An Open Letter to One of My Bosses

Dear Random One Who Signs My Paychecks,

Never ask me to bill one-third of forty-percent of the contract amount again.

Sincerely,
Your secretary*

*Whose brain didn't hurt until you told her that you wanted the precentage figure to be 'pretty'. One-third of forty-percent is .13333333333333333333333. And then some. Ad infinitum.

Ain't no way to make that look pretty. Ever. Just sayin'.

An Open Letter to the Person Who Pours the Coffee at Dunkin Donuts

Dear Person Who Poured My Coffee This Morning at Dunkin Donuts,

One extra large coffee, black.

This is not a difficult order. You grab the cup, dump in some coffee, put on the lid, and poof, you're done!

Things you do not do would include a) add cream, or b) add sugar.

If I wanted these items, I would not have ordered my coffee, say, black.

My order really makes your job much easier. Just give me the damned black coffee next time, okay?

Undercaffeinatedly yours,
Amanda

GACK!!!!!

Y'all, when I get old, would you please remind me that I might, perhaps move a bit more slowly than the current frenetic pace I employ?

And that, as a slower-moving individual, occasionally there will those in a great hurry behind me?

Ergo, I should not a) block the entire freaking aisle in the store chattering with my similarly movement-impaired friend, and b) should I forget that, when someone politely says "Excuse me?" as I'm blocking the aisle, I shouldn't freaking GLARE AT THEM???

And why yes, I'm PMSsy. I have no idea how you figured that out.

An Open Letter to the Women at Work

And to Any Men Who Can't Read the Damn Bathroom Door Signage

Dear All Those Who Use the Small, Northern Ladies' Room:

Leaving the last paper towel on the tube (the one glued to it) is NOT considered "leaving enough for the next person."

Leaving two squares of toilet paper on the tube is DEFINITELY not considered "leaving enough for the next person."

For the love of Pete, people, I don't care if you put the new toilet paper or paper towels on their dispensers. Seriously, I don't.

All I care about is that I'm not washing my hands and then left to wipe them on my clothing.

Don't even get me started on the horror I feel when I've sat down, begun my business, THEN realize that there are two squares of toilet paper (maybe!) left.

If the bathroom is low on paper products, here's a helpful hint:

Get a fresh freaking roll out of the storage room and put it in the bathroom.

There, now, was that so hard?

With gratitude for your future cooperation in this matter,
Amanda

P.S. And male-types, I know you use our potty. WE do not leave the seat up. However, there are those among you who have been known to do just such a thing in the Ladies' Room. I know this because I have caught you at it.

Quit it. Honestly.

With annoyance,
She Who Distributes the Paychecks.

Just a Quickie

If you don't have the ability to discern which pedal makes the nice little car go vroom vroom? You don't deserve a driver's license.

You also better not be anywhere near in front of me on the way home. I dealt with enough of you bastards on my way to work and at lunch.

(Vertical! On! The! Right!)

Thank you.

Comment Responses (and a bonus rant inspired by AYC)

Okay, yeah, it's kind of a cheat to use a response to comments as an entire blog post itself, but this got so long in the little comment boxy thingie that it was just silly to keep trying to type in there.

Anyway, on to the responses!

Dr. A, man, I hear ya there on the Diet Coke. I was really low on it by the time yesterday night rolled around, so today I bought two twelve-packs in two different places, just to be sure I was adequately supplied.

Those will last until Wednesday. Because I'm working and will be drinking the office's Diet Coke during business hours.

Angel, I'm working on the vasectomy thing. At this rate it looks like I'm going to have to go somewhere and make him the appointment myself, which I understand is difficult what with HIPAA and everything.

Like I said, if I get pregnant again it will be a case of immaculate conception and I will make an absolute killing in the tabloids.

Awesome Mom, I have that eye-poking-out urge over the SpongeBob bedroom going on for sure. Plus I think I'm developing hives.

The elder son, who didn't care what was on his bed? Now wants to get a new comforter and sheets for his room. If he chooses SpongeBob too (he is also a fan) I'll be blogging from the psych inpatient ward.

Scott, it was indeed both a fun and crazy Sunday. And hee! on the Problem Child room. You know, in the second Problem Child, my old orchestra director and his chamber group were the quartet in the wedding scene.

Yes, that is my one claim to vicarious fame.

As for kiddie bedding in stressful medical situations, well, I took my pillow to the hospital when I had my first son and had my old Raggedy Ann and Andy pillowcase on it, so I'm totally with you there.

The jury is still out on the sponge wall. We shall see. It isn't too complicated, so it could happen. When he hates it in a few years, he can help us paint over it.

AYC, three isn't so bad? What's one more?

:faints:

Woman, you do understand that at three children, we adults would be freaking outnumbered in this house? And that's only the beginning. The younger son is trying figure out how to spell to put a sign on his room keeping his elder brother out (because his mean mommy won't help him spell it), and the elder brother already has a sign on his door (because he wrote it himself without any assistance from me) saying,

"No little brother.

Unless I send him to get something.

Then he can come in."

Now, ma'am, picture these two little dears sharing a room.

I'll give you a moment for that to sink in.

Now picture them alone with their new sibling, a frazzled daddy, and a mommy who's practicing crocheting with a blunted plastic hook on the eighth floor of our local hospital.

Yes, that would be the previously-mentioned psych ward.

Ain't happenin', sister.

(But thanks for giving me a good rant to sign off on!)

Weight and Body Issues (and other stuff, because I'm ADD-ish like that)

Well, I told Scott I'd address this in another post, so here I am.

Addressing it.

In another post.

-----------------

First though, I've been visiting a ton of blogs by people who are much much better at this writing thing than I am. Like, say, Scott's blog. Or the Queen of Dysfunction, who is now totally my idol in blogging about family matters and such. That chick knows how to bring the funny. Seriously. And although I know it's difficult to contemplate, I think she has a better grasp on profanity than even I possess.

I have an English degree (which I've mentioned once or twenty times here). All I can think when I look at this blog is that my professors must have been on some serious crack.

And then there are all the clearly focused blogs, like Mostly True Stories (labor and delivery), or any one of Angel's blogs (chronic headaches, weight loss, hurricanes, quilting, and crafting, in that order), or Stan's blog, which chronicles his adventures in Chantix land and the aftermath thereof.

Me? I'm all over the place. Rants? Got 'em. Family silliness? Got it. Bleeding forever without dying? It's here. Smoking? Yep. And now the quitting smoking and Chantix stuff.

I'd link it, but, well... you can find it in the archives if you're interested.

And to all this mish-mash, I'm adding weight loss issues.

Oish.

So if any of you come here hoping for some kind of consistency in the nature of the posts, I'm very sorry for disappointing you.

I mean that sincerely.

Hell, sometimes I wonder why I do this myself. I'll notice readership going up, get all freaked out, and wonder if I should even keep inflicting this mess on a small but slowly-increasing segment of the unsuspecting public.

But then I screw my head on straight and figure, well, I like blogging. I liked it before anyone even read this damn thing (I have two other ancient blogs to attest to this). And apparently, it's good enough for some folks to read.

I just question your judgment and mine in my more dark and introspective moments ;)

------------------

Anyway, on to weight issues!

I was always a very skinny little kid. Or slender. Whatever. When I was four I had my tonsils out and scared my parents out of about ten years' growth by my impersonation of an ambulatory skeleton for about six months after the surgery.

Mom was very conscious about feeding her family healthy food. I remember once in mid-elementary school we were learning about what happens when food goes bad. It must have been related to a book the teacher was reading us or something. But anyway, one night Mom was serving us meatloaf and I spied something, uhm, "off" in my slice of loaf.

"Mom! This meat is bad! It's... it's... green."

"That's just a spice, sweetie."

Uh-huh. But gullible child that I was, I swallowed her lie.

And the freaking peas that she'd ground up and put into my Holy and Sacred ketchup-drenched meatloaf.

I hate peas. Hate them with a passion unequalled. I came home from class one day to find my husband (who is well aware of my hatred of these particular legumes) feeding our precious-and-then-only son this vile vegetable.

The little ingrate was gulping them down with great relish.

Since that time, when the man cooks? He makes peas as the vegetable. And I, conscientious mother that I am (I will set a good example, dammit), shovel them into my mouth in HUGE spoonfuls, hold them carefully on my tongue, and then swallow them down whole with a huge gulp of whatever liquid I'm happening to drink that night.

