It’s a damn good thing I don’t wear mascara.

I have no grand idea for what to post today.  This is going to be one of those posts where I just sat down and said, “You know what?  I’m in a #@%* mood, and I’m going to write about what I’m feeling right now.”

So, um.  Sorry, in advance.

Because it’s been one of those days.

Not one of those days when things go wrong for you over and over and over again, or anything.  Just one of those days when the biggest thing that’s gone wrong for you in a long time just won’t leave you alone.

(*ding* Yes. She is going to talk about that again.  The trolley has halted momentarily.  If you would like, you may get off. *ding,ding*)

Every period is a reminder.  And this Monday I started the second one since, well, you know.

Before I got pregnant, I was actually right about to buy one of these thingies.  You know, part of my “Going Greener” thing and all, plus I just like to do weird things with my vagina.  Well, not really, but that was kind of fun to type.

Then I was pregnant, and I was all, “HAHAHA!  Good thing I didn’t order that Diva Cup yet, since I won’t need it for a long, long time! *SNORT!*”

“HAHAHA.”

Yeah.

Today, when I looked into the box that held only 3 more tampons my heart felt heavy.  Because I knew I’d have to buy more of them.

It’s the stupid things like this that make it so it won’t leave you alone.  Things like how your hand runs into the $140 bottle of prescription prometrium (often used to sustain at-risk pregnancies during first several weeks) at the back of your vitamin cabinet sometimes.  The one you only took 2 of before you found out it was pointless and stopped.  But you can’t throw it away, because… well, you just can’t. 

And how you only finally realized that you were really hoping it would be a girl when you found out that’s what one of your friends was having and it caused you to cry uncontrollably at a point when you really thought you were okay.  Which was a shock to you in so many ways, considering you never even realized you cared what the gender was.  Or that you’d care now.  Or that you’ll always care. 

It’s that stuff.

Ah, there it goes again.  At least it wasn’t a children’s show this time.

 

The struggle is easy; letting go is hard.

I am struggling
not to feel empty inside.
It is not easy.

I am struggling
not to be angry right now.
It is not easy.

I am struggling
not to cry so I can breath.
It is not easy.

I am struggling
not to feel like I’m broken.
It is not easy.

I am struggling
to clear grey clouds from my heart.
It is not easy.

But I know that it
is not healthy to keep this
inside, so I won’t.

I am letting go.
I am allowing myself
time to just grieve now.

And I find that I
have these two guys to help me
clear grey clouds away.

Holding On To Hurt

The other day I watched some ridiculously random, stupid movie: 13 Going On 30.

And I cried.

Wait.  I cried more than once.

And what’s really pissing me off about that is that I was crying because I thought of my Swan.

I’ve been carrying a hurt in my heart for some time now.  The “hurt” is a residual effect of an event that transpired some time ago now – over a year ago.  It’s not something I care to share with the world at large, so you will have to forgive me and allow me some room to ponder and develop my thoughts without divulging them in intricate detail this one time.  I know it seems uncharacteristic of me – but there actually are things I choose not to talk about here, out of love and respect for others.  That is the case with this current topic.  And while I have no need to lay all the pieces before you, I feel hugely moved, if only momentarily, to talk about the hurt.   I think I’ve been denying the full effects that hurt has had on me, emotionally and spiritually.  I’ve been cramming that hurt into a box that I taped shut, painted black, mashed flat, folded into an Origami Swan and then shoved down inside my heart.

Whenever I bump into it by accident, I just quickly say to myself, “Ohhh, hahahaha (that’s quick, nervous, fake laughter) – there’s a pretty swan! Tee-hee!” and then I shove it back down and RUN AWAY.

Sometimes, when I’m all alone, I take the Swan out and I unfold it carefully.  In true masochistic form, I peel back the corners of the box and I look inside.  I pull the hurt out and I hold it up close to my face and look at it really, really hard.  I inspect it.  I see how ugly the hurt is.  Sometimes I just nod, because I know it is ugly; I remember clearly.  

But a lot of times I tremble, because I forget a little bit that it is as hideous as it is, and when I look at it so closely again, I am forcefully reminded.  I have a little, frayed string of hope running around in my heart attached to the Swan.  It’s the faint hope that the longer I wait the less ugly the hurt will look when I inspect it.

One year has not been long enough yet.  So I keep waiting and absently wrapping that string around my finger over and over and over again.

But the movie?  Why did it make me think of my Swan?  There’s a line, “We need to remember the things that were good.”

