Fired up again, about the breastfeeding issue

Hello dear readers,
Sorry for my absence--I've been doing a lot of writing elsewhere lately.

I came across this article today on the BBC website. I'm also posting it here because I hate it when I get to a blog late and the link is no longer live.

Breastfeeding 'kills baby's pain'
Breastfeeding may be the ultimate natural painkiller for newborn babies.

A review of research found that breastfeeding newborns helps relieve the pain from a needle prick used to screen their blood for disease.

Breastfed babies appeared to experience less pain than those who were swaddled, given a pacifier, or a placebo. Comfort from a mother's presence may be key.

The Cochrane Library review, by Toronto's Mount Sinai Hospital, was based on data from over 1,000 babies.

The researchers say that breastfeeding could possibly help relieve pain for premature babies who need to undergo many painful intensive care procedures.

However, they stress that their study did not test the impact of breastfeeding on the pain associated with repeated procedures.

The Mount Sinai team assessed pain by measuring changes in heart and breathing rates, and the length of time a baby cried after receiving the needle prick.

Comfort
The researchers say that the key to the effect of breastfeeding may be that an infant simply draws comfort from the close proximity of its mother.

Alternatively, breastfeeding may help to divert attention away from the pain of a needle prick.

They also suggest that the sweetness of breast milk may be a factor.

Another theory is that breast milk contains a high concentration of a chemical which could ultimately trigger the production of natural painkillers called endorphins.

The researchers also found that giving babies a sugar solution seemed to be effective.

But researcher Dr Prakeshkumar Shah said: "Based on this review we concluded that for a neonate undergoing painful procedure breastfeeding is superior to no treatment, placebo, or swaddling alone for relieving pain.

"As it is the most inexpensive, safe and advantageous from other perspectives, it should be offered to all neonates to relieve procedural pain when possible."

Dr Tony Williams, an expert in neonatal care at London's St George's Hospital, said: "Newborn babies are often given dummies soaked in concentrated glucose to help reduce distress during painful procedures.

"This study shows that babies would do just as well by being breastfed."

Story from BBC NEWS:
http://news.bbc.co.uk/go/pr/fr/-/2/hi/health/5190306.stm

Published: 2006/07/19 08:55:13 GMT

© BBC MMVI

***

I have many observations and questions about this story and this study. Lest you get the impression that I'm anti-breastfeeding, I'd like to make it clear that I'm not, I'm just a) defensive and guilty because it didn't work for me and b) pissed off at how mothers who choose formula for their babies are made to feel like shit. And it really makes me angry when studies and stories like the one above feed that guilt.

Questions About the Study
1. The researchers note that part of the pain relief benefit that nursing babies received might be due to maternal proximity rather than the breastmilk itself. That leads me surmise that the babies in the other group, the control group, must not have been held by their mothers--otherwise the maternal proximity factor would have been the same in both cases.

So...I'm left to assume that one group of babies was held by their mothers and nursed while they received the needle prick, while the other babies were swaddled or given a pacifier but were not in contact with their mothers. Gee, I wonder which babies would cry loudest? Doesn't really seem like a fair test, does it? According to the article, "The Mount Sinai team assessed pain by measuring changes in heart and breathing rates, and the length of time a baby cried after receiving the needle prick." Were the mothers of the control group babies allowed to pick up and comfort their babies after the needle prick?

2. I wonder what the results would have been if the infants had been bottlefed while being held by their mothers? Wouldn't that provide a truer picture of whether or not breastfeeding itself held pain-relief benefits?

3. The ultimate finding of the article is that babies "would do just as well by being breastfed" as they do sucking on a sugary pacifier. I don't know about you, but to me, this revelation just doesnt't seem worth the medical research dollars invested in it. How about spending those funds on research to prevent premature birth, for instance, which leads us to the following sentence....

4. "The researchers say that breastfeeding could possibly help relieve pain for premature babies who need to undergo many painful intensive care procedures." Maybe....but many, if not most, premature babies are too premature to suck. They either are simply too small and weak, or the sucking reflex is too immature to allow them to feed that way. So the most premature infants--who are also the ones undergoing the most painful procedures--would probably not be able to breastfeed anyway. Again, if the researchers had compared breastmilk to formula, rather than nursing to isolation, they might have some useful knowledge here, because although a premature baby may not be able to suck, he or she is often able to still get breastmilk or formula.

Comments About the Article
1. The title. "Breastfeeding 'kills baby's pain' it shouts. No modifiers in sight. But we don't really know that, do we, because it could just be closeness to a mother that kills the pain, right? How about a headline like this: "Breastfeeding relieves baby's pain more than lying alone in a hospital crib?"

2. The author (unnamed in the article) does give him or herself a little wiggle room in the subhead by using the words "may" and "natural." That's commendable. On the other hand, he or she had to throw "ultimate" in there. For someone reading the article quickly--like a new parent--the words that stand out are "breastfeeding," "ultimate" and "painkiller."

3. The author of the article writes "The researchers also found that giving babies a sugar solution seemed to be effective." The words "seemed to be effective" are a little tentative, don't you think, especially when this is what the study abstract really says: "Pain indicators such as change in heart rate, duration of crying time, proportion of cry time, Premature Infant Pain Profile scores and Douleur Aigue Nouveau-ne scores were significantly in favor of breastfeeding group compared to placebo/no intervention/positioning group but they were no different when compared to glucose group."
(emphasis added).

4.Interestingly, the study abstract also states that "Heart rate changes and Neonatal Facial Coding Scale scores were significantly in favor of supplemental breast milk group compared to placebo. However,when compared to glucose or sucrose group supplemental breast milk group had significantly higher heart rate changes and duration of crying. (emphasis added).

So to me, it looks like the real finding of this study is the glucose or sucrose is actually a better painkiller for infants than breast milk. You wouldn't get that from the BBC article, though, would you?

5. The next paragraph in the BBC article after the note about the sugar solution starts with the word "but." "But researcher Dr Prakeshkumar Shah said: 'Based on this review we concluded that for a neonate undergoing painful procedure breastfeeding is superior to no treatment, placebo, or swaddling alone for relieving pain.'"

The conjunction "but" indicates that two contrasting ideas are being joined together. So when reading these two paragraphs, the reader is led to believe that the sentence beginning with the word "but" will tell us that breastfeeding is better than a sugar solution. It isn't, but if reading quickly, the reader may not realize that sucrose and glucose are absent from the list of treatments inferior to breastfeeding. Again, someone skimming the article would probalby see the words "But" "breastfeeding" "superior" and make the conclusion that breastfeeding is superior to sugar. When really, it isn't.

I know this is long, and if you've stayed with me, I thank you. This is just an example of how the media insidiously judges and coerces people through bad reporting and/or reporting with an agenda. The agenda of this article was clearly to add another star to the "breast is best" chart. I think it's irresponsible to present this as objective reporting, especially about an issue that has become such a hot button topic, mainly because articles like this, commercials featuring pregnant women riding mechanical bulls, and any number of other breastfeeding-centric propaganda that are making women feel like they have to breastfeed or they are bad mothers. It's polarizing. The "breast is best" agenda slots women into two categories. Breastfeeder=good. Formula-feeder=bad. On 20/20 last week, reporter Elizabeth Vargas actually went so far as to say that if women choose not to breastfeed, they could be "risking their babies' lives." Give me a break.

Let me know what you think. Thanks for reading!

Did you ever wonder why my name is Depressionista?

Sometimes a fog just drops over me, and tonight is one of those times. It's like I've been hit in the head by a brick of depression. It just hits, and there's not a damn thing I can do about it. It's times like this when I realize that no matter what medication I'm on and no matter what's happening in my life, I will always struggle with depression.

Nobody tells you at the beginning that it's going to be a chronic disease--probably because it would be too damn depressing. And maybe for some people it is self-limiting and goes away and never comes back. But for the rest of us, I guess it would be nice if, right at the beginning, your therapist or psychiatrist or whoever could let you know that it's possible that you may have to "manage" this disease for the rest of your life. I don't know. That would probably be too much to handle for someone deep in the throws of this illness. It just seems like it's taken me a long time to figure it out. And now that I have, yes, it's depressing.

One of the hardest parts of depression is that you cannot trust your own thoughts. At it's worst depression convinces you that the world would be a better place without you, and that's why it's deadly. In milder depression moments perhaps you just feel that if you could change just that "one thing" in your life that was fucking it all up, everything would be better. Lots of times, especially when you've dealt with it for awhile, you feel that you are to blame for the feelings you have. Something is WRONG with you because you just can't be happy! Why can't you just fix it already???

Which then leads you try to figure out the root cause for your pain. Rationally, you know that your illness could be the result of a "chemical imbalance"--the most palatable answer because there's very little you can do about it, or do to cause it--but that's not always the case. It could be the result of genetics or the way you were raised or whatever horrible life tragedies you have endured. It could be the bad marriage you're in or hormone changes or having a baby or losing a baby or not being able to conceive a baby. Usually, I just conclude that I'm generally damaged somehow, by whatever mix of the above or bad luck or some ancient curse.

