I apologise for not posting yesterday, but in all honesty I was out there getting shit done so that I would actually HAVE summat to blog about!
Little O and I spent yesterday and today getting up to and in to loads of stuff. First we went to a craniofacial appointment at CHOW on Monday morning, which is one of my least favourite clinics to visit because they have such appalling time-management. Once I was a there for nearly two hours, and saw the doc for about five or ten minutes of that. Yesterday was a little better though, and we were there for only about an hour or so, seeing the doc for about ten minutes. Doesn't mean I don't still hate them though.
After that went to see my friend up in Milwaukee for lunch, and she's lost loads of weight from having the stomach flu so she looked a bit gaunt. Still beautiful though. Then we went to buy Little O a new swimsuit and supplies for swimming in the afternoon. I LOVE buying clothes for my son, but shopping in Babies R Us is VERY dangerous. I seriously had to set myself a budget and only walk out of there with a new swimsuit and those fancy diapers that don't explode when your kid gets in the pool. I got so close, too! I walked out with diapers, swimsuit, and a new sheet for Little O's bed that cost $4.99. That's actually pretty amazing. His new shorts are rainbow-coloured and I bought a UV-protective t-shirt in orange to match. It says Beach Bum on it. It's awesome. :)
After that we went swimming! It was kinda rubbish, actually, because the pool was advertising that time as designated for special needs users only, but it was no different to any other time of day. It's a water park too, which meant there were loads of slides and cool shit for older children, but nothing that suitable for babies. Little O is trying to figure out to crawl, and when we were in the zero depth section he kept trying to put his face in the water and crawl into the deeper sections. I was terrified he'd inhale water and start drowning! I think if I go again I'll take my husband.
Today we've being doing chores, seeing therapists, and running errands. I even got something very special sent to Butterfly Charlie in the mail! (Shh... don't tell her...). My kitchen is finally tidy again, after a weekend of not doing any dishes AT ALL - I am disgusted at myself, but mature enough to blame my husband - and I am trying to get caught up on laundry. But, more importantly, I have been playing with my son. He is pulling himself to stand all the time now, and figuring out this crawling and walking malarky, and he's just so much FUN at the moment! It's been like having a 12-month-old in the house, when they learn all this new cool stuff suddenly, and I'm just enjoying it so much.
I'm also enjoying "An Idiot Abroad", which is currently airing over here. Sooo funny!
Happy 100th International Women's Day, everyone! May the next 100 years be even better than the last.
Tina.
Showing posts with label food. Show all posts
Showing posts with label food. Show all posts
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
Sunday, September 5, 2010
Withdrawal
Coming down from using hormones is astonishing. Just astonishing.
I've been using the Depo Provera shot since June 09: six weeks after the birth of Little O. You may remember I posted this account of my frustrations at the inadequacy of contraceptive options for women back in April 09, and how shocked I was that there was nothing out there that really fitted my needs. Well, my needs after the early arrival of Little O changed somewhat - I wasn't able to breastfeed him directly and once we had him home the schedule of expressing, sterilising, feeding, and ensuring he stayed upright long enough to not aspirate on his own vomit, just proved too exhausting and I had to give up providing breastmilk altogether. It's not something I'm proud of, but that's what had to happen. Anyway, because I wasn't breastfeeding I was able to choose a contraceptive that interfered with a nursing mother's supply, and so I choose Depo Provera. It is administered by a nurse using a needle in the upper arm and lasts for three months. It's GREAT if you hate taking a pill every day; it's GREAT if you don't want to get pregnant for a while (over 99.9% reliable); it's GREAT if you don't like having periods; and it's GREAT if you hate using barrier methods such as condoms.
However.
Depo Provera SUCKS if you don't want to gain weight (70% of women gain more than 10lb in their first year of use); it SUCKS if you are prone to depression (it has been found to increase this tendency dramatically); it SUCKS if you want to have sex with a partner on a regular basis (it can severely limit your sex drive); it SUCKS if you want strong bones (it can irreversibly affect bone density after two years of continuous use); and it SUCKS if you want to conceive a child in the near future.
Let's go through that a little, shall we?
I am... how shall I put this? A little heavy. I'll admit it. I love food and I love sitting on my arse watching TV, and I hate exercise for the sake of losing weight. I put on nearly 40lb when I was pregnant, although I lost 30lb of that in the first four weeks after giving birth. So I was still 10lb over my pre-pregnancy weight, and I had started that adventure being about 40lb overweight to begin with. So really, my doctor should have advised me that, being about 50lb overweight during my consultation with him, that I should look for another method of birth control until I had successfully lost some weight. I might have smacked him one, and I might have gone ahead with the Depo Provera shot regardless, but I still should have been informed either way.
Secondly, when I went to visit my doctor, my son was still a teeny tiny premature newborn with an extremely rare genetic disorder that no-one, not even a geneticist, could give me an accurate prognosis for. Mothers of babies who stay in the NICU for any length of time are SEVEN TIMES more likely to suffer from some form of post-partum depression than other mothers. If my doctor wasn't aware of any mood changes I was experiencing the first time he administered the shot, he sure as hell should have checked in on me for subsequent shots to make sure this method of contraception was still appropriate. Because after six months, or two shots, it definitely definitely wasn't. I was in full PPD mode, which later led to a more serious mental health issue, and not one single health care professional told me that the Depo Provera shot could be contributing. Also, my doctor doesn't see patients who are there just to receive a shot - you have to ask for a whole other appointment. I really feel that that policy is negligent. At the very least he should have recommended I see him personally after six months or a year, just to check it was still the best choice for me.
Thirdly, while I guffawed at my doctor when he said the shot could decrease my sex drive, I've found out the hard way how true that can be. Having just given birth I wasn't planning on bonking my husband three times a day in the near future anyway, so putting a cap on my sexual activity seemed like no bad thing. However, come six or nine months down the road, my husband and I were lucky if we managed a single bonk in a month. A MONTH! Forgive me for my bluntness, but we used to be four- or five-times-a-week kind of people before I got pregnant. My husband was incredibly patient and we attributed my lack of interest to my adjustment disorder, but it put a huge strain on our marriage when I would only put out on a very limited basis. A marriage needs a healthy sex life, but I was so unhappy that ours just withered away.
The bone thing is disturbing, no? I don't think I've been affected - yet - because I stopped using Depo Provera after 15 months, but the fact your bone density can be damaged so easily without hope of reversal? That's some scary shit.
And finally - if you want to have a child after using Depo Provera, you had better be in it for the long haul. While the company that manufactures it claims fertility can return to normal immediately, there are countless stories on the internet to suggest otherwise. The general consensus among women who know - women who've had at least one child already, used the shot, stopped using the shot, tried to get pregnant again and failed - is that it takes at least as long as you were on the shot to get pregnant again. I used it for 15 months, which means it could take another 15 months to conceive. Wow. They say it can take six months for you to just start ovulating again and to regain regular periods, and another nine to 18 months to get pregnant. Just wow.
I know it's my responsibility to do my own research and work out what's best for MY body before signing up to anything, but I do feel that there isn't enough material given to women about the Depo Provera shot. I certainly wasn't given any literature at my doctor's office, and as a new mother of a special needs baby, I just wanted something that would take away any extra worries I had about getting pregnant for a bit. I was NEVER told about the weight gain, depression, bone density side-effects, or the possibility of it taking so long to conceive again.
I am not an Earth Mother. I am happy to put hormones into my body in order to prevent pregnancy. I hate condoms (I think I must be a little allergic or something, because those things CHAFE) and I was on the pill from the age of 17. I came off it at 25 and conceived within the first month, which meant I haven't had a normal period since I was a teenager. I've always been fine with that because periods are not my friend. I do not believe in embracing something I find unpleasant - just like I find bogeys, eye gunk, earwax, urine, poop, and vomit repulsive. (Actually, baby poop I don't mind at all. I find it incredibly satisfying to clean Little O's bum because then the smell magically disappears. Eye gunk or nose bogeys, however, are a different story. They make me gag.) Anyway, seeing as I'm not mad keen on being a mad woman once a month, I've truly never minded suppressing my fertility with hormones. It's always meant I either had lighter, regular periods, or none at all - and that suited me just fine.
Until now.
Now, I'm coming down from hormone usage. I have been hormone-free for 14 days and the side effects are quite astonishing. Assuming I'm not already pregnant (more on that in a minute), then I've been feeling my body literally moving itself back into a normal position and preparing itself for a monthly cycle once again. It's fascinating, and not without its aches and pains. I've been having the most dramatic mood swings you've ever seen; I've been sleeping during the day and not at night; I've had stomach aches, back aches and leg cramps; my boobs have been going up and down in size, sensitivity, shape, and texture - and they tingle; and I've felt my appetite decrease to such an extent that the thought of some of my old favourite foods (such as chilli), has made me queasy. I've also, happily, begun to want to shag my husband again. He's been most obliging.
The changes in my body over the last two weeks have been so dramatic that I think I'm going to have to check I'm not up the duff. It's made difficult, however, by not having had that normal monthly cycle for the last ten years. I've got absolutely no idea when I would have ovulated, or even if I'm likely to, or when the date of my last period was. (Erm... October, maybe?) I'm therefore completely baffled as to when I'm supposed to take a pregnancy test. Yes, my husband and I have been having (semi) unprotected sex, but if the effects of Depo Provera take as long to wear off as they say they do... and if I don't know when or if I'm even ovulating... then taking a test too soon could give me a false negative result. It's all tremendously disconcerting.
But I feel better about not taking any hormones anymore. It feels good. It feels right. If my husband and I do conceive soon, then we're thinking about making a more permanent choice for contraception next time. We're discussing vasectomies, tube-tying, IUDs... even donating an entire testicle to science (yes, it can be done. There's a very famous university who does research into testicular diseases, and they offer thousands and thousands of dollars for healthy testicles from men under 35). Whatever happens in the next few months though, I don't think I'm going to go through this hormone withdrawal again. Using hormones was appropriate for me in the past, but I think I've reached a point in my life where I'm tired of bearing the sole responsibility for contraception in my relationship. And I think after the last 15 months we've had, my husband is too.
Tina.
I've been using the Depo Provera shot since June 09: six weeks after the birth of Little O. You may remember I posted this account of my frustrations at the inadequacy of contraceptive options for women back in April 09, and how shocked I was that there was nothing out there that really fitted my needs. Well, my needs after the early arrival of Little O changed somewhat - I wasn't able to breastfeed him directly and once we had him home the schedule of expressing, sterilising, feeding, and ensuring he stayed upright long enough to not aspirate on his own vomit, just proved too exhausting and I had to give up providing breastmilk altogether. It's not something I'm proud of, but that's what had to happen. Anyway, because I wasn't breastfeeding I was able to choose a contraceptive that interfered with a nursing mother's supply, and so I choose Depo Provera. It is administered by a nurse using a needle in the upper arm and lasts for three months. It's GREAT if you hate taking a pill every day; it's GREAT if you don't want to get pregnant for a while (over 99.9% reliable); it's GREAT if you don't like having periods; and it's GREAT if you hate using barrier methods such as condoms.
However.
Depo Provera SUCKS if you don't want to gain weight (70% of women gain more than 10lb in their first year of use); it SUCKS if you are prone to depression (it has been found to increase this tendency dramatically); it SUCKS if you want to have sex with a partner on a regular basis (it can severely limit your sex drive); it SUCKS if you want strong bones (it can irreversibly affect bone density after two years of continuous use); and it SUCKS if you want to conceive a child in the near future.
Let's go through that a little, shall we?
I am... how shall I put this? A little heavy. I'll admit it. I love food and I love sitting on my arse watching TV, and I hate exercise for the sake of losing weight. I put on nearly 40lb when I was pregnant, although I lost 30lb of that in the first four weeks after giving birth. So I was still 10lb over my pre-pregnancy weight, and I had started that adventure being about 40lb overweight to begin with. So really, my doctor should have advised me that, being about 50lb overweight during my consultation with him, that I should look for another method of birth control until I had successfully lost some weight. I might have smacked him one, and I might have gone ahead with the Depo Provera shot regardless, but I still should have been informed either way.
Secondly, when I went to visit my doctor, my son was still a teeny tiny premature newborn with an extremely rare genetic disorder that no-one, not even a geneticist, could give me an accurate prognosis for. Mothers of babies who stay in the NICU for any length of time are SEVEN TIMES more likely to suffer from some form of post-partum depression than other mothers. If my doctor wasn't aware of any mood changes I was experiencing the first time he administered the shot, he sure as hell should have checked in on me for subsequent shots to make sure this method of contraception was still appropriate. Because after six months, or two shots, it definitely definitely wasn't. I was in full PPD mode, which later led to a more serious mental health issue, and not one single health care professional told me that the Depo Provera shot could be contributing. Also, my doctor doesn't see patients who are there just to receive a shot - you have to ask for a whole other appointment. I really feel that that policy is negligent. At the very least he should have recommended I see him personally after six months or a year, just to check it was still the best choice for me.
Thirdly, while I guffawed at my doctor when he said the shot could decrease my sex drive, I've found out the hard way how true that can be. Having just given birth I wasn't planning on bonking my husband three times a day in the near future anyway, so putting a cap on my sexual activity seemed like no bad thing. However, come six or nine months down the road, my husband and I were lucky if we managed a single bonk in a month. A MONTH! Forgive me for my bluntness, but we used to be four- or five-times-a-week kind of people before I got pregnant. My husband was incredibly patient and we attributed my lack of interest to my adjustment disorder, but it put a huge strain on our marriage when I would only put out on a very limited basis. A marriage needs a healthy sex life, but I was so unhappy that ours just withered away.
