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.
Showing posts with label Depression. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Depression. Show all posts
Sunday, September 5, 2010
Sunday, June 20, 2010
Let's set some stuff straight.
Apparently I've caused quite a stir.
Thankfully, because I'm not obsessed with Twitter I have managed to avoid the 'discussion' (read: people telling me off like a naughty child) about my previous post. And I don't WANT to know what people are saying about me, because a) they do not know me, and b) only three of them have bothered to start a real 'discussion' with me about it on my own sodding blog.
This whole thing started off with this headline: Spoons aren't just for sick people. Apparently this has been deemed EXTREMELY inappropriate in the blogosphere (and I thank my only positive commentator, Jemimaaslana, for bringing this to my attention), EVEN THOUGH the author of the article I linked to (here) uses the word 'sick' herself! Imagine my dismay when I find out people haven't even bothered to look at the original article and explore the rhetoric for themselves. I'd say that's almost as bad as judging me and my blog without engaging me in debate.
So the heading of my post enraged 'Annoymous' (and Anji, I'm totally calling you out on this one. I know it was you and I'm gobsmacked a woman of your drive and passion didn't have the guts to put their name to that comment), and that started a small snowball of anger, judgement and (hee hee) visits to my and Anthea's little innocuous blog about parenting, health and lifestyle choices. People with disabilities (I looked this up in the Guardian Style Guide to be certain, and this is the correct term, so don't you dare shoot me down for any terminology I'm about to use) are apparently very upset that: a) I wrote about a theory which they, and ONLY they are allowed to claim for themselves; b) that I myself am not disabled; and c) that I have the audacity to use the word 'sick' instead of 'disabled', even though (as I mentioned earlier) that is the phrase the author of the original article used herself.
The whole thing has surprised me, to be honest. Readers of my blog posts will know my history of managing a mental illness, looking after a disabled child, and growing up with another. I am not claiming to be disabled myself; I think that's rather stretching it a little, to be honest. What I AM claiming, however, is that I can EMPATHISE with the author of the original article (and if you look back, you'll see that's exactly what I wrote), and use her theory in my own situation. I have been criticised for not 'checking my privilege' and trying to claim words and devices people with disabilities claim for themselves, and themselves only. To me, I can see both sides of the debate. I can understand why a woman would not want a man to claim certain words as his, and I can understand why a man claiming 'female' words for his own is also important to the development of equality. Apply this to any other dichotomy and you'll come up with the same. But no, I do not pretend, or claim, or anything else, to be disabled. I do not qualify for Medicaid, which my son does as he has chronic conditions that cost him, his family, and the state money - so we are assisted. But I do receive treatment for an adjustment disorder with depression and anxiety. It certainly doesn't ENABLE me in any way, but it doesn't DISABLE me, either. I consider it to be neither.
Not that it's anyone else's Goddam business, but I do know a little something of disability. I grew up with it, for a start, and very rarely, if ever, discuss my younger sister's conditions because she is not able to grant me permission to do so. But she has had such a massive impact on my and Anthea's life that for people to fling around comments that I know nothing about disability, is just rude. I also have a son with various health issues, and being a mother to him has caused my mental health to suffer. So again, saying I know nothing is just plain rude. And wrong. And irritating. YOU, on the other hand, know nothing about V, or Little O, or my mental health, because you haven't bothered to ask.
I'm going to keep my previous post up because I stand by what I've said. I also apologise to anyone I've upset or offended, because that was not my intention (and you must see that, if you're honest with yourselves). Perhaps I'll use the Spoon Theory again to illustrate a point, and perhaps I won't. I haven't decided yet. But next Friday, when I'm so exhausted that I cannot lift my head of the floor, I will think about you lot. And I will think about how closed-minded YOU'RE being that you cannot believe a young mother with a mental health issue can ever feel as tired, challenged, or frustrated as you. Because believe me, it isn't the case.
Please, engage with me in a sensible, adult debate on MY blog, where I can respond to you. Don't be cowards and hide your Twitter posts. If you feel that strongly, you shouldn't be afraid of the challenge.
With respect,
Tina.
Thankfully, because I'm not obsessed with Twitter I have managed to avoid the 'discussion' (read: people telling me off like a naughty child) about my previous post. And I don't WANT to know what people are saying about me, because a) they do not know me, and b) only three of them have bothered to start a real 'discussion' with me about it on my own sodding blog.
This whole thing started off with this headline: Spoons aren't just for sick people. Apparently this has been deemed EXTREMELY inappropriate in the blogosphere (and I thank my only positive commentator, Jemimaaslana, for bringing this to my attention), EVEN THOUGH the author of the article I linked to (here) uses the word 'sick' herself! Imagine my dismay when I find out people haven't even bothered to look at the original article and explore the rhetoric for themselves. I'd say that's almost as bad as judging me and my blog without engaging me in debate.
So the heading of my post enraged 'Annoymous' (and Anji, I'm totally calling you out on this one. I know it was you and I'm gobsmacked a woman of your drive and passion didn't have the guts to put their name to that comment), and that started a small snowball of anger, judgement and (hee hee) visits to my and Anthea's little innocuous blog about parenting, health and lifestyle choices. People with disabilities (I looked this up in the Guardian Style Guide to be certain, and this is the correct term, so don't you dare shoot me down for any terminology I'm about to use) are apparently very upset that: a) I wrote about a theory which they, and ONLY they are allowed to claim for themselves; b) that I myself am not disabled; and c) that I have the audacity to use the word 'sick' instead of 'disabled', even though (as I mentioned earlier) that is the phrase the author of the original article used herself.