That’s what I want to do.  I want to stop inspecting my hurt.  I really want to just let it go.

I need to learn how to release all of the Swans I’ve ever folded… learn how to let them float away on an eternal river of goodbyes that never returns to its source, ever flowing outward and away.

Why do we cling to hurt and often find it easier to focus on than joy?

Why is it so hard to let go of our Swans?

Or am I the only one?

First, I totally bore you with the medical stuff… then, Pee Pee!

Several kind readers have been asking me about how my appointment with the Endocrinologist went on Jan.28.

(For links on the back story, visit here, here, here and here. I have Hashimoto’s Thyroiditis, and have been experiencing Clinical Depression for some time.)

This post will probably be very long, and probably not all that funny. I know some of you come here for your funny. If you stick with me while I’m playing Debbie Downer today, I’ll give you some funny at the end. Promise. Okay?

Okay.

The actual Endo visit was like this:

Got there, signed in, sat down. Read book. Suddenly wanted to cry. Had no idea WHY. Unable to keep reading. Closed eyes and put head against wall. Receptionist asked if I was okay. I nodded yes.

Then I started crying.

I couldn’t stop it from happening. I didn’t know why I was even doing it. It.was.so.embarrassing.

They took me back to the exam room early because they felt sorry for me. Nice, really. But damn, did I feel stupid.

Nurse: “Are you okay? What’s wrong?”
Me: “No. Uh… I don’t know?”

Ugh.

The doctor was very kind. She was compassionate, reassuring, attentive, and never rushed me. She explained that I need another ultrasound of the thyroid since it has been 3 years since the last, and I may have developed cancerous nodules during that time. We also agreed on a 3 month cycle for my blood test check ups. Ongoing monitoring is necessary because the status of the disease can change at any time, and can ostensibly be life-threatening.

She indicated that the symptoms of hypothyroidism that I’m experiencing are also the symptoms of clinical depression (you don’t say?) and that if my hormone levels are normal (they were in December) that it is likely that is my problem, as per those symptoms. She said I would need to see a Primary Care Physician to address that. (Like I can afford it, but oh well.)

Before I left the office, I gave more blood. She wanted to make sure there had been no change since the blood tests from December. The results arrived a couple of days ago. My thyroid antibodies are insanely high (you can read about that in one of the above linked posts) but the hormone is “normal.” So no treatment for me from the Endo.

And if I want to get treatment for the Depression, I’m being handed off to yet another doctor, along with another visit fee, plus any other fees for tests and treatment. The bills are already crushing us, and so far, since being diagnosed with the Hashimoto’s back in early 2005, I have received NO treatment that would improve my symptoms. NOT ONCE.

Rewind: When I got home from the appointment on Monday, I decided to continue on some research I’ve been doing lately concerning the link between depression and birth control pills. It can get confusing wading through all that’s out there, but the thrust of it is this: there is a link between depression and birth control pills. Many women report feeling symptoms of depression while on The Pill.

Recently, Veronica told me that when she was on triphasic birth control she “got horribly depressed,” and has “felt miles better since [she] stopped the pill.” Similarly, Jill told me, “it [birth control] drained my energy and stole my libido.”

The progestin contained in the pills is thought to aggravate depression in women who already have it, or trigger it in those who are sensitive/prone to it. In combination pills (estrogen/progestin) the estrogen is said to balance out the negative effect of the progestin. However, again, women who are sensitive to it may still be affected by the progestin ingested.

My own experience, now that I can look back at my past history, has been that while taking a combined pill called Triphasil, I suffer low levels of depression (somewhat manageable), but on Ortho-Tri-Cyclen (what I was on years ago, and then again this year) I suffer incredible depression, including, but certainly not limited to: physical pain in back and neck, extreme fatigue, mood swings, numb/flat affect, irritability, sadness, and loss of libido.

It should be no surprise to learn that, though both pills are triphasic, combination pills (varying levels throughout the month of both estrogen and progestin), The Ortho-Tri-Cyclen will deliver two and a half times the amount of progestin in 3 weeks use as will the Triphasil. [source]

That’s Two And A Half Times the ingredient which can aggravate/trigger depression in many women.

Not a single doctor I have ever visited suggested this as my problem. Not once, in the 13 years I have taken birth control pill. Not once in the very many times I have complained about depression, fatigue, and pain to many different doctors who all knew I was on The Pill.