The bone thing is disturbing, no? I don't think I've been affected - yet - because I stopped using Depo Provera after 15 months, but the fact your bone density can be damaged so easily without hope of reversal? That's some scary shit.
And finally - if you want to have a child after using Depo Provera, you had better be in it for the long haul. While the company that manufactures it claims fertility can return to normal immediately, there are countless stories on the internet to suggest otherwise. The general consensus among women who know - women who've had at least one child already, used the shot, stopped using the shot, tried to get pregnant again and failed - is that it takes at least as long as you were on the shot to get pregnant again. I used it for 15 months, which means it could take another 15 months to conceive. Wow. They say it can take six months for you to just start ovulating again and to regain regular periods, and another nine to 18 months to get pregnant. Just wow.
I know it's my responsibility to do my own research and work out what's best for MY body before signing up to anything, but I do feel that there isn't enough material given to women about the Depo Provera shot. I certainly wasn't given any literature at my doctor's office, and as a new mother of a special needs baby, I just wanted something that would take away any extra worries I had about getting pregnant for a bit. I was NEVER told about the weight gain, depression, bone density side-effects, or the possibility of it taking so long to conceive again.
I am not an Earth Mother. I am happy to put hormones into my body in order to prevent pregnancy. I hate condoms (I think I must be a little allergic or something, because those things CHAFE) and I was on the pill from the age of 17. I came off it at 25 and conceived within the first month, which meant I haven't had a normal period since I was a teenager. I've always been fine with that because periods are not my friend. I do not believe in embracing something I find unpleasant - just like I find bogeys, eye gunk, earwax, urine, poop, and vomit repulsive. (Actually, baby poop I don't mind at all. I find it incredibly satisfying to clean Little O's bum because then the smell magically disappears. Eye gunk or nose bogeys, however, are a different story. They make me gag.) Anyway, seeing as I'm not mad keen on being a mad woman once a month, I've truly never minded suppressing my fertility with hormones. It's always meant I either had lighter, regular periods, or none at all - and that suited me just fine.
Until now.
Now, I'm coming down from hormone usage. I have been hormone-free for 14 days and the side effects are quite astonishing. Assuming I'm not already pregnant (more on that in a minute), then I've been feeling my body literally moving itself back into a normal position and preparing itself for a monthly cycle once again. It's fascinating, and not without its aches and pains. I've been having the most dramatic mood swings you've ever seen; I've been sleeping during the day and not at night; I've had stomach aches, back aches and leg cramps; my boobs have been going up and down in size, sensitivity, shape, and texture - and they tingle; and I've felt my appetite decrease to such an extent that the thought of some of my old favourite foods (such as chilli), has made me queasy. I've also, happily, begun to want to shag my husband again. He's been most obliging.
The changes in my body over the last two weeks have been so dramatic that I think I'm going to have to check I'm not up the duff. It's made difficult, however, by not having had that normal monthly cycle for the last ten years. I've got absolutely no idea when I would have ovulated, or even if I'm likely to, or when the date of my last period was. (Erm... October, maybe?) I'm therefore completely baffled as to when I'm supposed to take a pregnancy test. Yes, my husband and I have been having (semi) unprotected sex, but if the effects of Depo Provera take as long to wear off as they say they do... and if I don't know when or if I'm even ovulating... then taking a test too soon could give me a false negative result. It's all tremendously disconcerting.
But I feel better about not taking any hormones anymore. It feels good. It feels right. If my husband and I do conceive soon, then we're thinking about making a more permanent choice for contraception next time. We're discussing vasectomies, tube-tying, IUDs... even donating an entire testicle to science (yes, it can be done. There's a very famous university who does research into testicular diseases, and they offer thousands and thousands of dollars for healthy testicles from men under 35). Whatever happens in the next few months though, I don't think I'm going to go through this hormone withdrawal again. Using hormones was appropriate for me in the past, but I think I've reached a point in my life where I'm tired of bearing the sole responsibility for contraception in my relationship. And I think after the last 15 months we've had, my husband is too.
Tina.
Saturday, August 7, 2010
The weekend for getting shit DONE
So last week was pretty horrendous. This new feeding schedule is supposed to be freeing up time for me and Little O, but it's actually become a little more taxing. On Thursday for example, Little O woke us at 5am for a throw-up and scream fest, but then did settle down again until 7.30am... for another throw-up and scream fest. He basically hasn't gotten all his PediaSure overnight since we started this routine a week ago, so on Thursday morning I just dumped out the remainder and put it back in to the fridge so I could give it to him later in the day via a bolus gravity feed. (I hate that term: bolus gravity feed. It makes me think of bowels and space and Newton and, for some reason, balloon catheters. It's just a really irritating phrase.) So that day I had to give him his remaining PediaSure at 9.30am because he got fussy and I correctly interpreted that as hunger, then water and an oral feed at 11.00am because his speech therapist came over, and finally set his pump to run at 12pm for his regularly-scheduled nap. It meant I spent allllllll fucking morning feeding (or fretting about feeding) my son.
It's been pretty much the same story all week.
Anywhoo, my husband and I weighed him tonight before bed and Little O has gained three ounces! Yay! He was 23lb 3oz last Thursday (July 29th), and weighed 23lb 6oz today (Aug 7th). It's not a great gain, but I WILL TAKE IT! We're still not jumping up and down, but hopefully this is the start of a better journey. The more weight he puts on and the bigger he gets, the more his stomach will be able to tolerate (in theory, I stress), which means we can up the pump rate and he'll hopefully keep more down. It's all a matter of biology I suppose.
My Mum is coming to see me next week! She'll be here for my birthday, which makes it the third year in a row I've had family out to Wisconsin on that day. It's rather remarkable and I feel incredibly special, but it is helped by both my parents working in education and August falling during the UK schools' summer holidays. She'll be bringing over D, who is a lovely young chap who lives with my Mum and Dad, and who has had a rather interesting start in life. It's not my place to discuss his affairs online, but I'm looking forward to seeing them both. (Worth noting is the fact he's openly gay, before anyone raises an eyebrow at a 52-year-old woman and 22-year-old man going away together on holiday.) Hopefully D will help break some of the inevitable tension that accompanies those times my Mum and I get together.
Mmm... they're bringing some Cadbury's Dairy Milk too...
In anticipation of their visit, my husband and I have been madly preparing the house for guests. Normally this involves washing the sheets on the guest bed and cleaning the bathrooms (both done far too rarely), but we've gone a little mad this time.
On the list this weekend:
1) Go to the DMV for the Ford's MOT/emissions test
2) Vacuum carpets
3) Clean carpets (we bought a fancy carpet cleaner machine for this, seeing as Little O gets our house rather filthy, and it's already paid for itself after four months)
4) Wash all bedding (yup, all three beds)
5) Tidy and organise the basement (a rather big job, which we're excellent at avoiding)
6) Clean oven inside and out (again, a job done too rarely, but I seem to have fallen in love with the self-clean programme and I fancy this will be done more often now)
7) Clean microwave (ditto... sigh)
8) Clean both bathrooms (I refuse to do this. It's gross)
9) Wash all non-carpeted floors
10) Clean upholstery in living room (our fancy-pants carpet cleaner has a gizmo for this, and Little O's goo gets EVERYWHERE)
11) Mow lawn (I actually really love doing this)
12) Stain the deck (we did this earlier today and now it's a rather startling shade of orange. Oops)
13) Replace batteries in kitchen clock (cheap piece of crap)
14) Go grocery shopping
15) Dusting
16) De-flea Bob (all done now! He shrieked like you wouldn't believe, but that shampoo is awesome. And now we have clean carpets and anti-flea stuff down too, so those little buggers better find somewhere else to live)
17) Finish toy box (my husband's job. He started making Little O a toy box for his birthday... which was in May... sigh...)
18) Put up curtain tie-backs in guest room
19) Replace air filter in heating/air conditioning unit (it's been well over a year, and who knows how long it had been there when we moved in. We changed it today and it was black)
20) Clean kitchen top to bottom
21) Laundry
There are others, but we've either done them already and I've forgotten them, or we're clearly never going to do them and I've also forgotten them. But at least five of those items on the list are BIG JOBS and it took us all day today to get them done. Tomorrow we're going out for brunch at the Botanical Gardens, thanks to our lovely friends J&G, who gave us a voucher for free babysitting and two paid-for brunches to use whenever we chose. I'm trying really hard not to stress about leaving Little O for a couple of hours because I know he'll be safe and loved, but I'm such a control freak when it comes to my son. It's really hard to spend all day looking after him and then hand him off to someone else, no questions asked. I feel guilty and a little bit lost. I need to work harder at letting go... but I don't really want to...
This post is a little bit of a ramble, I know. It's probably very boring to read about the chores we're getting done this weekend, but I felt a bit absent after my last post and I wanted to write about something utterly mundane. And chores are pretty fucking mundane.
I still miss Anthea. She moved in to a new flat a few weeks ago (they OWN it! In London! How cool is THAT?) and hasn't had any internet since then. She also works in education so it's not like she can nip in to work and get online for a few hours. It means I haven't chatted to her for aaaaaages, and right now she, her husband, her son, my other sister V, and my Dad are all on what sounds like a rather hilarious canal boat holiday. My Dad's always wanted to go on one but my Mum prefers city breaks so we never did it as children. Now Mum's flying over to see me, and Dad's taking the initiative and cramming four adults and a one-year-old on to a narrow boat for two weeks. It will be absolutely fucking hilarious and while I miss them like crazy, I also can't wait to hear about how much they got on each other's nerves and how my Dad nearly capsized a 30ft-long canal boat in some random lock.
Good times, man... good times.
Tina.
It's been pretty much the same story all week.
Anywhoo, my husband and I weighed him tonight before bed and Little O has gained three ounces! Yay! He was 23lb 3oz last Thursday (July 29th), and weighed 23lb 6oz today (Aug 7th). It's not a great gain, but I WILL TAKE IT! We're still not jumping up and down, but hopefully this is the start of a better journey. The more weight he puts on and the bigger he gets, the more his stomach will be able to tolerate (in theory, I stress), which means we can up the pump rate and he'll hopefully keep more down. It's all a matter of biology I suppose.
My Mum is coming to see me next week! She'll be here for my birthday, which makes it the third year in a row I've had family out to Wisconsin on that day. It's rather remarkable and I feel incredibly special, but it is helped by both my parents working in education and August falling during the UK schools' summer holidays. She'll be bringing over D, who is a lovely young chap who lives with my Mum and Dad, and who has had a rather interesting start in life. It's not my place to discuss his affairs online, but I'm looking forward to seeing them both. (Worth noting is the fact he's openly gay, before anyone raises an eyebrow at a 52-year-old woman and 22-year-old man going away together on holiday.) Hopefully D will help break some of the inevitable tension that accompanies those times my Mum and I get together.
Mmm... they're bringing some Cadbury's Dairy Milk too...
In anticipation of their visit, my husband and I have been madly preparing the house for guests. Normally this involves washing the sheets on the guest bed and cleaning the bathrooms (both done far too rarely), but we've gone a little mad this time.
On the list this weekend:
1) Go to the DMV for the Ford's MOT/emissions test
2) Vacuum carpets
3) Clean carpets (we bought a fancy carpet cleaner machine for this, seeing as Little O gets our house rather filthy, and it's already paid for itself after four months)
4) Wash all bedding (yup, all three beds)
5) Tidy and organise the basement (a rather big job, which we're excellent at avoiding)
6) Clean oven inside and out (again, a job done too rarely, but I seem to have fallen in love with the self-clean programme and I fancy this will be done more often now)
7) Clean microwave (ditto... sigh)
8) Clean both bathrooms (I refuse to do this. It's gross)
9) Wash all non-carpeted floors
10) Clean upholstery in living room (our fancy-pants carpet cleaner has a gizmo for this, and Little O's goo gets EVERYWHERE)
11) Mow lawn (I actually really love doing this)
12) Stain the deck (we did this earlier today and now it's a rather startling shade of orange. Oops)
13) Replace batteries in kitchen clock (cheap piece of crap)
14) Go grocery shopping
15) Dusting
16) De-flea Bob (all done now! He shrieked like you wouldn't believe, but that shampoo is awesome. And now we have clean carpets and anti-flea stuff down too, so those little buggers better find somewhere else to live)
17) Finish toy box (my husband's job. He started making Little O a toy box for his birthday... which was in May... sigh...)
18) Put up curtain tie-backs in guest room
19) Replace air filter in heating/air conditioning unit (it's been well over a year, and who knows how long it had been there when we moved in. We changed it today and it was black)
20) Clean kitchen top to bottom
21) Laundry
There are others, but we've either done them already and I've forgotten them, or we're clearly never going to do them and I've also forgotten them. But at least five of those items on the list are BIG JOBS and it took us all day today to get them done. Tomorrow we're going out for brunch at the Botanical Gardens, thanks to our lovely friends J&G, who gave us a voucher for free babysitting and two paid-for brunches to use whenever we chose. I'm trying really hard not to stress about leaving Little O for a couple of hours because I know he'll be safe and loved, but I'm such a control freak when it comes to my son. It's really hard to spend all day looking after him and then hand him off to someone else, no questions asked. I feel guilty and a little bit lost. I need to work harder at letting go... but I don't really want to...