The whole thing has surprised me, to be honest. Readers of my blog posts will know my history of managing a mental illness, looking after a disabled child, and growing up with another. I am not claiming to be disabled myself; I think that's rather stretching it a little, to be honest. What I AM claiming, however, is that I can EMPATHISE with the author of the original article (and if you look back, you'll see that's exactly what I wrote), and use her theory in my own situation. I have been criticised for not 'checking my privilege' and trying to claim words and devices people with disabilities claim for themselves, and themselves only. To me, I can see both sides of the debate. I can understand why a woman would not want a man to claim certain words as his, and I can understand why a man claiming 'female' words for his own is also important to the development of equality. Apply this to any other dichotomy and you'll come up with the same. But no, I do not pretend, or claim, or anything else, to be disabled. I do not qualify for Medicaid, which my son does as he has chronic conditions that cost him, his family, and the state money - so we are assisted. But I do receive treatment for an adjustment disorder with depression and anxiety. It certainly doesn't ENABLE me in any way, but it doesn't DISABLE me, either. I consider it to be neither.
Not that it's anyone else's Goddam business, but I do know a little something of disability. I grew up with it, for a start, and very rarely, if ever, discuss my younger sister's conditions because she is not able to grant me permission to do so. But she has had such a massive impact on my and Anthea's life that for people to fling around comments that I know nothing about disability, is just rude. I also have a son with various health issues, and being a mother to him has caused my mental health to suffer. So again, saying I know nothing is just plain rude. And wrong. And irritating. YOU, on the other hand, know nothing about V, or Little O, or my mental health, because you haven't bothered to ask.
I'm going to keep my previous post up because I stand by what I've said. I also apologise to anyone I've upset or offended, because that was not my intention (and you must see that, if you're honest with yourselves). Perhaps I'll use the Spoon Theory again to illustrate a point, and perhaps I won't. I haven't decided yet. But next Friday, when I'm so exhausted that I cannot lift my head of the floor, I will think about you lot. And I will think about how closed-minded YOU'RE being that you cannot believe a young mother with a mental health issue can ever feel as tired, challenged, or frustrated as you. Because believe me, it isn't the case.
Please, engage with me in a sensible, adult debate on MY blog, where I can respond to you. Don't be cowards and hide your Twitter posts. If you feel that strongly, you shouldn't be afraid of the challenge.
With respect,
Tina.
Sunday, June 6, 2010
Our (not so) secret plan
We're going to have another baby! Well, not RIGHT now, but at some point before this year is up we're going to start trying to have another child.
We love Owen, and one of the reasons we've reached this decision is to benefit him. He doesn't attend a nursery or day care centre, so the amount of interaction he has with other children who are of the same age as him is very limited. It would therefore be lovely if we could provide him with a playmate, and, given Owen's developmental delays, the differences between their ages would be extremely small. We also feel that each child would benefit dramatically from having a sibling so developmentally different from themselves. After all, my younger sister is extremely delayed, but Anthea and I have nothing but good things to say about our experiences growing up with her. She has also benefitted from having us 'normal' siblings around: you can tell she loves us and remembers us each time we see her.
For a very long time, Mike was prepared to have another baby and I said a definite 'no'. I was (and to some extent, still am) extremely nervous about taking care of two small children by myself during the day. Owen's feedings have been so traumatic for me that the thought of mopping up sick with one hand and breastfeeding a newborn in the other just made me break out in a cold sweat. Owen also has so many appointments that my concerns about spending adequate time with each child, and just being able to MAKE all those appointments, has seemed very daunting. My mental health has already suffered in the past year; what's to say it won't spiral even further out of control with the responsibility of another baby?
Well... in the last month or so, life has started to slowly, slowly... creepingly... improve. We changed Owen's formula recently and his feeds have not only been more successful, they've also been quicker. It has meant I have more time to devote to playing with him, doing my own work, and taking care of jobs around the house. Also, now he's turned one, his appointments are starting to ease off a little. He's had as many surgeries as doctors initially anticipated he would when he was born, which means that although we still need to attend yearly appointments, things won't be on the same scale as they have been over the last twelve months. It's true that we have to start dental care visits, and some appointments won't ease off at all, but Owen's body has responded so incredibly well to a growing and healing heart, eyes, head, and brain, that most of the specialists we see are already scaling things back. These changes have been so small, so incremental, that to anyone else they're barely visible, but to ME, they're the difference between health and misery.
For the last six weeks I've been seeing another therapist, and Mike and Owen attended a session with me last week. I feel very good about this course of therapy, as she really listens to what I want, and allows that input to guide my treatment. For example, I think deep-breathing and listening to whale music will do jack, and I smirk loudly whenever people talk about it. Reading a book she's lent me called Coping with Infinite Loss and Grief, however, allows me to analyse my thoughts and behaviour from an analytical standpoint - which is much more up my alley. I also love the fact she has evening hours. It makes such a difference to not have to bring Owen along, and to return to him fresh and allieved of dark thoughts, just in time to put him to bed.
So, the upshot of all this is that I have an appointment to get my last shot of Depo Provera tomorrow, and that will be it. It will wear off in September, and Mike and I will allow nature to take its course from that point on. Apparently the hormones in Depo can take several months to wear off, so I'm not anticipating a baby arriving next May, but it's kind of nice to have a timeframe in mind. Maybe by Christmas I'll have some good news.