There was nothing overt to bring on this feeling tonight. I'm not PMSing, Bubba's not sick, J. is driving me crazy but that's pretty standard, I got to see my niece and my sister and brother-in-law for dinner, although Bubba threw a fit all the way through (also pretty standard). I knew I was teetering on the brink of the abyss and I told J., impatiently and curtly yes, but clearly, that I was depressed for no real reason and feeling grumpy and irritable. A little bit later, I came in to do a load of laundry and found the carnage of J.'s feeble attempts at the chore--clothes in various states of clean, dirty, wet or dry. I had no idea how to even rectify it enough to start somewhere. I came back upstairs and told J. that he needed to sort things out so I could start--then suggested that we both go down and do it together. On the way down I said, off-handedly, "Doesn't life just suck?" as a general comment on the responsibilities of adulthood. He got angry with me and when I pressed him for a reason, he said, "I'm just sick of that attitude, I guess." This, from the man who spent half an hour at 11:30 p.m. last night telling me about how underappreciated he was at work, how he really needed to find a new job, how he felt he was underpaid and he works harder than anyone there, etc., while I sympathetically cooed, coddled and ego-stroked.

I know I've probably written this here before--but I just find the crushing sameness of my life very hard to handle. I know what I'll doing at just about any moment of any given day, with a little bit of variation on the weekends. I will wake up at about 6 or 6:30. Get Bubba what he needs so he'll be quiet for awhile. Make myself a cup of coffee and have a cigarette on my porch. Come back in and start cleaning up the kitchen, doing dishes, feeding the cat, getting Bubba's breakfast ready. J. sometimes shares in these chores or keeps Bubba happy. At about 7:30 I take a shower. J. and Bubba leave for school/work at 7:45. I catch the bus at 8 or 8:30. Get to work. Work at boring job. Leave work at 5. Catch bus home. Immediately and slavishly attend to Bubba's needs, which usually includes making a dinner while he cries. Feed Bubba. Play with Bubba. Watch SpongeBob with Bubba. THEN start the bedtime routine with Bubba. Get Bubba down to sleep. Go have a smoke and wait for Bubba to cry. Go comfort Bubba when he cries, then smoke some more, maybe eat something myself, sit on the couch while J. plays video games. Try to initiate conversation or act interested in work stories or complex oral recreations of whatever book he's reading or how great his new video game is. (Why is it that he can somehow manage to pay attention to current events, read book after book, and spend countless hours playing PlayStation, when I feel I never have time for a damn thing?) Give up when conversation dies and go call Tingle, LilCherie, sometimes my sister or my mom. Come in, watch a little TV, go to bed or fall asleep on the couch. Repeat, repeat, repeat, repeat, repeat...

LilCherie and I are going to visit Tingle a week from tomorrow. It is most obviously and definitely something I really, really need. I am, in fact, desperate to leave my life behind for a few days. But I know it won't really change things. I know I'll come back to this sameness and after the first day home it will be like I never left.

Honestly sir, it's only a few ounces of formula...I wasn't intending to sell it...

When I was pregnant with my second child — Bubba, our only living child — I worried from the point of conception onward. Hell, I worried BEFORE the point of conception, about whether I'd make a follicle large enough to be fertilized, whether J.'s sample would be good enough, whether the timing would be right.

I spent 34 weeks just waiting for the point in time when it would be safe for Bubba to leave my body. It wasn't safe in there, I surmised. At six weeks, I'd had a big bleed and major cramps that convinced me I was miscarrying. At 11 weeks, there was a concern about low amniotic fluid, and we wouldn't know for sure if our baby had kidneys until the 20 week ultrasound.My cervix could give out at any moment, as we'd experienced with Hope, so every day I had with Bubba safely in my uterus felt like borrowed time. At 30 weeks, it started to go, and I had steroid shots to try to get his lungs developed as much as possible. At 31 weeks I was put on modified bedrest, at 32 weeks put on full bedrest, at 33 weeks admitted to the hospital for full bedrest at 8 cm. dilated. At 34.5 weeks the inevitable finally happened.

When I started having contractions the week he was born, the nurses, as a matter of course, started talking about starting up the "terb" -- terbutaline, a tocolytic drug to stop contractions. I'd had some terb a few times already, and it always quieted things down without much in the way of side effects for me. But at 34.5 weeks, I said no. I also said no to bedpans and, when the nurses were gone, I would get up and walk around my room a few times, or even sneak out to get a soda from the snack station on the floor. Countless times the nurses gave me the speech: "Every day inside you is better for the baby." But I never felt that way. I knew he needed to be in there for a reasonable length of time, but at 34.5 weeks, I felt it would be safer for him to be on the outside, where umblical cords couldn't wrap around his neck, where his heart couldn't just stop beating without someone knowing about it, where he couldn't suffer birth trauma or detached placenta or any of the mysterious and fatal complications of coming into this world. I had zero faith in my body.

When he was finally out -- at a healthy 7 lbs. 12 oz. -- and off the oxygen within 24 hours, I relaxed briefly in the knowledge that at least I had finished this part successfully. At least I had managed to carry our baby long enough for him to make it in this world.

Like most other women today, I started off with grand illusions of how life would be with my long-wanted, finally-here little baby. Breastfeeding was important to me. I never got to go to any of the classes because I was on bedrest during the time we'd signed up for them, but I figured the hospital's lactaction consultants could help me out and I'd done my reading. I figured that it had been done for how many thousands of years--it couldn't be that hard, right?

Well, all my breastfeeding expectations pretty much went out the window within the first 24 hours. Bubba needed oxygen to live, so he didn't get to "crawl" up to my breast and start happily nursing within minutes of birth. The nurses gave him a pacifier before I got down to see him the next morning, and instead of being pissed I was just happy to see that he was sucking it, because sometimes premature babies don't really have the sucking reflex down yet. I tried nursing for the first time about 24 hours after he was born. His method was suck, suck, sleep. And I mean sleep. He had jaundice, so he was tired. No amount of cold washcloths on his head, baby sit-ups, foot-tickling, nipple-forcing or jostling could bring him out of it.
After the lactation consultants had run out of ideas, they got me nipple shields, which seemed promising at first but alas were not enough. Bubba was just too damn tired and lazy to do it, and you know what? So was I.

The scene at home was this. Bubba wakes up screaming, hungry. I try to breastfeed. He resists, shaking his head from side to side. Squirt milk onto lip as enticement. Bubba latches on to the very end of my nipple--not nearly enough to do the job. Detaches and cries. Finally, with much forceful nipple-pinching and shoving on my part, manage to get the gargantuan thing into Bubba's mouth. Suck, suck, sleep. Or, suck, suck, detach, scream. Get out Lanolin and stick nipple shields on and try it again. Same story as above. Try this for 1/2 hour to 45 minutes. Warm up bottle of pumped breastmilk. Feed Bubba. Pump breasts for another 1/2 hour. Maybe an hour off, and then....start all over again.

After about 3 weeks of this, I gave up on trying to get him to suckle. I decided I would just pump and give him that in a bottle. Bubba loved his bottle. He sucked it right down without issue. Every now and then I'd try to stick him back on the boob, only to meet with severe protest. During the day, when I was home alone with Bubba, I'd have to somehow figure out how to pump for half an hour several times a day, being unable to pick him up if he cried or change his diaper unless I stopped the pumping session and tried to resume later, knowing that this was not good for my milk supply. I clearly remember trying to hold both boob cones over my breasts with one hand while holding a crying Bubba on my lap with the other...and I think I was crying as well.

I really did mourn my inability to feed my son. I remembered when I first got the news that I would lose Hope and the ob/gyn was explaining to me what would happen afterwards. My tears finally made their way through my shock as she told me my milk would still come in, even though there would be no baby to drink it. When that did indeed happen, it was possibly the most difficult part of the whole experience -- having milk but no baby. Now, with Bubba, I had a baby but he wouldn't do it, and this was probably my only chance. Yes, I did feel like a failure. So many other women seemed to have enough tenacity or patience or whatever it took to make it through the adjustment phase and go on to nurse their kids until kindergarten.

When Bubba was six weeks old, and my postpartum depression was in full swing, I had started becoming lazy about my pumping sessions. I started stretching out the night sessions to two a night, then one a night, then just doing it before I went to bed and when I got up. Needless to say, my supply went down. I panicked a little for a few days and pumped with renewed vigor, but still Bubba started getting more and more formula, and he didn't seem to notice the difference. My conviction was waning.

Then I got sick. Just a bad cold, but it made me feel like crap. I was also still bleeding from childbirth; still lactating, however feebly; still pumping half-heartedly; getting up at night with Bubba (although J. did A LOT of that); staying home all day with the baby and not realizing just how bad my postpartum depression was, figuring I was just a freak for not being able to TAKE IT when Bubba would cry for hours at a time from gas or hunger or general dissatisfaction. I was, in a word, a mess. One night I stumbled out to the living room in my sour-milk-smelling shirt that I'd had on for two days, tissues in hand to mop up the snot that was streaming out of my nose, a feverish sweat on my brow, and just stood there looking at that goddamned pump. I could not do it. I could not hook myself up to the milking machine one more time.

Of course, I did, a few times over the next week when I would get engorged. But that really was the end. Bubba would be a formula baby. I had only lasted six weeks.

But I guess I can feel shitty about it forever. Check out this article in the New York Times. Looks like Bubba will likely suffer from any number of ailments, from lower IQ (funny how they don't mention how much lower, huh?) to diabetes to asthma. Shit, I might as well have just fed him "New Shitty Mom Formula from Enfamil, Now With Traces of Cyanide and Mercury!"