This post is a little bit of a ramble, I know. It's probably very boring to read about the chores we're getting done this weekend, but I felt a bit absent after my last post and I wanted to write about something utterly mundane. And chores are pretty fucking mundane.
I still miss Anthea. She moved in to a new flat a few weeks ago (they OWN it! In London! How cool is THAT?) and hasn't had any internet since then. She also works in education so it's not like she can nip in to work and get online for a few hours. It means I haven't chatted to her for aaaaaages, and right now she, her husband, her son, my other sister V, and my Dad are all on what sounds like a rather hilarious canal boat holiday. My Dad's always wanted to go on one but my Mum prefers city breaks so we never did it as children. Now Mum's flying over to see me, and Dad's taking the initiative and cramming four adults and a one-year-old on to a narrow boat for two weeks. It will be absolutely fucking hilarious and while I miss them like crazy, I also can't wait to hear about how much they got on each other's nerves and how my Dad nearly capsized a 30ft-long canal boat in some random lock.
Good times, man... good times.
Tina.
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
From good to bad to worse
Yeah, so I started today out feeling better about the 'situation' and even got as far as to write a post about the good news. Then the rest of my day took over and now I feel desperately unhappy again.
I'm just not getting a good grip on Little O's feeds. I've been trying for so long to adapt and persevere, but it seems like there's a constant wall up ahead that I can't climb over. Since he came home from the hospital on June 10th, 2009, my husband and I have battled and battled to make sure Little O has been fed properly and makes gains in his growth and development. We've tried so hard to offer him a variety of foods; changed formulas three times (four if you include breastmilk); worked with gravity feeds, pump feeds, bottle feeds, spoon feeds, safety-feeder feeds; and all along we've had experts in our ears telling us to 'switch this', or 'stick with that'.
I'm exhausted, and I've spent a great deal of today in tears. Last week we weighed Little O on our home scales and were dismayed to see he still hasn't gained any weight since April. April! I took him to Seattle in April.... it seems a very long time ago. After noticing this problem I called his nutritionist and suggested to her we try feeding him his PediaSure when he's asleep ONLY. He's generally a very good sleeper and will sleep for about 11 or 12 hours at night and another three or four in the afternoon, so the idea of slowly pump-feeding him while he naps seems like a good solution. The theory is that he'll not only stop throwing up (because the rate is so slow on the pump), but it will also free up large portions of the day to concentrate on oral feeds. If I'm not having to force liquid nutrition into him while also forcing a spoon into his mouth, it means he's less likely to throw up solids, AND he'll hopefully enjoy oral feeds more. And then, the more oral intake he has, the less liquid nutrition he needs.
IMAGINE! Imagine this glorious world where your baby boy doesn't live in constant pain. Imagine packing the burp cloths and wipe-up rags into storage because you don't have to mop up sick five times a day. Imagine feeding your child like any other family, where dinner time isn't battle-time and you don't have to mentally and physically gear yourself up for war. Imagine putting your child to bed knowing they've felt no discomfort all day and that they can look forward to a tomorrow where eating is a nice, enjoyable activity. Just imagine...
Today I can't imagine this world. This world seems very far away. My baby boy is nearly 15-months-old and his reflux is still the hardest challenge he faces. He woke up several times in the night to throw up or just scream, and even when I went in at 7.30am, the pump still had nearly 100ml left to go. I don't know what to do. I can't set the pump to go any faster because he'll just throw it up, and I can't leave the food in the bag because he needs the nutrition to grow. I can't run the pump for longer because he needs to be asleep, and I can't let him sleep for longer because then he won't nap in the afternoon...
Yesterday I was so pleased that Little O went down for his nap at 12pm and slept right through until 3.30pm. I was pleased, because it meant he got all his PediaSure and I didn't have to worry about a thing. That was, until I went to wake him up and saw that the med-port on his extension tube (the tube that clicks into his stomach) had popped open during his nap, and he was laying in a large, wet pool of pink PediaSure. So after three and a half hours of pump operation, Little O had digested exactly nothing. Nada. Zilch. And this morning I went in at 7.30am because he was yelling his head off, only to discover that he'd thrown up a large volume of goo, and was now laying in a large, wet pool of chocolate PediaSure. And that brown stuff STAINS. So, for the second time in two days I had to change his bedclothes, comfort a soaking wet little boy, and fret about the fact he's not getting enough food digested.
I am just SO DONE WITH REFLUX! I cannot, cannot keep fighting this battle. I just can't do it. I don't have the patience. I certainly don't have the energy. I cannot keep explaining to experts how horrific our lives have become only to have them dismiss my words. I'm so sad and angry and frustrated. I need for this to go away; I need a Fairy Godmother to come and visit my house and whisk us all away to that lovely other world where Little O doesn't cry out in pain in the middle of the night and where bedsheets aren't stained to the point of embarrasment. I need for someone else to take care of us. I need to be able to focus on something, anything else but whether my son is growing and eating and comfortable. I need a break. A real, honest break.
I need to see to my sister. I really miss her. I miss both my sisters, but sometimes you just need a hug from your big sister and you get the energy back to fight another day.
God, I need some help. And I need to stop crying.
Tina.
I'm just not getting a good grip on Little O's feeds. I've been trying for so long to adapt and persevere, but it seems like there's a constant wall up ahead that I can't climb over. Since he came home from the hospital on June 10th, 2009, my husband and I have battled and battled to make sure Little O has been fed properly and makes gains in his growth and development. We've tried so hard to offer him a variety of foods; changed formulas three times (four if you include breastmilk); worked with gravity feeds, pump feeds, bottle feeds, spoon feeds, safety-feeder feeds; and all along we've had experts in our ears telling us to 'switch this', or 'stick with that'.
I'm exhausted, and I've spent a great deal of today in tears. Last week we weighed Little O on our home scales and were dismayed to see he still hasn't gained any weight since April. April! I took him to Seattle in April.... it seems a very long time ago. After noticing this problem I called his nutritionist and suggested to her we try feeding him his PediaSure when he's asleep ONLY. He's generally a very good sleeper and will sleep for about 11 or 12 hours at night and another three or four in the afternoon, so the idea of slowly pump-feeding him while he naps seems like a good solution. The theory is that he'll not only stop throwing up (because the rate is so slow on the pump), but it will also free up large portions of the day to concentrate on oral feeds. If I'm not having to force liquid nutrition into him while also forcing a spoon into his mouth, it means he's less likely to throw up solids, AND he'll hopefully enjoy oral feeds more. And then, the more oral intake he has, the less liquid nutrition he needs.
IMAGINE! Imagine this glorious world where your baby boy doesn't live in constant pain. Imagine packing the burp cloths and wipe-up rags into storage because you don't have to mop up sick five times a day. Imagine feeding your child like any other family, where dinner time isn't battle-time and you don't have to mentally and physically gear yourself up for war. Imagine putting your child to bed knowing they've felt no discomfort all day and that they can look forward to a tomorrow where eating is a nice, enjoyable activity. Just imagine...
Today I can't imagine this world. This world seems very far away. My baby boy is nearly 15-months-old and his reflux is still the hardest challenge he faces. He woke up several times in the night to throw up or just scream, and even when I went in at 7.30am, the pump still had nearly 100ml left to go. I don't know what to do. I can't set the pump to go any faster because he'll just throw it up, and I can't leave the food in the bag because he needs the nutrition to grow. I can't run the pump for longer because he needs to be asleep, and I can't let him sleep for longer because then he won't nap in the afternoon...
Yesterday I was so pleased that Little O went down for his nap at 12pm and slept right through until 3.30pm. I was pleased, because it meant he got all his PediaSure and I didn't have to worry about a thing. That was, until I went to wake him up and saw that the med-port on his extension tube (the tube that clicks into his stomach) had popped open during his nap, and he was laying in a large, wet pool of pink PediaSure. So after three and a half hours of pump operation, Little O had digested exactly nothing. Nada. Zilch. And this morning I went in at 7.30am because he was yelling his head off, only to discover that he'd thrown up a large volume of goo, and was now laying in a large, wet pool of chocolate PediaSure. And that brown stuff STAINS. So, for the second time in two days I had to change his bedclothes, comfort a soaking wet little boy, and fret about the fact he's not getting enough food digested.
I am just SO DONE WITH REFLUX! I cannot, cannot keep fighting this battle. I just can't do it. I don't have the patience. I certainly don't have the energy. I cannot keep explaining to experts how horrific our lives have become only to have them dismiss my words. I'm so sad and angry and frustrated. I need for this to go away; I need a Fairy Godmother to come and visit my house and whisk us all away to that lovely other world where Little O doesn't cry out in pain in the middle of the night and where bedsheets aren't stained to the point of embarrasment. I need for someone else to take care of us. I need to be able to focus on something, anything else but whether my son is growing and eating and comfortable. I need a break. A real, honest break.
I need to see to my sister. I really miss her. I miss both my sisters, but sometimes you just need a hug from your big sister and you get the energy back to fight another day.
God, I need some help. And I need to stop crying.
Tina.
Thursday, July 29, 2010
Little O is awesome
Little O met a MAJOR milestone today!
As most of you already know, my little boy has been tube-fed directly into his stomach since the day he was born, and we've always struggled to engage him with oral feedings because he has a strong aversion. The aversion is due to his God-awful reflux (GERD), which has led to a vicious cycle - he throws up - which makes him not want to eat - which means he doesn't try solid food - which means his reflux doesn't improve - which means he throws up - which makes him not want to eat - etc... etc...
Anyway, we've been looking for new foods and stronger tastes to help him want to taste and accept more, and this lunchtime we tried... dum dum dummmm... french fries!
Oh my God.
My Little O LOVES them! He likes to stick his tongue out and lick all the salt and grease off, and today he managed to do something he's NEVER done before. He bit off a small piece of fry, chewed it (with assistance), and then SWALLOWED it without choking!
There is no expression or emoticon obnoxious enough to express how I feel about this. It is the first step towards him being weaned off his feeding tube and I don't even care that fries are perhaps the very worst food you can eat. I just don't care! When a child who point blank refuses ANY food at all suddenly decides to bite, chew and swallow, then that child is allowed as many fries as they want.
My baby is a Superbaby. Feel free to gush in adoration.
As most of you already know, my little boy has been tube-fed directly into his stomach since the day he was born, and we've always struggled to engage him with oral feedings because he has a strong aversion. The aversion is due to his God-awful reflux (GERD), which has led to a vicious cycle - he throws up - which makes him not want to eat - which means he doesn't try solid food - which means his reflux doesn't improve - which means he throws up - which makes him not want to eat - etc... etc...
Anyway, we've been looking for new foods and stronger tastes to help him want to taste and accept more, and this lunchtime we tried... dum dum dummmm... french fries!
Oh my God.
My Little O LOVES them! He likes to stick his tongue out and lick all the salt and grease off, and today he managed to do something he's NEVER done before. He bit off a small piece of fry, chewed it (with assistance), and then SWALLOWED it without choking!
There is no expression or emoticon obnoxious enough to express how I feel about this. It is the first step towards him being weaned off his feeding tube and I don't even care that fries are perhaps the very worst food you can eat. I just don't care! When a child who point blank refuses ANY food at all suddenly decides to bite, chew and swallow, then that child is allowed as many fries as they want.
My baby is a Superbaby. Feel free to gush in adoration.
Thursday, July 8, 2010
Oh, poo
I have a dilemma.
At the moment, my entire house smells like an odd combination of strawberries, vomited PediaSure and poo. I can't seem to escape it, no matter which room I go in to and I'm blamimg Little O.
According to our insurance plan, we are allowed to order two flavours of PediaSure a month. (The mind boggles as to why they think a child will be content only eating two different things a month, but that's besides the point.) This month we have strawberry and chocolate, as well as some vanilla and banana cans left over from last month. We tried Little O out on the strawberry stuff and he LOVES it! Normally he couldn't give a toss when we offer him a drink, but now he's begun to lean forward and move his mouth towards his cup, asking for more. It's quite something, and we're doing our best to encourage it.
The vomiting still hasn't ebbed, which I predicted would happen. So now we have layers of stains on the living room carpet where he gets fed (I know, I know. I should be feeding him at the dining table like a 'proper' family, but when feeds take an hour you need to have SOMETHING to do that doesn't involve using your hands, and I'm afraid putting the telly on is a simple solution). These stains were once very white (Neocate), then cream (PediaSure), and now they're turning pink (strawberry PediaSure). It's quite revolting, but I'm afraid cleaning the carpets every day is just not going to happen. Which is why the house smells like strawberries and vomit.
The real problem is the poo, though. Little O is still training his digestive system on how to process longer protein strands, so he's creating dirty diapers several times a day. But now they're... interesting. They've changed colour so much during the last month or so that I'm still not sure what to do. The initial changes were attributed to a possible C. difficile infection, which was treated with antibiotics, and it did improve things a little. His stomach seemed to hurt less, which was nice, and the frequency of changing him declined a little - we were up to 10 or 12 dirty diapers a day a few weeks ago, and now it's more like three or four. But I'm still not convinced that there isn't something wrong with his tummy.