Tina.
We love Owen, and one of the reasons we've reached this decision is to benefit him. He doesn't attend a nursery or day care centre, so the amount of interaction he has with other children who are of the same age as him is very limited. It would therefore be lovely if we could provide him with a playmate, and, given Owen's developmental delays, the differences between their ages would be extremely small. We also feel that each child would benefit dramatically from having a sibling so developmentally different from themselves. After all, my younger sister is extremely delayed, but Anthea and I have nothing but good things to say about our experiences growing up with her. She has also benefitted from having us 'normal' siblings around: you can tell she loves us and remembers us each time we see her.
For a very long time, Mike was prepared to have another baby and I said a definite 'no'. I was (and to some extent, still am) extremely nervous about taking care of two small children by myself during the day. Owen's feedings have been so traumatic for me that the thought of mopping up sick with one hand and breastfeeding a newborn in the other just made me break out in a cold sweat. Owen also has so many appointments that my concerns about spending adequate time with each child, and just being able to MAKE all those appointments, has seemed very daunting. My mental health has already suffered in the past year; what's to say it won't spiral even further out of control with the responsibility of another baby?
Well... in the last month or so, life has started to slowly, slowly... creepingly... improve. We changed Owen's formula recently and his feeds have not only been more successful, they've also been quicker. It has meant I have more time to devote to playing with him, doing my own work, and taking care of jobs around the house. Also, now he's turned one, his appointments are starting to ease off a little. He's had as many surgeries as doctors initially anticipated he would when he was born, which means that although we still need to attend yearly appointments, things won't be on the same scale as they have been over the last twelve months. It's true that we have to start dental care visits, and some appointments won't ease off at all, but Owen's body has responded so incredibly well to a growing and healing heart, eyes, head, and brain, that most of the specialists we see are already scaling things back. These changes have been so small, so incremental, that to anyone else they're barely visible, but to ME, they're the difference between health and misery.
For the last six weeks I've been seeing another therapist, and Mike and Owen attended a session with me last week. I feel very good about this course of therapy, as she really listens to what I want, and allows that input to guide my treatment. For example, I think deep-breathing and listening to whale music will do jack, and I smirk loudly whenever people talk about it. Reading a book she's lent me called Coping with Infinite Loss and Grief, however, allows me to analyse my thoughts and behaviour from an analytical standpoint - which is much more up my alley. I also love the fact she has evening hours. It makes such a difference to not have to bring Owen along, and to return to him fresh and allieved of dark thoughts, just in time to put him to bed.
So, the upshot of all this is that I have an appointment to get my last shot of Depo Provera tomorrow, and that will be it. It will wear off in September, and Mike and I will allow nature to take its course from that point on. Apparently the hormones in Depo can take several months to wear off, so I'm not anticipating a baby arriving next May, but it's kind of nice to have a timeframe in mind. Maybe by Christmas I'll have some good news.
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.
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
A post-holiday update
Well, we're back! Mike, Owen and I got back late last night after our two week visit to the UK over Christmas and the New Year. It was fantastic, and just the right length. I'm so glad we made it over there with the babba, even if the travel itself was a complete nightmare. For future reference, flying for eight hours with a ratty, tube-fed baby with GERD is NOT recommended. On the way there he screamed for about six straight hours, and I'm not exaggerating an ounce. He was so much better on the way back, but I think that's because the timing of the flight was more suitable and he's a little under the weather (meaning he's sleepier than usual).
I think he's caught some nasty bug from me, because while we were over there I came down with some vile throat thing that made swallowing almost an impossibility and I completely lost my voice. I also had a cough, which is the single most irritating symptom of any illness in the world ever. And that's the truth. You can quote me on it. Now Owen has the cough and if it's no better by tomorrow when his nurse comes to visit then it's off to the doctor we go. Sigh.
ANYWAY, back to the UK. Some interesting stuff happened, including noticing the formula we'd packed so carfeully was an astonishing three months out of date and we'd been using it since the start of December. As we get it shipped directly to us by our insurance agent it was their fault - they'd sent us cans with September's date on and we don't get through it slowly enough for it to have been some stuffy cans I'd let fester at the back of the cupboard. Plus, having worked in retail, I'm really, really careful about rotating our "stock", for this very reason. Oh, and ALL of the 14 cans were out of date, so their entire shipment was old and crusty. I contacted them from the UK and threatened them with legal action if they didn't get us replacement stuff, to which they rightfully shat themselves and fell over each other to help us. In the end we got a good enough replacement to last us the rest of the visit and my insurance agents are footing the bill. Quite right, for making me feed my son potentially dangerous milk.
Owen got spoilt rotten over Christmas, which was absolutely fantastic. An award for Outstanding Contribution to the Turner Family goes to his Grandad (my dad) for being the ONLY member of my family to be proactive and learn how to feed Owen by himself. My mum did one feed supervised, and then always found an excuse to bugger off when it needed doing again. Oh well. Owen also discovered the art of grabbing the mouth and cheeks of whomever is holding him, which has caused endless amusement for me and a few scratches near my ear lobes. I think he's so funny, but I always have done. He just has to raise his eyebrows when I ask him a question, or punch me in the face so he can grab my chin flab and I crack up.