I know there are women out there who absolutely cannot nurse. They've had mastectomies, maybe, or they really don't make enough milk. Or, heaven forbid, they've adopted a child. I guess all parents who create their families through adoption get to feel crappy too? Then there are those of us out there who could have done it, if only we'd been selfless, heroic, tenacious, and GOOD enough to do it. I fall into that category.

I am so sick of feeling bad about this, but I know I will. Forever. I mean, it doesn't keep me up at night, but when I come across an article like that, I get defensive, I get angry, and I get guilty. And I wonder why I hear so many articles trumpeting the benefits of breastfeeding and so few--hardly any, in fact--about other factors that affect a child's IQ and health, such as having their fathers involved in their lives, or having quality, affordable daycare.

Look, we all know at this point that "breast is best." It's been shoved down our throats as much as the babies'. If the U.S. Department of Health and Human Services is so set on making sure that all babies are breastfed,to the point where it compares formula feeding to falling off a bucking bronco in a bar while 9 months pregnant, then it had better start putting forth some options for the milk machines--oh, I mean mothers--who need help. I'd start by sending out a nurse for a home visit, maybe. Or how about lactation consultants who actually have something worthwhile to suggest? How about decent PAID maternity leaves so women wouldn't have to worry about that part of the equation while try to exclusively feed their children, or even subsidized daycare near every workplace so it would be logistically possible to do it after a mother returns to work. Just as likely to happen is this idea: maybe the government could set up a wet-nurse program, or even employ a legion of super-producer lactating moms whose milk could be sold in the grocery store alongside the formula. Or better yet, why not have the government just pull formula off the shelves? That would force the issue, wouldn't it?

Then, once they've guilted/forced every mother into nursing her child, the U.S. government can start figuring out how to make sure each nursing mother is eating a healthy diet, not smoking, and not taking any sort of prescription or illicit drugs that might harm her baby. Or making sure that mothers of babies with wheat or dairy allergies aren't sneaking in a pancake or a scoop of ice cream now and then.

Yep, I'm bitter. I'm sick of living in a country where the government feels it is accceptable to use guilt and shame to coerce women into a desired behavior. Women are more than vessels and feeding machines for babies. But in the long run, when it comes down to it, that's pretty much how our government looks at us. I wonder how much of our guilt complexes can be traced back to the paternalism and judgment rained down on us from our government. Ever notice men don't feel this way? Think about it--have you ever seen a public service announcement showing little orphaned children whose fathers died because they didn't check their nuts for cancer? Or children failing at school because their fathers didn't have a clue what was going on in their kids' classrooms? Or a PSA about how children whose fathers didn't support their mothers are however many percents more likely to fail in life?

That's my rant for today.

Anniversary

In honor of the anniversary of our daughter's birth and death, I'm posting a poem I wrote five days after losing her.

*****
June 14, 2003

It’s the dead of night
Or the hour before dawn.
Five days ago I woke up about now,
About to find out you were leaving us.
I think I knew right away
But I didn’t give up hope till later—
Giving up hope was hard, but not as hard as giving up you.
My arms have never felt so cold,
Aching for you.
My eyes burn from the tears that don’t stop coming.
But my breasts are warm.
Still prepared to feed you,
My broken, faulty body is in fact the last to give up.
I don’t mind being awake right now, although
I’ve never felt so tired—
Be cause this is our time together.
In another world, on another day,
A day that should have been,
I’d be nursing you now.
Exhausted, my sleepy eyes would
Drink you in as you drank me in.
Together we would sit through the night,
Fulfilling our need for each other until we both would sleep again,
Happy and full.
Instead I have to close my eyes to see you,
And open my heart through this pain to feel
The love you’ve brought me.
I promise you that I will see your beautiful gifts to me
Even if it hurts to look for them.
Instead of me nurturing you to help you grow,
You will and are nurturing me,
Feeding my heart with a love I never knew,
And never will forget.
And I will grow, not stunt under this,
And that will be my gift to you.
You’ll never know what you’ve given to me in your short little life,
But my hope is that someday,
Another little life will live on,
And that life will be all the richer for what you’ve shown me.
****

Love you Hope.
-Mommy

The Week: A Summary

Monday
•Bubba comes down with 103 degree temperature.

Tuesday
•Mama stays home with Bubba because he's sick.
•Bubba goes to otolaryngologist for six-month ear tube check-up. No infections, but one tube's fallen out--we'll wait and see what happens with that. BUT, he does have tonsillitis. Amoxicillin ordered and administered.
•Bubba cranky. Mama stressed.
•Tornado sirens blare and storm blows through. Nothing too major at our house, thankfully, since it barely raised my head from the 20 minute nap I got to take.
•Daddy comes home. Mama lays down.
•Mama wakes up to: "Depressionista! I need your help! Bubba hit his head!"
•Bubba wailing, blood running down his face. Stumbled and fell on his way to bed, hitting his head on the corner of a wall. One-inch gash on forehead.
•Two hours in emergency room with overtired, hurting, cranky toddler and guilty husband.
•While waiting for Bubba's sedative to kick in, Mama runs out to parking lot to have quick smoke and call Nana to see if she can watch Bubba next day. On way back in, steps in 3x3" patch of moisture from steam cleaner and goes down, all 240 pounds, on one knee. Nurses rush over, embarrassingly.
•Sedative doesn't work on Bubba. Must be wrapped in sheet and held down for his six stitches.
•10:45 p.m.: Bubba finally asleep--for awhile.
•11 p.m.: Mama gets her period.

Wednesday
•Thankfully, nothing but the usual grind.

Thursday
•Close friend calls with shocking and disturbing family news. Don't feel comfortable saying more, but...my poor friend!

Friday
•The anniversary of my daughter's birth and death three years ago.

Oh you crappy week, I curse you! Be gone with you now!

Here's to a better weekend for everyone!

My life in a blog post

I saw this over on Daily Kvetch and decided to do it here too. It's fun...and, depending on how the last 20 years have gone for you, can be a bit depressing. Don't say I didn't warn you!

20 years ago I....
•Was beginning a summer that I remember as the summer my sister and I became friends rather than just siblings. She was just starting her job as an elementary teacher so we’d spend many days decorating her bulletin boards, and she had a horse, Chico, that she taught me how to saddle, ride, and take care of. We would both hop up on Chico and go riding through the farm fields. She also taught me how to drive stick shift that summer—in her brand-new car. I love her!
•Was just coming out of the Duran Duran phase and was deeply in love with Matthew Broderick after numerous viewings of Ferris Bueller’s Day Off.
•My favorite songs were “Take Me Home” by Phil Collins, “Cruel Summer” by Bananarama, and “Higher Love” by Steve Winwood.
•Was obsessing regularly with LilCherie about starting high school (our high school started at 10th grade) the next fall. LilCherie and I spent our time coercing a grown-up to take us to the movie theater, talking on the phone, and staying overnight at each other’s houses.
•Had my first dance with a boy, a skinny blonde geeky-looking guy, at the 4-H Fair.


10 years ago I….
•Was working at a small daily newspaper in Iowa and had a boss with terrible halitosis who sexually harassed all of his female employees. Later that year I moved back to work at a small—and I mean 1500 people small—weekly newspaper in Iowa that I had worked for before. Hated every minute of it, but I made a huge salary jump — from $15,000 to $19,000 a year! (Before taxes!!!!!)
•Had been married to J. for almost 3 years and had been with him for 9.
•I’ve blocked everything else from that time out, sorry!

5 years ago I….
•Was working at my current job, as an editor for a midwestern university.
•Was settling in to our first house, where we still live today.
•Had been trying to get pregnant for about two years.
•Was getting ready to have the first of four surgeries for a horrible, freaky abscess “down there.”
•Was helping J. tie up the loose ends on his parents’ estate (they both died during the same week in April 2000).
•Was alternately jealous and joyous about LilCherie’s pregnancy.

3 years ago I…
•Had my first artificial insemination.
•Got pregnant for the first time.
•Three years ago today, I was 21 weeks pregnant with our daughter and was looking forward to our ultrasound on June 9.
•Lost our daughter on June 9 due to an incompetent cervix.
•Met, but hadn’t yet talked to, my friend, ItchyTingle, on an Internet support group website.
•Saw a shamanistic healer.

One year ago I…
•Was busy taking care of our nine-month-old son.
•Was still in the midst of post-partum depression.
•Was planning our next trip to visit my friend Tingle.
•Was starting marriage counseling.
•Got my nose pierced.

So far this year I…
•Have seen our son take his first steps and start really communicating with words.
•Have started to enjoy being a mother (sometimes!)
•Am planning a Girl’s Weekend with LilCherie and Tingle for the end of this month.
•Have watched my oldest niece graduate from high school.
•Quit marriage counseling, considered divorce numerous times, reconciled numerous times, and am talking with J. about marriage counseling again.

Yesterday I…
•Went to work.
•Came home and had pizza with J., Bubba and my parents, who were out to watch Bubba after his recent accident (see next entry for that story).
•Watched Bubba make new faces that Nana taught him, including “angry” and “scared.” Got it on video too!
•Watched SpongeBob Squarepants (like every day!)
•Talked on the phone with LilCherie, Tingle and my sister.
•Worked on laundry.
•Watched part of a weird old movie from the 50s or 60s that was on a local channel about a woman who was only a head—somehow her body had been destroyed but her doctor/lover was keeping her head alive while he scouted out, lured and drugged a woman to use for her body. It was creepy, cheesy and weird, but I fell asleep before the end of it.