His poo is currently pink. Yup, pink. Obviously I'm thinking the pink strawberry PediaSure is responsible for this, but I have NEVER SEEN PINK POO BEFORE. It's freaking me out, to be honest. I mean, when he was on certain antibiotics his poo was a bit purple, or a bit orange, but never pink! It's alarming to unwrap a nappy and see that staring you in the face. Oh, and it's not consistently consistent, either. In the early mornings it might be almost as solid as a normal toddler's, but by 9am his 'present' is as runny as water. And they ALWAYS have a really unusual smell. There just doesn't seem to be any progress.
So what do I do? I don't know whether to just keep pumping the PediaSure into him and keep my fingers crossed his body will eventually adapt, or whether to bother the GI clinic AGAIN with my concerns. I hate being that parent and I do my best to solve riddles by myself instead of bothering busy clinics, but until now I've always trusted my instincts and my instincts have always been right.
It's just that right now I'm not sure what my instincts are. Any thoughts?
Tina.
At the moment, my entire house smells like an odd combination of strawberries, vomited PediaSure and poo. I can't seem to escape it, no matter which room I go in to and I'm blamimg Little O.
According to our insurance plan, we are allowed to order two flavours of PediaSure a month. (The mind boggles as to why they think a child will be content only eating two different things a month, but that's besides the point.) This month we have strawberry and chocolate, as well as some vanilla and banana cans left over from last month. We tried Little O out on the strawberry stuff and he LOVES it! Normally he couldn't give a toss when we offer him a drink, but now he's begun to lean forward and move his mouth towards his cup, asking for more. It's quite something, and we're doing our best to encourage it.
The vomiting still hasn't ebbed, which I predicted would happen. So now we have layers of stains on the living room carpet where he gets fed (I know, I know. I should be feeding him at the dining table like a 'proper' family, but when feeds take an hour you need to have SOMETHING to do that doesn't involve using your hands, and I'm afraid putting the telly on is a simple solution). These stains were once very white (Neocate), then cream (PediaSure), and now they're turning pink (strawberry PediaSure). It's quite revolting, but I'm afraid cleaning the carpets every day is just not going to happen. Which is why the house smells like strawberries and vomit.
The real problem is the poo, though. Little O is still training his digestive system on how to process longer protein strands, so he's creating dirty diapers several times a day. But now they're... interesting. They've changed colour so much during the last month or so that I'm still not sure what to do. The initial changes were attributed to a possible C. difficile infection, which was treated with antibiotics, and it did improve things a little. His stomach seemed to hurt less, which was nice, and the frequency of changing him declined a little - we were up to 10 or 12 dirty diapers a day a few weeks ago, and now it's more like three or four. But I'm still not convinced that there isn't something wrong with his tummy.
His poo is currently pink. Yup, pink. Obviously I'm thinking the pink strawberry PediaSure is responsible for this, but I have NEVER SEEN PINK POO BEFORE. It's freaking me out, to be honest. I mean, when he was on certain antibiotics his poo was a bit purple, or a bit orange, but never pink! It's alarming to unwrap a nappy and see that staring you in the face. Oh, and it's not consistently consistent, either. In the early mornings it might be almost as solid as a normal toddler's, but by 9am his 'present' is as runny as water. And they ALWAYS have a really unusual smell. There just doesn't seem to be any progress.
So what do I do? I don't know whether to just keep pumping the PediaSure into him and keep my fingers crossed his body will eventually adapt, or whether to bother the GI clinic AGAIN with my concerns. I hate being that parent and I do my best to solve riddles by myself instead of bothering busy clinics, but until now I've always trusted my instincts and my instincts have always been right.
It's just that right now I'm not sure what my instincts are. Any thoughts?
Tina.
Thursday, June 24, 2010
And repeat!
This week has been rather lovely for me and Owen because all three of his therapists have gone dun a bunk and he hasn't had any Speech, PT or OT. Which means I haven't had to clean the house in preparation for their visits (because, let's face it: if I didn't HAVE to clean the house, I WOULDN'T clean the house), and we've had some more free time than usual.
However.
Because this is the sixth month of the year, and because I am a diligent, organised parent, a lot of Owen's routine appointments have cropped up and I have chosen to attend them instead of buggering off on holiday for a week or seven. This has meant that two appointments, genetics and Stepping Stones, have occurred back-to-back in the same week. And neither of them are up at CHOW or at my own house, so it's kind of a bitch to get to them and remember how long they're going to take. Anyway, genetics was yesterday and aside from it being a colossal waste of time, it was rather nice to present my son to them and go, "SEE? Isn't he MARVELLOUS?", and for them to go, "Oh yes! What a lovely little boy you have there, and what a REMARKABLE job you're doing with him!" in return. Which is what always happens at these types of appointments. Honestly, I think there must be some real douchebag parents out there, because whenever I see any of Little O's specialists I'm always commended on my parenting skills - particularly my ability to remember which medications he takes, which doctors he sees, dates, times, and past medical history, all without referring to something I've written down.
The trick to remembering it all is quite simple: repeat. Often. At least once a week. Tell every doctor, therapist, nurse, specialist, interested friend, and family members as often as possible, because chances are they won't have remembered a single sodding thing from the last time they saw Little O, and haven't bothered to look at his chart before they entered the room. Trust me, you can get a reputation as an outstanding parent very quickly if you are forced to repeat, repeat, and repeat again your son's medical history every time he sees someone.
The thing is, I'm usually a wreck. Emotionally and physically, I'm a wreck. Because attending appointments means adhering to someone else's schedule, I always arrive looking and feeling completely frazzled. I can't remember the last time I bothered to dry my hair instead of sticking it up in a mess, and as for make-up or checking to see if my clothes are baby-fluid-free ... well ... let's just say they're low on my list of priorities. I turn up at least five minutes early, because to me "on-time" is late, and I have always, always busted a gut to get out of the house with a semi-clean Little O and chewy toys, wipes, diapers, special butt cream, clean t-shirts, clean trousers/shorts, several burp cloths, wallet, diary (planner), phone, car keys, and feeding supplies if they're needed (milk, water, bottles, extension tubing, 60cc syringe, 10ml syringe, bib, sippy cup, semi-solid food, bowl, spoon, plastic baggies, freezer pack, insulated bag). And it always takes me an hour to get to most of our appointments, so I have to shift Little O's feeds around to make sure he's done puking by the time I sit him in his car seat. It isn't fun pulling over on to the hard shoulder to mop him up; oh no, it isn't. Today for example, I was up at 6am just to make sure we arrived at our 10.30am Stepping Stones (SS) clinic appointment on time.
That, quite frankly, is ridiculous.
It's also ridiculous to ask me to add a single sodding thing to my already scheduled-to-death life. The therapists we see at SS all make very helpful suggestions whenever we go, and I'm always pleased to see them, but they make it sound SO simple and they need to know it isn't. Asking me to prepare fresh baby food instead of shop-bought is just not an option right now. I don't have the time to dry my hair, let alone mash some vegetables up! It's completely maddening and today I was kind of at the end of my tether. I sobbed quite a lot this morning before I left the house and I just didn't have the patience to sit through another "helpful suggestion", so I told them quite honestly the things I was, and wasn't, prepared to do. And making fresh food for a child who will not eat anything at all, is so low on my list of priorities that it doesn't even register.
Wait one sec ... this post is nowhere near finished, but Little O has a stinky bottom and the phone's ringing.
To be continued ...
Tina.
However.
Because this is the sixth month of the year, and because I am a diligent, organised parent, a lot of Owen's routine appointments have cropped up and I have chosen to attend them instead of buggering off on holiday for a week or seven. This has meant that two appointments, genetics and Stepping Stones, have occurred back-to-back in the same week. And neither of them are up at CHOW or at my own house, so it's kind of a bitch to get to them and remember how long they're going to take. Anyway, genetics was yesterday and aside from it being a colossal waste of time, it was rather nice to present my son to them and go, "SEE? Isn't he MARVELLOUS?", and for them to go, "Oh yes! What a lovely little boy you have there, and what a REMARKABLE job you're doing with him!" in return. Which is what always happens at these types of appointments. Honestly, I think there must be some real douchebag parents out there, because whenever I see any of Little O's specialists I'm always commended on my parenting skills - particularly my ability to remember which medications he takes, which doctors he sees, dates, times, and past medical history, all without referring to something I've written down.
The trick to remembering it all is quite simple: repeat. Often. At least once a week. Tell every doctor, therapist, nurse, specialist, interested friend, and family members as often as possible, because chances are they won't have remembered a single sodding thing from the last time they saw Little O, and haven't bothered to look at his chart before they entered the room. Trust me, you can get a reputation as an outstanding parent very quickly if you are forced to repeat, repeat, and repeat again your son's medical history every time he sees someone.
The thing is, I'm usually a wreck. Emotionally and physically, I'm a wreck. Because attending appointments means adhering to someone else's schedule, I always arrive looking and feeling completely frazzled. I can't remember the last time I bothered to dry my hair instead of sticking it up in a mess, and as for make-up or checking to see if my clothes are baby-fluid-free ... well ... let's just say they're low on my list of priorities. I turn up at least five minutes early, because to me "on-time" is late, and I have always, always busted a gut to get out of the house with a semi-clean Little O and chewy toys, wipes, diapers, special butt cream, clean t-shirts, clean trousers/shorts, several burp cloths, wallet, diary (planner), phone, car keys, and feeding supplies if they're needed (milk, water, bottles, extension tubing, 60cc syringe, 10ml syringe, bib, sippy cup, semi-solid food, bowl, spoon, plastic baggies, freezer pack, insulated bag). And it always takes me an hour to get to most of our appointments, so I have to shift Little O's feeds around to make sure he's done puking by the time I sit him in his car seat. It isn't fun pulling over on to the hard shoulder to mop him up; oh no, it isn't. Today for example, I was up at 6am just to make sure we arrived at our 10.30am Stepping Stones (SS) clinic appointment on time.
That, quite frankly, is ridiculous.
It's also ridiculous to ask me to add a single sodding thing to my already scheduled-to-death life. The therapists we see at SS all make very helpful suggestions whenever we go, and I'm always pleased to see them, but they make it sound SO simple and they need to know it isn't. Asking me to prepare fresh baby food instead of shop-bought is just not an option right now. I don't have the time to dry my hair, let alone mash some vegetables up! It's completely maddening and today I was kind of at the end of my tether. I sobbed quite a lot this morning before I left the house and I just didn't have the patience to sit through another "helpful suggestion", so I told them quite honestly the things I was, and wasn't, prepared to do. And making fresh food for a child who will not eat anything at all, is so low on my list of priorities that it doesn't even register.
Wait one sec ... this post is nowhere near finished, but Little O has a stinky bottom and the phone's ringing.
To be continued ...
Tina.
Friday, June 18, 2010
Spoons aren't just for sick people
Came across this today: Spoon Theory.
It's definitely worth a read if you have the time.
As I was reading it, I was struck by how much I could relate to this woman. No, I'm not sick in the traditional sense, but I do have a mental health issue and I do take care of a chronically sick child. I too feel as though I only have a certain number of spoons in my hand at any given time, but for me they're weekly allowances, not daily.
Mike was late getting home today because we had extremely violent thunderstorms which knocked out some traffic lights down by his workplace. Plus, people always drive bananas when the rain comes and it takes you three times as long to get anywhere. Anyway, he called me while he was stuck in a traffic jam and to me it was the last straw. By Friday, I'm absolutely exhausted. I have no energy to feed my son, to cook (or even think about) dinner, to tidy up the house, or to run errands in the evening. I feel bone-tired, even though Fridays are usually my least-busy day of the week, and sometimes I just don't have the energy to get off the floor - which is usually where I am on a Friday afternoon. When Mike calls me at the end of the week, he's always so excited to be done with work, and every single time I manage to crush his buoyancy like a particularly annoying mosquito. I just can't bear it when he's so energetic and ... just ... MAD. He's like a small child on Fridays, and after an entire week of taking care of one of those, I just can't face another.
When I'm tired I can't make decisions. I find it hard to function normally, and as my 'normal' involves feeding Little O, I'm often driven to the point of desperation when Mike is late and can't do his Friday 5pm feed. Today I nearly cried when England drew against Algeria because Owen REFUSED to sleep at his usual time, which meant he cried and cried and cried, which meant his stomach muscles contracted like mad, which meant I couldn't get his feeding tube to drain properly, which meant I couldn't get his lunch inside him, which meant he didn't eat his entire lunch, which meant I felt extremely guilty, which meant I was exhausted after two hours of battling reflux and guilt, which meant when England didn't secure a win I was VERY upset. And very, very tired. I could NOT face another round in the ring for Little O's dinner, and I was almost catatonic on the floor when Mike told me he would be late. He came home to me still on the floor, propping Little O up on my arm while his automatic feeding pump whirred in the background. Sure, it takes three times as long to get a meal in him, but when you just don't have the spoons left to fight another battle, it sure as hell makes do.
Today, my spoons are all gone. But tomorrow, thank God, I get a fresh supply.
Tina.
It's definitely worth a read if you have the time.
As I was reading it, I was struck by how much I could relate to this woman. No, I'm not sick in the traditional sense, but I do have a mental health issue and I do take care of a chronically sick child. I too feel as though I only have a certain number of spoons in my hand at any given time, but for me they're weekly allowances, not daily.