So yes, a marvellous time was had by all. We went all over the shop, despite the "horrific" weather the UK is having at the moment. "Horrific", my arse. My driveway is "horrific"! And we're expecting another 10" overnight, so you can feck off if you think I'm shovelling my way out of the house at all for the next week. Owen and I are going to hunker down, watch movies and eat Cadbury's chocolate until winter buggers off. Then we'll reminisce about visiting Oswestry, Shrewsbury, Wrexham, Aberystwyth, Rhyll, Blackpool, Isleworth, Hounslow and Richmond and how much fun we had at my nephew Stanley's Christening where Owen also got blessed. My only regret is that the suitcases weren't big enough for more chocolate.
So now it's back to reality. Back to medical appointments, battling reflux and being alone with Owen during the week. Back to the depression, I suppose, because for a while there I seemed to be recovering. With all the activity and celebrations I felt better than I had in months, but now I'm back home I can feel the dark shadows hovering outside the door again. I suppose I'll just have to suck it up and get on with it, because I don't really have any other choice. And speaking of medical conditions, I think I MUST be anaemic again because I've started getting very odd bruising on my legs. Really big, dark, painful ones too, but I don't remember ever banging my legs into something. And even if I have, it's certainly not with the frequency with which the bruises have been appearing. I know I ought to get to a doctor and have a blood test done, but I'm beginning to loathe all the paperwork. Also... I researched leg bruises and fatigue online and one of the scarier explanations is leukemia, which I am really not prepared to even contemplate at this point. So I'm going to bury my head in the sand a little longer, see if things improve and up my iron intake. Fingers crossed.
Even though I loved being away, and even though coming home means facing Owen's upcoming surgery, it's so GOOD to be home!
I think he's caught some nasty bug from me, because while we were over there I came down with some vile throat thing that made swallowing almost an impossibility and I completely lost my voice. I also had a cough, which is the single most irritating symptom of any illness in the world ever. And that's the truth. You can quote me on it. Now Owen has the cough and if it's no better by tomorrow when his nurse comes to visit then it's off to the doctor we go. Sigh.
ANYWAY, back to the UK. Some interesting stuff happened, including noticing the formula we'd packed so carfeully was an astonishing three months out of date and we'd been using it since the start of December. As we get it shipped directly to us by our insurance agent it was their fault - they'd sent us cans with September's date on and we don't get through it slowly enough for it to have been some stuffy cans I'd let fester at the back of the cupboard. Plus, having worked in retail, I'm really, really careful about rotating our "stock", for this very reason. Oh, and ALL of the 14 cans were out of date, so their entire shipment was old and crusty. I contacted them from the UK and threatened them with legal action if they didn't get us replacement stuff, to which they rightfully shat themselves and fell over each other to help us. In the end we got a good enough replacement to last us the rest of the visit and my insurance agents are footing the bill. Quite right, for making me feed my son potentially dangerous milk.
Owen got spoilt rotten over Christmas, which was absolutely fantastic. An award for Outstanding Contribution to the Turner Family goes to his Grandad (my dad) for being the ONLY member of my family to be proactive and learn how to feed Owen by himself. My mum did one feed supervised, and then always found an excuse to bugger off when it needed doing again. Oh well. Owen also discovered the art of grabbing the mouth and cheeks of whomever is holding him, which has caused endless amusement for me and a few scratches near my ear lobes. I think he's so funny, but I always have done. He just has to raise his eyebrows when I ask him a question, or punch me in the face so he can grab my chin flab and I crack up.
So yes, a marvellous time was had by all. We went all over the shop, despite the "horrific" weather the UK is having at the moment. "Horrific", my arse. My driveway is "horrific"! And we're expecting another 10" overnight, so you can feck off if you think I'm shovelling my way out of the house at all for the next week. Owen and I are going to hunker down, watch movies and eat Cadbury's chocolate until winter buggers off. Then we'll reminisce about visiting Oswestry, Shrewsbury, Wrexham, Aberystwyth, Rhyll, Blackpool, Isleworth, Hounslow and Richmond and how much fun we had at my nephew Stanley's Christening where Owen also got blessed. My only regret is that the suitcases weren't big enough for more chocolate.
So now it's back to reality. Back to medical appointments, battling reflux and being alone with Owen during the week. Back to the depression, I suppose, because for a while there I seemed to be recovering. With all the activity and celebrations I felt better than I had in months, but now I'm back home I can feel the dark shadows hovering outside the door again. I suppose I'll just have to suck it up and get on with it, because I don't really have any other choice. And speaking of medical conditions, I think I MUST be anaemic again because I've started getting very odd bruising on my legs. Really big, dark, painful ones too, but I don't remember ever banging my legs into something. And even if I have, it's certainly not with the frequency with which the bruises have been appearing. I know I ought to get to a doctor and have a blood test done, but I'm beginning to loathe all the paperwork. Also... I researched leg bruises and fatigue online and one of the scarier explanations is leukemia, which I am really not prepared to even contemplate at this point. So I'm going to bury my head in the sand a little longer, see if things improve and up my iron intake. Fingers crossed.
Even though I loved being away, and even though coming home means facing Owen's upcoming surgery, it's so GOOD to be home!
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.
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
The way we think.
The other half and I got into a major, major fight on Sunday over something so small and petty I can't bear to think about it. What I do have to remember though, is how completely irrational I was and how, even though I could hear the words coming out of my mouth, see how much I was hurting him, and know I probably looked and sounded like a teenager, I wasn't able to do a single thing about it.
