging (hopefully) on a more regular basis. I've missed the 0.34 readers I probably still have.
This spring, I finally got around to having my first complete physical in nearly 7 years. Mind you, I've been to the doctor PLENTY in the last 7 years, I just haven't had a complete physical.
The numbers came back, as expected, looking stellar.
- My weight is normal
- My BMI is normal
- My blood pressure is great (it's so low that every single time a new person takes my blood pressure I have to reassure them that I am not ready to pass out/die, that it is, indeed really that low all the time)
- My heart rate is great
- My cholesterol is great
- In short, by the numbers, I LOOK like a perfectly healthy thirtysomething
Fast forward a couple of months to when I recently applied for an increase in my life insurance. I referenced the above numbers, which painted me as the epitome of perfect health. Until they asked for the actual details, not just the numbers.
GULP.
That is when the letter came that they were unsure as to my suitability for a policy increase and I would have to explain several things in order to further review my request. What made them question the perfect picture of young adult (can I still be a young adult? please tell me I'm not middle-aged yet!) health?
Maybe it was the fact that my asthma has grown 50% worse in the last 7 years (or the fact that I have asthma at all). Maybe it was the diagnosis of having a genetic clotting disorder, which now explains the previous mystery DVT I suffered during my last pregnancy, along with some other medical issues. Maybe it was the Zoloft script that was filled - though it still sits untouched in a kitchen cabinet - written during the worst of my anxiety this spring and kept on hand for when Pebbles is no longer dependent on me for a source of food.
And maybe ... it was all three.
I was eventually granted the additional policy, but not before I had to detail, essay-like, how none of the above were likely to kill me tomorrow. Were there risks? Certainly, but no more than my chances of being hit by a bus while crossing the street (which in The Frontier, I must admit, is pretty likely - never have I lived in a place with so many auto v. pedestrian incidents - fortunately the life insurance company is based somewhere else and likely doesn't realize this).
In short,the numbers lie. My body, which has long given me issues - simple and complex, minor and life-threatening, gives the outward appearance of being perfectly normal, but hides two genetic issues that require documentation every single time I go to the doctor, several chronic illnesses (one of which is asthma, worsening with age and the horrible inversion-laden winters of The Frontier) and a massive hormone disaster, chronic headaches, severe anxiety disorder and an ankle that can accurately predict the change in barometric pressure thanks to an unfortunate accident while visiting Detroit nearly a decade ago.
It's no wonder the life insurance company demanded answers - just reading that makes me picture a sallow, listless, old hag coughing up a lung, muttering to herself and limping around on a gimpy ankle.
I'm a regular mess.
But at least, for now, I'm insurable. And in today's day and age, that is really what matters, I guess.
Someone has to pay for the continuation of random incidents that seem to pop up and then prove to be a permanent little black raincloud on my medical record.
Sunday, April 18, 2010
Still here: On Living With Anxiety
Let's play a game.
Go to your TV set and unplug your cable or turn off the satellite box or remove the rabbit ears.
Turn on the TV so you get no picture or sound only static ("bug races" my father used to call them). Turn the sound down so you can barely hear it, and go about your day.
If you didn't get enough sleep, turn the volume up a couple of notches for each hour missed or interrupted.
If you feel tired at any point during the day, turn the volume up again each time.
Each time part of your routine is interrupted, shifted or eliminated, turn the volume up.
Each time anything is out of place, turn the volume up some more.
Each time you have to say a prayer, read anything, balance your checkbook, pay a bill, run errands, sit in silence, sit in chaos, pay attention, use a mental capacity beyond that of a small child or concentrate, turn the volume up.
Each time someone touches one of your extremities, turn the volume up some more.
If you have a child or a spouse, turn the volume up for each.
Each time your toddler empties an entire package of wipes, one by one, turn the volume up.
Each time the baby refuses to nap and only wants to be held by you, turn the volume up.
If you are not independently wealthy and are unemployed, turn the volume up.
If you have church or social commitments, turn the volume up for each one, each time.
Each time you have an unpredictable moment, turn the volume up.
Each time you are stressed, upset, disappointed, tired (again), bored, overwhelmed or challenged - turn the volume up.
Repeat daily for at least a week (do not reset the volume, the noise level must carry over from one day to the next).
If you are not deaf or insane, you win.
It's the best analogy I can come up with as to what it is like living with the constant static of my brain. While I've always been anxious and certain scenarios have triggered anxiety, over the last two years, the static has become almost constant - resulting in a diagnosis of Generalized Anxiety Disorder.
With the first onset of winter, the new long commute, life as a working mom with two kids and all the regular instances of life, things began to get worse.
And then I lost my job.
My first thought was, "Hallelujah, I can get back to healthy."
Except that structure is my one sure way to calm the noisy static, and being a work-at-home mom doing consulting projects while trying to decide the next move (and worrying about how to cover the deficit left when one's household income plunges by 65%) leaves little structure.
I'm at the beck and call of clients and my children and the tax man and bills and Himself, who is bewildered by the woman masquerading as his wife.
Just as in the game you cannot reset the volume, I cannot reset my brain. Quiet only makes the static seem louder. Even falling on my knees in desperation makes the static so loud I can recite nothing more than the simple prayers of my toddler. Every thought is filtered through static and a gauzy veil that muddles everything.
Every single nerve is over-stimulated - and anything that touches it (literally or figuratively) short-circuits and sparks.
Falling asleep requires a singular mental challenge tough enough to quiet the static for a few moments - (analogous to putting on noise-cancelling headphones). A crossword puzzle. Multiple rounds of solitaire. Counting all the edges in a room.
Hours are spent every day trying to remember what needs to be done - trying to muster enough concentration to finish a single task - trying not to melt down or sort circuit every time something happens.
Writing a sentence, problem-solving, discipline, praying, reading, thinking, sleeping ... doing anything that is not mechanical repetition requires every available brain cell and the absence of internal or external stimulation.
This is my life from the other side of crazy. It sounds crazy even to put it into words, and yet, it is my reality - one I am desperately trying to change.
Go on, play the game. I need someone who gets it.
Go to your TV set and unplug your cable or turn off the satellite box or remove the rabbit ears.
Turn on the TV so you get no picture or sound only static ("bug races" my father used to call them). Turn the sound down so you can barely hear it, and go about your day.
If you didn't get enough sleep, turn the volume up a couple of notches for each hour missed or interrupted.
If you feel tired at any point during the day, turn the volume up again each time.
Each time part of your routine is interrupted, shifted or eliminated, turn the volume up.
Each time anything is out of place, turn the volume up some more.
Each time you have to say a prayer, read anything, balance your checkbook, pay a bill, run errands, sit in silence, sit in chaos, pay attention, use a mental capacity beyond that of a small child or concentrate, turn the volume up.
Each time someone touches one of your extremities, turn the volume up some more.
If you have a child or a spouse, turn the volume up for each.
Each time your toddler empties an entire package of wipes, one by one, turn the volume up.
Each time the baby refuses to nap and only wants to be held by you, turn the volume up.
If you are not independently wealthy and are unemployed, turn the volume up.
If you have church or social commitments, turn the volume up for each one, each time.
Each time you have an unpredictable moment, turn the volume up.
Each time you are stressed, upset, disappointed, tired (again), bored, overwhelmed or challenged - turn the volume up.
Repeat daily for at least a week (do not reset the volume, the noise level must carry over from one day to the next).
If you are not deaf or insane, you win.
It's the best analogy I can come up with as to what it is like living with the constant static of my brain. While I've always been anxious and certain scenarios have triggered anxiety, over the last two years, the static has become almost constant - resulting in a diagnosis of Generalized Anxiety Disorder.