Mike was late getting home today because we had extremely violent thunderstorms which knocked out some traffic lights down by his workplace. Plus, people always drive bananas when the rain comes and it takes you three times as long to get anywhere. Anyway, he called me while he was stuck in a traffic jam and to me it was the last straw. By Friday, I'm absolutely exhausted. I have no energy to feed my son, to cook (or even think about) dinner, to tidy up the house, or to run errands in the evening. I feel bone-tired, even though Fridays are usually my least-busy day of the week, and sometimes I just don't have the energy to get off the floor - which is usually where I am on a Friday afternoon. When Mike calls me at the end of the week, he's always so excited to be done with work, and every single time I manage to crush his buoyancy like a particularly annoying mosquito. I just can't bear it when he's so energetic and ... just ... MAD. He's like a small child on Fridays, and after an entire week of taking care of one of those, I just can't face another.
When I'm tired I can't make decisions. I find it hard to function normally, and as my 'normal' involves feeding Little O, I'm often driven to the point of desperation when Mike is late and can't do his Friday 5pm feed. Today I nearly cried when England drew against Algeria because Owen REFUSED to sleep at his usual time, which meant he cried and cried and cried, which meant his stomach muscles contracted like mad, which meant I couldn't get his feeding tube to drain properly, which meant I couldn't get his lunch inside him, which meant he didn't eat his entire lunch, which meant I felt extremely guilty, which meant I was exhausted after two hours of battling reflux and guilt, which meant when England didn't secure a win I was VERY upset. And very, very tired. I could NOT face another round in the ring for Little O's dinner, and I was almost catatonic on the floor when Mike told me he would be late. He came home to me still on the floor, propping Little O up on my arm while his automatic feeding pump whirred in the background. Sure, it takes three times as long to get a meal in him, but when you just don't have the spoons left to fight another battle, it sure as hell makes do.
Today, my spoons are all gone. But tomorrow, thank God, I get a fresh supply.
Tina.
Friday, May 28, 2010
Bigger blog
Since Owen's birthday on May 17th, things have been a bit of a whirlwind. He has had a birthday party, some professional photos taken, surgery and a stay in hospital overnight, a change in formula, and a pretty nasty stomach bug.
It's a shame I'm not keen on sharing photos of my son on this annoymous blog, otherwise I'd load up some from his awesome birthday party. It was brilliant. Every child ought to have a first birthday just like it. Mike's family came out to visit for the occasion and I invited about twenty other friends and their small children too. We had a barbeque using our very American gas-powered outdoor grill, which fires up in about three minutes and cooks meat and veggies perfectly - as long as Mike is watching it. We also had a friend make some cheesecakes to use as birthday cakes. Owen can't manage completely solid food yet, so some creamy, delicious goodness seemed like a nice halfway point between proper sponge cake and liquid baby food. It meant we could stick a candle in it too, which for some reason was very important to me. Owen's guests were extremely generous with presents and he received some incredible clothes and toys. Every single thing was obviously thought-about too, because friends of mine know how much I can't stand gendered toys, and that Owen requires clothes that don't interfere with his tube feedings. He received very gender-neutral toys and clothes, and there was nothing I thought we'd have to put away for a bit until he's able to use it. I was also very pleased that people listened to my (polite) request that he be given toys to help his development. Not every toy aimed at one-year-olds is appropriate for my little boy, but there are items out there which will kick-start a new stage in his growth - such as an adorable walking device that babies can either sit on or push in front of them, that we have named Lionel the Lion. It roars. So does Owen.
On his actual birthday, which was a Monday, I took Little O to get some professional photos taken. Out here it is perfectly normal to get photos done ALL THE LIVE LONG DAY. I have friends who took professional shots every month for the first year of their son's life, and others who don't let a national holiday pass without marching in to a photo studio: Easter, Christmas, Valentine's Day; their daughter has a portrait for all of 'em. I, however, prefer to be a cheap-ass mother, and felt that some nice photographs to commemorate the first year in my son's extremely challenging life were more than appropriate. Owen had other plans, of course, and didn't smile for the camera for most of the session. Of the thirty-or-so shots the photographer took, only four or five were nice enough to use. I ordered some for home and family, but it's not something I plan on doing every year. But this year was special.
On the Wednesday of Birthday Week, Owen had surgery to repair his cleft palate and take off that fucking ugly ear tag he's had since he was born. He was a complete trooper during and after his operation, and my mouth fails me when I try to describe how brave and strong he is. His fourth operation in a year, and he's such a superstar. My heart just swells with pride at the strength of his character, and I tell him that every day. He has to wear these ridiculous arm restraints for two weeks so he doesn't suck on his fingers and pop open his stitches - yuk. It's incredibly hot over here at the moment (yesterday it was 82F/28C) and those restraints stink like a son of a bitch with Owen's sweat. Thankfully we have two pairs and I've been able to wash them, but they're still not nice for him to wear in the heat and I haven't been particularly diligent about him wearing them when he's fussy. At the moment he has a horrible stomach bug, and it seems cruel to deny him the comfort of sucking on his fingers or thumb when he's feeling crappy. I've been watching him to make sure he doesn't get too aggressive and potentially harm the surgical site, and so far, so good.
On Monday of this week I took him up to the GI clinic to see if we could change his formula. He's been on Neocate since he was born, which is a hypoallergenic, amino-acid based formula suitable for children who just won't tolerate anything else. After Owen passed his allergy study a couple of weeks ago, his doctors have been keen to move him on to something with higher calories and a cheaper price tag. So now he's on something called Pediasure, which is widely available and comes pre-mixed. Hallelujah! Unfortunately, the night we started weaning him on to it, he came down with a stomach bug and temperature, and hasn't been tolerating feeds of any large volumes at all. I'm just hoping it's the bug and not the formula.
I do feel guilty when Owen gets ill, because I take down the amount of food I give him. When he's ill he throws up more, regardless of whether the bug is respitory or gastrointestinal, so it seems cruel to push as much food as I can in to his stomach, only for him to bring it up violently and with great distress. So I tend to ignore our regular schedule (8am, 12pm, 5pm and overnight starting at 8.30pm) and allow him to sleep as much as he wants to. It does mean though that not only does he miss complete feeds, he doesn't even get a full feed when he does eat. It's that ever-present issue of trying to do what's best for him versus what keeps him happy: balancing his nutritional needs with his comfort. He's so unwell at the moment that he's waking up every ten minutes or so at night (don't even get me started on how exhausted I am after the last two nights), and throwing up his overnight feed, which means he's not getting that full amount either. I feel very guilty when he doesn't gain weight during an illness, but I try and remember that if he were a normal child, fed in a normal way, then he'd probably be refusing to eat anyway. This is a similar thing, I guess.
In a couple of weeks I take Owen in to discuss the results of an immunology study he had done. His doctor called me and requested I bring him in, which scares the bejesus outta me. Apparently some of his 'levels' came back too low, which is a strong indicator of an immune deficiency disorder. Those are pretty scary and something which I know next to nothing about. I just hope it's not so bad he eventually requires a bone marrow transplant, or infusions every month. The more stuff I can manage from home, the better.
Owen qualified for Medicaid! Hurrah! Too dull to explain here, but it means that a lot of our financial problems associated with his care will now be handled by the state of Wisconsin. This is fantastic news and I'm just waiting for him number to arrive in the post so I can call all his healthcare providers and tell them to stick their medical bills up their arse. I will relish every single call.
Tina.
It's a shame I'm not keen on sharing photos of my son on this annoymous blog, otherwise I'd load up some from his awesome birthday party. It was brilliant. Every child ought to have a first birthday just like it. Mike's family came out to visit for the occasion and I invited about twenty other friends and their small children too. We had a barbeque using our very American gas-powered outdoor grill, which fires up in about three minutes and cooks meat and veggies perfectly - as long as Mike is watching it. We also had a friend make some cheesecakes to use as birthday cakes. Owen can't manage completely solid food yet, so some creamy, delicious goodness seemed like a nice halfway point between proper sponge cake and liquid baby food. It meant we could stick a candle in it too, which for some reason was very important to me. Owen's guests were extremely generous with presents and he received some incredible clothes and toys. Every single thing was obviously thought-about too, because friends of mine know how much I can't stand gendered toys, and that Owen requires clothes that don't interfere with his tube feedings. He received very gender-neutral toys and clothes, and there was nothing I thought we'd have to put away for a bit until he's able to use it. I was also very pleased that people listened to my (polite) request that he be given toys to help his development. Not every toy aimed at one-year-olds is appropriate for my little boy, but there are items out there which will kick-start a new stage in his growth - such as an adorable walking device that babies can either sit on or push in front of them, that we have named Lionel the Lion. It roars. So does Owen.
On his actual birthday, which was a Monday, I took Little O to get some professional photos taken. Out here it is perfectly normal to get photos done ALL THE LIVE LONG DAY. I have friends who took professional shots every month for the first year of their son's life, and others who don't let a national holiday pass without marching in to a photo studio: Easter, Christmas, Valentine's Day; their daughter has a portrait for all of 'em. I, however, prefer to be a cheap-ass mother, and felt that some nice photographs to commemorate the first year in my son's extremely challenging life were more than appropriate. Owen had other plans, of course, and didn't smile for the camera for most of the session. Of the thirty-or-so shots the photographer took, only four or five were nice enough to use. I ordered some for home and family, but it's not something I plan on doing every year. But this year was special.
On the Wednesday of Birthday Week, Owen had surgery to repair his cleft palate and take off that fucking ugly ear tag he's had since he was born. He was a complete trooper during and after his operation, and my mouth fails me when I try to describe how brave and strong he is. His fourth operation in a year, and he's such a superstar. My heart just swells with pride at the strength of his character, and I tell him that every day. He has to wear these ridiculous arm restraints for two weeks so he doesn't suck on his fingers and pop open his stitches - yuk. It's incredibly hot over here at the moment (yesterday it was 82F/28C) and those restraints stink like a son of a bitch with Owen's sweat. Thankfully we have two pairs and I've been able to wash them, but they're still not nice for him to wear in the heat and I haven't been particularly diligent about him wearing them when he's fussy. At the moment he has a horrible stomach bug, and it seems cruel to deny him the comfort of sucking on his fingers or thumb when he's feeling crappy. I've been watching him to make sure he doesn't get too aggressive and potentially harm the surgical site, and so far, so good.
On Monday of this week I took him up to the GI clinic to see if we could change his formula. He's been on Neocate since he was born, which is a hypoallergenic, amino-acid based formula suitable for children who just won't tolerate anything else. After Owen passed his allergy study a couple of weeks ago, his doctors have been keen to move him on to something with higher calories and a cheaper price tag. So now he's on something called Pediasure, which is widely available and comes pre-mixed. Hallelujah! Unfortunately, the night we started weaning him on to it, he came down with a stomach bug and temperature, and hasn't been tolerating feeds of any large volumes at all. I'm just hoping it's the bug and not the formula.
I do feel guilty when Owen gets ill, because I take down the amount of food I give him. When he's ill he throws up more, regardless of whether the bug is respitory or gastrointestinal, so it seems cruel to push as much food as I can in to his stomach, only for him to bring it up violently and with great distress. So I tend to ignore our regular schedule (8am, 12pm, 5pm and overnight starting at 8.30pm) and allow him to sleep as much as he wants to. It does mean though that not only does he miss complete feeds, he doesn't even get a full feed when he does eat. It's that ever-present issue of trying to do what's best for him versus what keeps him happy: balancing his nutritional needs with his comfort. He's so unwell at the moment that he's waking up every ten minutes or so at night (don't even get me started on how exhausted I am after the last two nights), and throwing up his overnight feed, which means he's not getting that full amount either. I feel very guilty when he doesn't gain weight during an illness, but I try and remember that if he were a normal child, fed in a normal way, then he'd probably be refusing to eat anyway. This is a similar thing, I guess.
In a couple of weeks I take Owen in to discuss the results of an immunology study he had done. His doctor called me and requested I bring him in, which scares the bejesus outta me. Apparently some of his 'levels' came back too low, which is a strong indicator of an immune deficiency disorder. Those are pretty scary and something which I know next to nothing about. I just hope it's not so bad he eventually requires a bone marrow transplant, or infusions every month. The more stuff I can manage from home, the better.
Owen qualified for Medicaid! Hurrah! Too dull to explain here, but it means that a lot of our financial problems associated with his care will now be handled by the state of Wisconsin. This is fantastic news and I'm just waiting for him number to arrive in the post so I can call all his healthcare providers and tell them to stick their medical bills up their arse. I will relish every single call.
Tina.
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Week...err... four?
Weight: 211.2lb
This, obviously, is a big kick in the gonads. I am extrememely irritated I didn't reach 210, which was my goal for this week. I feel like eating a big slice of cake just to piss off my scale.
In other news, my weekend was a complete and utter disaster from start to finish. I had a deadline due Monday morning for Crimson and because I am both excellent at working under pressure AND being a lazy bum until the last minute, I didn't start my work until last Thursday. This is not normally an issue because I'm pretty quick at what I do, but I didn't expect BOTH our computers to pack in on Saturday morning. I cannot describe with enough anger and frustration exactly what happened, but just know this: Windows 7, Microsoft, Office and our internet can all take a scalding hot bath in some freshly laid cow shit. I finally gave in on Sunday and took my poorly laptop in to Geek Squad, and after threatening to cut off various parts of their anatomies, those chaps fixed my machine that afternoon. Our iMac is still down (still blaming the idiots at Best Buy who swore blind to us that just inserting a Windows 7 disc on a machine with Snow Leopard would work... oh how WRONG THEY WERE) and we're kind of afraid to turn it on again, because every time we do it reboots and reboots and reboots and reboots and reboots... and either the iMac is going out the window or one of us is...