(Incidentally, both the types of BC I have taken are on the low side for progestin doses, when compared to the many other types of BC, but because I am obviously sensitive to it, that was enough to cause an imbalance for me.)

There has also been recent research detailing the loss of libido for women who take the pill, including a warning of long-term damage. In one study, women who had been taking The Pill for some time had 4 times the amount of SHBG (sex-hormone-binding globulin) in their bodies as did women who had never taken the pill. Hello, depleted libido! Even after 120 days off the pill, these women still had twice as much SHBG in their bodies ad did those who had never taken The Pill. While this is somewhat depressing itself, as it shows that there can be long-term damage to the libido… it also means that some amount of healing can occur over time! YAY!

Last Monday, feeling unhelped by a series of doctors, and without the money to keep visiting more, I did my research on birth control. I talked to John about what I had found so far, and we agreed that it was enough information to prompt me to stop taking birth control to see what happens. After all, things have been very, very much “not good” around here for the past several months.

I try to be frank and honest with you all always, but I talk about the tip of the iceberg here – I don’t like to drag you down with the specifics of the pain I (and my family) endure because I am mentally ill. But do a little reading about Clinical Depression on your own, and you will see that it can be a very frustrating, very ugly thing.

So. I stopped taking The Pill Monday, January 28th. It will probably take some time for me to know for sure whether this is really going to help, or whether I will still need medication. But I can give you a positive report so far. It has been a week, and already John has said that I have been less moody and more kind to him.

And me? I can sense a great change in my “thought life.” I am already finding that I get angry about things less often, and my mood feels generally happier. The debilitating pain in my shoulder/upper back/neck that I have been struggling with for over a month is GONE. I am not feeling as tired as I have recently felt and am more motivated to do things around the house. I think I’ve prepared dinner more times this past week than I did all last month. So? Already feeling better.

In just one week.

I’m not calling for every woman out there to stop taking the pill. It is probably the right thing for some women. But it is definitely not the right thing for every woman. If you take it, and you feel depressed? Ask your doctor for answers. Ask yourself – is it worth this? Could this be what’s hurting me, and those I love? I wish I had known this stuff sooner. I wish my doctors had told me.

I want to take this opportunity to apologize to every single person who’s had to be on the receiving end of my problem, in any way, at any time. It gets hard inside my heart sometimes… it gets ugly inside my head. That flows out of my mouth and my fingers sometimes. Sometimes a lot. I am so sorry.

I want to thank my husband for trying not to kill me, and succeeding.

And I want to thank every single person who says nice things to me on a regular basis. Thank you to every friend and acquaintance who has tried to brighten my day. Thank you to those of you who stick by me and are helping me get through the dark days and make it back into the light. Or, well, into the light at all. You all mean more to me than you can possibly know.

Thank you so much.
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***************
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So, you made it to the end? Did you read, or just fast-forward for the funny? Ah well, whichever it was, you made it to the end. You deserve your funny, just because you came here to see me. And also because it’s Tickle Me Tuesday, according to Marie.  

So?  Here’s my funny for the day:

My child is prone to butt rashes, and so, 85% of the time, he is at least half-naked. Regular readers can confirm that there are several Braden Hiney Sightings here on a regular basis.

Result of giving in to the desire to hold and love on your half-naked child:

The Braden Boobie-Milk Story

Today, I am proud to support Breastfeeding Mothers. I am proud of all the moms who choose to do this for their children, and themselves. I am incredibly happy for those of them who are willing (and ABLE) to stick with it.

You guys ROCK.

I really, really wish I could turn on my web-cam and broadcast a live breastfeeding session with Braden today, as part of The Great Breast Fest.

Really.

If I could, I would.

But his little body says, “NO.”

Let me take a few steps back and tell you a LONG (please, bear with me) story that will make this clear.

I have always planned on breastfeeding my children. I planned to do it before I even thought about it. By that, I mean that I don’t think I ever even considered NOT breastfeeding them, if that makes sense. It’s like it wasn’t even an option.

My mother breastfed all 3 of her children (openly, proudly, and happily). Maybe you get saggy boobs; who cares!? I know about the positive benefits for the child, from the wonderful immunity boosts to the great bonding and comfort. Add to that the increased ability to metabolize the Junk in My Trunk, and the fact that IT’S FREE, and breast milk becomes God Juice.

While I was pregnant I read at least 3 books solely about Breastfeeding, as well as many which included sections on the topic. I read magazines, web articles, forums, and various other posts, until I had BF Info pouring outta my ass.