If it's wine, I'm good and buzzed by the time I have to do the dishes.

When #2 son was born, I stared the nasty beast of engorgement dead in the eye. What was the solution to the agony of my breasts? Frozen. Freaking. Peas.

God, I can still smell them thawing/cooking on my chest. I saved them for after-care for my husband's vasectomy-that-has-yet-to-happen.

I probably should toss them, along with the frozen breastmilk that's been gathering dust for four years.

And then there's the placenta from Son #2's birth, which we really meant to plant/ bury somewhere. But we didn't, and as it's a biohazard we're supposed to take it back to the birth center to dispose of it. So there it sits, taking up room in my freezer... oish.

Anyway...

Brought up eating healthily, even if slightly against my will, skinny kid, blah blah blah... which brings me to high school.

I was in the high school orchestra with Angel's husband. Our director was an interesting individual. One time I was wearing a skirt that clearly showed my rather narrow waist (it was twenty-two inches back in the day), and our conductor said, "Do you ever eat?"

Uhm, yeah. Actually, I did. I had a rather healthy relationship with food. My parents had given up trying to serve me peas -- it helped that I ate just about any vegetable that wasn't a pea -- and when it came to hunger, I ate. When I wasn't hungry anymore, I didn't eat.

You know, reasonable stuff like that.

But with this being orchestra, and with various evening performances and eating afterward, it was like some sort of eagle eye was upon me.

We'd go to Pizza Hut and I'd eat a slice of pizza or two, and all I'd hear was, "Good lord, eat girl! You're going to waste away to nothing!"

No, no I wasn't. Yes, I had a very narrow waist, but that isn't where I gain my weight. First place any excess weight goes on me is to my thighs and butt (the song Baby Got Back was so written for me). Saddlebags are the bane of my existence. In a full skirt with a narrow waist, sure I looked like a toothpick. But put me in jeans, shorts, or a straight skirt and it was very VERY clear I wasn't skeletal.

Still, I was at that whole "craving approval" stage, so I ate on command.

Over time, I got used to eating more than I should, just so no one would look at me with that "She's anorexic, we must feed and/or institutionalize her" expression in their eyes. Luckily, at that point my metabolism kicked all kinds of ass, and I stayed within the 122-127 range.

Unfortunately, over time my metabolism slowed. And over time my stress increased, and I dealt with stress by cramming more and more food down my gullet. After all, eating gained me approval. Approval felt good. Ergo, stress was relieved by eating!

Brilliant, eh?

Still, I managed to hold my weight around 140 or 150 up until I hit my early thirties. I wasn't totally happy at those weights, but my husband met me at 140 and thought I was the most beautiful creature he'd ever met (have I mentioned how insanely brilliant he is recently?), so I was content.

But then I went back to work. And although working was definitely a stress reliever in some ways (I didn't have to potty train my second son -- hah!), it brought stress in other ways, especially the whole "Dealing with clients who are getting divorced/ dealing with CPS/ looking at prison sentences" thing.

And so I ate, and ate more. Because it felt good.

Then I was out trying to buy something to wear for my brother's May 2006 wedding. Holy cow, everything I tried on made me look fat!

I was wearing my size 18 "immediately post-partum" jeans by then, but still, they were clothes I already owned, so I hadn't really paid attention to the increasing girth of my body.

The pictures came back from the wedding. Ouch. I'd weighed myself sometime within relatively recent memory and had seen that I was weighing about 180. Not good.

But that "recent memory" had been several months in the past.

Finally, in August of 2006, it happened. That "Eureka!" moment. The moment I knew I'd crossed the line from "rather curvier than usual" into "fat."

It was a Saturday. I was at Publix with my kids. My elder son got on the scale to weigh himself -- it's a hobby of his -- and then I figured I might as well see the bad news.

I didn't have to see it. The dear boy broadcast it for the entire store.

"Mommy, you weigh 200! Isn't that quite a lot?"

Shit.

"Yes, honey, it is quite a lot."

My mother had noticed my weight gain more than I had up until that point, and had said that she'd pay for a month of NutriSystem for me if I wanted to try it out. She wasn't pushy (she's never pushy with stuff like that), but she let me know the offer was there.

I e-mailed her the following Monday and let her know I was ready.

I stayed on NutriSystem for three months, and lost 27 pounds on it. After that point, I decided to do it on my own. And besides, Lean Cuisine is really rather tasty, in a "good Lord, would they just give me MORE FOOD" kind of way.

So since that time I've been counting calories, and have attempted to keep my daily intake between 1200 and 1500. If I go over it, eh, it happens. And if I'm under 1200, I eat until I've made it to 1200. I don't want to totally freak my body into starvation mode or anything.

Besides, cheese is really really good at 10:00 at night. Hee.

So now, about a year later, I weigh between 159 and 160. It's hugely different from the 200, but it's still a far cry from the 150/140 I was accustomed to, and even farther from the 122-127 range I used to enjoy.

I don't need to ever hit the 120's again. But I wouldn't mind dipping into the 130's. So I keep going, keep counting, and keep hoping.

So anyway, that's my whole "Amanda Gains and Then Loses Massive Amounts of Weight" story. Yeah, it's "only" forty pounds, but folks, it's FORTY FREAKING POUNDS. That's EIGHT 5 lb. sacks of flour.

That's the weight of my four-year-old.

So hell yeah, it's an accomplishment. And I'll shout it to the rooftops.

And that, dear readers, is why I'm panicked about gaining weight while I quit smoking. It's not totally rational, but I hope this makes it a bit more understandable.

I Can Has Chantix?

Well, the Chantix came home with me today. Happy belated birthday, dear husband of mine! Here's to many, MANY more years before us, free from these nasty little cancer sticks.

Sad thing is, I can call them "cancer sticks," I know they're bad for me, I hate the stench, I hate what they do to me, but I still. Freaking. Want. Them.

What led to the Great Chantix Experiment is that I found a very old, stale, nearly full pack of cigarettes in our kitchen. Yipes!

My husband and I looked at them. And looked at them.

Himself: They're stale.

Me: I know.

Himself: We've gone more than two days.

Me: I know.

Himself: We can do this.

Me: I know.

Me, five minutes later, firing one up in the back yard... sigh. Guilty bliss.

I went to Himself, thrust the pack into his hands and said, "Get rid of these. I can't take it. Make them go away."

Dude took me at my word. I came home yesterday and went to the garage to get something out of the chest freezer. The first thing that hit me was the distinctive smell of stale cigarette smoke.

"You've been smoking!"

"I've only smoked some butts out of my ashtray."

"Uh huh. Then why is the pack I gave you to make 'go away' half empty?"

Himself hung his head.

We finished them off that night. With great glee, I might add.

I hate this addiction. I hate how I still like smoking.

Ergo, the Chantix. We sincerely do want to quit smoking, but apparently are unable to do it on our own. We're hoping the Chantix will help kill off the "Gosh, smoking's FUN!" feeling and get us on the more realistic path of "And I want to suck smoke into my lungs because why???" frame of mind.

Here we go. Life is and will be GOOD!

What Would You Do?

Warning -- this is not my usual type of cheerful or humorously ranting post. Contains disturbing material. Read on at your own risk.

If one of your children sexually assaulted his two younger siblings, would you bring that child home pending his entrance into an alternative facility?

Well, down here in our fine area of the state, a mother was forced to do exactly that.

Dusty, the mother in the article, was told she could be arrested and charged with neglect if she failed to pick up her eldest son after his release from a juvenile facility. The judge said he didn't think she'd be charged, but he could make no promises and that CPS would become involved at a minimum if she failed to get her son.

Of course, they'll likely also become involved because she did pick him up.

Great.

So, let's see...

Don't pick up son who you personally believe to have raped his two younger brothers?

Potentially get charged with neglect.

Pick up son who you personally believe to have raped his two younger brothers?

Potentially get charged with failure to protect on behalf of the younger children.

Oh, and any attempts to confine the eldest child in his room pending his entrance into the alternate living facility could result in "false imprisonment" charges.

Leaving the younger kids with family members while their elder brother was in the home could potentially be construed as abandoment. Besides, these children did nothing wrong. Why should they have their lives uprooted for a brother who raped them?

Why is there nothing in place to keep an underage sexual offender out of the very home where he committed his crimes?