Poor Mac. We miss you.
Owen is doing well and still laughing at everything we wave in front of his face. He's starting to look like a little boy rather than a baby, which is both incredibly exciting and yet leaves me a little bit sad. I've already forgotten what he sounded like as a premature babba (a kitten, incidentally, but I can no longer bring it to memory), and while I love the way he interacts with us now, I do miss just lying back on our oh-so-American recliner chair and falling asleep with him on my shoulder. Jey-sus, if I tried to do that now I'd either get an elbow in the eye or a kick in the stomach.
We've changed his feeding schedule (again) and we're trying out a new thing with our food pump. Now he eats only three times a day, and the rest of his food is pumped continuously in to his tummy overnight. We scoffed at first and were extremely reluctant to try it, but I'm so glad we overcame our intense dislike of the pump and got it working, because he is an absolute champion at using this method. He didn't like it at first because ever since we brought him home from the NICU almost a year ago, he's fallen asleep in the living room in either his high chair or our arms while being fed. Now he has to go to sleep by himself in his cot a whole half-hour before he used to (9.30pm instead of 10pm) and pretty much stay there until 7.30am. Thankfully he takes after moi, because once we've settled him, he does stay asleep all night and is happy to remain in bed the next morning. If he were more like Mike he'd be fast asleep at 7pm and wake my sorry arse up at 5am. We did feel sorry for him when we first changed things around because he was so confused and cried and cried and cried, but four nights in and he's settling down after only five minutes. Result! He's sleeping so much better and of course, his food is staying in his tummy. Our next challenge is to build up the amount he gets overnight and reduce his day time feeds, so that he's only eating enough during the day to satisfy his hunger, and not so much he's puking his guts out. Watch this space.
Tina.
This, obviously, is a big kick in the gonads. I am extrememely irritated I didn't reach 210, which was my goal for this week. I feel like eating a big slice of cake just to piss off my scale.
In other news, my weekend was a complete and utter disaster from start to finish. I had a deadline due Monday morning for Crimson and because I am both excellent at working under pressure AND being a lazy bum until the last minute, I didn't start my work until last Thursday. This is not normally an issue because I'm pretty quick at what I do, but I didn't expect BOTH our computers to pack in on Saturday morning. I cannot describe with enough anger and frustration exactly what happened, but just know this: Windows 7, Microsoft, Office and our internet can all take a scalding hot bath in some freshly laid cow shit. I finally gave in on Sunday and took my poorly laptop in to Geek Squad, and after threatening to cut off various parts of their anatomies, those chaps fixed my machine that afternoon. Our iMac is still down (still blaming the idiots at Best Buy who swore blind to us that just inserting a Windows 7 disc on a machine with Snow Leopard would work... oh how WRONG THEY WERE) and we're kind of afraid to turn it on again, because every time we do it reboots and reboots and reboots and reboots and reboots... and either the iMac is going out the window or one of us is...
Poor Mac. We miss you.
Owen is doing well and still laughing at everything we wave in front of his face. He's starting to look like a little boy rather than a baby, which is both incredibly exciting and yet leaves me a little bit sad. I've already forgotten what he sounded like as a premature babba (a kitten, incidentally, but I can no longer bring it to memory), and while I love the way he interacts with us now, I do miss just lying back on our oh-so-American recliner chair and falling asleep with him on my shoulder. Jey-sus, if I tried to do that now I'd either get an elbow in the eye or a kick in the stomach.
We've changed his feeding schedule (again) and we're trying out a new thing with our food pump. Now he eats only three times a day, and the rest of his food is pumped continuously in to his tummy overnight. We scoffed at first and were extremely reluctant to try it, but I'm so glad we overcame our intense dislike of the pump and got it working, because he is an absolute champion at using this method. He didn't like it at first because ever since we brought him home from the NICU almost a year ago, he's fallen asleep in the living room in either his high chair or our arms while being fed. Now he has to go to sleep by himself in his cot a whole half-hour before he used to (9.30pm instead of 10pm) and pretty much stay there until 7.30am. Thankfully he takes after moi, because once we've settled him, he does stay asleep all night and is happy to remain in bed the next morning. If he were more like Mike he'd be fast asleep at 7pm and wake my sorry arse up at 5am. We did feel sorry for him when we first changed things around because he was so confused and cried and cried and cried, but four nights in and he's settling down after only five minutes. Result! He's sleeping so much better and of course, his food is staying in his tummy. Our next challenge is to build up the amount he gets overnight and reduce his day time feeds, so that he's only eating enough during the day to satisfy his hunger, and not so much he's puking his guts out. Watch this space.
Tina.
Monday, March 22, 2010
Day Fifteen / Week Three
Weight: 212.6
Not such a great loss this week, but still a loss. It snowed over the weekend, unbelievably, which put paid to my walking trips with Owen, and I think that's what's done it.
Plus the pizza I ate on Saturday. Heh heh. :)
Owen's healing nicely still and I've discovered new ways to make him laugh, so I spend most of my days attempting to do just that. He doesn't laugh like other babies, but instead of that making me sad, it makes me proud of him. He probably doesn't have the same understanding and intelligence as other children (although that's just a theory at this point), so for him to understand that a soft toy Eeyore kissing him on the nose is funny... well... that's pretty mega. I don't know whether he recognises that the toy has a face and characteristics, or if it's just the sensation of the fur tickling his nose, but he gets a kick out of it nonetheless. I do think it's the former though, because I started just approaching his nose and he'd start giggling. He was also facing away from me, so I know it wasn't me he was laughing at. Either way, it's a wonderful thing to hear his little laugh and to know he's interacting with his world.
His PT thinks he may skip crawling altogether, which doesn't surprise me. She reckons he'll figure out walking "soon" (in Owen terms that could mean another six to twelve months), so I'm trying to not feel heartbroken that he's not going to crawl. Little heartbreaks. Every day.
Things were pretty bad over the weekend, being trapped inside by the snow and getting frustrated that we'd eaten all the healthy food we had in the house and there was nothing left but pre-diet crap. Mike and I had several rows and finally started talking about Big Issues on Sunday. I won't air my dirty laundry here, but we got to a place I never thought we'd see. It made me realise that I'm not over my depression, and how it's manifesting itself is affecting Mike far more than I thought. He asked me what I needed to be happy, and after a long, long think, I decided that I need him to be the strong one for a change. I can take care of Owen if he takes care of me. In addition, I made an appointment to see a doctor for the first time since the birth to try and get to the bottom of several complaints, including this unshakable black cloud. It irritated me the way the receptionist wanted to know why I needed to see the doctor (to enter into their "system"), so I told her it was because I'm concerned about my iron levels. I am, but that's not the reason I'm going in, and quite frankly the truth is none of her goddam business.
He'll probably tell me I'm overweight. Sigh.
Tina.
Not such a great loss this week, but still a loss. It snowed over the weekend, unbelievably, which put paid to my walking trips with Owen, and I think that's what's done it.
Plus the pizza I ate on Saturday. Heh heh. :)
Owen's healing nicely still and I've discovered new ways to make him laugh, so I spend most of my days attempting to do just that. He doesn't laugh like other babies, but instead of that making me sad, it makes me proud of him. He probably doesn't have the same understanding and intelligence as other children (although that's just a theory at this point), so for him to understand that a soft toy Eeyore kissing him on the nose is funny... well... that's pretty mega. I don't know whether he recognises that the toy has a face and characteristics, or if it's just the sensation of the fur tickling his nose, but he gets a kick out of it nonetheless. I do think it's the former though, because I started just approaching his nose and he'd start giggling. He was also facing away from me, so I know it wasn't me he was laughing at. Either way, it's a wonderful thing to hear his little laugh and to know he's interacting with his world.
His PT thinks he may skip crawling altogether, which doesn't surprise me. She reckons he'll figure out walking "soon" (in Owen terms that could mean another six to twelve months), so I'm trying to not feel heartbroken that he's not going to crawl. Little heartbreaks. Every day.
Things were pretty bad over the weekend, being trapped inside by the snow and getting frustrated that we'd eaten all the healthy food we had in the house and there was nothing left but pre-diet crap. Mike and I had several rows and finally started talking about Big Issues on Sunday. I won't air my dirty laundry here, but we got to a place I never thought we'd see. It made me realise that I'm not over my depression, and how it's manifesting itself is affecting Mike far more than I thought. He asked me what I needed to be happy, and after a long, long think, I decided that I need him to be the strong one for a change. I can take care of Owen if he takes care of me. In addition, I made an appointment to see a doctor for the first time since the birth to try and get to the bottom of several complaints, including this unshakable black cloud. It irritated me the way the receptionist wanted to know why I needed to see the doctor (to enter into their "system"), so I told her it was because I'm concerned about my iron levels. I am, but that's not the reason I'm going in, and quite frankly the truth is none of her goddam business.
He'll probably tell me I'm overweight. Sigh.
Tina.
Monday, March 15, 2010
Day Eight and Surgery Stuff
Weight: 214.1 lb
Well, I dropped over 5 lb, which is pretty cool! Diet went really, really well last week until Friday, when I abandoned all pretenses at the hospital and shared a Galaxy bar my fantastic friend J had imported from the UK. I think we all deserved it, given the situation. And I'm back on track now.
Owen's surgery went very well, although his left eye isn't nearly as open as his right and this is causing both me and his surgeon a bit of concern. If it's just some extra swelling squeezing it shut then given enough time, it will look the same as the right. However, if the stitches have come open or Owen has rubbed his eye somehow, then he'll have to go back to the hospital for an adjustment. Other than that though, things have been going well. We have to apply an ointment to the corneas and incisions four times a day to help things heal and stop his eyes drying out, which is utterly exhausting and Owen absolutely loathes it. In addition, as he also had tubes put in his ears to relieve the excess fluid build-up that was preventing his eardrums from vibrating properly, we have to put drops in his ear canals twice daily. He doesn't like that much either. AND we have to give him antibiotics by mouth (read: tube) four times a day AND cover his eyes in these strange metal shields at night to help keep things moist. He likes none of these activities and I'm so pleased the surgeon said we can start cutting back on everything from today.
You know, I'm really really tired. I feel as though I can never sleep enough, although I get around seven hours a night usually, and catch up on naps at the weekend. I think the burden of caring for Owen is just wearing me down, although I don't resent doing it. I just wish I were able to trust someone, anyone else to do it for a few days to give me a rest. I want a week off. It occurred to me today (sitting on the loo, of course), that I haven't had a real day off since before Owen was born. Such is the life of a mother who stays at home, I guess. Mike gets days off from work but even when that happens, I'm still working. It may be my fault, but I can't even relinquish control to him when he is home, because he often forgets the most basic of Owen's needs. Take Owen's nighttime routine, for example: every night we have the same routine of medications, changing into pyjamas and a bedtime feed. Every other night we bathe Owen as well. With all the extra gumph post-surgery, this routine is currently taking us a good 45 minutes, which we start at 9.00pm in order to start his bedtime feed at 10.00pm. SO... I always have one eye on the clock, making sure we get things started on time, and when 9pm rolls around I turn to Mike and tell him it's time. His usual response? "What needs doing?"
"What ALWAYS needs doing, Mike?"
Sigh. Then he'll act surprised at my tone and ask what he should start doing. Oh, I don't know! How about you just START doing SOMETHING? I feel I need to double-check everything he's up to, just to make sure he doesn't miss a dose of a medication, puts a new gauze around Owen's mic-key button, or even just gets the right volume of formula ready. If I don't, something always goes amiss and I'm really tired of being the safety net.
Don't get me wrong: Mike is a fantastic father and I do think that if I left him and Owen alone for a weekend that Owen would eventually get everything he needs, but to me that's not good enough. I need a partner who is on the same wavelength and is already thinking about what step comes next before I have to turn to him at 9pm and tell him so. I need a 24-hour father, just like I'm a 24-hour mother.
Tina.
Well, I dropped over 5 lb, which is pretty cool! Diet went really, really well last week until Friday, when I abandoned all pretenses at the hospital and shared a Galaxy bar my fantastic friend J had imported from the UK. I think we all deserved it, given the situation. And I'm back on track now.
Owen's surgery went very well, although his left eye isn't nearly as open as his right and this is causing both me and his surgeon a bit of concern. If it's just some extra swelling squeezing it shut then given enough time, it will look the same as the right. However, if the stitches have come open or Owen has rubbed his eye somehow, then he'll have to go back to the hospital for an adjustment. Other than that though, things have been going well. We have to apply an ointment to the corneas and incisions four times a day to help things heal and stop his eyes drying out, which is utterly exhausting and Owen absolutely loathes it. In addition, as he also had tubes put in his ears to relieve the excess fluid build-up that was preventing his eardrums from vibrating properly, we have to put drops in his ear canals twice daily. He doesn't like that much either. AND we have to give him antibiotics by mouth (read: tube) four times a day AND cover his eyes in these strange metal shields at night to help keep things moist. He likes none of these activities and I'm so pleased the surgeon said we can start cutting back on everything from today.