With the first onset of winter, the new long commute, life as a working mom with two kids and all the regular instances of life, things began to get worse.
And then I lost my job.
My first thought was, "Hallelujah, I can get back to healthy."
Except that structure is my one sure way to calm the noisy static, and being a work-at-home mom doing consulting projects while trying to decide the next move (and worrying about how to cover the deficit left when one's household income plunges by 65%) leaves little structure.
I'm at the beck and call of clients and my children and the tax man and bills and Himself, who is bewildered by the woman masquerading as his wife.
Just as in the game you cannot reset the volume, I cannot reset my brain. Quiet only makes the static seem louder. Even falling on my knees in desperation makes the static so loud I can recite nothing more than the simple prayers of my toddler. Every thought is filtered through static and a gauzy veil that muddles everything.
Every single nerve is over-stimulated - and anything that touches it (literally or figuratively) short-circuits and sparks.
Falling asleep requires a singular mental challenge tough enough to quiet the static for a few moments - (analogous to putting on noise-cancelling headphones). A crossword puzzle. Multiple rounds of solitaire. Counting all the edges in a room.
Hours are spent every day trying to remember what needs to be done - trying to muster enough concentration to finish a single task - trying not to melt down or sort circuit every time something happens.
Writing a sentence, problem-solving, discipline, praying, reading, thinking, sleeping ... doing anything that is not mechanical repetition requires every available brain cell and the absence of internal or external stimulation.
This is my life from the other side of crazy. It sounds crazy even to put it into words, and yet, it is my reality - one I am desperately trying to change.
Go on, play the game. I need someone who gets it.
Monday, July 20, 2009
Moon Walks and Vampires
On Moon Walks
20 years ago today, I made my first trek to the National Air & Space Museum in downtown D.C. I was spending the summer at my aunt and uncle's house in Virginia, and was mid-way through indulging myself in what would ultimately end up being a life-changing experience.
We had made several trips downtown in previous weeks - the first being for the not-to-be-missed 4th of July celebration on the National Mall - but we hadn't yet ventured to the Smithsonian museums on the mall's south side.
I certainly didn't recognize the significance of the day until my arrival (with hundreds of thousands of other people) at the air and space museum that day - the 20th anniversary of man's first walk on the moon. I touched a moon rock, gazed at real and replicated space craft and learned more about space in a few hours of reading every museum sign I could lay my eyes on than I had in all my nearly 11 years of life up to that point. It was, after all, only 3 short years after the Challenger disaster, my last real interaction with space, which had left me a bit skeptical and slightly bruised.
I remember feeling kind of important for being in a place so significant on the anniversary of such a great historical event. It was, ultimately, one of the things that gave D.C. such an incredible pull over my psyche. Standing in the middle of history was intoxicating - so intoxicating that it never quite left me, until I migrated back as an adult resident.
It's hard to believe 20 years - and so much more history - has passed. Today, as I listen to the recaps of the 40th celebration of man's walk on the moon, I can't help but reflect that for me, the lunar landing happened not on July 20, 1969, but on July 20, 1989, as I had the chance to re-live a piece of history in a city known for staging some of the most significant historical, political and social acts of the 20the 20th century.
That day, D.C. became my town.
On Vampires.
It surprises me, looking back, that the thing that terrified me most about my first surgery (at age 14) was not the surgery itself, or even the anesthetic (something I learned to fear with the next surgery, which left me in critical care on life support). Rather, my greatest fear was having my blood drawn and typed the week before surgery. It wasn't the needle so much as it was the fact that I had to sit and watch vials upon vials (or so it felt) of my blood leak out of my arm.
Today, as I journeyed to the hospital lab for my fourth blood draw in 12 days, I realized just how grateful I was that I go over the whole thing a long time ago. As it turns out, if one ends up with a blood clot while pregnant, one ends up spending a significant amount of time getting to knowvampires phlebotomists on a first-name basis. I have one more draw this week until the doctors determine if I am medicated at the correct level. Then I get to repeat the whole process in 10 days when I begin another drug that may or may not interact with the first one, requiring another two weeks of vampire lab visits every three days.
The whole experience has taught me something though - if you have to go in for frequent lab work, go to a hospital. Himself confessed that hospitalvampires phlebotomists generally have more experience overall (not to mention much more experience with difficult veins or people like me who now artificially bleed like a stuck pig upon the slightest abrasion) and are more skilled with a needle. I don't want to risk jeopardizing the streak yet, but so far, 5 sticks with needles (counting the one where I got stuck and didn't bleed - odd) and not a single, solitary bruise. A significant event, given the fact that this medication makes me bruise spontaneously.
It still doesn't make me terribly fond ofvampires blood draws, but at least it makes it tolerable. Plus, they give Woodstock a dum dum sucker if she happens to be with me, which makes her find my lab visits downright thrilling. And anything that makes a toddler happy, makes a toddler's mother very happy.
20 years ago today, I made my first trek to the National Air & Space Museum in downtown D.C. I was spending the summer at my aunt and uncle's house in Virginia, and was mid-way through indulging myself in what would ultimately end up being a life-changing experience.
We had made several trips downtown in previous weeks - the first being for the not-to-be-missed 4th of July celebration on the National Mall - but we hadn't yet ventured to the Smithsonian museums on the mall's south side.
I certainly didn't recognize the significance of the day until my arrival (with hundreds of thousands of other people) at the air and space museum that day - the 20th anniversary of man's first walk on the moon. I touched a moon rock, gazed at real and replicated space craft and learned more about space in a few hours of reading every museum sign I could lay my eyes on than I had in all my nearly 11 years of life up to that point. It was, after all, only 3 short years after the Challenger disaster, my last real interaction with space, which had left me a bit skeptical and slightly bruised.
I remember feeling kind of important for being in a place so significant on the anniversary of such a great historical event. It was, ultimately, one of the things that gave D.C. such an incredible pull over my psyche. Standing in the middle of history was intoxicating - so intoxicating that it never quite left me, until I migrated back as an adult resident.
It's hard to believe 20 years - and so much more history - has passed. Today, as I listen to the recaps of the 40th celebration of man's walk on the moon, I can't help but reflect that for me, the lunar landing happened not on July 20, 1969, but on July 20, 1989, as I had the chance to re-live a piece of history in a city known for staging some of the most significant historical, political and social acts of the 20the 20th century.
That day, D.C. became my town.
On Vampires.
It surprises me, looking back, that the thing that terrified me most about my first surgery (at age 14) was not the surgery itself, or even the anesthetic (something I learned to fear with the next surgery, which left me in critical care on life support). Rather, my greatest fear was having my blood drawn and typed the week before surgery. It wasn't the needle so much as it was the fact that I had to sit and watch vials upon vials (or so it felt) of my blood leak out of my arm.
Today, as I journeyed to the hospital lab for my fourth blood draw in 12 days, I realized just how grateful I was that I go over the whole thing a long time ago. As it turns out, if one ends up with a blood clot while pregnant, one ends up spending a significant amount of time getting to know
The whole experience has taught me something though - if you have to go in for frequent lab work, go to a hospital. Himself confessed that hospital
It still doesn't make me terribly fond of
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
Breaking (Obvious) News
Yesterday's health headline on MSNBC was "Pregnant Women More At Risk From Swine Flu".
A more obvious headline (and a more panic-inducing one for already homormonally deranged pregnant women) could not have been crafted.
What was more eye-rolling however, were the less-than-newsworthy tidbits the article provided, including:
The entire rest of the article goes on to talk about how Swine Flu does or doesn't differ from the regular flu virus, fears of it mutating and how the antiviral drugs are a good idea to lessen it's effects.