The only possible recourse I see for this mother is for her to keep her eldest son under constant surveillance, which would require multiple adults in the house, each taking a shift watching the boy so he wouldn't have an opportunity to repeat his crime. And even assuming she has those resources, that still leaves open the door for potentially exposing her younger children to a known danger.

Lest anyone think I'm overstating matters regarding this case, please remember I used to work in the system. Both law firms I worked for handled child dependency (CPS) cases. I will absolutely grant you that there are cases where the children are better off outside the family home, and in those instances relative or foster care is the only option.

But I have sat on the phone with case workers and have them lie to me regarding the firms' clients' activities. Why do I know the case workers were lying rather than the clients? Because these same caseworkers lied about not receiving the messages I left for them (which I logged in the case file each and every time).

The attorneys I have worked for have come back from court having gone through the same thing, and have watched the case workers backpedal when the call logs were brought out. I have had investigators for the state refuse to make proper requests through the clients' attorneys, continuing to badger the clients at home and at their place of employment.

That said, I have also witnessed parents regaining custody of their children after successfully defeating the problems they were facing that legitimately resulted in their children's removal. I have also seen children go from miserable situations into stable situations where they have thrived... only to be thrown back into the same unstable situation that resulted in their removal in the first place.

Sigh.

So if I sound sickened, disgusted, and depressed over these situations and this one in particular, it's because I am. CPS can do good, and in some cases does. In too many cases, though, it's a flat-out failure of the system.

As I've heard it said in so many places of late: I love my country, but I fear my government.

And CPS.

Posts? I got nothing.

Sorry for the lack of posting, my brave four readers (if there are that many). I'm busy trying to get back into the swing of things at work as well as attempting to finish off The Spec That Would Not Die, which lingers on even two days past my return from vacation.

That endless little bastard even came home with me tonight. I'll be bonding with it after the offspring are in bed, trying to finally bring the blasted thing into a relatively comprehensible whole.

Update: Arrrgh! I didn't bring home the Mechanical and Electrical Divisions! Only 67 more edits to go. In the freaking MORNING... ::faints::

This is what happens when I am not present to nag my bosses into submission.

Oh well, the good point as prior to vacation is that I can axe off some of the vacation hours I needed to take with the work I'll be doing at home tonight. I wouldn't mind being able to chaperone a field trip or volunteer for a school party for one of my kids, and having some extra vacation time might help that happen.

But back to the reason I am somewhat short of words. I'm also a bit crabby at the moment. Call it PMS, call it just bitchiness, but I'm cranky as hell. I just read a post this morning about another blogger's reasons for losing weight, and sure enough, there in the comments was another person giving a carefully worded but rather negative analysis of this individual's very personal reasons for her own weight loss.

Remember that whole "I am not you and you are not me" thing with the smoking earlier? Yeah, that tags on here too.

If I want to lose weight so my husband will drool, so what? Does it mean he hasn't drooled over me at my heaviest? Nope, it doesn't. But I know what he likes, and I know that as much as he loves me, he does appreciate it when I more closely resemble the woman he married. I'm doing it FOR me, but it benefits him.

Yeah, it's ego. And I'm good with that. My weight loss is all about me, my feelings, and my health. MINE. If anyone wants to cheer me on, good on them. But if anyone wants to tear down my reasons for losing the weight that I've permitted to attach itself to my ass, they'd better step back.

Hmm. Guess I had something to say after all.

Eight Things I Know - Pass it On

I found this over at Angel's blog, and followed it around to a couple other places. It's interesting, so I figured I'd give it a shot.

(That and the fact that my new digital camera is not cooperating in the "letting my pics go to the computer" department, so I'm holding off on more vacation blogging just for a bit to see if I can pry them loose. If not, I'll be doing picture-less vacation blogging.)

Note: Some of the eight things I've linked to are light, some are serious. Mine have some rantish items and some non-rantish ones, because... well, I'm like that.

1. Life is too short to stay pissed off. Sure, I rant and get annoyed in here, but that's one of the points of my blog for me: it's a venting device. I blog about things that annoy, then I let them go. It's either that or get an ulcer.

2. You just can't please everyone. I like to make people happy, but some folks are flatly impossible. They thrive on being stressed, on seeing the negative (mentally glaring at specific not-to-be-named family member), on how everything in their life is always going to shit. Then they need to spread that vile manure around. You know what? Bad stuff happens. And sometimes it's overwhelming, but you have to find a way to move past it or you risk giving yourself and everyone around you a freaking damned migraine.

[Remember Number 1, Amanda... remember Number 1...]

3. Quitting smoking is hard. Yes, it is hard. And yes, it is worth it and I'm working on it; I'm just not there yet. No, you cannot sit there and tell me that you quit drinking sodas, and if you can do that, anyone can quit smoking. The two addictions are the same only in that they're addictions. That's where any similarity ends. I am not you and you are not me.

Talk to me when you've taken up smoking then quit, your-holier-than-thou-ness*. That's when I'll listen to you.

4. There is nothing like a child's laughter. Absolutely nothing. It can bring me from feeling a bit melancholy to a more even keel in zero seconds flat.

5. Anyone who says you should have to keep a plant alive first to either have children or pets is suffering from a serious lack of perspective. I couldn't keep plants alive until I'd already had both pets and children. Plants don't let you know when they're hungry. They're easily overlooked. Kids and animals are not subtle about their displeasure. They forcibly take your focus off yourself. Once I had to pay attention to things outside of myself and what book I was reading next, I learned that yes, I too, could keep plants alive.

Speaking of which, I hope the office plants have survived my vacation.

6. Doctors are not gods. They are highly educated medical professionals. They're also humans. As with every profession, there are good ones and bad ones in the bunch, so it behooves us as medical consumers to look clearly at our healthcare providers and determine if we're dealing with a case of "just had a totally craptastic day" -itis or if we're dealing with true apathy or incompetence.

Craptastic days are forgiveable. The other states are not.

7. Expecting to live in a spotless house when the children are young is to set yourself up for disappointment. I'm not saying that I live in a pit; I don't. But I am saying that my neatness standards have had a bit of an adjustment. Freaking out due to a toy left on the family room floor? Is not worth my sanity, or my kids' for that matter.

8. The kids will grow up. The sleep-deprived nights of newborn parenthood will cease. The shrieking toddler will clam up. The bouncy little boys will settle down (someday, I'm told!). Enjoy every stage as much as you can, because once it's gone, there's no getting it back.

There you have it. All my wisdom at the moment in a nutshell. I'll spare y'all a tag, but if anyone feels like taking up this meme please let me know and I'll edit this post to link to you.

* This particular rant was courtesy of a real-life encounter I had at a former workplace, not from anyone related to me or anyone anywhere on the blogosphere. I just needed to get that out. Freaking sanctimonious bitch.

Preparation 'H'

Trip Preparation Hell:

6:00 a.m.
Wake up.

"Holy F***!"

6:01 a.m.
Oh wait. Saturday. Hit snooze. Sleep.

7:00 a.m.
Wake up.

"Shit!"

7:01 a.m.
Oh yeah, still Saturday. Hit snooze. Almost sleep.

7:15 a.m.
Eight-year-old creeps into master bedroom, small female cat in arms. Elder son places said feline on maternal unit. Emily proceeds to knead her mother into wakefulness.

8 headbutts and 2 jawn-nibbles until consciousness is established.

7:20 a.m.
Fever, 99. Better. Aspirin.

7:25 a.m.
Coffee, coffee... black. Too tired/lazy/sick to put anything in it.

7:30 a.m. - 12:00 noon
Feed kids x2. Scoop litter boxes. Herd cats out of litter boxes while scooping.

Freshen Their Highnesses' water.

Field queries from offspring in re: when we are going shopping.

Check out e-mail, blogs.

Clean cat diarrhea from family room carpet. Someone left out the cheese. Voting for four-year-old.

Try explaining to shorter humans that cats and cheese do not mix.

Stare hazily at computer. Undercaffeinated still.

Refill coffee. Head clearing. Hate cold meds.

Field queries from offspring in re: when we are going shopping. Again.

Go to bedroom to get dressed.

Herd Daniel out of bedroom. Observe Patrick sneaking in.

Herd Patrick out of bedroom. Rip out own hair as Daniel marches back in, and almost makes it to the bathroom to watch his favorite program (apparently showing in the toilet bowl) before he's caught again.

Small female cat in the hallway snickers at her mommy and brothers. Then darts into the bedroom.