It's mad, this depression. It makes you do and say things you'd never have dreamt of doing before. After the fight, when things were calmer and we'd agreed to talk about what had happened, I asked Mike whether he liked me anymore. He said no. He told me he loves me still, but he doesn't really like me much these days. And who can blame him? I'm a complete misery and I pick on him mercilessly. I'm on a deadline with a copyediting project at the moment, so I asked him to take care of Owen and a few things around the house on Sunday so I could work in peace upstairs. At 1pm he was still playing video games, so I sat on the stairs and reminded him of our agreement: he works during the week, I work weekends. He apologized and once I'd gone back upstairs he got to work.
The thing is, Mike's brain works differently to mine. In my mind, the things we needed doing were for the benefit of our Book Club guests coming over that night. That meant clean bathrooms, vacuumed floors and tidy rooms. In Mike's mind it meant ripping up the rest of the kitchen linoleum because he was embarrased it was still there. Which created more mess, which meant everything was still in transition at 5.30pm when I needed to be in the kitchen preparing food. So we fought. And I was irrational. In fact, I was completely off my fucking head because he asked me to get something out of his car (a shop-vac, brought home from work to vacuum large splinters and particles safely), and I STORMED out to get it, STORMED back inside, threw the thing on the floor and slammed the door behind me. The reason? I was cooking and even though he was shirtless and shoeless and it was below freezing outside, I didn't want to be interrupted.
If I weren't depressed, I would never, ever have behaved that way. Getting something out of the car to help out my partner would have been second nature, and once everything had blown over and we were like old times yesterday, I would have done it for him again in a heartbeat. But when I'm in that moment, and the cloudiness is fogging my brain, it's really, really hard to see and behave clearly. I have no idea how to change things, either. It's like I'm watching myself on a screen somewhere, half the time. I know I'm hurting Mike and I know I'm simply terrible to live with, but I just don't know how to stop it. How do you stop a runaway train?
Tina.
It's mad, this depression. It makes you do and say things you'd never have dreamt of doing before. After the fight, when things were calmer and we'd agreed to talk about what had happened, I asked Mike whether he liked me anymore. He said no. He told me he loves me still, but he doesn't really like me much these days. And who can blame him? I'm a complete misery and I pick on him mercilessly. I'm on a deadline with a copyediting project at the moment, so I asked him to take care of Owen and a few things around the house on Sunday so I could work in peace upstairs. At 1pm he was still playing video games, so I sat on the stairs and reminded him of our agreement: he works during the week, I work weekends. He apologized and once I'd gone back upstairs he got to work.
The thing is, Mike's brain works differently to mine. In my mind, the things we needed doing were for the benefit of our Book Club guests coming over that night. That meant clean bathrooms, vacuumed floors and tidy rooms. In Mike's mind it meant ripping up the rest of the kitchen linoleum because he was embarrased it was still there. Which created more mess, which meant everything was still in transition at 5.30pm when I needed to be in the kitchen preparing food. So we fought. And I was irrational. In fact, I was completely off my fucking head because he asked me to get something out of his car (a shop-vac, brought home from work to vacuum large splinters and particles safely), and I STORMED out to get it, STORMED back inside, threw the thing on the floor and slammed the door behind me. The reason? I was cooking and even though he was shirtless and shoeless and it was below freezing outside, I didn't want to be interrupted.
If I weren't depressed, I would never, ever have behaved that way. Getting something out of the car to help out my partner would have been second nature, and once everything had blown over and we were like old times yesterday, I would have done it for him again in a heartbeat. But when I'm in that moment, and the cloudiness is fogging my brain, it's really, really hard to see and behave clearly. I have no idea how to change things, either. It's like I'm watching myself on a screen somewhere, half the time. I know I'm hurting Mike and I know I'm simply terrible to live with, but I just don't know how to stop it. How do you stop a runaway train?
Tina.
Monday, October 26, 2009
Babysitting blues
I think my depression is in full swing at the moment, because all my recent posts have been so glum and dreary. Well, I'm sorry to say that this one is no different.
Today I am SO upset, because Mike and I have been trying for months (since before Owen was born, in fact), to arrange a babysitter for one night in November. Mike splurged on some Bill Cosby tickets for his birthday and we've really been looking forward to it since he got them in March. Now the date is drawing near, and try as I might, I haven't been able to secure anyone to watch Owen. I even resorted to contacting a creepy friend of a creepy friend, and sent her a tentative e-mail over a week ago. This morning she got in touch spouting some crap about going away the weekend before we need her and how her kid has a cold. Err...? How is that relevant to November 14th? If you don't want to look after my special needs baby, for crying out loud JUST SAY SO! Also, don't be crap and leave it a whole week before replying to me.
I really really feel like Mike and I need to catch a break. We just can't seem to stop arguing at the moment and it's tearing us apart. I know it's my fault, because I'm so unforgiving and hard to please, but I think spending some time away from the baby and feeling like we're on a date again will help us reconnect. I mean, it's not as though I'm asking for the moon on a stick here: just someone to watch and feed a baby for a few hours who isn't a weirdo.
Apparently all my "mates" are mysteriously busy. And crap.
Tina.