I can (sort of) understand the inital fear - an unknown virus, proving to be rather strong in Mexico, begins spreading worldwide. But I am at a total loss how it is STILL warranting fear-mongering headlines in the media. It's far less deadly than the regular flu (thus far), obviously is going to be more dangerous for certain groups and people do need to take stock of their personal hygiene, but does any of that warrant the crazy headlines/updates that are still going on? A simple "don't forget to keep washing your hands" PSA ought to suffice.
Signed,
Pregnant Woman with Asthma (who washes her hands and is healthy and sees no reason for publishing obvious "news" that is just meant to scare people)
A more obvious headline (and a more panic-inducing one for already homormonally deranged pregnant women) could not have been crafted.
What was more eye-rolling however, were the less-than-newsworthy tidbits the article provided, including:
- So far, the swine flu has not proven to be much more dangerous than seasonal influenza, and it’s not clear whether or not pregnant women catch swine flu more often than other people.
- In general, flu poses added risks for pregnant women
- Pregnancy weakens a woman’s immune system, so that she’s more likely to suffer pneumonia when she catches the flu
- Pregnant women with asthma and some other health conditions are particularly at risk for complications.
The entire rest of the article goes on to talk about how Swine Flu does or doesn't differ from the regular flu virus, fears of it mutating and how the antiviral drugs are a good idea to lessen it's effects.
I can (sort of) understand the inital fear - an unknown virus, proving to be rather strong in Mexico, begins spreading worldwide. But I am at a total loss how it is STILL warranting fear-mongering headlines in the media. It's far less deadly than the regular flu (thus far), obviously is going to be more dangerous for certain groups and people do need to take stock of their personal hygiene, but does any of that warrant the crazy headlines/updates that are still going on? A simple "don't forget to keep washing your hands" PSA ought to suffice.
Signed,
Pregnant Woman with Asthma (who washes her hands and is healthy and sees no reason for publishing obvious "news" that is just meant to scare people)
Thursday, February 19, 2009
One of Those Parents
One of my greatest fears is being one of those parents, but since I'm wildly opinionated and highly stubborn, I suppose it's probably inevitable at some point that someone won't agree with me. It's not like I haven't had 30 years of practice at it.
But this one makes me feel horribly guilty, even while doing it for the life and safety of my child ... I am the nursery treats enforcer.
Woodstock, while two weeks' shy of "legal" nursery-attending age, started nursery this past week, mostly because I wanted to warn the nursery leaders and children's sunday school leader of the "Treat Issue."
Unfortunately, people hear "peanut" and tune me out, patronizing me with, "Oh we never serve treats with peanuts, so don't worry," then promptly turn their backs, failing to realize my mouth is still moving like a fish gasping for breath out of water (even though we all know fish breathe through gills and not their mouths).
The problem is, it isn't just peanuts. Or it, is, technically, but it's not just the consumption of actual peanuts. I'm one of those very fortunate parents to have a child with a life-threatening allergy to something she if she so much as looks at the food (not quite, but touching it and rubbing her eye or kissing someone who has eaten peanuts is enough to cause a reaction). That means, if a parent bakes peanut butter cookies on a baking sheet two weeks ago and doesn't wash it in soap and hot water (you don't wash baking stones with soap) and then bakes cookies for nursery on it - it's enough to potentially cause an anaphylactic reaction in Woodstock. It means if they bring in Stouffer's animal crackers, which "may contain peanuts" and there is a sliver of a peanut - it is potentially enough to cause an anaphylactic reaction. And so forth.
It means at least two major brands of animal crackers are out. As are home-baked treats. Ritz bits of any kind. Bakery treats from store bakeries. Some cereals (did you know some kinds of Chex have peanut flour in them?). Anything with "processed on the same equipment as ..." or "may contain ...". And so forth.
And ... it's all speculation. It might be enough to trigger a reaction. It possibly could be a huge problem. But Woodstock has had two anaphylactic reactions to peanuts without ever having ingested an actual peanut in her life, so it's not exactly over-reacting, even if it feels like it.
I hate being the parent who has to be pushy and demanding to get someone to listen.
I hate being the parent who has to tape a note to the treat bucket with a ridiculous list of "thou shalt not bring..." because "Deathly Allergic to Peanuts" doesn't cast a wide enough net.
I hate being the parent that has to ask for a completely peanut- and nut-free nursery because keeping toddlers and pre-schoolers from "sharing" (er, stealing) each other's food is nearly impossible. And because if the peanut content is high enough, the other kids could cause a reaction in Woodstock just by swapping saliva (who thought they'd have to worry about that prior to tweendom?!). So none of the other kids can have it either. And that makes me feel like a real pain-in-the-rear-end.
I hate being the parent who worries every week if Woodstock is going to be okay. I have to do it five days a week (with slightly less obsession, but there was one scary moment on Valentine's Day where Woodstock got into the other kids' M&Ms).
I hate being the parent who sounds like she's crying wolf, with tales of epi pens and hospitals and swollen throats - evne though it's all true - because it sounds so ... over-dramatic.
I hate being that parent.
I've lived through one week of nursery. Roughly 95 more weeks to go (plus or minus a few). I'm just glad she's not deathly allergic to something like dairy or eggs or soy.
But this one makes me feel horribly guilty, even while doing it for the life and safety of my child ... I am the nursery treats enforcer.
Woodstock, while two weeks' shy of "legal" nursery-attending age, started nursery this past week, mostly because I wanted to warn the nursery leaders and children's sunday school leader of the "Treat Issue."
Unfortunately, people hear "peanut" and tune me out, patronizing me with, "Oh we never serve treats with peanuts, so don't worry," then promptly turn their backs, failing to realize my mouth is still moving like a fish gasping for breath out of water (even though we all know fish breathe through gills and not their mouths).
The problem is, it isn't just peanuts. Or it, is, technically, but it's not just the consumption of actual peanuts. I'm one of those very fortunate parents to have a child with a life-threatening allergy to something she if she so much as looks at the food (not quite, but touching it and rubbing her eye or kissing someone who has eaten peanuts is enough to cause a reaction). That means, if a parent bakes peanut butter cookies on a baking sheet two weeks ago and doesn't wash it in soap and hot water (you don't wash baking stones with soap) and then bakes cookies for nursery on it - it's enough to potentially cause an anaphylactic reaction in Woodstock. It means if they bring in Stouffer's animal crackers, which "may contain peanuts" and there is a sliver of a peanut - it is potentially enough to cause an anaphylactic reaction. And so forth.
It means at least two major brands of animal crackers are out. As are home-baked treats. Ritz bits of any kind. Bakery treats from store bakeries. Some cereals (did you know some kinds of Chex have peanut flour in them?). Anything with "processed on the same equipment as ..." or "may contain ...". And so forth.
And ... it's all speculation. It might be enough to trigger a reaction. It possibly could be a huge problem. But Woodstock has had two anaphylactic reactions to peanuts without ever having ingested an actual peanut in her life, so it's not exactly over-reacting, even if it feels like it.
I hate being the parent who has to be pushy and demanding to get someone to listen.
I hate being the parent who has to tape a note to the treat bucket with a ridiculous list of "thou shalt not bring..." because "Deathly Allergic to Peanuts" doesn't cast a wide enough net.
I hate being the parent that has to ask for a completely peanut- and nut-free nursery because keeping toddlers and pre-schoolers from "sharing" (er, stealing) each other's food is nearly impossible. And because if the peanut content is high enough, the other kids could cause a reaction in Woodstock just by swapping saliva (who thought they'd have to worry about that prior to tweendom?!). So none of the other kids can have it either. And that makes me feel like a real pain-in-the-rear-end.