Give up herding cats.

Get dressed.

12:01 p.m.
Herd non-cat children to car.

Car still running strangely. Air conditioner now struggling.

This does not bode well.

3:30 p.m.
Return home, unload car.

3:45 p.m.
"Mo-om! Something gross is in the bathroom! It looks like cat poop, and it's a big puddle."

Go to hall bathroom.

Verify cat poop. Diarrhea again.

Blaming Patrick.

Unhook shower curtain which has managed to dip itself into cat poop. Wash curtain.

Scrub yuck from floor. Clean toilet since it's close anyway.

4:00 p.m.
Inform offspring that next cheese-induced cat accidents will be their responsibility to clean up.

Observe appalled/disgusted small faces with guilty satisfaction.

4:30 p.m. - 8:00 p.m.
Start offspring on packing for trip.

To four-year-old: "Sweetie, you will need to pack more than underpants and Transformers for the trip. And where did you get those underpants? Oh, from your hamper. They're dirty. No, we can't just wash them there. Yes, I'll wash them before we go. Give them to me."

To eight-year-old, "You may not call your brother stupid for packing dirty underwear. Your brother is four. Four-year-olds do things differently than eight-year-olds. When you were four you thought it was perfectly reasonable to wear a potato in your underpants."

Walk away from sputtering eight-year-old.

Check e-mail, blogs.

Feed kids dinner.

Look longingly at box where shiny new laptop is stored. File away hardware lust for later.

8:00 p.m.
Put four-year-old to bed.

"No, you cannot sleep in Mommy's bed. Because Daddy doesn't have any room then. No, Daddy doesn't want to sleep in your bed."

Note elder son walking in circles while reading his book.

Remember that when I was eight, I used to read standing on my head.

Stop worrying about elder son. Ruffle his hair in passing. Receive gorgeous gap-toothed grin in response.

8:20 p.m.
Post blog entry.

The Medical Blogosphere, Take II

Yeah, I know I've been babbling about the loss of Flea, FatDoctor, etc... but this stuff is starting to piss me off.

I read medblogs for a reason. Many reasons, in fact.

One big reason I read them is because I went through a time after the birth of my first son when I hated almost *anyone* who had anything to do with childbirth. I mean, anyone. Nurse? Hate. OB? Hate (unless you were Dr. K). Random healthcare practitioner? Hate.

Now please tell me, just how healthy is this attitude? Not very. And that's one huge reason why I started reading medblogs, why I started lurking on allnurses.com, etc. I needed to see the humanity of healthcare practitioners in practice.

And I found it. Thank goodness.

Another reason why I read medblogs relates to my own health issues of late, the primary one being that I bleed for freaking ever, then don't bleed (thus causing the stock for pharmaceutical companies who make OTC pregnancy tests go WAY up), then again, bleed copiously. I am so damned frustrated with my GYN (who, as a "cure" for my bleeding problem, offered to prescribe a drug that would cause even MORE bleeding for a few months), that I really need to see there are doctors out there who aren't like him, who DO listen to their patients when they say, "I'm going crazy", and who know that their patients aren't dramatizing the situation.

I bleed for 22 days and do not die. Seriously. NOT MINOR. For that reason alone, I should be paid attention to when I say, "Yo, doc, I'm going seriously nuts here." But I'm not, and well, that's the way it is. So I'm going to tag my little brother's best friend, who conveniently is a psychiatrist, and get a recommendation from him (because seeing a shrink who I was in charge of back in Bible School is just too freakish for me). And I'm going to engage in Better Living Through Chemistry, Therapy, or Whatever.

Because I need that, and I know I need it because, again, I trust doctors as a whole. BECAUSE I read medblogs.

Not in spite of them.

So bite me, Big Medicine. Stop being afraid of the medblogs. Embrace them. Because your future, for some of us, depends on them. We NEED to see the human face of medicine. We NEED to see that the doctors and nurses who care for us are people too. We NEED to see the restrictions they deal with so that, when those restrictions hit us, we know why and we don't blame our HCPs.

I never thought I'd say this, but...

Free the Doctors! Free the Nurses! Good God, we need them, and we need them to be able to practice the way they should, and we need them to be able to blog the way they must to be able to accomplish the foregoing.

So in closing, again, Big Medicine, you can bite my happy ass.

No asterisks. Just bite me.

A Post Wherein Amanda Uses Poor Language

I'm going on vacation next week . Yes, the blog will likely be a dead zone unless Unicoi State Park has computers for guests as, in spite of the available WiFi, I don't have a laptop. And the hell if I'm going to type out blog entries on my cell phone (PDA-style with a little pull-out keyboard). So I can read y'all, but then again? Tiny screen.

Might just have an entire week off from "Teh Intarweebs".

Anyway, because I'm out next week and because none of the partners remembered the e-mail I sent out to them stating when I'd be out for vacation, I now have FOUR sets of specifications to type and edit this week. FREAKING FOUR!

And they're all educational facilities which means there isn't a single spec among them under 700 pages. Holy cow.

So here I sit, assiduously avoiding the work I brought home (an addendum to a specification and edits on a different spec), yet knowing that I've gotta get this shit knocked out before I go to bed tonight.

Yickers.

Now that I've whined and cussed a bit, I've gotta say that this really isn't too bad a thing. I'll be working most nights this week as well as during the day, but the hours I work at night will make all my bosses happy, which makes me happy, and it will also knock down some of the vacation hours I'll be taking next week.

Okay, enough. Must put on my big girl panties now and get down to business.

Home Birth vs. Hospital Birth, Part II

Note: This entry along with Home Birth Vs. Hospital Birth, Part I, is incredibly long. I don't expect people to work their way through either one, actually, unless someone is so inclined. It was more a matter of just needing to get this out, and get it put down somewhere. So, if you're still inclined to read, do so at your own risk.

In between writing parts one and two of this topic, I took the time to read the "Baby Toby" story, co-written by ExUtero and Dream Mom. Looking at both sides of the medical experience, be it a case where a baby is in the NICU, or a childbirth issue, or whathaveyou, is enlightening to say the least.

All parties involved, no matter the situation, come into it with different life experiences, different "triggers," different mindsets, different expectations. The big thing I think we all agree on as far as childbirth is concerned is that the goal of the process is a healthy baby and a healthy mother.

After my birth experience with my elder son though, we had only part of that equation right. My son was healthy, but I wasn't. Physically I recovered, but mentally took quite some time longer. I ended up with a form of PPD, which was possibly exacerbated by how I experienced my hospital stay, plus I kept wondering just where I went wrong in the whole process. I'd heard about how things were at this hospital in the past, but I just went on blindly hoping that things had improved in the past ten years because, as I previously stated, I didn't have any other options due to my insurance.

I thought I was pretty much over it. I no longer thought about the situation every day, and I had chalked up much of the experience to just having caught some bad shifts and assignments, nursing-wise. But I got a wake-up call when I found out I was expecting #2.

Oh God, could I go through that again? I knew there were good nurses on L&D at my hospital, but I hadn't seen many of them during my first stay there. Should I trust fate to make things better this time? Pray? I didn't know what to do.

The first thing I did was call Dr. K's old office, but I found out she'd left. Later I learned that her contract wasn't renewed, and while the official reason wasn't stated, the unofficial reason was that Dr. K was the only OB in our area who "allowed" laboring women to move around, to push in whatever position they needed, to deliver in whatever position they wanted... and the Good Old Boy's network down here Didn't. Like. It. One. Bit. They didn't like having to explain to their patients why their friend, who had Dr. K, was allowed to move around and they weren't. They didn't like having to explain why their friends with Dr. K could do many things during their hospital birth that they couldn't. And so, she went.

Well, crap. Dr. K was the only person I really felt was "on my side" at the hospital, and that was after I'd gone in feeling pretty good about things at the start. But as the situation deteriorated, she was the only person who paid attention to what I had wanted outside of strictly a healthy baby, to what she and I had discussed throughout my rotating visits with her throughout my first pregnancy. She actually knew me; we'd built a relationship that wasn't based on me being in labor, but on me being my normal merely-pregnancy-enhanced self. That affected her ability to deal with me when things got rough.

So I started to scramble. I looked into whether there was any way I could deliver in another hospital, but none took my insurance. I'm not sure that would have done any good anyway, as it appears most hospitals down my way (central Florida) tend to be a bit behind the times as far as advances are concerned in childbirth. It's the south, and things take a bit longer to filter down here from the northeast and west coasts.