Today I….
•Gave Bubba a bath.
•Folded a load of laundry.
•Came to work.
•Had lunch at a really cool old saloon in the country with a coworker/friend of mine.
•Came back to work.
•Am blogging instead of working.
•Will visit LilCherie after work.


Tomorrow I will…
•See above—minus the fun stuff like the LilCherie part and the lunch at the cool old saloon part.
•Honor the memory of my daughter on the third anniversary of her birth and death.
•Write a letter to her in her “birthday” journal.
•Light her candle on our bookcase.
•Hug and kiss my son a little bit more than usual.

In the next year I will….
•Do what I have to and hopefully some of what I want to.

Don't be offended, but whether or not you will like this entry is in the Fourth Tier

So during the relatively calm periods of my life, such as right now — when nobody's sick, my marriage doesn't look to be in imminent danger of collapse and all the appliances are in working order — I usually take the opportunity to move down to my Second-, Third- or maybe even Fourth-Tier worries. Does anyone else do this? The following list is not all-inclusive, by any means, but will give you an idea of what I'm talking about.

First-Tier Worries (Things I Worry About Nearly Every Day)
-If someone is currently sick, that they will get worse, requiring hospitalization and resulting in disability or death.
-That my marriage will collapse/is collapsing.
-That Bubba isn't developing normally in some area (language is the big one right now).
-That Bubba's daycare isn't good enough OR, conversely, as is the case lately, is great but they're switching ownership and we don't like the new owner and what should we do?
-That Bubba's malleable brain is being scarred by watching hour upon hour of Spongebob Squarepants.
-What if Bubba is malnourished because I haven't seen him eat a vegetable in about three months?
-What if Bubba turns out to be a total brat because I don't know how to discipline him properly?
-That my slowly (or not so slowly) climbing debt-level will result in financial devastation and ruin for myself and family.
-That I'm always tired/depressed/have a headache/have diarrhea/what's wrong with me????


Second-Tier Worries (Things I Worry About Often)
-That I or someone I love might have a life-threatening disease or condition.
-That I'm not doing more "educational" stuff with Bubba.
-That I may go crazy if I have to work at this job much longer.
-That I may go crazy if I have to keep doing the same old crap every day forever.
-That I may just go crazy.


Third-Tier Worries (Stuff That I Don't Always Have the Time to Think About But It's There If I Need It)
-My parents are getting older, and thus, closer to death and I don't want to deal with that.
-That I'm not being a good enough friend/daughter/mother/wife/sister/employee.
-That we really need new siding and windows but will never be able to afford it.
-What if Bubba turns out to be a juvenile delinquent, serial killer, or Republican?
-That Bubba will someday be abducted, hurt or molested and I won't be able to help him.
-That Bubba will be fucked up for life because I feed him from plastic containers/don't buy organic groceries/let him eat processed food/didn't breastfeed longer than six weeks/don't put sunscreen on him every single day/don't read to him enough/passed on my depression and anxiety genes thus dooming him to a life with first-, second-, third- and fourth-tier worries.


Fourth-Tier Worries (Don't Really Have the Time, But When It's Brought To My Attention I Worry About It For A Bit)
-Bird flu, other pandemics and my family's state of unpreparedness
-George W. Bush, corrupt politics and the fucked-up state of the world
-Venomous spiders infesting our home

I've always been a worrier and I know it's part of my genetic profile because my mom and sister are exactly the same. One of the unfortunate pieces of fallout from losing our daughter was that I learned couldn't ever let my guard down, because the day after I did with that pregnancy, it was over. Now, I just can't let things go because I feel a responsibility to do everything I can to prevent the bad thing from happening, if for no other reason than to assuage the guilt I might feel later.

So, today I'm hovering between First Tier (thinking about how much of a rut I'm in and how much I'm sick of my life) and Second Tier (hating my job, etc.), with just a dash of Fourth-Tier (the venomous spiders, believe it or not).

I realize, as I get this all down on blog, how incredibly narcissistic this all is. Look how wrapped up I am in my own pathetic, boring and inconsequential life! There are people dying in Iraq, people starving, people getting raped and murdered and tortured, people losing their lives, homes and everything else in natural disasters, and I'm here whining, "I hate my cushy desk job where I get to write on my blog all day if I want to! Waaaah!"

But you know what? It really does kinda suck. My life isn't that terrible but dammit, thinking about how terrible other peoples' lives are just doesn't make it any better.

This is a little disjointed, sorry. It's 4:41 p.m., I just interviewed someone about the uses of nuclear magnetic resonance imaging to identify and understand cell structure, I'm tired, I have a headache, I had diarrhea earlier, and I'm not looking forward to going home to the nightly routine that is always the same and always full of drudgery, crying (either Bubba or me, usually) and fatigue. What's wrong with me??????? (see First Tier).

So there. How's that for your feel-good post of the day???

Don't You Just Hate That....

I have a book called "Don't You Just Hate That? 738 Annoying Things" by Scott Cohen. Firstly, this book is hilarious and oh, so true. Secondly, just a disclaimer in case I've somehow unconsciously co-opted one of his aphorisms for my list, titled:

"Don't You Just Hate That? 14 Annoying Things About Being Fat."

1. When you're walking down the street in that new dress and the wind blows against you, thereby revealing your huge stomach and the outline of your knee-panties (worn to protect your thighs from chafing)?

2. When for some reason you aren't wearing your knee-panties, and your slender, fit coworkers decide that it would be great to walk to lunch, even though it's 90 degrees outside, so you have to go along with it because otherwise you're the high-maintenance fat person, but your thighs then burn for days because of the chafing.

3. When, during the above-mentioned walk, you try to continue talking with the group in order to be "normal," but it's difficult because you are struggling to catch your breath and yet trying not to breathe heavily because you don't want to be the panting fat person.

4. When you are standing with a group of unfat people waiting for the elevator, and you step on it but they don't, because they are going down and you are going up. Then you spend the rest of the elevator ride wondering if they are saying things like, "She really should be using the stairs...ha ha ha!"

5. The constant vigilance required to minimize the appearance of your stomach, i.e., sucking in, strategically placed bags or folders, untucking your shirt or dress from between your fat rolls, etc.

6. When someone asks "When are you due?" and you're not. Especially when you're struggling with infertility. And you are standing in the receiving line at your father-in-law's funeral. Yep, it really happened.

7. When you are laying on the couch and your toddler wants to do something like go outside, and you just really don't want to do it, and then you get this mental image of yourself as the "fat mom" that you are, and then the guilt forces you up off the couch, but you still don't have much fun because you're so damn tired from hauling your fat ass around all day.

8. Hoisting yourself out of the car, up off of a low couch, or out of any other awkward seat, or having to do a modified rolling maneuver to get up from a seated position on the floor.

9. The panic/dread as you reach for the airplane seatbelt and wonder if this will be the time you'll have to ask for seatbelt extenders.

10. That feeling you have whenever something creaks as you sit down on it.

11. That feeling you get right before the "fat talk" at the doctor's office.

12. When a thin person says to you, "I love your dress! Where'd you get it?" and you have to say "Lane Bryant."

13. Turnstyles.

14. Pulling a muscle when trying reach around your girth to wipe your ass.

I'd love to hear more annoying things about being fat, if you have something to add. If you have annoying things about being thin....well, sorry, I just don't want to hear it!!!

The Oprah Conundrum

Update: Bubba's feeling better and is back at daycare. Hallelujah! And lucky for me, he never broke out into the seeping pustules I saw on the web, so I didn't have to live with that stigma. Whew!

This has been a crazy week, dealing with Bubba, trying to get my niece's scrapbook finished in time for her high school graduation party this weekend, buying her present(pink luggage, check it out, it rocks!)which took two tries via Internet and finally a trip to Dillards, and trying to fit work in there somewhere and pick up my meds and go a meet-and-greet with the new owner of Bubba's daycare tonight and watching the two-hour season finale of Lost and....well, you know the story.

But today, I'm here not to discuss the mundanity of my life.

The truth is, I need to talk about Oprah.

What, oh what, has happened to Oprah? And why, oh why, do I continue to care?

Oprah hit the big time when I was about 15. Everybody loved Oprah! She was so real, so caring, so approachable and compassionate, a "real sized" woman with bad hair days and a self-deprecating, humble style that sent her to the top. Many college afternoons were spent with Oprah, her presence comforting, almost like having a best friend there for you reliably at 3 p.m. every day. (Ironically, given the contentious relationship between the two, my other "friend in the TV" during those days was good old David Letterman, whom I still admire even though he's lost some of his edge. He is almost 60, after all).

During those years, Oprah's approachability, empathy and downright friendliness propelled her skyward, and now she's at the top. For many, many people the love affair has continued unabated to this day. I, on the other hand, have been left in a confused, messy state of befuddled annoyance and in-spite-of-myself interest.

While I graduated from college and embarked on Life, Oprah has undergone a steady transformation from "real woman" to "new age goddess/guru/champion." I believe the pinnacle of this transformation, the apex of this morph, was achieved on Monday night, May 22, with the airing of "Oprah Winfrey's Legends Ball" on ABC.

I was aware of the ball, as ABC had been promoting it mercilessly for weeks, and we even got another week's notice as it was postponed due to Bush's televised talk on the war or immigrants or something (does anyone listen to a word he says?) Monday also happened to be Coxsackie virus day at our house, but luckily, LilCherie called me to let me know the show was on. I immediately tuned in and watched it through to the end, even thought J. was dealing with a crying Bubba in the back room and I had to turn on the closed captioning just to follow along. I'm sure that J. felt he got the better end of the deal.

