complain less, blog more...I really should

If you've ever read this blog you have more than likely noticed A LOT of complaining in the last few posts. And if you've run into me in the past couple months there is no doubt in my mind I have informed you that a) I don't feel well, and b) this pregnancy SUCKS.

Time to change my tune. I need to have more empathy or sympathy, or maybe a little of both. As fabulous as I may be, it is not a Lilah-centered universe. So I have been doing a lot of thinking, and some crying (it's the hormones). Feel free to keep reading and indulge in some of my conclusions.

Here is a bit of background, I had one miscarriage. One. It happened in November 2006. Rob and I had barely been married a year and lived in Jacksonville, FL. It was the first time I had ever lived so far from home. We had our first appointment at 9 weeks and were able to see and hear the heartbeat. The excitement of that first time pregnant is like nothing else. You are fearless and throw your heart into a future you believe is guaranteed. I was there. Two days after that first appointment Rob went out to sea and I miscarried alone in the middle of the night.

I wallowed in my grief. As my pregnancy would have progressed I would see pregnant women and imagine what my growing bump would have looked like. I tortured myself as the months passed, calculating when we would have had a newborn, and then a one or a two month old. My arms felt empty and I longed for my child.

Then came Grace. As sick as that pregnancy made me, I wanted her so badly. I imagine I complained a lot less because as difficult as it was physically, I wanted that baby more than anything else in the world. In the end it was everything and more. I had an AMAZING labor and the sweetest angel baby God could have ever sent my way. After having Grace I was able to accept my first pregnancy was not meant to be, because she was. There were no more feelings about what might have been the first time. If there was ever a baby that was meant to be, it was my Grace.

Even though I don't know the pain of multiple losses or the struggle of fertility treatments, I have friends who do. These things don't happen to "other people." They happen to those near and dear to my heart. So, as nauseous as I may feel, I am going to complain less. If this is the struggle I have to endure to have my baby then I should be grateful that I don't have it worse. I need to remember the time before Grace and realize that some of my friends or family are still at that place longing for a child.

This pregnancy does not suck. What sucks is having miscarriage after miscarriage or painful fertility treatments that take a toll physically, emotionally, and financially. What sucks is what is happening to those poor people in Haiti. Although my stomach is constantly upset I do have a roof over my head, I don't worry where my next meal is coming from, and if I need medical attention I can get it. I have the most amazing little girl that ever was and a husband who's goodness is only surpassed by the size of his heart. Everyday I am surrounded by wonderful people, friends and family. I may feel sick but that will end and I will have a precious little child because of it. I need to stop complaining when I have much to be thankful for. I need to remember that my glass isn't even half-full, it's overflowing.

belly full of ugh, uterus full of baby

I am 19ish weeks worth of pregnant. Almost halfway there. Sweet Lord, I am almost halfway there!! It has been too long since my last posting, but I will try to fill in the blanks. Things have improved, tremendously. My days are no longer spent living in the bathroom interfacing with the toilet. Vomiting doesn't happen every day, but on occasion my meals are launched into the the white porcelain bowl of disposal. This is great improvement, but does still leave room for advancement in my opinion.
My digestive system may no longer be on life support, but it still feels very much like it resides in the ICU. The slightest altercation or incident can lead to evacuation at a moment's notice. The tummy is always slightly nauseated, an ever present sour taste, and there is an overall feeling of "ick". I'm not one to complain, yeah right! I am one to complain, so my opinion of pregnancy remains the same. It is a giant load of suck.
With these improvements, I have been giving Zofran tablets another try. While they do not cure all, they can allow me to keep dinner and just scrape by with an upset stomach for the evening. However, Zofran is like the off-switch of my lower intestines. Halts the process, full stop. This leaves me having to "facilitate" what mother nature usually handles quite well. I feel like a hostage negotiator with my bowels. This often leaves me wondering if it was worth the pea size tablet I dissolved on my tongue a mere few nights before. The jury is still out with this one.
Most importantly, my outlook has changed. I still do my fair share of complaining (and then some) but I am starting to believe I may just survive this. I am also no longer paranoid that these efforts surviving pregnancy will be in vain. Whenever I hear the heartbeat roaring back at me like it belongs to a line-backer instead of my fetus, I realize that I am the one on survival mode and this child is kicking my ass from the inside out. It is oddly reassuring and leaves me with a smile on my queasy little face.