I thought about the situation I'd had back with my elder son a bit more, but rather than trying to figure out what I could have changed back then, I looked at what I could figure caused some of the problems. The biggest thing I could see was that I was a) giving birth with people who didn't know me from Adam, and who were drawing their opinions about who I was strictly from a tremendously long "guaranteed c-section" birth plan and how I acted while in labor, and b) trying to have as few interventions as possible in an environment where this was not welcome. I didn't want to repeat this scenario, and I definitely didn't want to repeat the stress issues I'd had after the Elder's birth.

Okay, first step, where was I going to be able to have the kind of birth I needed to give my kids the best chance at having a sane mother after the second child arrived? And second step, how could I have people with me during the birth who supported my desires for a low-intervention birth if medically feasible and who would know me outside of my hormonal, laboring state? I'll be the first to admit that I have a somewhat warped sense of humor, that also tends to be a bit dry. It falls flat for some people. And that's fine, not everyone needs to like me, but I think I stand a better chance of connecting with someone outside of hard labor.

The best way for me to handle this, in fact, the only way, was to go to our local birth center, which is situated near the hospital. A birth center birth would guarantee me people present who knew me throughout the pregnancy rather than meeting me when I walked into L&D in labor. It also was very definitely low-intervention, which fit in with my preference. The midwives at the birth center don't have privileges at the hospital but do have a very good relationship with several local OB's including the area's high risk OB who is their immediate back-up. Even in the event of a hospital transfer, many of the practices locally were fine with having the midwives go ahead and handle the labor and delivery once mother and baby were stabilized. So I started out with this group intending to be a birth center birth.

Time passed, and I began thinking more and more about homebirth, which was another option offered by the midwifery practice. My first labor, medicalized as it was, still was under 10 hours from start to finish. I knew my next one had a chance to be shorter, and wasn't sure how much I wanted to be driving around in hard labor, then go into the birth center where other pregnant women would be having their exams while I labored. I eventually did opt for a home birth.

Looking back now I'm not sure if I'd make the same choice, due to different things I've learned. But I still might have. Regardless, at that point in my life, it made perfect sense. I had an older son who needed me at home, and as I wouldn't have been staying at the birth center more than six hours after the birth anyway, I might as well stay at home.

I had all the typical blood tests and fetal screenings done with this birth, same as with the previous. Quadscreen (as opposed to triplescreen with the first), glucose tolerance test, strep B, ultrasound... I think that was it. Shoot, it's been a few years. Everything was fine. No abnormalities showed on any test.

But #2 son was similar to his elder brother in the respect that he, too, prefered the uterine environment to the outside world. Week 40 passed, then week 41. I was edging up on being 42 weeks pregnant and was sent to the backup OB for a non-stress test and ultrasound. This was when I was 41 weeks, 4 days pregnant, the same day that I'd finally had my elder son. I mean, how rude... isn't the second one supposed to come more quickly? Darn those kids for not reading the rule book anyway.

The appointment went well overall. The little guy's heartbeat and reactivity were great. The only down point was that my amniotic fluid was getting low. The OB told me quite plainly that if I were his patient he'd send me in to induce, but since I was a birth center client and wanted to avoid that if possible, he'd let me go to 42 weeks, which was about 72 hours away at that point. If I hadn't had the baby by that Friday (this was a Tuesday), I was to show up at the hospital at 8:00 that morning for induction.

On the one hand, eek! Hospital. On the other hand, HOORAY, come hell or high water this kid was going to get born soon. I would have risked out of the midwifery practice at 42 weeks anyway. I'm not a woman who feels that unassisted birthing is the norm, nor is it my preference. If I couldn't have my midwives, you can bet your bippy I'd be at the hospital, even though I'd definitely be a nervous wreck.

So, all worried about a repeat of my situation with the Elder at the hospital plus the potential joys of Pitocin, I headed straight over to the midwifery office and told them what was up. I asked if they knew of any doula who would take on a client this late, should I need to go to the hospital, as I was determined this time to go in with someone who knew it was her job to remind me that yes, I could do this, rather than my husband who just kind of stood there with the first child with the typical deer-in-the-headlights look. Then I got the first and only surprise of my pregnancy with this practice. The midwife just looked at me and said, "If you have to go to the hospital to be induced, we'll all go with you."

My jaw hit the floor, and I felt the biggest load lift off me. I wouldn't be alone with just my family. I'd have the folks with me who knew me, knew my pregnancy, and would be able to help me handle what was going on. I've learned that respect breeds respect, and hoped that seeing these women interact with me as if I were a normal (i.e., non-laboring) woman would help anyone else to also treat me like a human.

I went home and called my husband, who was somewhere out in Kansas driving a truck at this point, and told him he needed to be heading home since we were definitely having a baby by Friday at the latest. He was tickled pink. I also was writing a thank you note to a friend of my mother's that night for a cute little matching set of outfits she got for both boys, and in the note I mentioned the little fellow had gotten his "eviction papers," which tickled my mother's friend to death when she received and read the note.

I woke up the next morning at 6:37 to the feeling of a contraction. Huh. Could be Braxton-Hicks. I'd been having those for about three months. But then another one hit seven minutes later and all I could think was that I didn't want to be driving my extra-utero child to school in the middle of one of those.

Hmm. Show time!

Call the midwife, tell her not to rush, contractions are 7 minutes apart, about 30-45 seconds long and I can talk through them. Call my mother and tell her I needed help getting the child to school. Call my husband's dispatcher and tell her to get him moving home NOW, because his wife is having a baby. Yes, I'm that wife. Yes, I'm really in labor. Get son dressed and off to school. Call brother and sister to tell them new nephew is on the way. Call local friend to come over and distract me (she'd had a homebirth with this same midwife about 7 months prior). Make up the bed for the birth, plastic sheet, one set of sheets, another plastic sheet, another set of sheets. Double-check birth supplies (chux pads, dermaplast for afterward, hydrogen peroxide for any weird blood splotches, incontinence pads for early heavy lochia flow -- those things rock, by the way, as they're much better than standard sanitary pads for heavy-duty flow).

Call midwife to scratch the "no need to rush" order from 30 minutes ago. Contractions are 5 minutes apart and 60+ seconds long and speaking while one going on is out of the question. Get in the shower, wash hair, look at legs with a couple days stubble on them, think, "Hell no, not this time," and get out of shower to the sound of my mother returning from taking the elder son to school, and the midwife & crew's simultaneous arrival.

I got on my old comfie flannel nightgown (this was one week before Christmas and yes, even Florida can get chilly around that time), and we did a quick dilation check. 6 cm, intact BOW. My blood pressure was normal. Doppler showed good fetal heart tones.

I sat down on my exercise ball and blew my hair dry, then proceeded to put on all my make up. Yes, all of it. It was my distraction technique and it worked quite nicely. My friend arrived while I was attempting to apply liquid eyeliner between contractions (okay, not the best choice I ever made) and just sort of stared at me sitting there primping.

I hadn't eaten anything yet that morning, so my mother fixed me a little sandwich. She forgot to fold the meat like I like it folded. Transition, anyone?

I got off the ball and kicked it down the hall to the family room where we sat out my labor, checking heart tones every 15 minutes and my blood pressure at other times. Everything was good, except for when the little Welches Grape Juice girl came on a commercial and annoyed the living daylights out of me.

Yep, definitely transition. No nausea, just huge internal bitchery and quiet cursing at the beginning of a contraction. On the other hand, I was also making sure everyone knew where the food was in between contractions. Yet another distraction technique for me, yes. And it kept me calm (other than the cursing).

Eventually it was time to get the baby out. I went back to the bedroom with the birth center staff and was checked and found to be 10 cm. I then stated that no one but the midwife, assistant, and apprentice were allowed in the bedroom (no, I don't need a circus for a birth, thankyouverymuch).

I learned that I hate pushing. Hate it, hate it, HATE IT. I'd rather stay in transition for the rest of my life than push. Here's where I'd have inserted my own epidural with an icepick if I could have. OUCH!

45 minutes and four changes of position later, my younger son made his way into the world with no incident, under 5 hours from the onset of labor, wimpy pushing mother notwithstanding. 8 lbs. 14 oz, 20 1/2 inches long (chunky little bugger), and again, HUGE head. I blame my Irish ancestry for that one.