The "Legends Ball," according to the ABC web site, was composed of Oprah's "personal archival footage" from this "historic celebration" that happened a year ago. Ostensibly, the purpose of the ball was to honor the contributions of "25 legendary women in the fields of art, entertainment and civil rights." Oprah's site is more clear about the fact that the ball was to honor African-American women.

The one-hour special was an Oprah gush-fest. Oprah's personal entertainment guru Colin Cowie told her "Oprah, you must wear red....to match the roses," she imparted to us. Oprah bought each of the women extravagant diamond earrings, but "still felt like it wasn't enough." The older women were "the Legends." The younger ones were referred to as "the Young'uns." Yep, it was a down-home, southern-style celebration, complete with minted pea soup, diamond earrings and the "sprawling lawns" of Oprah's Santa Barbara home, named, I kid you not, Promised Land.

The show gave Oprah the opportunity to read a poem (or "po-eeem" as she says), cry tears of gratitude, surprise the "audience" (since they were legends, they didn't have to look under their seats for the earrings), make her obligatory "the white folks didn't know WHAT was goin' on!" joke, drool in the presence of Maya Angelou, wear a big, gaudy, flowery hat at the gospel service held at Promised Land, and basically, celebrate not the Legends, but herself. The Thing That Is Now Oprah.

By holding this ball -- organizing it, promoting it and being the focus of it -- Oprah obviously believes SHE is a legend as well. And she probably is. But this is a far cry from the humble talk-show host we knew way back when.

Oprah's site says she sees each lives of "Black folk" before her as a bridge to her own life now. To get the point across, she specifically built a bridge in her backyard for the ball -- not some little garden bridge, but a BRIDGE. Yes, I'm sure all those who endured slavery, segregation and discrimination would feel it was all worth it if they could just see Oprah now!!

As I watched the ball, I was, as always, nauseated yet transfixed. Maybe it's just the desire to make fun of her. Maybe it's to keep an eye on her as she slowly turns into the ruler of the world. Or maybe, god forbid, it's because a part of me actually admires it, wants to be it, wants to be her!!! Oh god.

I could go on, and probably will at a later date, because I've been struggling with the Oprah Conundrum for years at this point. It's a fun pastime. But I think you get my point here and I don't want to go on too long because, hey, we all have lives right? Don't you need to get to your minted pea soup? Don't you need to go make sure the contractors are working on that bridge in the backyard? Sheesh.

Coxsackied when you least expect it

A sign will be going up at my son's daycare today. Most likely it will read something like this: "One of our children has been diagnosed with hand, foot and mouth disease. This is a common but contagious virus characterized by fever, sores in the mouth, and a rash with blisters. This child will not be in daycare until he has been cleared by a physician, but in an effort to reduce or eliminate an outbreak, please be aware of these symptoms in your child." Or something to that effect.

Guess whose child is necessitating such a sign? Yep, our very own drooly Bubba. All hell broke loose yesterday afternoon around 1 p.m., when my mom called me from home with the news that Bubba had been inconsolable, not eating, not sleeping, not even sucking on the binky (that right there was a huge red flag. Binky can usually solve ANY problem). A call to the doctor, a frantic mid-day shuffling of cars and parents and child, and we were in the doctor's office, getting the news.

It all made sense once we got the diagnosis, although the rash on Bubba's hands and feet was so subtle I would never have suspected it or even noticed. The doctor was able to see two tiny blisters on his lips and showed them to me, but again, I would never have noticed this. Later, in about the second straight hour of him crying in pain, I noticed another blister inside his cheek. And the drool--my god, the drool. This is way beyond teething drool. He soaked a fresh t-shirt all the way down the waist in less than an hour yesterday.

As with all viruses, there's really nothing to do but wait it out using whatever comfort measures you can come up with. The doctor recommended giving Bubba Maalox or Mylanta to coat his mouth, and to even rub it on the rash on his hands and feet. It seemed to help--for about five minutes. Tylenol and Motrin, of course. Cool liquids, popsicles and cool, creamy food. Six straight hours of SpongeBob Squarepants. A lorazepam, and then an hour later a clonazepam, for stressed-out-mommy.

While this is a minor illness, and one that thankfully has a low rate of any complications, our poor Bubba is miserable. I think out of the illnesses we've dealt with so far, which include a couple episodes of nebulizer-required bronchiolitis, ear infections and tube surgery, 9 days of diarrhea, a "puky flu" as my friend LilCherie calls it, and your normal colds and sore throats, this one might be the worst in terms of just how miserable Bubba is (and therefore, everyone else in the house). It's incredibly frustrating to know he is in pain and be able to do nothing substantive about it. Knowing he is exhausted and needs to sleep but being powerless to do anything to ease the pain long enough for him to be able to turn the corner into peaceful slumber.

And the crying. My old arch-nemesis, the crying. I've never been able to "handle" the crying very well. It induces a flight impulse in me that's barely controllable. After the wonderful first little whimper he made in the delivery room that let me know he was alive and breathing, it's all been downhill. I look forward to the age when Bubba can simply moan, whine, or complain, rather than the cry/scream combo that accompanies everything from a minor frustration to full-out illness. But for now, it's ice cream and tears for Bubba AND Mommy...while J. soldiers on in patient, infuriating stoicism.

This is one of those illnesses that, before my son got it, I had relegated to a somewhat limited spectrum of diseases that, for lack of a better word, only "trashy" people get. I know that's horrible, I feel terrible even thinking it, but I strive for brutal honesty in my life so there it is. Other diseases/illnesses/conditions that live in the trashy realm include, but are not limited to, ringworm (and pretty much all other funguses), lice, and impetigo. I know the ridiculousness of this thought pattern. I mean, it's not like the little coxsackie virus is going around choosing whom to invade based on his or her intelligence level, socioeconomic status or predjudices of his or her parents. But still, there's a stigma in my mind with these diseases.

So I guess it's a good lesson, in a way, for my son, my precious, beautiful, intelligent, non-trailer-living son to have caught it. Even though he probably caught it from one of those trashy people.

Look what just popped up!

So what's kept me from blogging for more than a month? Nothing interesting enough to talk about, in fact, just plain old apathy and laziness for the most part.

What's got me fired up again? Well, first, an entry by LilCherie that made me feel that if she can do it, I can do it, and secondly, my Mother's Day gift.

As any regular reader of this blog should be able to tell, my husband and I have quite the up and down relationship. Since Tuesday it's been in the honeymoon phase following the fallout of a disastrous Mother's Day. Bickering, arguing, tears, and a depression nap preceded an attempt by the both of us to salvage the day with the opening of my Mother's Day gift.

However, it was not to be, and our day dissolved into more of the same before I got a chance to open it. J. said he'd take it back, I said fine, and it sat in the garage for a few days until last night. Our relationship safely back in the hopeful "We can make it work, can't we? We can give it another try, right? Maybe a new marriage counselor will help..." phase, J. presented me with my gift, lovingly taped up in a paper grocery sack. He presented it humbly, with the following disclaimers: "It isn't much. Don't get too excited. I just thought it would be fun for girls' night."

Okay. My interest suitably nudged into a healthy state of curiousity, I opened the bag to find......

.....an air popper. Yes, to make popcorn. In fact, it is the Presto PopLite Hot Air Corn Popper. With the butter-melting cup on top that doubles as a "handy measuring cup." According to the description on Amazon.com, "this popular corn popper pops with hot air, not oil, for a healthy, low-calorie treat.It offers a faster, healthier, and more economical choice than microwave bag popcorn."

I'm going to allow you a moment to absorb this information.

Now, I am going to let out my innermost thoughts, ones that I hope J. never stumbles upon, ones that I can't get out of my head, that are making me feel like an incredible jerk but I can't help feeling this way and I have to get them out, etc.

This is possibly one of the worst gifts I've ever received, probably second only to a gift I received last year, also from J. but disguised as a gift "from Bubba," I think for Christmas, but it could have been birthday or maybe even Mother's Day. That time, it was a nicely wrapped slim box, making me think there was something halfway good in there...and it turned out it was a box of chocolates. A cheap, drugstore box of chocolates. Of which, by the way, J. ended up eating the majority.

At first, I tried to talk myself down from my initial reaction to the popper. I thought, well, he's trying, he was thinking of girls' night, he didn't have to get me anything at all...but that's as far as I got before the following thoughts sprung to mind:
•I have voluntarily eaten popcorn at home approximately 5 times in the last year.
•None of those times has ever been at girls' night.
•Is J. saying, by way of air popper, that I am too fat to eat the buttery Movie Theatre Flavor PopSecret microwave stuff?
•Is he saying I am not worth the more expensive, less economical Movie Theatre Flavor PopSecret microwave stuff?
•What the hell am I going to do with this thing?
•This would be great for my garage sale...
•I wish he would have really taken it back.
•Exactly how many nanoseconds did J. think about this gift before hauling it up to the register?
•What the fuck??

I can't help but feel that it makes a statement about our relationship that my husband feels compelled to give me grandma gifts. What's next? Some Chantilly powder (no offense, Mom), a commemorative plate, a small figurine of a cardinal? A wrapped box of Archway Cookies? Maybe some slippers (not the cute fuzzy ones but the flippy teal Isotoner ones) or a 'housecoat'?

Is this a sign that he really doesn't know me at all, or just that he's a crappy gift-giver? Is it that he just doesn't give a damn whether I like something or not or does he honestly think these are good gifts?