Thanksgiving beast

Fall through Christmas is my favorite time of year. Starting with September, the month to celebrate the birth of Lilah and the change to autumn, my favorite season. Cool weather, beautiful colors; the crispness of the weather and leaves add a sort of edge to life that makes things like knitting a steamy mug of something fabulous all the more cozy.
This year I'm missing out. Nothing is enjoyable when everyday is operated on survival mode and I am constantly trying to endure or distract myself from how miserable I feel. It is starting to feel like the holidays that weren't. We've canceled trips to see family, omitted treasured food preparations, and most regrettably, decided not to send Christmas cards this year. Shit, might as well cancel Christmas for Lilah.
To recap briefly, I feel ill constantly. There is an always present level of nausea/sour stomach/ taste of vomit in my mouth. It is intermixed with bouts of vomiting (3-5 times a day). This condition frequently escalates into stomach/ torso pain severe enough to wake me from sleep and prevent me from returning to slumber. This pregnancy is hell, and I am miserable.
I'm left feeling weak and isolated from the rest of the world. Lately I've been finding myself angry. Angry that growing a life feels like a long slow death. Bitter that so few other preggos feel ill to this extent and thus no one seems to understand. I am angry when Rob announces he is going running. Angry because I am jealous and have grown disgustingly codependent on my husband.
So this fall is going unfulfilled. No cool weather jogs. I'm knitting less and less these days. There is no steaming cup of anything that makes me feel fabulous. The only things steaming are the severely pissed off hemorrhoids that rival the size of a small country.
I'm usually thankful for fall. Thankful for a lot of things actually. And while I am still grateful for the many blessings I have in this life, I am mourning what I am missing and will be even more grateful to enjoy once again next year.
Feeling so ill does not bode well for me. I'm turning into a bit of an asshole. I don't even like me anymore. This is not to be confused with low self-esteem or a poor self-image. I am short-tempered, smile infrequently, bitch often, and sigh miserably non-stop. I like "me". I am not me lately and I miss me more and more.
So this Thanksgiving, instead of enjoying the feast, I am tolerating the beast. I'm thankful for my amazing husband and daughter. I'm also thankful for the ME they still love and know is in here somewhere.

PREGNANT, the sequel

Pregnancy is not for the faint of heart, nor weak of stomach. Especially in my case. When I was pregnant with Grace I was diagnosed with hyperemesis gravidarum. In real terms this was nausea and vomiting. Lots of nausea and vomiting. All ten months. So much chunk spewing that after the failed trials with Reglan and oral forms of Zofran I ended up wearing a FANNY PACK with continuous INFUSION into a subcutaneous PORT (this kind of therapy is routinely used for chemotherapy patients to help manage the side effects of chemo). Pregnancy had turned me into a chemo patient. At least it felt like it. The downside to this (like it could get worse, fanny packs had been out for at least a decade) I didn't feel much better. It maybe cut the vomiting down by 30% and I was still nauseous all day, everyday. The worst part of the experience was the minor side effect of constipation. For the record, I literally stopped pooping (no joke). No Colace, Miralax, Docusate, Surfak, or any other related stool softening friends could get my poop to shoot. We should have bought stock in Fleet because for a number of months (the exact length of time I've blocked out) I would have to administer an enema every other day in order to poo. (The 48 hour rule was a "hard" lesson learned when I still didn't have the urge by day four and the enema only angered my bowels. After Rob had to be "Bobby" to my "Whitney" I promised to give a healthy saline squirt every two days. An FYI for this TMI, Labor was NOTHING compared to this event.)

One could imagine my initial reaction, only two days after my triathlon, to find this:
They say every pregnancy is different. I would like to find out who initially said this and punch them in the face. The first week or so I was a little fatigued and STARVING. I craved MEAT, big juicy steak type meat. Until one morning I woke up and all bets were off. I knew it was still early in the pregnancy, but it was ON. I could not have been more pregnant if my name were Kate or Octomom. It's still considered early, but this kid isn't going anywhere. I've got enough HCG coursing through me to rival that Twilight chick (sorry if you haven't read the last book). Lilah + pregnancy = no good for Rob, or anyone else in this household.

Here are the simple truths I have found in the past few weeks:

1. I feel nauseous, all the time. It is worse at night, when I'm hungry, and after I eat. Fucking awesome. A new symptom with this pregnancy is the intense pain that frequently accompanies the nausea and the vomiting.
2. I don't take Cymbalta recreationally, so Lilah - Cymbalta = no fun for anyone
3. I miss running, or even walking for that matter.
4. Grace is getting the shaft, BIG time. Not only do feel like shit 24/7, I am also overwhelmed/ angry/ sad/ frustrated/lack patience/ and wallow in mom-guilt.
5. My mouth tastes like vomit most of the time. When it doesn't taste like vomit, it tastes like a very sour version of whatever I last ate.
6. Nick Jr. is the 3rd parent in our house.
7. I can eat McDonald's. If it is greasy, nasty, and comes in a white paper sack I can usually keep it down. This makes my inner Bob Green cringe. Hopefully this McFetus won't need to be on "Biggest Loser" by the 3rd trimester.
8. My heart skips a beat victoriously every time I poop.
9. I miss me and my fabulous life.