So, why would I perhaps do things differently if things went this well with a home birth? It's that niggling fear that something *could* go wrong the next time. It's the "what if" factor.

But I'll tell you this, I didn't have near the issues post-partum with #2 as I had with #1. The birth was calm, I was able to sleep a few hours at night (not great sleep -- we know most newborns aren't really into that -- but at least I woke when he needed me to, not when someone else thought I should). I felt like a competent mother, not a freak. I felt like a person, not an annoyance. I felt normal for wanting to do this without medication, not some sort of deluded martyr who needed to be brought down a peg or two.

I was treated with respect.

And that, I think, is what it boils down to. That is what will have some women (a tiny percentage, but still some) leaving the hospital to have their children in alternative settings. If there were a birth center attached to a hospital, but with its own protocols in place for low-intervention birth, so the NICU and OR were moments away if needed, that would be an option I'd like. And if I had to be in the hospital proper for a child's birth, I'd prefer to know that I'd be treated kindly and politely by whoever I got assigned as a nurse, rather than snapped at and grabbed. But at this time there's no birth center that close to any hospital in this area. At this point there's no way for expectant mothers to form any type of relationship prior to labor insanity with their primary care providers during labor: the nurses.

Something's got to give. I believe every woman should be able to choose whether or not she wants pain medication (assuming it's not contraindicated by other factors) and not be made to feel stupid for either choice. I believe that every woman should be able to give birth in the location where she feels most safe, after risk factors are considered, be it hospital, birth center, or home.

I just wish that the hospital felt more safe. If it did, I wouldn't be having this conversation with myself.

Home Birth vs. Hospital Birth, Part I

Note: This entry along with Home Birth Vs. Hospital Birth, Part II, is incredibly long. I don't expect people to work their way through either one, actually, unless someone is so inclined. It was more a matter of just needing to get this out, and get it put down somewhere. So, if you're still inclined to read, do so at your own risk.

As I may have mentioned, I read medblogs quite a bit. Lately I've been reading blogs by two neonatologists: NeoNatal Doc and ExUtero. Both of them in the past couple months (NeoNatal Doc's post was in January, and I believe ExUtero's was in April, but I could be mistaken) have posted about home birth. NeoNatal Doc posted another entry about home birth about a year ago, and the most recent was a follow-up to that which was rather balanced, and really got me thinking.

The general feeling I got from reading ExUtero's entry and NeoNatal Doc's first "Home" entry and the comments spawned by them is that homebirthers are ultimately selfish by choosing to birth their children away from the resources of a hospital. That to have a home birth just for "the experience" is ridiculous. That sometimes we have to put up with things we don't like to assure our children's safety.

I can certainly agree that at times we as parents have to just suck it up and deal with things we'd rather not, in the best interests of our children. But to call all homebirthers "selfish" and to indicate they're all in it "just for the experience," is not... complete. It doesn't look at the whole picture of why different women choose home birth.

I've mentioned before that my first child was born in the hospital and my second was a home birth attended by a licensed midwife (RN, former L&D nurse, former NICU nurse), her assistant, and an apprentice midwife. And yeah, part of me was, well honestly, outraged, that all home birthing mothers are being tarred with the "selfish" label, that we're all seen as risking our baby's health just for "an experience." I mean, what mother wants to think that about herself?

So I've been thinking quite a bit in the past couple of days just why I opted to have my second son at home. Why did I choose to have my baby away from the resources of a NICU, an OR? Why did I choose to have him away from the possibility of pain relief via an epidural, or other options? Why in the world would I take the risk, however small, that something that couldn't be foretold could happen rendering a normal birth emergent within just moments?

I can't give an answer. If something had gone terribly, terribly wrong at my homebirth I would never, ever have gotten over it. But I can give the background about why I made the decision I did.

I put a great deal of time and thought into how my second child was going to be born, primarily because of the experience I had at the hospital with my first son's birth. I'd already been on L&D once before at 37 weeks with son #1 for monitoring, because at a routine OB appointment, my doctor couldn't find the baby's heartbeat. Yes, we were all in a panic. Once the contraction I was having eased off (I have Braxton Hicks for about the entire third trimester), his heartbeat came back, and was normal. Still, scary, and it bore watching.

I started out being monitored at the OB's office, and then when my parents arrived (my husband was, at that time, traveling from state to state working for a DOD contractor), I was sent to the hospital for further monitoring. My nurse was awesome. I got hooked up to the monitor and proceeded to Braxton-Hicks away for the next two hours. When my nurse would come in, we'd discuss different things about the birth process. I wanted to avoid an epidural since a) the thought of needles near my back makes me a tad bit squeamish, and b) I knew women in my family had a history of fast labors, so it wasn't like I was going to be dealing with a long period of painful labor. My nurse had had two unmedicated births herself and said it absolutely was possible, even with pitocin, although it's definitely more of a challenge.

She also made it clear that at 37 weeks, and considering that my cervix wasn't at all favorable for induction, it would be best to leave the little guy where he was unless it was medically indicated to induce for his safety. Although at that point I was done being pregnant (I tend to feel "done" at about 28 weeks anyway... something about the whole beached whale thing), I agreed with her. It would be better, all things being equal, to go into labor on my own rather than chemically.

At any rate, the Elder's heartrate stayed fine my entire two hours in the hospital. My OB (same guy I'm currently bitching about as my GYN, bless his heart... but this whole saga I just mentioned is why I do still feel he has his good points) came to check me, reviewed the monitor strip, checked my cervix, and sent me on home. I wasn't dilating, baby was now doing fine, all was well.

I stayed pregnant for another four and a half weeks. Apparently the kid liked where he was just fine. I'd gone in for another visit with my OB's office on a Tuesday, and saw Dr. K who ultimately ended up delivering my son. We reviewed everything (she'd offered to induce me the prior week, but I still wanted to avoid pitocin if I could), and as the 42 week mark was coming up it was determined that if I hadn't gone into labor by Friday I'd be going back to the hospital to be induced.

Frankly, at that point I'd have been willing to give birth through my nose just to get the kid out, so that worked for me.

Fortunately, I went into labor at about 1:30 Wednesday morning. My husband and I had just finished some "nuptial nookie" and had crawled under the covers to get some sleep. I heard a muffled pop, and at first assumed my dog Little Guy had passed some gas (he slept in the bed with me for years). But then I noticed things felt a little different. So I got out of bed and went to the bathroom. Sure enough, my water had broken. It was mec stained, like the color of weak green tea, and contractions started within just a few minutes, so I called my OB's answering service.

Thank goodness Dr. K was on call that night. The answering service told me to go to the ER, but Dr. K had very clearly told me that I was NOT to show up at the ER, but to ask to speak directly with her should I go into labor, especially due to my family's history of pretty quick labor. This pissed off the answering service lady, but I did get to talk to Dr. K. I told her about the light meconium staining and that contractions had started and were running every 5 minutes for about 45 seconds. She told me I could get a shower but not to dawdle and to come straight up to L&D.

So I did. We arrived at the hospital, and I was told to walk on up to the L&D floor. I verified they wanted me to do this, since my water had broken and usually hospitals are all about the safety factor, but yes, I was to walk up. Okie-dokie! So we walked (actually, my husband walked... I was doing more of a waddle thanks to my 41 wk/ 4 day pregnancy and the huge pad to soak up the amniotic fluid).

At this point I was feeling really good about things since I'd had a great experience with the nurse several weeks prior during my monitoring, and since Dr. K was on call. Once we got to my room, though...

Well, it started out okay. I was sent to change into the charming hospital gown (no biggie for me -- birth is messy, etc.) and the two nurses assigned to me for that shift were asking my husband questions about what was had been happening.

The problem there was that he couldn't answer their questions because he'd been asleep. Once I knew my water had broken I told him just to go back to sleep and I'd wake him up when he needed to do something. Man-like, he followed my instructions. Now once I'd gotten the word to head to the hospital I did wake him up, but I was in the shower and basically hadn't shared much information with him as I was busy hosing off and breathing (shaving legs while in active labor? Not an experience I'll ever repeat). So anyway, when I heard him doing the "I don't know" and the "I guess it was about..." and being totally wrong, I piped up from the bathroom with the correct answers.

The nurses told me to be quiet and just relax. I told them he'd been asleep and didn't know the progression of events. They looked at me as if I were crazy. What? The guy had been sleeping. He was flat clueless. Was that so hard to believe?