Today I am SO upset, because Mike and I have been trying for months (since before Owen was born, in fact), to arrange a babysitter for one night in November. Mike splurged on some Bill Cosby tickets for his birthday and we've really been looking forward to it since he got them in March. Now the date is drawing near, and try as I might, I haven't been able to secure anyone to watch Owen. I even resorted to contacting a creepy friend of a creepy friend, and sent her a tentative e-mail over a week ago. This morning she got in touch spouting some crap about going away the weekend before we need her and how her kid has a cold. Err...? How is that relevant to November 14th? If you don't want to look after my special needs baby, for crying out loud JUST SAY SO! Also, don't be crap and leave it a whole week before replying to me.
I really really feel like Mike and I need to catch a break. We just can't seem to stop arguing at the moment and it's tearing us apart. I know it's my fault, because I'm so unforgiving and hard to please, but I think spending some time away from the baby and feeling like we're on a date again will help us reconnect. I mean, it's not as though I'm asking for the moon on a stick here: just someone to watch and feed a baby for a few hours who isn't a weirdo.
Apparently all my "mates" are mysteriously busy. And crap.
Tina.
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
Unexpected challenges
There are some typical things about being a new mother I've found very challenging, such as getting enough sleep and trying to cope with tiredness when that isn't possible, but I've also discovered parenting Owen has some rather unexpected challenges too:
1. Keeping up with laundry is sooooo hard sometimes. Owen's reflux means he changes outfits at least four times a day, and we get through burp cloths and blankets like you wouldn't believe. I can usually attribute the mood I'm in as to whether we have clean burp cloths or not, as I feel a thousand times happier knowing there's a clean stack somewhere.
2. The bickering and constant arguments with my husband. Mike and I have always had a fiery relationship and fighting for us meant we got to make up afterwards, but these days we spend more time bickering and sniping at each other than smiling and laughing. We still talk, but it's always either about Owen or how one of us is failing at some aspect of the housework, and it can be completely exhausting at times.
3. One thing not every parent has to endure is the feeding routine we have with Owen. Feeding him with a pump every four hours, followed by at least an hour and a half of continuous, hand-held venting, is monotonous and time-consuming. I've said it before and I'll say it again, but if he ate from a bottle or the breast and didn't have reflux, I'd have so much time on my hands I wouldn't know what to do with it.
4. I wrote in my last post about how I've found it difficult accepting my new title in life. I'm still finding that hard.
5. Keeping the house clutter-free. This is SO tricky! Mike and I have a policy of doing at least ten minutes of tidying-up and/or cleaning every evening so that the chores don't build up too much before the weekend, but the CLUTTER! I spent time last week purchasing a couple of wheely carts with drawers to organise Owen's medical supplies and the kitchen is now a lot neater, but the rest of the house just gets overwhelming sometimes. How does a small boy generate so much mess?! Between dirty laundry (there are those burp cloths again), small toys, feeding supplies and the crap Mike and I seem determined to litter the living room carpet with (currently new kitchen brochures and bill stubs), I can count on one hand the amount of square feet of tidy space I can see from here.
6. Leaving the house. As with any small baby, this is a challenge, but it was very unexpected nonetheless. Owen used to screeeeeam whenever we went in the car and he's got a lot better now, but he still throws up the minute we go over a bump and organising a time to actually get to an appointment is bloody hard to start with. I have stopped making appointments for the morning as the earliest feasible time I can get out without drama is 12.30pm, but it's so limiting and I do miss that freedom to just jump up and go.
7. The sheer boredom and loneliness of having a baby was very unexpected. I won't go into too much detail, but I believe they have really contributed to my post-partum depression. I try to get out as much as I can to visit friends or attend baby groups, but as I said before, leaving the house isn't always easy...
8. I think finding time to be myself without being Owen's Mama is kinda tricky, too. Don't get me wrong: I love my little one and the thought of everything we've been through with him and how at any minute things could have turned out very differently scares me half to death. But there existed a person before Owen Henri and when he's grown up and left the house that person will still be here. I just have to make sure I don't lose her in the meantime.
9. The guilt! Goodness me, this is a big one. I feel guilty ALL THE TIME. I feel guilty that I resent getting out of bed to attend to him; I feel guilty when he's asleep and I'm relaxing with a book instead of washing the dishes. I feel guilty that I don't sleep with my husband enough and when we do get down to business, I feel guilty that I'm not looking after Owen. I feel guilty when he spits-up (irrational, but true) and I feel guilty when I spend money on new clothes for him. I feel guilty that my body doesn't look the way it used to; I feel guilty that I indulge in cookies and ice cream when I should be eating grapes to shift these last few pounds. I feel guilty for disturbing him and taking him to all his medical appointments even though they're for his own benefit and I feel guilty if I cancel one because one of us simply isn't up to the challenge of fighting a medical institution that day. Most of all, I feel guilty that my body make Owen the way he is. I feel guilty that my egg gave him those crazy chromosomes and that my body pushed him out when he wasn't ready. I feel guilty that I couldn't breastfeed him and I feel guilty that I had to leave him at the hospital for so long. I feel guilty ALL THE TIME.
10. The last unexpected challenge I've found (although I'm sure I'll think of more before my next post) is how much love I have for this little boy. You may not see that as a challenge, but can you imaging having so much love in you that it breaks your heart? If we have one, how on earth will I find room to love another baby as much as Owen?
Tina.
1. Keeping up with laundry is sooooo hard sometimes. Owen's reflux means he changes outfits at least four times a day, and we get through burp cloths and blankets like you wouldn't believe. I can usually attribute the mood I'm in as to whether we have clean burp cloths or not, as I feel a thousand times happier knowing there's a clean stack somewhere.