I TRIed it

Today I ran my first triathlon. I wish I could say I had been training rigorously to prepare, but I really had not. I have ventured out on my bike twice since we bought it, and I swam ONCE in August with Jeff and Elaina. The only thing I had been doing with much regularity was running, and this was sparse at best. In hindsight, I was crazy to think I was in any way prepared for this, but I did it anyway.

I had three goals for each event:

1. Keep a steady pace with the crawl stroke for the swim, and don't drown in the pool
   
2. Stay on my bike and keep pedaling during the bike portion.
   
3. Run the entire run, no matter how slow the trot.
   

I would be lying to say I wasn't nervous, but I was more excited than anything. So excited that I yelled out, "We are going to have so much fun!" while waiting to check in. (Extroversion sometimes can get the better of me).

THE SWIM


The swim took place in an indoor pool. There were three-hundred participants and eight lanes. EIGHT. A new racer started every eight seconds and swam up the lane, back, and then moved to the next lane. Watching this was horrifying as clearly there were some faster swimmers than others. There were four people abreast in a lane at times. I was bib number #119 and was in the pool before I knew it. Keeping my limbs long and my stroke even, I tried to roll with each breath as to keep my head even with my body. Fortunately I had room to get in some kick turns at the wall almost every time. I even passed three mo-fo-ing people. To say I was Phelps-like is an understatement. It. Was. AWESOME. 400 meters in TEN MINUTES. I f*cking rocked the swim. It felt amazing and was by far, my favorite part of the whole race.

First Transition

It was flipping cold out this morning. When someone from Maine says it's cold, then you know it's friggin cold out. We were given the option to use the locker room to towel off and put on our clothing (if you as a racer wanted to take the extra time). I was not doing this race for speed, so of course I went and changed in the locker room. I quickly dried off, stripped off my bathing suit and threw on my shorts and top on over my sopping wet sports bra. Being a bit of a genius, I threw my hair up in a turban with my towel before I ran out to the "real" transition area to get my bike. There were a lot of laughs from Rob, Jeff, and the race officials, BUT letting the cottony absorption work to my benefit before I put on my helmet was just plain smart. (Rob later informed me I was the only racer to come running out with a towel on their head. I'm really not surprised I was the only one fabulous enough to come up with this idea).

The Bike

I came to the realization today that I am not a huge fan of riding a bike. Especially half wet and freezing. I really don't like it when there are lots and lots of "fun" hills to conquer. As easy as it was channeling my inner Michael Phelps, my inner Lance Armstrong was NO WHERE to be found. He was busy tuning into the thirty or more racers that ended up passing me. I'm not exaggerating. I passed ONE guy, who then passed me about two minutes later. When I came upon a sign bearing the number 5, I was a bit confused. Then I realized that was the mile marker, and I feared I would be on my bike THE REST OF THE DAY. Around mile 9 on a stretch I referred to as the "Hill de Hades" (the "Hill of Hell", per my Tour de France lingo) the chain came off my bike. Awesome. Thankfully I remembered what Jeff had told me to do in that situation and I had it back on in a matter of seconds. With my chin up, I just kept thinking to myself, "I'm just this girl, out here, riding my bike." It helped me find a rhythm and get through the fifteen plus miles of many hills.

Second Transition


I was so excited to get off my bike, because as fabulous as my seat is, my crotch was killing me. The sweet escape was temporary as I realized my legs were frozen and felt like noodles. I retied my hair, threw on some sunglasses, and as I passed a handful of volunteers and my support (Rob & Jeff) I rallied with, "Alright bitches, let's do this."

The Run

The first half mile I was just going through the motions of running. My legs were cold, numb, and exhausted. I kept at it and somehow, I found my stride. It was an odd feeling. My body still had some push, and I went for it. Running along, listening to the rhythm of my stride, I no longer cared about who passed me or vice versa. Just like in the pool, on the bike, and then jogging along. It was all me. My pace, my race.

I began to think about how critical I am of myself when it comes to life. Being the right size, a good wife, and definitely the perfect mother. Running along I realized the only person I need to live up to is me. I'm the only me there is, no matter what size I come in. I'm the only wife Rob has (hopefully), and I am irreplaceable as Grace's mother.

I crossed the finish, having ran the whole while (and thus completed all my goals). Right before I finished I made myself a promise. I will remind myself more often that I am not just "good enough," I'm great. In fact, I'm actually fabulous.

our non-cation, the vacation that wasn't: Part I

Although this is much overdue, it's come time to finally write about our two week excursion in September. The vacation plan was to travel to Florida and visit my Grandmother (Memere) and her boyfriend Sam at the Villages for two nights (that's all anyone can handle in the land of free-roaming, cranky retirees). Then we were to venture over to Hudson, FL to spend the week with Rob's parents, where we would leave Grace and the dogs while we flew from Tampa to Boston a Thursday through Sunday for THE WEDDING.