I can, off the top of my head, think of about 8 million things that would have pleased me more than a hot air corn popper (including, I think, receiving nothing at all except perhaps an apology that J. hadn't had time to find something suitable). I mean jesus, even just a framed scribble from Bubba, or a pair of inexpensive but nice earrings, or a book, or a gift certificate. Or he could have made me dinner, or cleaned up the house all by himself with no nagging, or pampered me in some indulgent way like breakfast in bed (which I've NEVER had) or an unsolicited and longer-than-two-minutes backrub? How about a gift certificate for a massage for my aching gristle-bit in my back that I complain about constantly? What about just some flowers, for chrissake?

Furthermore, the card that accompanied the popper was redeemed only by Bubba's lovely orange scribble (all he has to do is put marker to paper and it instantly becomes priceless). It had bears or bunnies on it or something and the message was along the lines of "Hope your Mother's Day is as special as you are."

To my credit, I have to say I accepted it all with grace. I told him I couldn't wait to try it out. "I'll have to get some popcorn for this!" I said enthusiastically. I kissed him, I said thank you. And there it sits, at the end of the couch where I opened it. I still don't know what the hell to do with it. I suppose I'll have to make the obligatory batch of low-calorie, economical popcorn--preferably at a girls' night for extra punch--and then let it fade into the recesses of the cupboards for another couple years before I can safely garage-sale it.

I feel so much better. Thanks for listening. Messages of sympathy will be gratefully accepted.

Time for me to start believing in the lie

An amazing thing happened today, people--I thought of something to blog about AND I actually have the motivation to do it. What cycle is the moon in today????

Last night J. and I had a "serious discussion" about the state of our relationship, the fact that I don't enjoy being a mother much, etc. The usual shit. It was rocky for awhile but then we regrouped and recommitted to trying--mostly because neither one of us can imagine saying goodbye to the other's sense of humor. I don't know if that's enough to hang a marriage on, but we're going to try for awhile longer.

Anyway, today I was emailing J. and this came out as if from nowhere:

"I was thinking today that it's too bad that all of our meaty discussions have to be so....sad. I think I long for real discussion with you, but when we do that, we naturally go toward all of our problems. Maybe we should just try faking it for awhile and make a special effort to have real discussions about all the great things we love about each other. Even if we have to lie, maybe we'll start believing it after awhile :-) After all, what is love but a big lie to ourselves? I mean really, we tell ourselves that this one person is the best person in the world, right....but of course they aren't. They're just a normal person like anyone else, but we've chosen to believe that they are the best person ever. Hmmm. Pretty deep, huh?"

Is love just a big lie we tell ourselves...and believe? It sounds cynical, I know, but it actually makes sense to me and comforts me in a way, because if so, maybe I can start to believe it again. Maybe I can choose to believe again.

There was a time, long ago in our relationship, when I just discarded like candy wrappers the things about Jason that irritated me. Not that we ever got along like two peas in a pod or anything, but I could toss aside the fact that he wasn't romantic, because I chose to believe that he loved me anyway, just couldn't show it. I could toss away the fact that he was interested in a bunch of stuff that I wasn't, like kung fu movies and video games, because there was enough other stuff that we did enjoy doing together, including but not limited to going to movies and dances and making out and oral sex and picking blackberries on his parents' "forty" and kissing the sweetness off each other's lips. I could toss aside our differences because our similarities--similarities of values, of what we wanted for our future, of what we found funny and what we found sad--meshed very well.

Now, after 19 years together, it seems the whole thing has turned upside down, and that now we both are hanging on to what we hate about each other and are tossing away the pieces, the ever-smaller pieces, of what we love about each other. To use a pretty boring metaphor, it's like we are feeding and watering the weeds and neglecting the flowers. And you know what? We're choosing to do that. Nobody is forcing us to neglect the flowers. We just are.

J. and I might talk about divorce, and often I feel like I really mean it when I say I think that's what we should do. But the fact is--and maybe this is the same for every couple that ends up getting divorced--that I don't want to get divorced. I want to feel the love again that we used to share. And while I don't know exactly how, from a practical standpoint anyway, to get divorced, I have absolutely no idea how to feel something again that seems more and more inaccessible, and I think J. feels the same.

And now we have a child, a child I am having trouble dealing with, trouble loving the way I want to love my child, trouble adjusting to what our lives are now. As much as I hate to say this, Bubba's presence in our lives has pushed us further apart rather than closer together. Not because of Bubba, but because of the fact that I can't be the mother I want to be or that J. wants me to be or that Bubba deserves, and J. resents me for that, and I feel guilty about that, doubly guilty because of all the promises I made myself and god and whoever else after Hope died, and I resent J. for wanting more of me than I can give and not understanding that I'm not just "being selfish" as he said last night but that sometimes I'm on the very edge of just driving myself to the hospital, seriously. My "anxiety issues," as I call them, are not just an excuse for me to leave the house or leave the situation or basically ignore my son when I can get away with it--they are real, and at times, crippling. It feels unfixable because I've been working on it for years and I take pills and what the hell else is there?

So here I sit at work--a boring job I can hardly stand but have to because it pays the bills and pays for daycare and gives me a living if I do have to go it on my own. And tonight I will go home to a house where my husband and I can't figure out how to love each other, and where my husband and child will cling to one another because that's where they each find the most happiness in their lives. And I will sit on the porch and smoke and take my clonazepam and wait for the bedtime crying to end and wonder how I'm going to change it all.

The Latest and Greatest!

I've had this on my bulletin board at work for years, and thought, "I should post this on my blog!" It's honestly one of the funniest letters I've ever received from a company. You'll have to click on it and get in close to read it, but I think it's worth it. Let me know what you think!

The Comparison Game

Well, it's been a week since my last post. I guess I've moved into the "bloser" realm along with LilCherie (and Tingle, this week anyway). Must be a rough one for everyone.

Updates
*I sent the letter mentioned in my previous post and am waiting to hear back.
*Bubba is walking around without problems--his leg is healed and he is tooling around like nobody's business. It's wonderful and sad all at the same time.
*J. and I are getting along quite well this week. I get the sense that he is really trying. He's had two individual therapy appointments and has set up another for next week, and actually did his homework assignment, writing a letter to his parents. They both died within a week in 2000, and he is trying to work through some unresolved grief. He has set up all these appointments on his own and seems committed to trying to help himself, which is such a relief to me. He shared his letter with me and it was heartbreaking. I'm so glad he's doing this and hope it leads to some real healing. He has also been putting forth more effort at home, both housework-wise and also in communicating with me in loving ways. I'm cautiously encouraged.

Topic of the Day
There's a woman at work whom I used to refer to as The Breastfeeder. Her son was born (full term) two months before mine. I called her The Breastfeeder because she was SO into it and didn't want to stop and always had to tell me about it, blah blah blah, feeding into my own insecurities about my inability or, rather, my choice not to continue the harrowing ordeal for more than 6 weeks.

Well, she's not breastfeeding anymore, as the boy is now 20 months old, but she is focused on her child in a way that seems to me almost unhealthy. I mean, it's all she talks about with me. She stops by my office almost every day to tell me about him -- we'll call him Nigel. I guess I could start calling her The Bragger, because more and more that's what it seems like she is doing. She has been telling me for several months now about all the wonderful, smart things her child is doing. "Last night Nigel said "Nigel wants cookies." Or,"The other day, Nigel pointed to the crib and said "Nigel wants to go night night." Or, here's a story I heard not once, but twice this week because she'd apparently forgotten she'd told me: "Last week we dressed Nigel in blue pants and he said 'No blue pants.' So I asked him "What color pants do you want to wear, Nigel?' and Nigel said, 'Nigel wants brown pants.' And once we put him in the brown pants, he was completely happy!" Another one: "Last night Nigel said, 'Put bear in rocking chair.' "The other day, Nigel said 'Watch animals on TV' because he wanted to watch his animals DVD--and then, he named them all when they came on!"

Meanwhile...J. and my conversations with Bubba usually consist of trying to figure out the inflection and context of his numerous "bah!" noises. Yes, they mean things--he says "bah!" for balloon, ball, SpongeBob, bath, bus (okay, that's more of a "buh!") but you catch my drift. Often times his main form of communication is crying until we figure it out. He has words, yes: most impressive right now is "Hi" and "Bye" and "milk" and "more," and he says other ones like "hi kitty" and "Nuk" for his pacificier and "No" for the answer to any question posed to him. But for Christ's sake, my 18-month-old doesn't know his colors, knows three animals (kitty, crocodile and puppy), doesn't refer to himself by name or otherwise, and hasn't mastered his fucking prepositions, okay?

These conversations don't worry me. I am fine with Bubba's development, happy that he is learning how to talk and walk and that he's a happy, fun kid. Mostly, happy that he is simply alive and well and here for us to love. I don't feel jealous of super-genius Nigel in the least. I just abhore these conversations. I can't stand the "let's compare our kids" game. It is so transparent and so...well, I guess the word seems to be cruel to me. It's all about making oneself feel great and trying to make someone else feel lesser than.