I hate being the parent who worries every week if Woodstock is going to be okay. I have to do it five days a week (with slightly less obsession, but there was one scary moment on Valentine's Day where Woodstock got into the other kids' M&Ms).
I hate being the parent who sounds like she's crying wolf, with tales of epi pens and hospitals and swollen throats - evne though it's all true - because it sounds so ... over-dramatic.
I hate being that parent.
I've lived through one week of nursery. Roughly 95 more weeks to go (plus or minus a few). I'm just glad she's not deathly allergic to something like dairy or eggs or soy.
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
Curses
Less than 48 hours after Himself and I got married, I left on a nearly three-week business trip that had me jetting from VA to CA to Florida. I was gone all but three weeks of our first three months as a married couple. For the next year, I continued to travel extensively - 8-15 days a month, on average, 7 or 8 months out of the year.
So it really is Himself's turn to go away on business trips to exotic (ha!) destinations, dine at new restaurants, schmooze with complete strangers, and sleep in some anonymous hotel room.
Except, when I was doing it, I left Himself to look after our cat, Rameses.
My payback is I get to play single parent to a toddler - which is more than fine. Woodstock is a lovely toddler and it's really only like playing single parent for a couple of hours a day anyway. Not a big deal. Plus, we get to eat pasta for dinner and we get to eat all of the blackberries I bought by ourselves, because they certainly won't be good when Himself returns at week's end.
However, I seem to be cursed to fall apart physically when Himself takes his (now) monthly business trips. I had felt like the typical lousy pregnant woman over the weekend - the "morning" (code word for "all day") sickness keeps rearing it's ugly head and anything other than sweats hurts my now very tender, VERY bruised mid-section. But yesterday was new ... I woke up with stabbing abdominal pains and all manner of digestive protestations. We'll leave what could be a very colorful (and gross) description at merely that.
I dropped Himself off at the airport, then ventured to Happy Valley to celebrate my mom's birthday with her family (my mom and sister were in town for the weekend). I managed to get through the lunch without eating more than a few bites and therefore saving myself (and others) from any mid-meal bathroom dashes.
I bid adieu to the family, then drug Woodstock (half asleep) to one of those department store having crazy sales to look for cold-weather gear for her for next season.
On the way home, I was struck with absolute searing pain and narcolepsy and had to pull over in a grocery store parking lot to sleep for 40 minutes (Woodstock, fortunately, was also napping) in the car. I awoke to Woodstock saying "Mommy! All done! Woodstock all done!" As much as I wanted to sleep for another month, Woodstock was not about to let me - something about being strapped into a carseat for half the day.
I made it home, fed Woodstock leftovers and collapsed.
I woke up this morning with the digestive issues at a slightly duller roar, searing pain still alive and well. At least I've kept down cereal, but liquids are another (strange) matter.
Just like last time - fine until the day Himself leaves, then WHAM! some sort of ailment hits me out of nowhere.
Friday cannot come soon enough. Or, maybe I should just be realistic and say August. I'm really looking forward to August.
So it really is Himself's turn to go away on business trips to exotic (ha!) destinations, dine at new restaurants, schmooze with complete strangers, and sleep in some anonymous hotel room.
Except, when I was doing it, I left Himself to look after our cat, Rameses.
My payback is I get to play single parent to a toddler - which is more than fine. Woodstock is a lovely toddler and it's really only like playing single parent for a couple of hours a day anyway. Not a big deal. Plus, we get to eat pasta for dinner and we get to eat all of the blackberries I bought by ourselves, because they certainly won't be good when Himself returns at week's end.
However, I seem to be cursed to fall apart physically when Himself takes his (now) monthly business trips. I had felt like the typical lousy pregnant woman over the weekend - the "morning" (code word for "all day") sickness keeps rearing it's ugly head and anything other than sweats hurts my now very tender, VERY bruised mid-section. But yesterday was new ... I woke up with stabbing abdominal pains and all manner of digestive protestations. We'll leave what could be a very colorful (and gross) description at merely that.
I dropped Himself off at the airport, then ventured to Happy Valley to celebrate my mom's birthday with her family (my mom and sister were in town for the weekend). I managed to get through the lunch without eating more than a few bites and therefore saving myself (and others) from any mid-meal bathroom dashes.
I bid adieu to the family, then drug Woodstock (half asleep) to one of those department store having crazy sales to look for cold-weather gear for her for next season.
On the way home, I was struck with absolute searing pain and narcolepsy and had to pull over in a grocery store parking lot to sleep for 40 minutes (Woodstock, fortunately, was also napping) in the car. I awoke to Woodstock saying "Mommy! All done! Woodstock all done!" As much as I wanted to sleep for another month, Woodstock was not about to let me - something about being strapped into a carseat for half the day.
I made it home, fed Woodstock leftovers and collapsed.
I woke up this morning with the digestive issues at a slightly duller roar, searing pain still alive and well. At least I've kept down cereal, but liquids are another (strange) matter.
Just like last time - fine until the day Himself leaves, then WHAM! some sort of ailment hits me out of nowhere.
Friday cannot come soon enough. Or, maybe I should just be realistic and say August. I'm really looking forward to August.
Monday, February 09, 2009
The Good, The Bad and the REALLY REALLY Ugly
One of the unique things about having multiple deep-vein clots is the significant damage it wreaks on one's vein. That, coupled with the lingering dull ache (a result of the blood coursing through the weakened vein) and the continuing risk of clots, made my doctor issue the dreaded order: compression stockings.
So it is that every morning before I get out of bed (note: must remember to shower at night - I forgot last night, got my stockings on this morning only to remember I had yet to shower - having to repeat the whole nightmarish process), I flop around like a dying fish in order to get the opaque, "nude" ("nude" if your skin is about 15 shades darker than mine is) stockings up to my upper thighs.
On the mornings I get up earlier than Himself, Himself does not seem to appreciate it so much, but they go on oh-so-much-easier before I get out of bed than after. (If there is such thing as "easier" and "compression stockings" in one breath).
There are, however, some good (if you squint your eyes, cock your head and hop up and down while thinking of them) things ... along with the bad and the really, really ugly.
The Good
Be afraid, be very, very afraid.
So it is that every morning before I get out of bed (note: must remember to shower at night - I forgot last night, got my stockings on this morning only to remember I had yet to shower - having to repeat the whole nightmarish process), I flop around like a dying fish in order to get the opaque, "nude" ("nude" if your skin is about 15 shades darker than mine is) stockings up to my upper thighs.
On the mornings I get up earlier than Himself, Himself does not seem to appreciate it so much, but they go on oh-so-much-easier before I get out of bed than after. (If there is such thing as "easier" and "compression stockings" in one breath).
There are, however, some good (if you squint your eyes, cock your head and hop up and down while thinking of them) things ... along with the bad and the really, really ugly.
The Good
- They keep my legs roasty-toasty warm in the frigid outdoor weather of The Frontier.
- My legs look skinnier - they're like really ugly spanx
- They are toeless and thigh-high, so my toes won't suffocate (I loathe wearing socks and only do so during the winter unless given no other choice). Additionally, I will not have to hoist them over my belly in later stages or deal with additional fabric on my stomach (another thing that drives me to the brink of insanity)
- They are, as I mentioned previously, "nude" v. the hospital white ones my grandmother wore a decade ago.
- As much as they keep my legs roasty, toasty warm in the winter, wearing thick compression hose in the summer - especially while 9 months pregnant in the truly miserable month of August - makes me want to run far, far away.
- They are EXPENSIVE - at a price tag more than every other pair of socks Himself, myself, Woodstock and half the neighborhood own combined
- I have to wear the prescription variety - the highest compression they make. This is equivalent to wrapping one's legs in thick rubber bands and smiling about it.