2. The bickering and constant arguments with my husband. Mike and I have always had a fiery relationship and fighting for us meant we got to make up afterwards, but these days we spend more time bickering and sniping at each other than smiling and laughing. We still talk, but it's always either about Owen or how one of us is failing at some aspect of the housework, and it can be completely exhausting at times.
3. One thing not every parent has to endure is the feeding routine we have with Owen. Feeding him with a pump every four hours, followed by at least an hour and a half of continuous, hand-held venting, is monotonous and time-consuming. I've said it before and I'll say it again, but if he ate from a bottle or the breast and didn't have reflux, I'd have so much time on my hands I wouldn't know what to do with it.
4. I wrote in my last post about how I've found it difficult accepting my new title in life. I'm still finding that hard.
5. Keeping the house clutter-free. This is SO tricky! Mike and I have a policy of doing at least ten minutes of tidying-up and/or cleaning every evening so that the chores don't build up too much before the weekend, but the CLUTTER! I spent time last week purchasing a couple of wheely carts with drawers to organise Owen's medical supplies and the kitchen is now a lot neater, but the rest of the house just gets overwhelming sometimes. How does a small boy generate so much mess?! Between dirty laundry (there are those burp cloths again), small toys, feeding supplies and the crap Mike and I seem determined to litter the living room carpet with (currently new kitchen brochures and bill stubs), I can count on one hand the amount of square feet of tidy space I can see from here.
6. Leaving the house. As with any small baby, this is a challenge, but it was very unexpected nonetheless. Owen used to screeeeeam whenever we went in the car and he's got a lot better now, but he still throws up the minute we go over a bump and organising a time to actually get to an appointment is bloody hard to start with. I have stopped making appointments for the morning as the earliest feasible time I can get out without drama is 12.30pm, but it's so limiting and I do miss that freedom to just jump up and go.
7. The sheer boredom and loneliness of having a baby was very unexpected. I won't go into too much detail, but I believe they have really contributed to my post-partum depression. I try to get out as much as I can to visit friends or attend baby groups, but as I said before, leaving the house isn't always easy...
8. I think finding time to be myself without being Owen's Mama is kinda tricky, too. Don't get me wrong: I love my little one and the thought of everything we've been through with him and how at any minute things could have turned out very differently scares me half to death. But there existed a person before Owen Henri and when he's grown up and left the house that person will still be here. I just have to make sure I don't lose her in the meantime.
9. The guilt! Goodness me, this is a big one. I feel guilty ALL THE TIME. I feel guilty that I resent getting out of bed to attend to him; I feel guilty when he's asleep and I'm relaxing with a book instead of washing the dishes. I feel guilty that I don't sleep with my husband enough and when we do get down to business, I feel guilty that I'm not looking after Owen. I feel guilty when he spits-up (irrational, but true) and I feel guilty when I spend money on new clothes for him. I feel guilty that my body doesn't look the way it used to; I feel guilty that I indulge in cookies and ice cream when I should be eating grapes to shift these last few pounds. I feel guilty for disturbing him and taking him to all his medical appointments even though they're for his own benefit and I feel guilty if I cancel one because one of us simply isn't up to the challenge of fighting a medical institution that day. Most of all, I feel guilty that my body make Owen the way he is. I feel guilty that my egg gave him those crazy chromosomes and that my body pushed him out when he wasn't ready. I feel guilty that I couldn't breastfeed him and I feel guilty that I had to leave him at the hospital for so long. I feel guilty ALL THE TIME.
10. The last unexpected challenge I've found (although I'm sure I'll think of more before my next post) is how much love I have for this little boy. You may not see that as a challenge, but can you imaging having so much love in you that it breaks your heart? If we have one, how on earth will I find room to love another baby as much as Owen?
Tina.
Friday, October 2, 2009
Reflux and more...
Somewhat of a sombre post today, as life has been throwing every challenge under the sun at us recently.
Last week, little Owen was checked by the doctor for his four month check-up and his lungs were declared clear, despite a small cough he'd developed. Then on Tuesday his cough got a lot worse and his voice became very hoarse. On the same day, I took him up to his Neurologist to have an EEG machine stuck to his head for 48 hours so they could assess whether his jerks are true seizures, myoclonic jerks or summat else. Well, I REALLY wish I'd postponed this procedure, because by Wednesday Owen's cough was just awful and his temperature went over 100F. Considering he's always been a cool baby (in more sense that one, arf arf) this seemed alarming, so off we trotted to the local ER to have him checked out - EEG monitor 'n all.
Apparently the boy had pneumonia. Blah. The doctors suspected it was a result of his difficult intubation during surgery last week, where it's likely some saliva got pushed down into his lung and festered for a few days. I felt just dreadful that I hadn't taken Owen to get it checked out earlier, but I wanted him to have the EEG study done. Ho hum; can't win 'em all. Anyway, on Wednesday he just screamed and screamed all night with the jerking, coughing, refluxing and the EEG machine all keeping him awake, and by Thursday morning he'd clearly had enough because he pulled that sucker off his head by himself. Now, those electrodes were GLUED to his head, so it must have hurt him quite a lot, but after I took the rest of them off he slept soundly for the next 24 hours. Like a baby, in fact.