To me, it's one of the most common and insidious ways that women work against each other rather than banding together. On the surface, it looks like you're bonding over stories about your children. But really, it's a war. It's a "my kid is better than yours" war. I refuse to participate in this. If Bubba does something totally exciting, like the first time he walked on his own or slept through the night, or more likely, does something completely hilarious like walk around with my pink bra thrown around his shoulders, yes, of course, I'll share it. But I don't offer a day-by-day running commentary of every word he says, every skill he masters, every color he learns and every wonderful thing he does. I don't counter her stories with a "well, Bubba did THIS last night." (Okay, usually it's because Bubba cried and grunted his way through dinner before we finally figured out he wanted to watch SpongeBob instead pf eat. Sidenote: The Bragger's kid only watches Baby Einstein. Close your eyes now and imagine the sound of me puking.)

I just don't want to play the game. I can't very well tell her to stop talking to me about him--but I can stop the cycle when it gets to my turn. Usually I just smile and say something like, "Oh, that's so cute!" or "That's great!" and leave it there. It's funny though. She'll come down to my office for no other reason than to tell me that Nigel did this or that.

Why do we do these things to each other? Ever since Bubba was born, it's been a never-ending stream of the Comparison Game. "Are you breastfeeding?" "Is he sleeping through the night/rolling over/sitting up yet?" "Is he on solid foods yet?" "Has he said any words yet?" "Is he crawling yet?" "Is he walking yet?" Maybe these are honest conversation starters between parents, but why couldn't we ask questions like "What's your favorite thing your child does?" or "How do like being a parent?" Or "How have things changed in your life since your baby was born?" Or "What's your favorite activity with your child?" or just anything more relevant, more interesting, and less judgmental?

Something I find interesting in The Bragger's case is that she readily admitted to me, during and after her pregnancy, that if they had found evidence of Down's syndrome or any other neurological problem they would have terminated the pregnancy. I can't get into an abortion discussion here because I don't know how I feel about it. After losing my daughter at 21 weeks, the issue got a lot dicier for me. But--and I'm not bragging or judging here--I know that with both my pregnancies, by the time I'd reached the point where such conditions could be detected, I'd already fallen in love with my baby, to the point that the only way I would consider termination is if there was no way my child would ever enjoy any part of life. The Bragger and her husband's stance suggests to me just how important "smarts" were to them, and her ongoing comments reinforce that.

I guess I just find it amazing that for some parents out there, intelligence is of so much importance. Yes, I want my child to be smart, to excel, to succeed. But more than anything, I wanted, and want, my child to live, to have fun, to enjoy life, to be happy.If that means he will be an "average" child with a great sense of humor or a passion for bowling or whatever, that's fine. If it means he will be a "delayed" child with a heart that can love and find happiness in affection and play, that's fine. If things had gone differently and it meant that he would be a child with Down's syndrome who could still enjoy hugs and smiles and swimming and swinging and watching a funny movie, that's fine.

The fact of the matter is, you don't get to choose what you are given when it comes to children. You can choose to keep or discard what is given to you, but you can't choose who or what your child will be--and I wonder if people who want that choice should really be having them. I got what I most wanted, and to me it was a pretty simple, basic want--for my child to be alive. Everything else--his wonderful sense of humor, his adorableness, his funny gestures, the way he begs for SpongeBob and flirts with waitresses and waves the stink away from his own farts--are wonderful extras that I am lucky, LUCKY, to have.

So what it comes down to, for me, is that I don't really give a shit that Bubba doesn't know his colors yet or all his animal noises or whatever. He's happy. What more could I really ask for???

Response from University of WKWKYKBYSOUM Hospitals and Clinics....and my response back

I received this in the mail yesterday.


March 21, 2006

Ms. Depressionista
Patient Drive
Potato City, Ohidoa

Dear Ms. Depressionista,

As a follow-up to your recent correspondence, your account and customer service contacts have been reviewed. I do apologize for the frustration you have experienced while resolving the billing for your visits in 2003. Your feedback has helped us identify where additional training is needed to reach our goal of superior customer service.

Per our customer service notes, the letter you had requested confirming your current patient responsibility balance of $0 was sent on 3/9/06. Your 1/31/06 and 3/3/06 billing statements included patient responsibility from your 6/23/03 date of service which has been adjusted due to untimely billing.

We appreciate your time in notifying us of the service difficulties you have encountered. If you have further questions, please feel free to contact me at (xxx) xxx-xxxx.

Sincerely,
Mr. Director, Patient Financial Services

cc: Ms. CEO and Director
Mr. Director of Payment Processing


My Response

March 23, 2006

Mr. Director, Patient Financial Services
University of We Know We Killed Your Kid
But You Still Owe Us Money Hospitals and Clinics
Slaughterhouse Drive
Potato City, Ohidoa

Mr. Director,

I received your letter yesterday regarding my recent correspondence about my account.

I understand that my account has been adjusted due to untimely billing. However, although the customer service notes may indicate that a letter was sent confirming my current patient responsibility balance of $0, I have not received such a letter. I would appreciate getting a copy of this letter since it says in my record that one was sent.

However, my request, which I communicated to the billing clerks I spoke with during the week of March 6 and again on March 13, as well as to you, Ms. CEO and Director, and Mr. Director of Payment Processing, is NOT a letter stating my current patient responsibility balance.

What I would like is a letter from the University of We Know We Killed Your Kid
But You Still Owe Us Money Hospitals and Clinics stating that I do not currently, and will not ever, owe anything to UI Hospitals and Clinics for the year 2003. As I stated in my previous letter, I have been told many times that my account balance for 2003 is $0, only to have another bill for that time sent to my home. I would like something in writing stating that I will never owe the hospital anything from 2003, so that I may show it to billing clerks in the future when yet another bill from 2003 arrives.

I hope this is clear. If you have questions, please do not hesitate to write me another letter. At this point, I prefer all correspondence to take place in writing rather than over the telephone so that I may keep a record of it.

Sincerely,

Depressionista
Patient Drive
Potato City, Ohidoa

cc: Ms. CEO and Director
Mr. Director of the Payment Processing Center

Lessons from Dad

Today I went with my Mom and Dad to my Dad's doctor's appointment for a chronic cough he's had for about two years now. They've pretty much ruled out any kind of cancer, emphysema, COPD, asthma or other scary things, but he's still coughing, so much so that he can't lay on his left side anymore at night and he can't exercise outside. My parents are getting older, and my father has a tendency to get a little confused sometimes in situations like this. My mother, therefore, has to spend most of her energy trying to explain to my father what the doctor is saying, and doesn't get a chance to think about it herself. So I went as translator, question-asker and general observer.

My parents, especially my Dad, are growing old. Today the doctor set out three options for further testing. My father could have a) a laryngoscopy in the pulmonary clinic, which would not be as detailed as one that the otolaryngology people could provide but would rule out anything obvious; b) he could make an appointment to go to the oto people to get the detailed laryngoscopy; or c) he could make an appointment to come back and have a bronchoscopy, which would show any obstructions in the larynx area as well as in the lungs.

Dad could not understand this concept. He got very confused about where he'd have to go for what and when it would happen. Mom and I had to explain it to him about four times. This kind of situation with my Dad has become more and more common, especially over the past three years or so, and it just hurts me to see it.

I'm not ashamed to say I'm a bit of a Daddy's girl, and for all of my childhood and most of my adult life I believed that my father could do anything--and usually, he could. He could build a house, and did indeed build my childhood home, the one my parents still live in. A star athlete in high school, Dad could race me across the backyard (and win, although he usually ceded to me). He built me a ballet studio in the basement, complete with a barre and mirrors, and a bar to practice gymnastics on in the backyard. When our half-witted dog chewed up the heel of my brand new clogs in sixth grade, my Dad took them down to the basement workshop and returned them, having filled in the hole, patched up the leather and stained the whole thing so that you'd hardly notice. When a school project was at hand, he would jump right in, helping me (or rather, making me) a model of a cell from a styrofoam ball and automotive putty, or making my niece an alligator "float" to pull down the hall, complete with a mouth that opened and shut as you pulled it. He took (and still takes) an active part in my Halloween costumes, and has made most of the furniture that's now in my house.

My father has fixed countless cars, made cabinets, cedar chests, tables, cases, picture frames, and detailed, accurate, working recreations of a spinning wheel and an artillery carriage for a Civil War era cannon. He's even made his own gun. He could talk intelligently about almost any topic that might come up and quite a few that never would. I say these things in the past tense, but most of them are still true. It's just that I see his abilities slowly eroding with time.

I can't even describe in words what it was like to grow up knowing that you could count on someone who would--and COULD--do almost anything for you. Spoiled? Yes, but somehow my parents taught me not to take advantage, not to take it for granted, to be honestly grateful. Probably because that's how they were to each other and to us as children when we did something for them. It's a security I've had the privilege to feel for most of my 34 years. Now, it is shifting. I know my father would still do anything for me, but sometimes now he just can't.

My father never went to college, but he never stopped learning--and still hasn't. I think now he is in the process of learning how to be "old," how to adapt to his body that won't do what he wants it to all the time anymore, that tires out too easily and makes him take naps, and keeps him up coughing at night for no apparent reason. How to maintain his independence when he sometimes can't understand people, either because of his poor hearing or because of the confusion that the diabetes brings.

And I'm in the process of learning, too, of how to be there for the person who has always been there for me. I am learning how to support my father without taking away his dignity. Sometimes, like today, it means going to the doctor and being patient when explaining something to him. Other times, it means laughing at a joke that he hasn't articulated quite right, pretending like it wasn't that big of a deal that he almost ran that red light, or helping him as unobviously as possible with physical tasks that might be challenging for him now. I'm not always perfect, and sometimes I step over the line and know that I have stepped on his feelings, but I am trying. I am trying to become the daughter of a 69-year-old man, and not just a daughter, but a good daughter.