- They add an extra 10 minutes, per leg, to my morning routine, just to get the darn things on (all while envisioning thoughts of cutting off all circulation to my feet prior to successfully getting them all the way up my leg)
- Because they are trying to minimize further vein damage, as well as correct the damage that has already been done and prevent further clots, I have to wear them a minimum of eight months
- While they hide rather nicely (the "rather" is because what leftover fat/tissue they displace on my leg gets pushed up into my rear, giving me an odd-shaped behind) under trousers, I can only imagine the beauty-queen contestant I'm going to look like this summer with them screaming out from under my summer-weight, summer-length clothing.
I'm not much for one to worry about fashion, but I have a sneaky suspicion that the granny socks, my fat, pregnant belly (that is already dotted with pencil-, dime- and quarter-sized injection bruises), and maternity clothes that are never cute, regardless of how hard one tries, are going to combine to make me one hot mama this summer (in more ways than one). The fashion world will never quite be the same again.
Be afraid, be very, very afraid.
Friday, February 06, 2009
Except, that's not actually all ...
Woodstock's pending big-sisterhood is indeed thrilling, moreso after the drama of the last month passes.
However, it is somewhat baffling and miraculous. It took a year, obsessing, charting, doctor's visits galore, a miscarriage and drugs to bring Woodstock into existence.
This one ... well, let's just say it involved an adult night out and the apparent lining up of all the planets, a half million stars and good universal karma, AND the month of December (Grover and Woodstock are September babies, this one ... an August baby ... do the math) because, it just happened.
Just happened? To me? The kid who has know about her potential fertility issues for 15 years. Seriously? Clearly they got the wrong person. I'm not supposed to be able to have "surprises." It is supposed to involve a lot of work, drugs and agonizing to create a child(apparently nature got it backwords this time - the work, drugs and agonizing came after). Even the doctor was baffled. The first (of many) that I saw said, "You do realize this doesn't happen to severe PCOS patients, right? It's a miracle, because this just doesn't happen."
Yes, I know. Which is why I wasn't sure to feel gleeful or stunned when there were two lines on the stick, proclaiming that I did NOT have the stomach flu last month. The good thing about thinking one has the stomach flu and being in a state of blissful denial is that a good half of one's first trimester passes without actually realizing it. The second half, however, has made up for that.
I got to enjoy the prospect for all of about two weeks before the blood clots and resulting drama showed up. Between the medication, which makes me nauseated and the all day sickness, my weight is going in the wrong direction. Between the drugs and the $125 compression stockings I now (not-so-proudly) own, the weight of my wallet is also going in the wrong direction.
The clot issue has compounded both the symptoms and the complex nature of how hard a pregnancy is on a woman's body. But we have arms and legs on a body 1.5" long.
All of that aside, the drama and discomfort and inconvenience and cost doesn't really matter. We're having a baby. And that, above all else, is something I will NEVER take for granted. Ever.
However, it is somewhat baffling and miraculous. It took a year, obsessing, charting, doctor's visits galore, a miscarriage and drugs to bring Woodstock into existence.
This one ... well, let's just say it involved an adult night out and the apparent lining up of all the planets, a half million stars and good universal karma, AND the month of December (Grover and Woodstock are September babies, this one ... an August baby ... do the math) because, it just happened.
Just happened? To me? The kid who has know about her potential fertility issues for 15 years. Seriously? Clearly they got the wrong person. I'm not supposed to be able to have "surprises." It is supposed to involve a lot of work, drugs and agonizing to create a child(apparently nature got it backwords this time - the work, drugs and agonizing came after). Even the doctor was baffled. The first (of many) that I saw said, "You do realize this doesn't happen to severe PCOS patients, right? It's a miracle, because this just doesn't happen."
Yes, I know. Which is why I wasn't sure to feel gleeful or stunned when there were two lines on the stick, proclaiming that I did NOT have the stomach flu last month. The good thing about thinking one has the stomach flu and being in a state of blissful denial is that a good half of one's first trimester passes without actually realizing it. The second half, however, has made up for that.
I got to enjoy the prospect for all of about two weeks before the blood clots and resulting drama showed up. Between the medication, which makes me nauseated and the all day sickness, my weight is going in the wrong direction. Between the drugs and the $125 compression stockings I now (not-so-proudly) own, the weight of my wallet is also going in the wrong direction.
The clot issue has compounded both the symptoms and the complex nature of how hard a pregnancy is on a woman's body. But we have arms and legs on a body 1.5" long.
All of that aside, the drama and discomfort and inconvenience and cost doesn't really matter. We're having a baby. And that, above all else, is something I will NEVER take for granted. Ever.
Wednesday, February 04, 2009
Too Many Dead Brain Cells
Two words: Wicked. Insomnia.
Combined with a couple of medical issues and ... whoo boy, am I grumpy and flaky and in posession of far too many dead brain cells.
For instance ...
Yesterday I spent the better part of my day proclaiming Five Guys as one of the premier burger places via Twitter. Somehow, a group of us decided to have a Tweetup at FiveGuys next week - a bunch of social media geeks who know each other only by Twitter handles and virtual interaction via a social media networking organization.
It was a slow day and ... lately burgers (shocking) have sounded wonderful.
Except, it spilled over into today (ever tried to arrange a meeting with six people via Twitter? You run out of characters before you finish doing the @replies), and today is most definitely not slow, except in the processing facilities inside my foggy head.
In the midst of burger-and-work madness, I've already blown of a meeting today (fortunately rescued by the skin of my teeth when the visitor popped his head in my office on his way to the meeting and said, "I'm excited for today's meeting." Um, yes, me too...WHAT MEETING?!)
As I've mentioned before, this is the year of more doctor's visits than I can possibly keep track of, which is why I should not have been at all perplexed when a representative from the hospital system called me to register for my "upcoming procedure."
Um, what?!
Of course, HIPPA laws being what they are, the hospital couldn't tell me exactly what procedure I've been scheduled for - or when - so I had to play elimination. Probably not something I scheduled. That eliminates Friday's appointment. Probably not something my doctor scheduled. That eliminates a couple of other appointments. Hmmm...but there is the doctor's appointment tomorrow - the one where I don't actually have a physical address for the office and where I'm not sure if I need to do anything in advance.
I pick that one. The hospital lady says "Ding! Ding! Ding!" (in so many words) and then it's time to play "Which Procedure Might the Doctor Have Scheduled for You at the Hospital?" Except, well, truly I have no idea. So I hang up and call the doctor's office, telling them that I have two very dumb questions.
1. "Can you give me your address - I have an appointment and have zero idea where to go." She laughs and tells me it's in the biggest hospital in the valley - you know the one you can see from the Interstate miles away? Oh. That would be what IMC Suite 101 stands for as well as explain the vague response I got when I asked my doctor what the street address was - the hospital takes up four city blocks.
2. "The hospital wants to know what procedure I'm having tomorrow - at this point, I think I'm rather curious as well." The receptionist laughed. "They've jumped the gun. We just have you down as a "possible" - not going to send you unless we determine you need it." Comforting. It wasn't something I forgot.
Of course, she couldn't promise the visit wouldn't involve needles (I still have a 4" bruise from my last encounter with a lab TWO WEEKS ago, compliments of the anti-clotting meds. And my tummy looks like a dartboard in a poorly lit bar (where no one hits the same place twice).
On top of that, I have a major proposal due today - one for a major brand-name publishing house and a major musician. One that is coming at an agonizingly slow pace. It seems I've forgotten how to segment strategies, tactics and technical schemas with all the dead/leaky brain cells lately.
And it seems I've forgotten how to sleep. I am tired, so very, very tired.