I researched breast-pumps, nursing pads, nipples creams, etc. I bought several nursing bras and tops. Up to and directly after Braden’s birth, I borrowed, bought, and stocked all the things I thought would help in the breastfeeding journey, from pillows to pads to pumps to creams.

I was SO READY.Braden inhaled meconium upon entering our lovely world (8:35pm on 10.16.06) which caused some respiratory distress (look for His Birth Story to be posted here on Oct 14th). I didn’t get to hold him right after he came out. Once he was stable, I got to hold him for a very BRIEF moment, and then he was gone to the nursery for observation and monitoring. I didn’t get to see him again for hours, and I didn’t get to hold him again until 4am. That whole part of my Birth Plan about how “I want to nurse immediately after delivery!!!” flew right into the fan, along with the shit that had hit it moments before.

When we did start nursing later that night, I thought I was doing okay, but, let’s face it… even after all the reading and such, I didn’t REALLY know what the hell I was doing! This was the first non-romantic booby suck I’d ever had!

The next day, a Lactation Consultant helped me with Braden’s latch. I had been DREADING the LC. Throughout my pregnancy, I (internally) swore that nobody was going to be all over my boobies telling me what to do with them. Not only am I stubborn, and headstrong (I know how to do everything right the first time, and I don’t need any help, ever. DUH.), but I’m not the type of person who likes to show my body parts to just anyone. I’m generally not into that!

Ha! By that day, I didn’t give half a rat’s ass who saw my knockers. (The day before, countless people saw every uncharted inch of my body, and I didn’t care then, either.)

I WELCOMED the LC to be all over my boobies telling me what to do with them. And she REALLY HELPED. She gave me some tips and showed me some things that made it easier to go about setting up a proper latch, actual demonstration of different “holds,” and cues to look for that would tell me Braden was actually swallowing nourishment.

That night, Braden puked up a bunch of yellow stuff, and I freaked out. (This falls under the category of “OMG, IS HE BREATHING??” and “MY BABY THREW UP, HE’S DYING, I KNOW IT!”

Ah, the wonders of being a first-time parent (read: paranoid, semi-idiot with offspring) during the first week. Heh.The nurse we frantically summoned to our room from the nursery told me that it was normal, and it was yellow because he was getting lots of colostrum; a good sign. I was relieved, as well as proud. That’s right, people, the Mommy Juice was A’flowin.

Later that night, Braden started crying. He was fed. Changed. Swaddled. Rocked. Cuddled. Sung to. Prayed Over. Fed. Changed. Rocked. Cuddled. The crying became an awful, wailing, screaming.

It. Just. Wouldn’t. Stop.

That’s when another part of the Birth Plan – “No bottles or pacifiers are to be given to my son at ANY TIME!” – went right out the window. (No more fan, we’re just chunking things out of the 3rd story window now, thanks.)

John went to the nursery and got a paci. Upon his return, he told me that a nurse in the hallway saw him with it, and remarked, “It will become your Best Friend.” Ohhh, how right she was. (But it’s the only best friend I’ve ever wished had never existed.)

It soothed The Boy. Thus began a long love-affair with Paci-Poo.

We took our amazing, beautiful miracle home, and started the Journey Of Parenthood on Wednesday, October 18th. He was a joy. Sure, he often seemed cranky, irritable, and farty… but we just thought it was because he was taking after me. And when he made that loud, grunting Turd Announcement, we just thought it was funny, and we laughed….

On Friday night, I was changing a diaper, and noticed a tiny speck of blood amidst the mustard. My mind reeled. My stomach lurched and churned. My heart was running a marathon. I called John (he was on The Road with Chris Cagle) to freak out in his ear. We decided that since Braden seemed fine otherwise, we’d wait until his scheduled appointment on Monday.

That was a long weekend.

During Braden’s visit, his pediatrician asked me if I had brought a stool sample. DOH! Didn’t think of that one. She had to stick her finger up his butt to get some poo, which he LOVED. It was tested, and the result was positive for blood.

She looked grim. My heart sank.

That began my dairy exclusion diet. Let me make the point here that I LOVE DAIRY, ESPECIALLY CHEESE. But I was going to do whatever it took to breastfeed. So. No Dairy.

For those 2 weeks, I consumed no dairy, and I struggled with my little boy.

We’d have awesome nursing sessions… and then we’d have the “I love your booby, NO I HATE YOUR BOOBY, IT MAKES ME CRY… wait, I love it, I love it… NO I HATE IT!!!” sessions. His latch made my hoohas burn. My hoohas made him cry.I cried a lot.