I watch my father playing and bonding with my son and I wonder how many of these years we have left, and what it will be like when I remember these as "the good years." Sometimes I feel an urgency to spend as much time as possible with him, to soak in his laughter and his voice and the feeling of his big, rough hands that still dwarf mine, still make me feel like a little girl, still make me feel like everything's going to be okay. But I don't do it. I don't get out the videocamera and interview him about his life. I don't set up that lunch date with just him so we can talk. I don't arrange for us to take a walk in the woods or visit a museum together, just him and me. I know I don't do these things because it's admitting that he's slipping away, no matter how slowly; it's admitting that 'we have to make the most of the time we have left.'

But I also know that by not doing them, I'm robbing myself of something I'll never be able to get back. I'm going to work on it. But in the meantime, I'm just going to enjoy that laugh whenever I hear it, hold his hand when I get the chance, rub his broad-but-a-little-bit-slumpy-now shoulders like I did today at the doctor's office...and just be conscious of the fact that my father is here now, and I love him.

Catching Up

We had a rough therapy session last week. J. told me he didn't want to have sex with me because he feels I don't respect him because of a number of really minor things that have happened--I think he used that as an excuse, but in any case, divorce was discussed, tears were shed....you know, the usual.

Then we kind of let it sink in for the rest of the week. We haven't talked much. Last night I wrote him a letter telling him that I do still love him, but I think the person he is right now is not the "real" him--that I think his real personality is being masked by depression. I wrote that if he really wanted to work on his depression, and really was committed to working on it by trying different medications if necessary and doing regular therapy, that I would basically wait for him, that I would try to help him however I could. On the other hand, I told him that if he really just doesn't love me anymore, he should let me know. It was a sympathetic letter, and I really meant what I wrote.

I woke up this morning and J. greeted me, nothing was said for a few moments and then he said, "Thanks for the letter." I said, "You're welcome." He said, "What made you write it?" I said, "It's just how I was feeling." He said, "Maybe I am depressed." That was the whole conversation. I was a little disappointed in his reaction, although I don't really know what I was expecting. Maybe I was hoping that he would open up his arms and hug me and say, "I know I'm depressed, I need help, I don't want to lose you" or something to that effect. Yep, in fact, that is what I was hoping for.

Oh well.

General Update

The letter has been sent. Yesterday I went to the post office and sent the CEO letter as registered mail, and should be expecting a receipt today or tomorrow telling me someone received it. The other two copies I just mailed first class. I will keep you posted on what, if any, responses I get. Thanks to all for your support! It felt pretty damn good handing that one over to the postman.

LilCherie's been telling me there was a full moon this week, so perhaps that explains my generally erratic, moody behavior...or it's PMS, I don't know. Regardless, there's been a lot of clonazepamming going on. Thank god for the little green pill!

Bubba's been cruising around on his bum leg, putting weight on it pretty consistently but still tentative about walking on it. Called doctor's office this morning and they've advised us to continue with the Motrin routine until Monday, and if he's still favoring it in any way at that time we'll have to go back in....but it's very encouraging that he's shown some big improvement since last weekend.

J. and I have another therapy session this afternoon, during which he's supposed to explain why he doesn't want to have sex with me anymore. Can't wait to hear it!

That's the news....I'll try to write something with some entertainment value today as well.

The Letter I AM Going to Send

March 14, 2006

Ms. Director and CEO
University of We Know We Killed Your Kid But You Still Owe Us Money Hospitals and Clinics
Slaughterhouse Drive
Potato City, Ohidoa

Ms. Director and CEO

I am writing about a recent billing issue that I am trying to resolve with University of WKWKYKBYSOUM Hospitals and Clinics. In case you need to look it up, my account number is xxxxx, my name is Depressionista, my birth date is xx-xx-xxxx and I live on Patient Drive, Ohidoa.

In February 2006, I received a bill for $147.28, the majority of which (about $138) was from a D&C I had on June 23, 2003, after the mid-pregnancy loss of my daughter at your institution due to incompetent cervix.

During this traumatic event in my life, my care at University of WKWKYKBYSOUM Hospitals and Clinics was botched from beginning to end. To list just a few examples: nothing was done to stop my labor; I was misdiagnosed by a resident and almost sent home without a pelvic exam; no high-risk obstetrician saw me for four hours after I’d come to the hospital bleeding; the obstetrician told me my child was dead when really she had a heartbeat for nine minutes, during which time a nurse held the child instead of giving her to me; the nurse told me we’d had a boy and then, two weeks later, genetic tests revealed our child was a girl; and finally, placental tissue was left in my uterus, causing me to hemorrhage two weeks later, thus, the visit to University of WKWKYKBYSOUM Hospitals and Clinics on June 23, 2003 for an emergency D&C.

After I regained my health, I received bill after bill from University of WKWKYKBYSOUM Hospitals and Clinics for charges relating to the birth and death of my daughter and the D&C incident two weeks later. I even received a $900 bill for “nursery charges” even though my daughter spent all 9 minutes of her life being held by someone, and then went straight from my arms to the funeral home. This charge, after repeated calls and contact with patient representatives, was eventually written off.

On April 21, 2004 I personally came to the University of WKWKYKBYSOUM Hospitals and Clinics business office and told the clerk, “I would like to pay ALL of my medical bills from 2003 and this incident in my life, because I don’t ever want to get another bill for this again.” After writing out a check for $1,323.32 (see enclosure) I thought I was finished.

Until Friday, March 5, 2006, that is. After two automated calls to my home that resulted in dead air when I picked up the phone, I hit *69 on my phone to find out where the calls were coming from. It turns out it was University of WKWKYKBYSOUM Hospitals and Clinics billing services with a “courtesy reminder” of the $147.28 I have outstanding in my account. When asked what it was for, it turned out that, as I said before, all but $10.50 was from that D&C performed almost three years ago.


When I challenged this bill, the billing clerks took it under consideration and talked to a supervisor. When I called back during the week of March 6, I was told the charges had been adjusted so that my balance is now $0. I asked at that time that the billing office mail me a letter to confirm that I no longer owe anything from 2003, specifically the incidents on June 9, 2003 and June 23, 2003, or any visits relating to those dates of service.

On Saturday, March 11, I received another “past due” bill from University of WKWKYKBYSOUM Hospitals and Clinics for these exact charges.

On Monday, March 13, I received a voice mail from “Rochelle” in the business office telling me she was unable to provide me with such a letter. When I called back the number she gave me (the general 1-866 number, not a direct line) I got a clerk who could not tell me why this was impossible. I am now waiting for her to call me back to explain why I cannot get this letter.

I am sick and tired of being reminded by University of WKWKYKBYSOUM Hospitals and Clinics about this extremely painful time in my life. I am sick of being reminded of University of WKWKYKBYSOUM Hospitals and Clinics' incompetence in everything from patient care to billing. I am tired of receiving bills for things classified as “abortion services” for a daughter I deeply wanted and miss every day.

I do not want to spend any more of my energy or time trying to get this resolved. I have been told many times before that my account balance from this time in my life is $0, only to get another bill one year later, two years later, three years later. I want it in writing that I am done with 2003. Three years is enough time for the University of WKWKYKBYSOUM Hospitals and Clinics to figure out its charges. I feel that further charges or communication from University of WKWKYKBYSOUM Hospitals and Clinics about any treatment in 2003 will be harassment.

I am sending this letter certified mail to make sure someone receives it. Since I’m not sure who to send it to, because the billing office “couldn’t give me a name, only an address” for billing disputes, I am sending copies to anyone I can think of who might have interest or influence in this matter.

I would appreciate any and all responses to this letter that are appropriate, but mostly, I just want a letter that says I have paid all charges from 2003 and will not be billed for anything from that year ever again.

Sincerely,

Depressionista

Cc:
Mr. Director, Payment Processing Center
Mr. Senior Assistant Director, Business Office/Administration

ODS Update: Choke and Die

Saw Therapist today.

•J. doesn't know why he doesn't want to "do it" anymore. He's going to think about it and report back at our next session.
•J. says that one of the reasons he didn't want to have sex with me after I tried to come on to him with the "dirty" story I wrote is that it seemed "juvenile." The other reason? That he felt my desire had nothing to do with him, that it was just that I was horny. Gee, sorry for trying to have sex with you there, stud!
•J. says he "feels like an afterthought" because I spend so much time on the phone with my friends at night — even though I ask him, every night, what he would like to do for the evening and he always tells me he wants to play PlayStation...even though I ask him if he will feel neglected if I talk to my friends and he says no. Not sure if he just wants me to sit there and watch him play video games or what.
•J. says he's noticed my extra effort "but it's so up and down" and that the adjective "indifferent" would probably accurately describe his reaction to my efforts.
•J. "fears" that our relationship is just so damaged by the past six years of hardship that it may be irrepairable.

Depressionista says: Fuck it. Fuck the ODS, fuck the effort, fuck this stupid marriage. As I said to Tingle, how long can you keep trying to fill an empty bucket before you are empty yourself? And why keep pouring yourself into that empty bucket without ever being replenished yourself?

We're seeing Therapist again on Thursday. Don't have very high hopes, although I'm am hoping to find out if it's my thighs or my personality or both that have completely turned him off. I'd just like to know so that I can beat myself up appropriately.