So, he's been recovering nicely from the pneumonia, but he still has a very bad cough. I'm taking him back to the doctor next week to make sure he's all clear, but the antibiotics run out tomorrow so if he's no better I'm not sure what we'll do. His reflux has been just awful since his illness, too, as whenever he coughs he brings up tummy fluids and makes such a mess. It's driving me to desperation and I feel very sorry for this little lad. I wish I could have his problems instead.
All his issues and my pretty-much solo care for him has led me to develop post-partum depression. There. I said it. I have depression. I started therapy this week to try and get some help, but I'm not mad keen on my therapist just yet. As my sister put it, "So, she's had two strikes. One more and she's out?" Yup. I said very clearly to her that my writing/proofreading/copy editing career was just starting to really take off and I didn't want to make it a low priority, but she didn't seem to take any notice. She told me that essentially, in order to battle this depression, I'd have to let some things slide, and writing ought to be one of them. Uh... no. The other thing she did was hand me the stock leaflet they hand out to all post-partum women and told me to make sleep a priority. Yeah... I would, but I have a BABY!!
The thing I find it very hard to convey to people is exactly how much work Owen's feeds are. For weight gain, this child has to eat every four hours, whether he's hungry or not, and each feed takes one whole hour. There are then two hours of battling reflux, during which he will routinely bring up 1/2 to 2/3 of his food, and then I have to give him supplemental water (and usually one or another medications) one hour before his next feed, over half an hour. So essentially, I'm only able to be in a different room to him for that single half hour before his next feed. Sure, I could take a nap then... but what about getting dressed? Or having a shower? Or eating lunch? Or preparing his next sodding feed? Sleep? Pah!
So, I'm going back next week for another session, but if she wants to prescribe me medication I might just boot her. I've told her I just want to be able to talk about the things I can't talk to anyone else about (scary, PPD stuff that I never imagined would ever enter my head), so if she wants me to start popping pills, it means she hasn't really listened to me at all and it'll have to be goodbye. Fingers crossed it doesn't come to that though.
Plus... it would have been Da's 82nd birthday today. I miss him.
Tina
Last week, little Owen was checked by the doctor for his four month check-up and his lungs were declared clear, despite a small cough he'd developed. Then on Tuesday his cough got a lot worse and his voice became very hoarse. On the same day, I took him up to his Neurologist to have an EEG machine stuck to his head for 48 hours so they could assess whether his jerks are true seizures, myoclonic jerks or summat else. Well, I REALLY wish I'd postponed this procedure, because by Wednesday Owen's cough was just awful and his temperature went over 100F. Considering he's always been a cool baby (in more sense that one, arf arf) this seemed alarming, so off we trotted to the local ER to have him checked out - EEG monitor 'n all.
Apparently the boy had pneumonia. Blah. The doctors suspected it was a result of his difficult intubation during surgery last week, where it's likely some saliva got pushed down into his lung and festered for a few days. I felt just dreadful that I hadn't taken Owen to get it checked out earlier, but I wanted him to have the EEG study done. Ho hum; can't win 'em all. Anyway, on Wednesday he just screamed and screamed all night with the jerking, coughing, refluxing and the EEG machine all keeping him awake, and by Thursday morning he'd clearly had enough because he pulled that sucker off his head by himself. Now, those electrodes were GLUED to his head, so it must have hurt him quite a lot, but after I took the rest of them off he slept soundly for the next 24 hours. Like a baby, in fact.
So, he's been recovering nicely from the pneumonia, but he still has a very bad cough. I'm taking him back to the doctor next week to make sure he's all clear, but the antibiotics run out tomorrow so if he's no better I'm not sure what we'll do. His reflux has been just awful since his illness, too, as whenever he coughs he brings up tummy fluids and makes such a mess. It's driving me to desperation and I feel very sorry for this little lad. I wish I could have his problems instead.
All his issues and my pretty-much solo care for him has led me to develop post-partum depression. There. I said it. I have depression. I started therapy this week to try and get some help, but I'm not mad keen on my therapist just yet. As my sister put it, "So, she's had two strikes. One more and she's out?" Yup. I said very clearly to her that my writing/proofreading/copy editing career was just starting to really take off and I didn't want to make it a low priority, but she didn't seem to take any notice. She told me that essentially, in order to battle this depression, I'd have to let some things slide, and writing ought to be one of them. Uh... no. The other thing she did was hand me the stock leaflet they hand out to all post-partum women and told me to make sleep a priority. Yeah... I would, but I have a BABY!!
The thing I find it very hard to convey to people is exactly how much work Owen's feeds are. For weight gain, this child has to eat every four hours, whether he's hungry or not, and each feed takes one whole hour. There are then two hours of battling reflux, during which he will routinely bring up 1/2 to 2/3 of his food, and then I have to give him supplemental water (and usually one or another medications) one hour before his next feed, over half an hour. So essentially, I'm only able to be in a different room to him for that single half hour before his next feed. Sure, I could take a nap then... but what about getting dressed? Or having a shower? Or eating lunch? Or preparing his next sodding feed? Sleep? Pah!
So, I'm going back next week for another session, but if she wants to prescribe me medication I might just boot her. I've told her I just want to be able to talk about the things I can't talk to anyone else about (scary, PPD stuff that I never imagined would ever enter my head), so if she wants me to start popping pills, it means she hasn't really listened to me at all and it'll have to be goodbye. Fingers crossed it doesn't come to that though.
Plus... it would have been Da's 82nd birthday today. I miss him.
Tina
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