But I'm having Five Guys next week - and a very long doctor's visit tomorrow. It's the variety that keeps one's life spicy ... isn't it? See. I have accomplished something. Just not anything that counts at the moment.
Any good remedies for reincarnating dead brain cells?
Combined with a couple of medical issues and ... whoo boy, am I grumpy and flaky and in posession of far too many dead brain cells.
For instance ...
Yesterday I spent the better part of my day proclaiming Five Guys as one of the premier burger places via Twitter. Somehow, a group of us decided to have a Tweetup at FiveGuys next week - a bunch of social media geeks who know each other only by Twitter handles and virtual interaction via a social media networking organization.
It was a slow day and ... lately burgers (shocking) have sounded wonderful.
Except, it spilled over into today (ever tried to arrange a meeting with six people via Twitter? You run out of characters before you finish doing the @replies), and today is most definitely not slow, except in the processing facilities inside my foggy head.
In the midst of burger-and-work madness, I've already blown of a meeting today (fortunately rescued by the skin of my teeth when the visitor popped his head in my office on his way to the meeting and said, "I'm excited for today's meeting." Um, yes, me too...WHAT MEETING?!)
As I've mentioned before, this is the year of more doctor's visits than I can possibly keep track of, which is why I should not have been at all perplexed when a representative from the hospital system called me to register for my "upcoming procedure."
Um, what?!
Of course, HIPPA laws being what they are, the hospital couldn't tell me exactly what procedure I've been scheduled for - or when - so I had to play elimination. Probably not something I scheduled. That eliminates Friday's appointment. Probably not something my doctor scheduled. That eliminates a couple of other appointments. Hmmm...but there is the doctor's appointment tomorrow - the one where I don't actually have a physical address for the office and where I'm not sure if I need to do anything in advance.
I pick that one. The hospital lady says "Ding! Ding! Ding!" (in so many words) and then it's time to play "Which Procedure Might the Doctor Have Scheduled for You at the Hospital?" Except, well, truly I have no idea. So I hang up and call the doctor's office, telling them that I have two very dumb questions.
1. "Can you give me your address - I have an appointment and have zero idea where to go." She laughs and tells me it's in the biggest hospital in the valley - you know the one you can see from the Interstate miles away? Oh. That would be what IMC Suite 101 stands for as well as explain the vague response I got when I asked my doctor what the street address was - the hospital takes up four city blocks.
2. "The hospital wants to know what procedure I'm having tomorrow - at this point, I think I'm rather curious as well." The receptionist laughed. "They've jumped the gun. We just have you down as a "possible" - not going to send you unless we determine you need it." Comforting. It wasn't something I forgot.
Of course, she couldn't promise the visit wouldn't involve needles (I still have a 4" bruise from my last encounter with a lab TWO WEEKS ago, compliments of the anti-clotting meds. And my tummy looks like a dartboard in a poorly lit bar (where no one hits the same place twice).
On top of that, I have a major proposal due today - one for a major brand-name publishing house and a major musician. One that is coming at an agonizingly slow pace. It seems I've forgotten how to segment strategies, tactics and technical schemas with all the dead/leaky brain cells lately.
And it seems I've forgotten how to sleep. I am tired, so very, very tired.
But I'm having Five Guys next week - and a very long doctor's visit tomorrow. It's the variety that keeps one's life spicy ... isn't it? See. I have accomplished something. Just not anything that counts at the moment.
Any good remedies for reincarnating dead brain cells?
Friday, January 30, 2009
On Martinis & Manicures
Fertility is a sticky subject - it often goes up there with religion, politics and other things one doesn't discuss "in polite company," but it's been an issue with which I've become well acquainted - through my own journey and that of friends - over the last 15 years.
So it was with interest that I read this Newsweek article this week, about the American Fertility Association holding "Manicures and Martinis" at a chic nail salon in Manhattan. If you discount the oddity of having alcoholic drinks at a fertility info session, it sounds intriguing.
But I was more intrigued to learn about the target audience - women in their mid-twenties to mid-thirties. Of course, given the "martini" portion of the event, they couldn't very well target it to younger, college-aged women, but I couldn't help but think it should be something expanded to a younger crowd.
I had the rare luck of having a mom who thought understanding one's body was the key to living a long, healthy life - so she drug me to the gynecologist at age 15, when I was clearly having issues that didn't seem to be quite right. It was then that I was initially diagnosed with PCOS. It was then that I knew there was likely a chance of having a significant chance of fertility issues when it came time to having children. It was in the early days of PCOS as a named endocrine disorder and a lot of research and attention have been devoted to it since, but I dealt with it in my own way - I decided I simply wasn't having children. If I didn't want them, I couldn't be disappointed if they never came.
Clearly my thought process evolved over the years. And while I opted not to try having a baby until my later 20s, I did it with the knowledge that it may increase my chances of not conceiving. But fertility wasn't much on my mind - it was the pile of other related issues that come with having PCOS - and I was continually glad that I hadn't had to spend my 20s (or 30s) wondering what was wrong with me.
Back to the article. My opinion is based solely on my experience and the experience of friends, but I think the AFA should expand their campaign and target younger women as well.
I think too little attention is paid to educating young women - those in their late teens and early twenties - about their bodies - fertility included. It is just assumed that once they become "involved" (I don't need crazy people finding my blog) or married that they'll see a doctor and figure things out. Until then ... well, what's the need? I can't imagine how isolated I would have felt discovering my issues on my own and not knowing how or with whom to converse - like the failure of my endocrine system was to be some sort of scarlet A on my head, indicating that my womanhood was all messed up. In reality, it's just biology - but biology of the part wherein a woman's emotions (and often, identity) can be deeply rooted.
I love to see an extension of the campaign by the AFA about understanding how your body works - and what kinds of things are signs that things are not quite "normal" - targeted at college-aged-women. Include information about fertility, but also about how the body works and the power that understanding your body gives you as a woman. I could tell you some pretty shocking stories of things that happen when that kind of information isn't freely shared.
I consider myself fortunate. My mom paved the way for me to have a lifetime of knowledge at a young age, I was blessed with an inherent love of biology and all things physiological, and I was blessed with a child. Yes, my endocrine system is a mess. Yes, I hate some of the resulting issues - but I know what they are and what risk factors they bring. What I deeply wish, however, is that it hadn't been a taboo topic for my grandmothers' generations. Family lore indicates there were 'issues' - quite possibly genetic - but no one knows, because those sorts of things weren't discussed.
Regardless of the little tweaks I think the campaign needs, I'm glad to see it become an open subject of conversation. I plan on doing my own sort of "Your body - here's the deal" with Woodstock down the road. Sans the martinis, of course.
So it was with interest that I read this Newsweek article this week, about the American Fertility Association holding "Manicures and Martinis" at a chic nail salon in Manhattan. If you discount the oddity of having alcoholic drinks at a fertility info session, it sounds intriguing.
But I was more intrigued to learn about the target audience - women in their mid-twenties to mid-thirties. Of course, given the "martini" portion of the event, they couldn't very well target it to younger, college-aged women, but I couldn't help but think it should be something expanded to a younger crowd.
I had the rare luck of having a mom who thought understanding one's body was the key to living a long, healthy life - so she drug me to the gynecologist at age 15, when I was clearly having issues that didn't seem to be quite right. It was then that I was initially diagnosed with PCOS. It was then that I knew there was likely a chance of having a significant chance of fertility issues when it came time to having children. It was in the early days of PCOS as a named endocrine disorder and a lot of research and attention have been devoted to it since, but I dealt with it in my own way - I decided I simply wasn't having children. If I didn't want them, I couldn't be disappointed if they never came.