This wedding was my fault, my fault entirely. The bride was my cousin and had been my maid of honor. The groom was Rob's best friend from college, and had also been his best man. With a well doctored garter toss and some friendly reception make out action, the rest became history. This was October 29, 2005. Fast forward to the weekend of September 19, 2009, their wedding at a very pricey resort in coastal Massachusetts. No children please.

Our two day stint at Memere's was great. As Memere-tastic as any visit can get. One must understand a few things about my Memere. She is French Canadian, has a limited working ability with the English language, but wields it well. She is old school and true to her heritage. Men come first, men are pampered, food and meals are non-negotiable, and you never ever want to piss her off. I'm pretty sure I can commit an entire blog topic to describing this fabulous lady, and someday I will. She is doting and bluntly critical. Memere stories are always funnier told in person because I do a damn good job imitating her voice and getting the tone of the story just right.

The food was too much as usual. Memere will tell you you're "bigger since last time" and that you're not eating enough all in the same breath. She loads our plates with servings large enough to bring Bob Green to tears, will get mad when we don't eat everything, and then rants about how much we should "hate ourselves" if we let ourselves go and get fatter. I told her about my training and my upcoming triathlon and she bluntly responded that I was "tinner at Christmas". She also came to the conclusion that Rob was "spoiled" because he worked a "lazy job" and this was all because the Navy "pays our electric bill." You just can't win with Memere.

Eager to get out for a break, I ventured out one morning to take a run. I had forgotten how hot it was in Florida. Hot all the effing time. The heat torture was probably made worse by the fact that Memere likes to keep her house at 80 degrees. (Rules of Lilah #364: heat only puts me in a bad mood and I cannot be held responsible for being short tempered when experiencing hot temperatures). It was early, but still too hot for a run, and I went anyway. Memere lives in a gated retirement community where there are no sidewalks. (There are plenty of golf-carts scooting around with the cars. The majority of drivers are at that very sensitive, yet very ill-equipped age to operate any sort of vehicle. A very SAFE set up, you know, having a gate and everything.) The distance from Memere's house to the front gate is three miles round-trip. A nice flat, easy run to keep up with my training while away and get a little stress relief. Wrong. It was hot as balls. I was sweating my shorts off the first quarter mile in. The humidity is just plain ridiculous and anyone who likes this weather is crazy in my opinion. Mark my words, I will NEVER live in Florida EVER again. Following the rules of the road I made sure to run against traffic (20 mph speed limit throughout, mind you). Whenever an oncoming car or cart approached I even straddled the adjacent lawn and rain gutter as to grant PLENTY of berth for the oncoming "traffic" (and also look out for my own safety). The few friendly waves or thumbs up were unquestionably outnumbered by the FINGER WAGS and disproving glares. Clearly a 27-year-old married white mother in Nike running shorts is up to NO GOOD disturbing the peace trotting down the street at seven in the morning.

It was not a relaxing jog at all, especially when I had an 80 degree household to cool down in, a Memere criticizing that my child is fussy because I don't feed her enough (not because she is a giant ball of sweat), and a very loving, patient Rob giving me The Look. We left the next day and I never ran again during this vacation.

unusual errands, a normal morning for me

Grace and I accomplished a lot this morning:

1. We paid my speeding ticket at the courthouse this morning. (yes, I know I need to slow down, but in my defense, I am fabulous). Unfortunately I chose to tackle the stair-laden entrance and exit with Grace all belted in to Big Red. I AM training for a triathlon, so I didn't think twice about picking up the whole problem and hoofing it up the steps. It wasn't too difficult, but I am pretty sure I looked ridiculous doing it.


2. We then picked up more Tea Tree Essential oil for the crazy price of $24.95 (for way too small an amount) at the Earth Fare (aka hippy central). I was slightly offended when one passing granola-popper commented on how "handsome" Grace was. Hello? She is a gorgeous baby, yes I know, but she is Fabulous Jr and such a little girl. It's quite obvious by her shamelessly long eye-lashes. (The tea tree oil is for our cloth diaper pail. We may not be full-blown earth keepers, but we recycle and are saving the environment one cloth diaper at a time. The stench in the diaper pile is another issue entirely. The wafting odor of amonia is enough to knock me on my ass come time to wash a load o'piss. Hence the tea tree oil, a few drop of it's natural antiseptic properties keep the pail just this side of manageable.)


3. We finally stopped at a local shop to buy Bridezilla a bridal shower gift. I was sad to miss her bridal shower, but she is the closest thing I have to a sister and it was important for me to get her something sentimental and fabulous. She may rival the Bridezillas you would see on TV, but she is MY Bridezilla and I love her anyway.

Tasks completed. Grace held up well, but lost her cool when we arrived home and I was preparing lunch. I felt a little hypocritical when I yelled, "Grace, stop your screaming!" from the kitchen.