You know, I'm really really tired. I feel as though I can never sleep enough, although I get around seven hours a night usually, and catch up on naps at the weekend. I think the burden of caring for Owen is just wearing me down, although I don't resent doing it. I just wish I were able to trust someone, anyone else to do it for a few days to give me a rest. I want a week off. It occurred to me today (sitting on the loo, of course), that I haven't had a real day off since before Owen was born. Such is the life of a mother who stays at home, I guess. Mike gets days off from work but even when that happens, I'm still working. It may be my fault, but I can't even relinquish control to him when he is home, because he often forgets the most basic of Owen's needs. Take Owen's nighttime routine, for example: every night we have the same routine of medications, changing into pyjamas and a bedtime feed. Every other night we bathe Owen as well. With all the extra gumph post-surgery, this routine is currently taking us a good 45 minutes, which we start at 9.00pm in order to start his bedtime feed at 10.00pm. SO... I always have one eye on the clock, making sure we get things started on time, and when 9pm rolls around I turn to Mike and tell him it's time. His usual response? "What needs doing?"
"What ALWAYS needs doing, Mike?"
Sigh. Then he'll act surprised at my tone and ask what he should start doing. Oh, I don't know! How about you just START doing SOMETHING? I feel I need to double-check everything he's up to, just to make sure he doesn't miss a dose of a medication, puts a new gauze around Owen's mic-key button, or even just gets the right volume of formula ready. If I don't, something always goes amiss and I'm really tired of being the safety net.
Don't get me wrong: Mike is a fantastic father and I do think that if I left him and Owen alone for a weekend that Owen would eventually get everything he needs, but to me that's not good enough. I need a partner who is on the same wavelength and is already thinking about what step comes next before I have to turn to him at 9pm and tell him so. I need a 24-hour father, just like I'm a 24-hour mother.
Tina.
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
Day Two
Not too bad today, although I had to eat sushi for the first time ever and thought it was absolutely revolting. Who on earth thinks something that cold and slimy is delicious? Eugh. I have to eat it again on Thursday but I reckon a substitution might be in order.
Ick.
I also had to eat a peanut butter and jam sandwich (not nearly as exciting or fatty as you'd imagine), and while the thought of peanut butter on its own is enough to make me retch, eating it on soft wholemeal bread with some blackberry jam wasn't too bad. One demon conquered, anyway.
Don't know what my weight is today because I'm only weighing myself once a week, but my walk with Owen was much nicer than yesterday because it wasn't as cold. He didn't fall asleep though, which was a shame.
I have lots of other thoughts going around my head but this isn't the time to write them down. Soon. Soon.
Tina.
Ick.
I also had to eat a peanut butter and jam sandwich (not nearly as exciting or fatty as you'd imagine), and while the thought of peanut butter on its own is enough to make me retch, eating it on soft wholemeal bread with some blackberry jam wasn't too bad. One demon conquered, anyway.
Don't know what my weight is today because I'm only weighing myself once a week, but my walk with Owen was much nicer than yesterday because it wasn't as cold. He didn't fall asleep though, which was a shame.
I have lots of other thoughts going around my head but this isn't the time to write them down. Soon. Soon.
Tina.
Monday, March 8, 2010
Day One
I have debated and debated over whether or not to put my real weight on here for all and sundry to read and gasp at. I have come to the conclusion that, unless I face the truth and my eating demons, I will continue to be overweight, unhealthy and a bad influence on my son as he grows up. Therefore, here is the first of hopefully many entries about how the new lifestyle is going.
Weight: 219.4 lb
I CANNOT believe that figure and I am absolutely horrified. Admittedly my clothes don't fit me very well any more, and I don't do any exercise at all, but STILL. That is completely and utterly disgusting. I was 194 lb when I had my first weigh-in at the doctors when I initially got pregnant in September 2008, so that is my first major milestone. Before that though, I have a few minor milestones to reach, starting with the first five pounds. I would like to eventually be 150 lb, but I'm planning on taking this slowly and changing my eating habits for good, so that particular goal may take some time. And that's okay.
The new eating plan is more time-consuming than I anticipated, but I'm going from heating up chilli and topping it with cheese in the microwave, so let's face it: anything else will of course be time consuming. I like the hummus and hard-boiled eggs combo though, even if it required over an hour's preparation time. Yum.
I also got out for a walk today with Owen today. That was fun and put him to sleep, so double win.
I promise not to get too dull and weight-focused, but I do need to write these things down so I'm accountable for myself, my eating and my exercise habits. If you think it's boring, move on! This blog is a way for me to write down things for ME, so that is what I intend to do.
I'm looking forward to being healthier and having more energy for Owen. :)
Tina.
Thursday, December 17, 2009
The Truth About Online Anorexia
So I sat down by myself tonight as Mike had his work Christmas do, and I stumbled across this documentary on BBC America. (It was an ITV programme originally but BBC America likes to mess with my mind like that.) Called The Truth About Online Anorexia, it was presented by Fearne Cotton and followed her investigation into the world of online Pro-Ana websites. I daren't link to any here for fear of prompting someone else to actually visit one, but rest assured they are a grim sight.
I'm sure countless other feminist bloggers have already written about this documentary as it was aired in the UK back in April, but I just feel I need to put something down about it too. Imagine the scenario: here I am, sitting on the couch having just battled for the last two hours to get my son to initially take his food, and then to assist him in keeping it down. I'm scoffing a rather scrummy frozen cheese pizza (I like to add sweetcorn, personally, although I do get rather strange looks when I do it in public) and I'm sipping on a caffeine-free Diet Coke (I like the taste, and I do acknowledge that this makes me odd). Then I turn on this show about how eating is BAD BAD BAD and being thin is GOOD GOOD GOOD.
To say I was upset is an understatement. After half an hour I looked at Owen, and I just burst in to tears. I looked at his chubby little cheeks and his lovely fat arms, and I thought about how so much of his life is completely and utterly controlled by food. He is at his happiest, like nearly all children with GERD, when he is not eating. When he is eating, he's miserable. He feels gassy, over-full, uncomfortable, nauseous, like he has heartburn, and I imagine it stings like hell when the contents of his stomach are violently projectiled out of his mouth and nose.
But we battle it, he and I. I work like hell for three out of every four hours to make sure his food stays put. It is a tribute to my own perseverance, grim determination and sheer bloody hard work that he is exceeding every single doctor's expectations and has grown as much as he has. He has gone from losing weight as a newborn and dropping off the growth charts, to an astonishing 50-75% percentile placement. And that's if you don't even account for his prematurity and knock five weeks of his age. It's the hardest, most draining job I've ever had and I consider it a successful feed if he keeps down at least three quarters of his food.
So for me to watch this documentary and to hear about women denying themselves food to try and reach some unattainable perfection was so, so sad. I felt many things. I felt, initially, sorry for these women. Then I got angry and I felt that I'd never heard of anything so fucking selfish in all my life. You don't eat DELIBERATELY? You starve yourself? You are so ungrateful that there are people working hard to put food on your plate that you consider it to be disgusting to put it in your mouth? I've never heard of anything so repulsive. Don't you know that there are children out there who don't HAVE food to eat? That there are children out there who have all the food they could want, but who can't or daren't eat it because of the reaction their little bodies have to it? Don't you know that when your child can't or doesn't want to eat, it is one of the most frustrating, upsetting, guilt-ridden emotional rollercoasters a parent can go through, and they go through it every moment of every... single... day...?
This train of thought continued until the show was over, I'm sorry to say. The idea that you would work so hard as a parent to feed and nourish your child, only for them to deliberately damage their body and make themselves ill - even to die from it - just made me sick to my stomach. I even ate my pizza more quickly because of it. Then, after a while, I just felt sorry for them all again. And I thought about my own issues with food and eating, and how nothing is ever as simple as it seems.
I've put on A LOT of weight since my pregnancy. In part it's due to a lack of exercise (I'm stuck on the couch feeding Owen so much that it's really hard to get out), partly with what I eat (see the pizza example, above), and partly the depression. So in way, I'm damaging my own body by not giving it the healthy, nutritious stuff it really needs - is this worse? I might be eating, but I am also sticking two fingers up at the work my parents did when I was a child to keep me healthy and growing. I came to the conclusion that the only way to be a positive role-model to Owen as he grows up is to have a healthier relationship with food. I need to stop using it as a crutch when I'm angry or sad, or when I feel as though I deserve a "reward". I need to use that hour before the next feed to walk around the house, or to stick the Wii on and jump up and down. Hell, I need to stop going to Target and buying candy just to get out of the house.
So, starting tomorrow, one week before Christmas, I'm going to eat healthily. We already have many, many healthy items in the fridge and I think it's time to eat them. I cannot let my depression or any other excuse rule my life. If I want to change, the only person who can make it happen is myself.
Tina.
I'm sure countless other feminist bloggers have already written about this documentary as it was aired in the UK back in April, but I just feel I need to put something down about it too. Imagine the scenario: here I am, sitting on the couch having just battled for the last two hours to get my son to initially take his food, and then to assist him in keeping it down. I'm scoffing a rather scrummy frozen cheese pizza (I like to add sweetcorn, personally, although I do get rather strange looks when I do it in public) and I'm sipping on a caffeine-free Diet Coke (I like the taste, and I do acknowledge that this makes me odd). Then I turn on this show about how eating is BAD BAD BAD and being thin is GOOD GOOD GOOD.
To say I was upset is an understatement. After half an hour I looked at Owen, and I just burst in to tears. I looked at his chubby little cheeks and his lovely fat arms, and I thought about how so much of his life is completely and utterly controlled by food. He is at his happiest, like nearly all children with GERD, when he is not eating. When he is eating, he's miserable. He feels gassy, over-full, uncomfortable, nauseous, like he has heartburn, and I imagine it stings like hell when the contents of his stomach are violently projectiled out of his mouth and nose.
But we battle it, he and I. I work like hell for three out of every four hours to make sure his food stays put. It is a tribute to my own perseverance, grim determination and sheer bloody hard work that he is exceeding every single doctor's expectations and has grown as much as he has. He has gone from losing weight as a newborn and dropping off the growth charts, to an astonishing 50-75% percentile placement. And that's if you don't even account for his prematurity and knock five weeks of his age. It's the hardest, most draining job I've ever had and I consider it a successful feed if he keeps down at least three quarters of his food.
So for me to watch this documentary and to hear about women denying themselves food to try and reach some unattainable perfection was so, so sad. I felt many things. I felt, initially, sorry for these women. Then I got angry and I felt that I'd never heard of anything so fucking selfish in all my life. You don't eat DELIBERATELY? You starve yourself? You are so ungrateful that there are people working hard to put food on your plate that you consider it to be disgusting to put it in your mouth? I've never heard of anything so repulsive. Don't you know that there are children out there who don't HAVE food to eat? That there are children out there who have all the food they could want, but who can't or daren't eat it because of the reaction their little bodies have to it? Don't you know that when your child can't or doesn't want to eat, it is one of the most frustrating, upsetting, guilt-ridden emotional rollercoasters a parent can go through, and they go through it every moment of every... single... day...?
This train of thought continued until the show was over, I'm sorry to say. The idea that you would work so hard as a parent to feed and nourish your child, only for them to deliberately damage their body and make themselves ill - even to die from it - just made me sick to my stomach. I even ate my pizza more quickly because of it. Then, after a while, I just felt sorry for them all again. And I thought about my own issues with food and eating, and how nothing is ever as simple as it seems.
I've put on A LOT of weight since my pregnancy. In part it's due to a lack of exercise (I'm stuck on the couch feeding Owen so much that it's really hard to get out), partly with what I eat (see the pizza example, above), and partly the depression. So in way, I'm damaging my own body by not giving it the healthy, nutritious stuff it really needs - is this worse? I might be eating, but I am also sticking two fingers up at the work my parents did when I was a child to keep me healthy and growing. I came to the conclusion that the only way to be a positive role-model to Owen as he grows up is to have a healthier relationship with food. I need to stop using it as a crutch when I'm angry or sad, or when I feel as though I deserve a "reward". I need to use that hour before the next feed to walk around the house, or to stick the Wii on and jump up and down. Hell, I need to stop going to Target and buying candy just to get out of the house.
So, starting tomorrow, one week before Christmas, I'm going to eat healthily. We already have many, many healthy items in the fridge and I think it's time to eat them. I cannot let my depression or any other excuse rule my life. If I want to change, the only person who can make it happen is myself.
Tina.
Thursday, December 10, 2009
Kiiiiiiiiitchen!
Well, the kitchen's halfway there! All the cabinets are in, so now we have to have the countertops people round to take the final measurements (why they couldn't just take the specs from the cabinet order, I don't know. It's not as though anything's bleedin' changed) and get those ordered. That should take another couple of weeks, but Mike cunningly kept hold of the old wooden tops so we can balance them for something to chop our veggies on. We are still without a sink in the meantime, but at least it's something.
The cabinets are SO PRETTY! I love them, I do. I think I might have chosen to sleep in the kitchen tonight if it weren't for the state of the half ripped-up floor with its dangerous spiky nails everywhere. Seriously, I love the design that much.
The nurse came over today to give Owen his RSV shot and to take his vitals. The boy, at six and a half months, is 27" long and weighs 18lb 11oz! He weighed 5lb 14oz at birth, so it's quite remarkable. In fact, since his last weigh-in less than a month ago, he's put on nearly two whole pounds. What a superstar! He has also learnt the "L" sound and is currently rolling happily around on my floor under the Christmas tree practising it. It truly makes my heart sing to see him so happy, because for so much of the rest of his life he's so damned uncomfortable.