Clearly my thought process evolved over the years. And while I opted not to try having a baby until my later 20s, I did it with the knowledge that it may increase my chances of not conceiving. But fertility wasn't much on my mind - it was the pile of other related issues that come with having PCOS - and I was continually glad that I hadn't had to spend my 20s (or 30s) wondering what was wrong with me.
Back to the article. My opinion is based solely on my experience and the experience of friends, but I think the AFA should expand their campaign and target younger women as well.
I think too little attention is paid to educating young women - those in their late teens and early twenties - about their bodies - fertility included. It is just assumed that once they become "involved" (I don't need crazy people finding my blog) or married that they'll see a doctor and figure things out. Until then ... well, what's the need? I can't imagine how isolated I would have felt discovering my issues on my own and not knowing how or with whom to converse - like the failure of my endocrine system was to be some sort of scarlet A on my head, indicating that my womanhood was all messed up. In reality, it's just biology - but biology of the part wherein a woman's emotions (and often, identity) can be deeply rooted.
I love to see an extension of the campaign by the AFA about understanding how your body works - and what kinds of things are signs that things are not quite "normal" - targeted at college-aged-women. Include information about fertility, but also about how the body works and the power that understanding your body gives you as a woman. I could tell you some pretty shocking stories of things that happen when that kind of information isn't freely shared.
I consider myself fortunate. My mom paved the way for me to have a lifetime of knowledge at a young age, I was blessed with an inherent love of biology and all things physiological, and I was blessed with a child. Yes, my endocrine system is a mess. Yes, I hate some of the resulting issues - but I know what they are and what risk factors they bring. What I deeply wish, however, is that it hadn't been a taboo topic for my grandmothers' generations. Family lore indicates there were 'issues' - quite possibly genetic - but no one knows, because those sorts of things weren't discussed.
Regardless of the little tweaks I think the campaign needs, I'm glad to see it become an open subject of conversation. I plan on doing my own sort of "Your body - here's the deal" with Woodstock down the road. Sans the martinis, of course.
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
The Hand of Providence
My Sunday School lesson this week is on personal revelation. As I've begun to study the materials and scriptures associated with it, I've become extraordinarily aware of just how much personal revelation, promptings and answers to prayer have played such a key role in my life over the last 12 months.
For months, I prayed for a new job to replace The Factory, where I worked for the Wicked Witch and struggled personally, professionally and emotionally. For months, I received the distinct answer, "It's not time." Then the entire thing came crumbling down around me and I moaned, "I tried to leave - why didn't you let me leave?" Only to discover a better job for my situation sitting under my nose. One that would not have been there three or six months prior.
There were big things like that, but there have been little things over the last month that have proven to be just as significant. Like the fact that 12 days ago, I read an article on something about pains you shouldn't ignore - including non-muscular calf pain. Two days later, I end up with a sharp pain in my calf. I thought it was psychosomatic, but the doctor recommended I come in and be seen anyway. Turns out, there were no indicators of anything significant, but when the pain got worse, the doctor complied with my plea of "you have to do something - something isn't right" and ordered an ultrasound. Sure enough, several deep-vein clots had taken up residence in the vein behind my knee.
I was in need of a doctor early in the month. I asked for recommendations, looked at my insurance plans and fretted. I chose one - highly recommended online, by people I knew and accepted both my insurances. However, it was a solo practice. I just couldn't shake the feeling in the back of my mind that I wasn't quite comfortable - nor could I explain in any rational fashion why I wasn't comfortable. I ended up going with another practitioner at the last minute - one who practices in a larger practice that includes an in-house lab, several doctors and a connection with some key specialists in the valley. Three weeks later, I am eternally grateful for having made that decision, given the amount of time I've spent in the lab, with ALL of the practice's doctors and the time I will be spending with the specialists with whom they consult.
Sure, it could be coincidence, but too many things in my life have happened to put much stock in happenstance. It's easy to get caught up in living the life of Super Woman and forget that there are little times, little feelings/promptings/answers that guide you in a certain way. I'm a firm believer in mother's intuition. I'm a firm believer that there is Someone who cares very much about me and my life and if I'd only be patient (I would work on this, but my one stint praying for patience was such a disaster I now maintain - be careful what you pray for, you might just get the opportunity) I can see the Hand of Providence weaving a very careful tapestry of my life - just so.
I am beyond comforted as I prepare my lesson this week. I know it will be one of those weeks when I learn far more than the 15+ 15(ish)-year-olds who will shuffle into my classroom on Sunday. I'm comforted to recognize the big and little instances where God has directed my life, especially those of late, as I face some challenges, unknowns and decisions in the upcoming months.
Somtimes, it's good to know one is not alone, in whatever way that is manifested.
For months, I prayed for a new job to replace The Factory, where I worked for the Wicked Witch and struggled personally, professionally and emotionally. For months, I received the distinct answer, "It's not time." Then the entire thing came crumbling down around me and I moaned, "I tried to leave - why didn't you let me leave?" Only to discover a better job for my situation sitting under my nose. One that would not have been there three or six months prior.
There were big things like that, but there have been little things over the last month that have proven to be just as significant. Like the fact that 12 days ago, I read an article on something about pains you shouldn't ignore - including non-muscular calf pain. Two days later, I end up with a sharp pain in my calf. I thought it was psychosomatic, but the doctor recommended I come in and be seen anyway. Turns out, there were no indicators of anything significant, but when the pain got worse, the doctor complied with my plea of "you have to do something - something isn't right" and ordered an ultrasound. Sure enough, several deep-vein clots had taken up residence in the vein behind my knee.
I was in need of a doctor early in the month. I asked for recommendations, looked at my insurance plans and fretted. I chose one - highly recommended online, by people I knew and accepted both my insurances. However, it was a solo practice. I just couldn't shake the feeling in the back of my mind that I wasn't quite comfortable - nor could I explain in any rational fashion why I wasn't comfortable. I ended up going with another practitioner at the last minute - one who practices in a larger practice that includes an in-house lab, several doctors and a connection with some key specialists in the valley. Three weeks later, I am eternally grateful for having made that decision, given the amount of time I've spent in the lab, with ALL of the practice's doctors and the time I will be spending with the specialists with whom they consult.
Sure, it could be coincidence, but too many things in my life have happened to put much stock in happenstance. It's easy to get caught up in living the life of Super Woman and forget that there are little times, little feelings/promptings/answers that guide you in a certain way. I'm a firm believer in mother's intuition. I'm a firm believer that there is Someone who cares very much about me and my life and if I'd only be patient (I would work on this, but my one stint praying for patience was such a disaster I now maintain - be careful what you pray for, you might just get the opportunity) I can see the Hand of Providence weaving a very careful tapestry of my life - just so.
I am beyond comforted as I prepare my lesson this week. I know it will be one of those weeks when I learn far more than the 15+ 15(ish)-year-olds who will shuffle into my classroom on Sunday. I'm comforted to recognize the big and little instances where God has directed my life, especially those of late, as I face some challenges, unknowns and decisions in the upcoming months.
Somtimes, it's good to know one is not alone, in whatever way that is manifested.
Monday, January 26, 2009
Random Thoughts from the Sofa
There is 8" of new snow on the ground outside the window in front of me and a frigid draft wafting in from the window to my side. I remain perched (or draped) on the couch, for Day 4 of my "stabilizing sojourn." I am finally starting to feel the affects of the anti-clotting meds - my body must be re-absorbing some of the clots, as the pain is now only significant if I sit (at all) or stand for a long period of time.
My stomach bears a tiny (or not so tiny - my first attempts at playing nurse weren't as successful in the bruise-reducing department) souvenier of each injection - eight thus far (though it feels like it has been double that many).