A LOT.

Whining moment: I was a new mother. Super educated, and yet, still clueless. EXHAUSTED. Worried. Confused. Scared. Frustrated. Not allowing myself caffeine, alcohol, or dairy. Wondering why my body was being such a piece of shit. Doubting myself as a mother. Feeling like a failure, and mad about it.

At the next Poop Test, I remembered to bring a used diaper. No finger. But still blood.

Dr. Hunter said we should give it more time because it can take awhile for all the remnants of dairy to clear out of our systems.

More trying. More crying. Pumping so Daddy could help feed.

Thanksgiving Day. Rather pleasant… until 10pm.

Non-stop, High-Intensity Screaming Cry from 10pm until 4am.

That’s right, friends. The COLIC had arrived. The crying, every night. The utter helpless, frustrating feeling of complete failure.

Next Poop Test. Blood. AGAIN.

That began the addition of Soy Exclusion.

DO YOU KNOW HOW MANY PRODUCTS CONTAIN SOME FORM OF SOY?

No dairy. No Soy.

Mommy so tired.

We tried so hard. I don’t know what words to use to express the anguish of moments when my son would be SO HUNGRY and latch SO EAGERLY and then completely reject my breasts, crying, because he was IN PAIN.

It was almost sad that we actually DID have some really GOOD breastfeeding sessions. (Don’t ask me how or why. I guess sometimes his gut pain wasn’t as bad as at others.)

I knew what it was like when it was right. Why couldn’t it be that way all the time???Next appointment was December 18th.

Dr. Hunter left the room with Braden’s Stool Test Card. We waited.

She came back, looking bummed. Blood. STILL.I think I had to use all of the strength I’ve ever summoned just to stop myself from crumpling onto the floor of the examining room.

She reluctantly suggested that it was time to put him on a special formula for babies with milk protein allergy. She said I should pump every 2-3 hours so that I could still possibly breastfeed if necessary. The tone of her voice and the look on her face didn’t say it would be necessary. She told me that if I couldn’t keep breastfeeding him, I could always try again with the next baby.

The meaning of her words was too heavy, and I started crying. I’m crying now, remembering.

Dr. Hunter was gentle, thoughtful, kind and reassuring, and I got it together. On the outside.

We put Braden on the formula (Enfamil Nutramigen, aka Liquid Gold). Within less than 24 hours, he was a completely different baby. He was happy. He smiled a lot. He cooed. He allowed us to put him in his bouncer and eat together, at the same time, you know, while neither of us was holding a baby???

WE WERE STUNNED. Elated.

Still, I pumped my dirty pillows. I pumped and pumped and hoped and waited and watched and pumped.

I HATED pumping. It HURT. Anyone who thinks that pumping is easy is a dork. One that should be punched in the face.After almost a week, I went to my husband and we had The Talk.

It was time to stop pumping. I stopped adding to my Freezer Full of Breast Milk. I washed the pump and Put It Away.

Again, I cried.

But I also rejoiced, because my son was HAPPY.

It took 2 more visits for us to get a test negative for blood. Do you get the thrust of that? The proteins in my breast milk were ripping up the insides of my son’s intestines so badly that it took him a full month to heal completely.

I’m not going to lie and say that I don’t feel slighted. I do. I have a long list of laments: loss of ability to give my child greater immunity, loss of bonding time, loss of that special feeling (that Words Can’t Describe thing about BF your infant), loss of MONEY, loss of self-worth, loss of ability to burn extra calories, damnit.

But what I gained was priceless. A happy, healthy baby.

Incidentally, I kept the Freezer Full of Breast Milk until I was forced to clean it out when we moved in May. (I cried again, of course.)

Braden is my sweet, amazing, beautiful, funny, crazy, smart, happy-go-lucky, fast, silly, HEALTHY son. I’d do anything for him.

Even NOT breastfeed.

I support Breastfeeding Moms, Pumping Moms, Bottlefeeding Moms. No matter whether you’re putting a boob or a bottle in your infant’s mouth, no matter if there’s breastmilk, goat’s milk, or formula flowing into your child’s stomach, no matter how long you do it, or the choices you make about being ‘discrete,’ I salute you, MOMS.

I’m in Support of Moms (and Dads!) who love, care for, nurture, and comfort their children in healthy ways that are right for their families. Period.

Thanks for reading this. I think I needed to write it.