At any rate, I got into the bed and was checked to see if my water had actually broken. It had (no surprise to me, but the nurses seemed shocked, and I don't know why). I was also 4-5 cm dilated, and was having to work with the contractions.

So, of course, now that labor is going harder, this is when I needed to answer the questions on the intake form (which I'd already answered when I pre-registered, so the point of pre-registering was what?), and then I got blood drawn.

I don't like needles, but it wasn't to the point back then where it is now, where I get lightheaded and pale when someone comes at me with one intending to draw my blood. Back then it was merely unpleasant, but something that could be dealt with. Unfortunately, the nurse got a bad stick and it hurt. That, along with being in increasingly hard labor and with a nurse who proceeded ignore me and to talk with my husband about Chicago (he was across the room as needles REALLY freak him out... and was told by me later that would NEVER happen again, he could just stand by me and look in the opposite direction from the needle site) and ignore the fact that I had tears rolling down my face from the bad stick put me near the edge. The final straw was when she looked at me and snapped, "Why are you still crying? The needle is out and the IV is in."

I'm still crying because it hurts, bitch, because it was a bad stick which you'd know if you'd been paying any attention to me beyond "Oh god, it's a birth plan mother, I've got to get out of here as quickly as I can before I snap her neck."

You know what? I'm sorry that I wanted to do birth unmedicated. I'm sorry I was naive and put some stupid things on the birth plan (like the shaving and enema thing, which were totally unnecessary to list). I'm sorry that I was talkative and happy in between contractions until I was treated like a naughty kindergartener. I'm sorry I walked up to L&D after my water had broken, obviously creating a potential liability for the hospital even though I had clarified that yes, indeed, my water had broken and was lightly mec stained and made sure they wanted me to walk up. I'm sorry that I cried when I was in pain, not from the contractions, but from the horrible needle stick. I had a bruise for two weeks afterward at the IV site, and I still bear the scar 8 years later. It's not a big deal, but it's there whereas the mark from the heplock I had a few weeks ago at the ER doesn't even show anymore.

Crap. Over eight years later and I still get upset.

So anyway, after all that, I was offered some Nubane. I was restricted to the bed because hospital policy dictated that after a mother's water broke she was a liability walking around even in her own room (apparently wearing some sort of pad to avoid spillage was out of the question). I could find no position that made the contractions less painful, especially being tied up with the blood pressure cuff, the IV, and the monitors which they never detatched. So hey, drugs. Sounds good! God, anything to feel less upset. The Nubane was good and I figured, "What the hell, let's go for the epidural too."

Even though I'd planned for an unmedicated birth, I did go ahead and do the "pre-epidural class" which was required if we thought we might want medication. I was sure I wouldn't, but I also knew that just because my mother was fast with the labor thing didn't mean the same would necessarily hold for me, and should labor drag on forever, I wanted the option if I was just getting too exhausted to go on.

Well, it only took me about two hours to get too exhausted, apparently. Dr. K had come in and we discussed the epidural. The anesthesiologist got there after she'd left, and putting the epidural in was decidedly less than fun. He couldn't get it placed, and at one point I said, "I've changed my mind. Stop. I don't want it." They just kept going, refused to stop. It took over an hour to get it in. I had a bad bruise, and a backache for a month.

This was about 5:00 a.m. I took a nap for a couple of hours. My now-GYN came in to check me at 6:00 a.m., and had a scheduled c-section going on that morning, so he and Dr. K decided she'd stay to help me deliver (thank God). Another dilation check, and I was at a 10.

I felt no urge to push. I was numb from the chest down. Dr. K decided to turn off the epidural and let me labor down for a bit, so from 7:00 to 8:00 I drifted in and out of sleep. I was exhausted and I hadn't done anything yet.

I ended up pushing for over three hours, with very little progress. I told the nurses I wanted to be more upright to push as they were lowering the back of the bed behind me and they told me, "No, all the doctors deliver this way." Who the hell was pushing this kid out? Dr. K came in at that point and said to leave me alone, we'd discussed it and I could push in any position I wanted, which though limited severely by the dense epidural, was still appreciated.

Time went on. I was told my uterus was tiring out and I needed pitocin. At first I said no (I was exhausted and a bit out of focus by that point), but once it was explained to me that yes, it really was necessary, I gave the go ahead. The nurse didn't hang it, and I said, "Where's the pitocin?" She said, "I didn't know if you knew what you were saying."

Okay, so, "Stop the epidural," is totally ignored, and "Go ahead with the pitocin," is also totally ignored. Marvelous.

Finally, Dr. K ended up cutting an episiotomy and delivering my son via vacuum extraction. I had a 3rd degree extension of the episiotomy. It was either that or a c-section, so I was fine with the episiotomy, although I'd hoped to avoid one.

My baby was whisked over to a corner of the room by the NICU staff due to fears of meconium aspiration. Again, this was fine. I am all about the safety of my kids, and even though I had wanted him just handed to me, which Dr. K usually did, this was different.

After they were done, the nurse (the same young "I didn't know if you knew what you were saying" one) went to wash my baby. Dr. K said, "Excuse me, but didn't you read Amanda's birth plan? Having her baby with her as soon as possible was very important to her." So they stopped the bath, and brought my son over to me. He was beautiful and healthy, minimal moulding outside of the caput from the vacuum. 8 lbs., 2 oz, 20 1/2 inches long. HUGE freaking head. Heh.

The crap didn't stop there, though. For some reason the nurses didn't leave me, my husband, and son alone at any time for me to attempt breastfeeding. I was trying to get him latched on with them literally hovering over me. Finally, the same young nurse referenced earlier grabbed my breast and started playing with my nipple without a by-your-leave, and then tried to get him to latch on.

I was in shock. You don't just grab me, grab my breast and start playing with my nipple without asking, "Hey, can I try to help out some?"

Good grief, it's common courtesy, I'd think? It's not like a medical emergency where you can't even have time to think if this is what you'd like, it's just flat necessary and you freaking consent. This was different. She could have asked.

The rest of the stay (48 hours after the birth) pretty much went downhill from there. I was awakened every two hours during every night to breastfeed, and each time I was told that if I'd just give the baby some formula they'd let me sleep for four hours rather than two. I finally gave in on the last night because I was so exhausted and gave him some formula. The nurse failed to note it in the chart, the shift changed, and I was again awakened less than an hour later (as two hours had elapsed since the last time I had been awakened to breastfeed).

Unfortunately, I lost it. "I gave him formula just like I was told because I'm desperate to sleep. And now you're waking me up less than an hour later again!" I was so damn exhausted. I'm sorry I screamed, but I'm also sorry the nurse who promised me four hours of sleep (that I desperately needed) didn't note the freaking FORMULA in the chart that would have guaranteed me some sleep, barring my son waking sooner.

Good god. Breastfeeding friendly? Not. Waving the lure of sleep under an exhausted mother's nose everytime you wake her in the middle of the night to feed her child (who's sleeping contentedly, by the way, and has no indicators for blood sugar issues or anything) by mentioning formula when you know she's trying to exclusively breastfeed is just... not right. It wouldn't hurt the baby to go one four hour stretch of night, if he desired, without feeding. Not just one four hour stretch, so an exhasted new mother who was in pain could get a little much needed rest.

Then there was the nurse who I asked for help changing my son's diaper on my second day in. I'd been changing it the whole time (there was 100% rooming in), but this particular day he'd peed on me four times already and I just needed an extra set of hands. She was pissed off (I'd never seen this particular nurse before) and said, "You're going to have to know how to do that by yourself once you get home, you know."

Uhm, no, I'm not. My husband will be there, for one thing. Plus I know how to change a diaper, as noted by the fact that I've been changing him since he was born. All I wanted was a little help. I was sleep deprived, in pain from the episiotomy and the epidural bruise, and had just been whizzed on repeatedly, to add insult to injury. I'm sorry I just needed a little hand.

I finally went home, exhausted and upset. I was overjoyed with my son, but I didn't get any sleep as he decided to wake up once we left the hospital and entertained us thoughout every night with his howls that lasted for hours. It was months before I started to feel even semi normal again, and all through that time, I kept wondering...

What could I have done differently? Should I have kept my mouth shut at the hospital and let my husband give incorrect information? What about the nurse who about bit my head off about the crying with her lousy stick? I didn't say anything to her. Should I have complained? Should I have...