I am back to work - in my pajamas, wrapped in a lambswool blanket and fuzzy socks. There are half a dozen urgent projects, but any creativity or know-how has leaked out of my brain over the last few days. Sitting in church for 5 minutes yesterday (I lasted an hour - but only because it's rude to leave in the middle of the service) was enough to convince me that sitting at my desk for 8 hours today would be a nightmare gone bad. The subsequent snowstorm only reinforced that. Right now there are three things that could happen on the "terrible" scale - a) a car accident b) a fall down the stairs (thank heaven I got that out of the way two months ago) and c) something I'd rather not mention at the moment, because I'm thinking positive thoughts. Reducing the clotting factor helps the clots, but doesn't exactly help in case one is involved in any kind of bodily trauma.
Regardless, driving in newly fallen snow after a 2 1/2 week snow hiatus is just tempting fate, and I've already rolled those dice once in the last week.
So here I am, trying to manage a multi-sheet spreadsheet, write promotional copy and manage the world's slowest Internet project from my perch on the couch. Himself is home today - ostensibly he's watching Woodstock, but she has thus preferred her nearly-nonmobile audience of One on the living room couch, just adding to my inability to string two coherent thoughts together.
It's funny how quickly one's perspective changes when semi-confined. Suddenly, the veggies in commercially prepared pasta sauce count as real veggies. Woodstock having two food groups in a meal means it's well-balanced. Eating half a sandwich counts as a meal. And progress is measured in pain decibles rather than things accomplished.
It's 9:07 on Monday morning, and I'm already ready for the weekend.
My stomach bears a tiny (or not so tiny - my first attempts at playing nurse weren't as successful in the bruise-reducing department) souvenier of each injection - eight thus far (though it feels like it has been double that many).
I am back to work - in my pajamas, wrapped in a lambswool blanket and fuzzy socks. There are half a dozen urgent projects, but any creativity or know-how has leaked out of my brain over the last few days. Sitting in church for 5 minutes yesterday (I lasted an hour - but only because it's rude to leave in the middle of the service) was enough to convince me that sitting at my desk for 8 hours today would be a nightmare gone bad. The subsequent snowstorm only reinforced that. Right now there are three things that could happen on the "terrible" scale - a) a car accident b) a fall down the stairs (thank heaven I got that out of the way two months ago) and c) something I'd rather not mention at the moment, because I'm thinking positive thoughts. Reducing the clotting factor helps the clots, but doesn't exactly help in case one is involved in any kind of bodily trauma.
Regardless, driving in newly fallen snow after a 2 1/2 week snow hiatus is just tempting fate, and I've already rolled those dice once in the last week.
So here I am, trying to manage a multi-sheet spreadsheet, write promotional copy and manage the world's slowest Internet project from my perch on the couch. Himself is home today - ostensibly he's watching Woodstock, but she has thus preferred her nearly-nonmobile audience of One on the living room couch, just adding to my inability to string two coherent thoughts together.
It's funny how quickly one's perspective changes when semi-confined. Suddenly, the veggies in commercially prepared pasta sauce count as real veggies. Woodstock having two food groups in a meal means it's well-balanced. Eating half a sandwich counts as a meal. And progress is measured in pain decibles rather than things accomplished.
It's 9:07 on Monday morning, and I'm already ready for the weekend.
Friday, January 23, 2009
A New Day
Yesterday was not good.
Today is ... well, better, and that says a lot after a day like yesterday.
After a morning full of doctor's visits, blood work, insurance calls and a run to the hospital pharmacy, the morning was gone, my leg was swollen and sore and driving was more of a chore that it should be. Not to mention both mine and Woodstock's tummies were dangerously near rioting.
I found a little Japanese cafe a few blocks from the hospital and decided to give into my weeks'-long craving for noodles and sushi. Woodstock, truly a child of her parents, adores Japanese food. She thought it sounded like a wonderful idea. I figured for $15 I could get each of us the entree we wanted (I wanted shrimp - it's not something she can eat yet) and there would be plenty for dinner, eliminating the need to stand for lengthy periods tonight.
It was the most delightful lunch I've had in ages. Woodstock and I sat side-by-side, her with her little bowl of rice, chicken terriyaki and vegetable tempura; me with my shrimp udon noodles and sushi. Every once in awhile she would ask for a "noo" (noodle), other than that Woodstock chattered happily ("num num nummy"), used her fork at least as often as not, refrained from scattering food on the floor or her clothes and delighted me with delighted exclamations regarding the food and the other patrons in the cafe.
The food hit the perfect spot of comfort and nutrition (sweet potato tempura are, after all, still a vegetable), the gray day outside seemed somehow brighter. My leg, propped on a chair next to me, ceased to hurt quite so much and we were restored for our journey home.
Upon departing, I received word that the insurance issues had been worked out and I would be receiving the necessary medication for the mere sum of $150. I think the mail order pharmacy thought I was insane when I shrieked my delight. After all, while $150 in one context is huge, when compared to $900 it feels almost free.
Woodstock is napping. We'll swap meals and I'll dine on teriyaki and she'll dine on noodles tonight. No work for me until Monday. A nap calls. My leg is again elevated, lessening the pain. I didn't kill myself or chicken out during the 4 a.m. injection.
Himself boards a plane for The Frontier late tonight. A dear friend in Virginia called to say "hello."
New days are glorious things. They don't wipe away all the pain and anxiety and frustration and worry, but they certainly heal one's soul through the little things - a delightful toddler, wonderful food and dear friends.
One day down, several hundred more to go.
Today is ... well, better, and that says a lot after a day like yesterday.
After a morning full of doctor's visits, blood work, insurance calls and a run to the hospital pharmacy, the morning was gone, my leg was swollen and sore and driving was more of a chore that it should be. Not to mention both mine and Woodstock's tummies were dangerously near rioting.
I found a little Japanese cafe a few blocks from the hospital and decided to give into my weeks'-long craving for noodles and sushi. Woodstock, truly a child of her parents, adores Japanese food. She thought it sounded like a wonderful idea. I figured for $15 I could get each of us the entree we wanted (I wanted shrimp - it's not something she can eat yet) and there would be plenty for dinner, eliminating the need to stand for lengthy periods tonight.
It was the most delightful lunch I've had in ages. Woodstock and I sat side-by-side, her with her little bowl of rice, chicken terriyaki and vegetable tempura; me with my shrimp udon noodles and sushi. Every once in awhile she would ask for a "noo" (noodle), other than that Woodstock chattered happily ("num num nummy"), used her fork at least as often as not, refrained from scattering food on the floor or her clothes and delighted me with delighted exclamations regarding the food and the other patrons in the cafe.
The food hit the perfect spot of comfort and nutrition (sweet potato tempura are, after all, still a vegetable), the gray day outside seemed somehow brighter. My leg, propped on a chair next to me, ceased to hurt quite so much and we were restored for our journey home.
Upon departing, I received word that the insurance issues had been worked out and I would be receiving the necessary medication for the mere sum of $150. I think the mail order pharmacy thought I was insane when I shrieked my delight. After all, while $150 in one context is huge, when compared to $900 it feels almost free.
Woodstock is napping. We'll swap meals and I'll dine on teriyaki and she'll dine on noodles tonight. No work for me until Monday. A nap calls. My leg is again elevated, lessening the pain. I didn't kill myself or chicken out during the 4 a.m. injection.
Himself boards a plane for The Frontier late tonight. A dear friend in Virginia called to say "hello."
New days are glorious things. They don't wipe away all the pain and anxiety and frustration and worry, but they certainly heal one's soul through the little things - a delightful toddler, wonderful food and dear friends.
One day down, several hundred more to go.
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