I took him to the neurologist today but he couldn't tell me much as we're waiting for the CT scan to happen tomorrow. He seemed surprised that Owen's myoclonic jerks were under control, given that he has optical nerve pressure and restricted head growth. Apparently seizures and seizure-like activity should actually increase with inter-cranial pressure, not the other way around. He had no idea if my theory about pressure = migraines = extra vomiting could be accurate, as there are lots of ways pressure can manifest and until we see the results of the scan we won't know whether the brain's control site for vomiting is affected. So we'll sleep on it and find out what's happening tomorrow.
OH! And I feel very good about Owen's growth because a few times since his last weigh-in we took him down to four feeds a day (when we were travelling, for example), and I was very concerned that he wouldn't be getting enough nutrition if we did it too often. But he did, and that makes me feel good. I think the extra solids are really helping in that respect.
Mama KNOWS BEST!
Tina.
The cabinets are SO PRETTY! I love them, I do. I think I might have chosen to sleep in the kitchen tonight if it weren't for the state of the half ripped-up floor with its dangerous spiky nails everywhere. Seriously, I love the design that much.
The nurse came over today to give Owen his RSV shot and to take his vitals. The boy, at six and a half months, is 27" long and weighs 18lb 11oz! He weighed 5lb 14oz at birth, so it's quite remarkable. In fact, since his last weigh-in less than a month ago, he's put on nearly two whole pounds. What a superstar! He has also learnt the "L" sound and is currently rolling happily around on my floor under the Christmas tree practising it. It truly makes my heart sing to see him so happy, because for so much of the rest of his life he's so damned uncomfortable.
I took him to the neurologist today but he couldn't tell me much as we're waiting for the CT scan to happen tomorrow. He seemed surprised that Owen's myoclonic jerks were under control, given that he has optical nerve pressure and restricted head growth. Apparently seizures and seizure-like activity should actually increase with inter-cranial pressure, not the other way around. He had no idea if my theory about pressure = migraines = extra vomiting could be accurate, as there are lots of ways pressure can manifest and until we see the results of the scan we won't know whether the brain's control site for vomiting is affected. So we'll sleep on it and find out what's happening tomorrow.
OH! And I feel very good about Owen's growth because a few times since his last weigh-in we took him down to four feeds a day (when we were travelling, for example), and I was very concerned that he wouldn't be getting enough nutrition if we did it too often. But he did, and that makes me feel good. I think the extra solids are really helping in that respect.
Mama KNOWS BEST!
Tina.
Thursday, November 5, 2009
Solids!
What an exciting day! First of all, a driver came by this morning to collect Owen's feeding pump, which is such a huge psychological relief. Having that thing on an IV pole in your living room just serves as a constant reminder that your-child-is-different, and I think our place looks a lot more "normal" now without it.
So on Monday the speech therapist told me it was okay to start thickening Owen's milk and giving it to him with a cup, but the promised Thick-It powder never materialised. I had shown her the new Nutra semi-solid food Neocate has created and she seemed skeptical but on board, so I was going to wait to speak to our nurse about getting hold of some. Then today she showed up to Owen's appointment with a can in hand! The woman has mad skillz. We had a really good meeting with her: I just love her and so does Owen. Since he was discharged from the NICU she's been working with us and she's very calming, relaxing and yet efficient. We usually get through Owen's business and then chinwag for a half hour - it's a lovely way to spend a potentially infuriating medical appointment.
Owen weighed 16lb 4oz naked, which is almost two pounds heavier than when she last saw him three weeks ago. Because of this, she and I agreed that it's okay to start messing around with his feeds a little bit. After she left I cracked open the Nutra can and mixed a single scoop with one ounce of his milk and spoon-fed my little boy. It thickened it only a teeny tiny bit, but that's how I've been told to start things until Owen can cope better with oral feeds. Well! The boy LOVED IT! He was surprised by the new taste but then he started smiling, kicking and smacking his little lips together and I reckon he managed about a quarter of an ounce by mouth. This is mega-huge-awesome-fabulous-can't-believe-he-did-that news, because before this week he wouldn't tolerate any milk in his mouth at all. Anyway, after all that excitement about the new sensation he was knackered and fell asleep, so I gave him the rest of his feed by tube.
I'm so proud of him. I was a bit anxious about oral feedings but he was such a superstar. He got so excited about the new taste that I'm really encouraged to keep going with him. It's also reassuring to know that I was right. I KNEW he should be starting solids, but I kept getting knocked back by the "specialists". I should have just listened to my instincts. Either that, or today was just the right day for Owen and being two weeks older has made a difference. Either way, it doesn't matter. We reached the first hurdle today and passed over it successfully. Tomorrow it'll be the same routine: one ounce, one scoop, one feed per day; then I'll up the mixture to two scoops, one ounce and then again after two days to two feeds. Eventually after about two or three weeks he'll have three feeds of full-thickness semi-solid food and two of normal milk. After that, who knows? Maybe some fish and chips...
Tina.
So on Monday the speech therapist told me it was okay to start thickening Owen's milk and giving it to him with a cup, but the promised Thick-It powder never materialised. I had shown her the new Nutra semi-solid food Neocate has created and she seemed skeptical but on board, so I was going to wait to speak to our nurse about getting hold of some. Then today she showed up to Owen's appointment with a can in hand! The woman has mad skillz. We had a really good meeting with her: I just love her and so does Owen. Since he was discharged from the NICU she's been working with us and she's very calming, relaxing and yet efficient. We usually get through Owen's business and then chinwag for a half hour - it's a lovely way to spend a potentially infuriating medical appointment.
Owen weighed 16lb 4oz naked, which is almost two pounds heavier than when she last saw him three weeks ago. Because of this, she and I agreed that it's okay to start messing around with his feeds a little bit. After she left I cracked open the Nutra can and mixed a single scoop with one ounce of his milk and spoon-fed my little boy. It thickened it only a teeny tiny bit, but that's how I've been told to start things until Owen can cope better with oral feeds. Well! The boy LOVED IT! He was surprised by the new taste but then he started smiling, kicking and smacking his little lips together and I reckon he managed about a quarter of an ounce by mouth. This is mega-huge-awesome-fabulous-can't-believe-he-did-that news, because before this week he wouldn't tolerate any milk in his mouth at all. Anyway, after all that excitement about the new sensation he was knackered and fell asleep, so I gave him the rest of his feed by tube.
I'm so proud of him. I was a bit anxious about oral feedings but he was such a superstar. He got so excited about the new taste that I'm really encouraged to keep going with him. It's also reassuring to know that I was right. I KNEW he should be starting solids, but I kept getting knocked back by the "specialists". I should have just listened to my instincts. Either that, or today was just the right day for Owen and being two weeks older has made a difference. Either way, it doesn't matter. We reached the first hurdle today and passed over it successfully. Tomorrow it'll be the same routine: one ounce, one scoop, one feed per day; then I'll up the mixture to two scoops, one ounce and then again after two days to two feeds. Eventually after about two or three weeks he'll have three feeds of full-thickness semi-solid food and two of normal milk. After that, who knows? Maybe some fish and chips...
Tina.
Sunday, April 19, 2009
But... aren't you supposed to get fat?
All the medical professionals - midwives, doctors - I've dealt with so far have been women. I've liked some more than others. Some were reassuring, some were rude, some were funny, some were know-it-alls, several had had children of their own. Where I live, one's antenatal care is shared between the hospital (where one is seen by midwives and if necessary a consultant) and your GP. At my GP's surgery, in common with many others, the doctor you actually see will not necessarily be your own registered GP, but whoever can fit you in, so until recently both my antenatal appointments at my doctor's had been with a female GP (and mother, incidently).
This week, I saw my own GP instead. We hadn't met before and I liked him very much. He's in his 40s, I suppose, and I couldn't tell whether he had any children of his own. He carried out a couple of the usual tests and asked the usual questions. Then he asked me to step on the scales - something I hadn't done since my initial booking appointment. The first time I did this, in about th eighth week of my pregnancy, I had a Body Mass Index (BMI) of 27 which made me overweight. I am 5'2" and a size 10-12, and I've always known I've weighed a lot. I must just have dense bones or something. The point is, I was, and always have been, in good shape - and I am not the first person to have noticed that shorter people are disadvantaged by BMI calculations. The midwife was surprised at the BMI but looked me up and down and decided there was clearly no problem with my weight. I have never owned a set of scales and have always eaten sensibly but still according to what I want rather than how I look. Besides, I read in my pregnancy book that weight gain is no longer seen as an accurate measure of how a pregnancy is progressing so is not usually monitored these days.
So, this week, for my GP, I got on the scales for the first time since October. I weighed about 11st, which means I've put on about a stone and a quarter. Given that my baby is due in 8 weeks, I think this is a reasonable amount. Added to which, my face has got no fatter than it was and is always the first place to show whenever my weight fluctuates, so I'm confident that the weight gain is temporary and that I'll have little difficulty losing it once the baby's born. Being the liberated woman that I am, I stepped off the scales seeing the weight gain as of little consequence. Mr GP, however, had other ideas. "That's quite a good weight gain," he said. I was pleased. I thought this meant that the weight gain was just right for the health of my baby and me. He and I clearly have different ideas of what the word 'good' means, as he then went on to make it clear that he thought I'd put too much on. "You know, it's OK to diet during late pregnancy," he continued, "I think it's due to hormones. The women in my family tell me they want to eat more during pregnancy and their periods, so they eat too much. Don't cut out just one food group, just cut down generally so you're still getting some of everything."
I was stunned! I nodded and made noises of assent, but all the time I was wondering what the hell he thought he was saying. I simply cannot contemplate eating any less right now. I need vast amounts of energy just to get through the day (I teach small children for a living) and what's more, I eat when I'm hungry - not just for the hell of it but when I'm hungry! Does he expect me to continue being hungry? Why?? Would he go through the day being hungry? Nope, he would eat! I cannot help but wonder if I would have received the same advice from a female professional - particularly one who had been through pregnancy herself. Is this sexist of me? Quite possibly. But I also think there was implicit sexism in his use of the word 'diet', especially as a verb. I have never dieted in my life and I got the feeling that he thought he was asking me to do something which would be no problem for me.
Needless to say, I am ignoring that particular nugget of advice. As usual, I am eating what I want and keeping it pretty sensible. And to me, eating sensibly means never, ever going hungry if you can avoid it. Which would probably be good advice for everyone.
Anthea
This week, I saw my own GP instead. We hadn't met before and I liked him very much. He's in his 40s, I suppose, and I couldn't tell whether he had any children of his own. He carried out a couple of the usual tests and asked the usual questions. Then he asked me to step on the scales - something I hadn't done since my initial booking appointment. The first time I did this, in about th eighth week of my pregnancy, I had a Body Mass Index (BMI) of 27 which made me overweight. I am 5'2" and a size 10-12, and I've always known I've weighed a lot. I must just have dense bones or something. The point is, I was, and always have been, in good shape - and I am not the first person to have noticed that shorter people are disadvantaged by BMI calculations. The midwife was surprised at the BMI but looked me up and down and decided there was clearly no problem with my weight. I have never owned a set of scales and have always eaten sensibly but still according to what I want rather than how I look. Besides, I read in my pregnancy book that weight gain is no longer seen as an accurate measure of how a pregnancy is progressing so is not usually monitored these days.
So, this week, for my GP, I got on the scales for the first time since October. I weighed about 11st, which means I've put on about a stone and a quarter. Given that my baby is due in 8 weeks, I think this is a reasonable amount. Added to which, my face has got no fatter than it was and is always the first place to show whenever my weight fluctuates, so I'm confident that the weight gain is temporary and that I'll have little difficulty losing it once the baby's born. Being the liberated woman that I am, I stepped off the scales seeing the weight gain as of little consequence. Mr GP, however, had other ideas. "That's quite a good weight gain," he said. I was pleased. I thought this meant that the weight gain was just right for the health of my baby and me. He and I clearly have different ideas of what the word 'good' means, as he then went on to make it clear that he thought I'd put too much on. "You know, it's OK to diet during late pregnancy," he continued, "I think it's due to hormones. The women in my family tell me they want to eat more during pregnancy and their periods, so they eat too much. Don't cut out just one food group, just cut down generally so you're still getting some of everything."
I was stunned! I nodded and made noises of assent, but all the time I was wondering what the hell he thought he was saying. I simply cannot contemplate eating any less right now. I need vast amounts of energy just to get through the day (I teach small children for a living) and what's more, I eat when I'm hungry - not just for the hell of it but when I'm hungry! Does he expect me to continue being hungry? Why?? Would he go through the day being hungry? Nope, he would eat! I cannot help but wonder if I would have received the same advice from a female professional - particularly one who had been through pregnancy herself. Is this sexist of me? Quite possibly. But I also think there was implicit sexism in his use of the word 'diet', especially as a verb. I have never dieted in my life and I got the feeling that he thought he was asking me to do something which would be no problem for me.
Needless to say, I am ignoring that particular nugget of advice. As usual, I am eating what I want and keeping it pretty sensible. And to me, eating sensibly means never, ever going hungry if you can avoid it. Which would probably be good advice for everyone.
Anthea
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