I just don't know. All I knew then, which I still know now, is that I was never going to give birth in that hospital again (which, insurance-wise, was my only option), barring medical necessity.

I'm going to break this into two posts. This one has gone on long enough.

All in a Week

Well, it's been about a week since I updated. Sorry 'bout that. Life happens.

On Monday evening I was desperately trying to come up with some kind of post to put up here and even hit on the old "100 Things About Me" saw.

I hit 38 before Heroes came on and I had to stop. In fact, #38 was that I was saving the post as a draft because I had to watch Heroes.

Hey, it was a thing about me, yanno? I might eventually get it finished and put it up. Then again, it might languish forever in "Save as Draft"-land.

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Obviously, I'm having some trouble putting words to this screen. I'm having trouble reading, even. I have at least five books in progress, reading-wise, and I haven't finished one of them yet. A few are re-reads. A few are new books that on some level I'd like to finish reading, but just don't have the energy to go ahead with.

It's annoying on both the writing and reading fronts.

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I'm still mad at my GYN. I'm coming to the conclusion that the man is an asshole, at least in his interactions with me. Or, as my father would say, he has a serious case of cranio-rectal inversion. After all these tests, after all this bleeding, he couldn't even be troubled to talk to me about what his diagnosis was, on what he was basing the diagnosis, and why he arrived at the two possible courses of action for this issue. No, just have the nurse call, give two "choices... erm... options," and call it a day.

Never mind that lovely analogy she used ("It's like if you wallpaper a room, then decide you don't like the wallpaper so you put up some new over it, then you do the same thing in a few more months... eventually the wallpaper is going to come down in places because it simply can't bear its own weight.") doesn't appear to be applicable in my case. All test results showed a normal endometrium. Pelvic ultrasound showed a normal endometrial thickness. Endometrial biopsy showed a normal endometrium with signs of recent ovulation, dating at day 22 in the cycle. Nowhere in those test results was there a sign that I had a problem that involved an endometrium that had a few too many layers of wallpaper on it.

Never mind that, when I objected to bleeding even MORE than I already was, she just blew me off.

Never mind that I was never even given any type of diagnosis.

I did the math yesterday. Out of the past 90 days, I've bled for 49 of them. FORTY-NINE. That's well over half. And this is considered not worthy of even having my doctor speak with me regarding his findings. No, I get the wallpaper analogy.

Good grief.

Wait...

I just looked back at my "It Seems Griping Works" post. My ultrasound showed NORMAL endometrial thickness.

So why is my doctor proposing a drug that will knock out the "thickened" uterine lining to the walls?

What happened to the "normal" endometrial thickness?

I don't get this.

AT ALL.

Updates, Various

I think I hate this past month or so. It's pretty much sucked more than one of those Dyson vacuums (which I seriously covet) is rumored to do... only in a really fracking BAD way.

And Speed, yeah, I'm wondering why parrots live so long and our fuzzy little friends go so quickly. I'm sure there are people out there with parrots who are passionately attached to them and have very affectionate relationships with their birds. I'm likewise sure there is both joy and pain in knowing that your pet is very likely to outlive you, but at this moment in my life? I'd take that over what I'm feeling now.

The same day Little Guy died is the day I had my endometrial biopsy. My doctor did prescribe the Valium (5 mg, 1/2 Wednesday night and 1/2 Thursday morning). He was going to do two, but I'm a total lightweight with meds, so I told them I only needed one. Considering Thursday, I should have kept my big fat mouth shut and just let him give me two. Ah, hindsight.

At least the Valium was well timed, all things considered.

At any rate, it was MUCH less ooky than the cervical biopsy I had 12 years ago. That one involved tissue removal with some sort of snipper thingie, which was decidedly less than fun. This one mostly involved kind of sucking stuff from the endometrium with a straw, to put it in very basic and likely incredibly inaccurate terms. The worst part for me was when he placed the tenaculum to dilate the cervix. The actual biopsy bit wasn't an issue. There was no cramping at all, even though I was warned there would be some as the uterus really doesn't like things going into it (smart uterus!).

What there has been alot of is spotting. And more spotting. And semi-period-ish stuff, followed by more spotting. My last period ended on April 13th, and the biopsy was done on April 26th, so that means I got a whopping two weeks free of sanitary supplies. Yippie freaking ki yay. I'm calling in tomorrow to see if I should still be spotting, or if I should chalk it up to a slow-starting and light-for-me period.

I should have the results back at the end of this week, and am to call in Friday if they haven't called me by Thursday so someone can find out what the hold up is.

In other, happier news, I have three cats! A dear little girl named Emily came to join our family on Saturday.

You can see her Catster page here:
http://www.catster.com/cats/472892

(You'll likely have to copy/paste it because I can't seem to get Blogger's "Insert URL" feature to work.)

We didn't get her because we lost Little Guy. I'd actually been pitching Emily to my husband for a few days prior to LG's decline and demise. Big reason I wanted her? She's a GIRL! And she's a cute snuggly little affectionate feline as well. But most of all: GIRL!

I've been pretty outnumbered by the tripods here. At last count there were three human males, two feline males, and one canine male. And me. Six to one. GACK! But now? it's 5:2. Boo on the downslide to five, but yay on the two!

It did become a bit of a hard call going to get her, considering my Beast's death. I tossed and turned the idea around in my head and finally decided that as I'd been planning to get her prior to that particular event, that I wasn't breaking the cardinal rule of "Never EVER immediately get a pet to replace one that's just died." I didn't get her to replace my boy... no animal ever could replace him, bless his little incontinent heart (I warned y'all I'm a bit inappropriate with this grief thing). I got her because I needed a girl.

And now I have her. Welcome home, Emily. And if you knock Little Guy's ashes off the piano, we're going to have to have a little talk about respect for the dead.

(Uhm, I mentioned inappropriate, right? Yeah.)

Still Nothing

First of all, hiyas Speed! Yes, I'm actually updating this thing again, miracle of miracles. Feel free to comment whenever. In fact, all four of my regular readers (do I have that many?), please comment away!

Now, on to the topic at hand.

Last Monday, April 16th, I went to my GYN about this period insanity. His nurse told me I should hear back on the blood testing in the next day or two. I've heard nothing.

I went in Wednesday for the pelvic ultrasound. They said I should hear something in a week to ten days. They've still got time, but at this point? Nada.

The PAP results should have been in within a week. It's the next Tuesday now. And what have I heard? Zip, zero, zilch.

Most of this wouldn't be a problem as they still have time to get the results in. However, I did call the doctor's office regarding the blood tests. The lady I spoke to that time told me I wouldn't hear for (wait for it) a week to ten days. I told her that I'd been told a day or two on the blood work, and I'd like to know because I needed to know if I was going to live or die -- yes I was a bit stressed. She checked the lab results, said they were all in, and she couldn't figure out why I was worried! Did I have any family with a cancer history? (No) No one who died early inexplicably? (No) Well, I was just fine and I'd hear from them on the results as soon as the doctor signed off on them.

Uhm, excuse me? But the reason I was worried is that my GYN himself appears to be convinced there's Something Very Terribly Wrong with me. THAT is why I was panicky. If he'd just said something like, "Well, you've said that your mother told you she had this same type of bleeding pattern, so perimenopause is a possibility and we'll do testing to see if your hormone levels reflect that. On the other hand, abnormal bleeding can also be a sign of various reproductive disorders (he wouldn't have to use the c-word, and could hold it in reserve in case I asked for specifics... which I would have). You don't have any in your family, but I also want to do testing along those lines to rule anything out."

See how easy that was? No panic, none of this, "I don't think you're pre-menopausal or perimenopausal. There are tests I need to run, because there are... 'things'... that can cause this type of bleeding, and we need to find out what's going on."

I hope it's apparent how his actual portrayal of the facts to me might have, I don't know, FREAKED ME OUT???

I'm peeved, in case you couldn't tell.

I also looked over this post and noticed I've used a bunch of question marks in it. I guess that's appropriate because I am questioning what in the hell is going on here. I don't know why my doctor practically dismissed early menopausal symptoms out of hand when he KNOWS my mother's reproductive history. I don't know why I still haven't heard from them officially on the test results when they know I'm scared shitless. I don't know why the woman I spoke to would even THINK to question me about why I'm freaked.

Holy Jesus God, people.

I'm not just peeved. I'm pissed.