I often feel like I am living out these crisis scenarios where a split second decision means the difference between survival and permanent psychological damage. It's as if I'm in some Mom Boot Camp training where I'm being presented with impossible situations and I'm expected to either fight or curl up in a corner and wait for dishonorable discharge. If I were dropped into the Amazon with nothing but a butter knife I think I'd have better odds sometimes. It's like life is trying to weed me out as one of the weak ones. Does she have the guts to make it? Or will she crack?
Here's an example. The other day, after finally getting the baby down for her nap, I anxiously opened the box which held her new play pen. Her grandma had gotten it for her for Christmas and it had just arrived. I couldn't wait to get it out and set it up because I had picked it out, mostly for its many unique features. Now, I was up against a deadline because I had an appointment later in the day. However, I was pretty confident that with the baby fast asleep I could focus and get it done. No such luck.
I no sooner started undoing the contents of the box, when the first wave of hazing began. Mandie and Maggie were barking to come in from outside so I dropped what I was doing to go and let them in. Just then, I heard noises coming from the baby swing. She was waking up. I let the dogs in and peeked my head into the other room to check on her. Some stirring but nothing to be alarmed about just yet. So, I went back to the box. I started wrestling out the contents. Suddenly I was overwhelmed by the smell of shit. I looked down to see Mandie standing next to me, completely unaware of herself. She had crapped outside and apparently had brought it into the house on her back end. It was all over her.
Then the baby really began to fuss. Definitely awake now. With pieces of the play pen in my hands I stood there frozen for a split second. I could here the voice of a drill sergeant in my head. "The dog has shit herself! The baby has too and now she's pissed! You're knee deep in it now soldier! What do you do? WHAT DO YOU DO?!?!?
So, I dropped the play pen, grabbed the dog, threw her in the tub, grabbed cleaning and sanitizing supplies, scrubbed her ass, rinsed her off, cleaned the tub, scrubbed myself up, grabbed the baby and off we went for a diaper change. But on my way through the kitchen I tossed a bottle in some hot water and threw away my rubber gloves. Oh yeah. And I even got the play pen put together before the appointment rounded the corner.
Not all crises are such successes however. Sometimes, you barely escape with your life. Just the other night, Chris and I had returned from shopping, baby in tow. We all were hungry and tired. The baby was very unsatisfied with our parenting skills for the moment but Chris was trying to feed her while I unpacked groceries and tried to fix him something to eat. About halfway towards bedtime for Mariella, the dogs came in from outside and thus began the unraveling.
Chris was wrestling Mariella to bed and left a half-eaten sandwich on the coffee table. Mandie walked past us and left behind her another trail of stench so fowl that the Christmas tree sagged. She had poop on her back end again. Almost as if it had been rehearsed, Maggie took the sandwich from the plate on the table and ate it while Mandie dragged her butt across the living room carpet, leaving a skid mark at least a yard long. The baby continued to scream as she and Chris came back out of the bedroom. When he noticed that his sandwich was now lying prey to Maggie on the floor, he started yelling, too. Then the smell caught him and the poop stain on the carpet struck him dumb. Mariella continued to cry. Just then, the sergeant in my head started getting in my face again.
"Sweet son of a bitch, soldier you've got a dandy of a bullshit situation on your hands now! You better get your shit together soldier or these bastards are going to chew a hole right through your ass! The dog has spread shit like peanut butter all over the goddamn carpet! The other dog is tearing through that sandwich like a lion on a gazelle and your husband is about ready to string them both up by their tits! And the baby is ready to walk out and find new parents! Whatcha gonna do soldier?!?!?! WHATCHA GONNA DO?!?!?!?!
You know, sometimes you just have to put down your arms and admit defeat. Surrender without incident. Because sometimes you just can't fight it. The shit is going to hit the carpet and there's not a damn thing you can do to stop it. Chris got the baby settled and into bed while I made him a new sandwich. Then I got down and cleaned up the stain on the carpet and got Mandie cleaned up again. Halfway through his sandwich, Chris took a deep breath and sighed. He looked over at me on the floor and said, "It's been a hell of a night."
I smiled and took a deep breath, too. I couldn't even say anything. I just nodded and kept scrubbing. I knew that tomorrow was bringing more and I was going to have to regroup and be ready to face it. Because I'm a soldier and that's what we do.
Monday, December 21, 2009
Friday, December 11, 2009
Stoned
It's still not over. I'm not out of the woods yet. Since the birth of my daughter I have had more doctor's appointments and trips to the emergency room than ever in my life. I have seen the inside of a hospital so many times that I now have my favorite nurses. And I'm about to go in a few more times before the end of the year. Two weeks after I delivered, I had a gallbladder attack. I of course did not know at the time what it was, just that it was some of the worst pain I had ever experienced. Right up there with the labor pains I had endured a few weeks earlier. The pain was so bad that night that it caused vomiting, diarrhea and chest pains severe enough to constrict my breathing. I thought, "Here it is. The H1N1 flu virus has gotten me. This is it. I'm dying."
Turns out, I was passing a gallstone. Who knew a knot of cholesterol the size of a pebble could make you pray for a swift death. Since that night, I have had at least 10 additional attacks, on average, about one a week. At first, Vicodin was heading off the pain when one would strike. But recently, it is taking more drugs and more time for the pain to subside. In the meantime, I practice my Lamaze breathing, I meditate and I try to relax in a hot bath.
The discussion of having the gallbladder removed has been going on since the first attack but Chris was not convinced initially that surgery was the best option. So he did some research and found a homeopathic remedy for gallstones and encouraged me to try it first. So, a month ago, I did my first flush. This consists of fasting, drinking dissolved Epsom salts, then drinking olive oil and lemon juice. The next day is spent running to the bathroom every twenty minutes. During the first flush, I wasn't confident it would work. Upon having a bowel movement one is supposed to be able to see small green stones in the toilet. But the first time I ran to the potty, nothing popped up. Then they arrived. It was like Christmas morning! I was so excited. I woke Chris up at about 4 a.m. to give him the news and asked him if he wanted to see them. He opted to stay in bed.
Thankful for the success of the home remedy, I was mistakenly under the impression I was now stone free. I was wrong. A few weeks later, the pain hit again. Hard. So I prepared for my second flush. This time I was going to get more involved in the process to be sure many stones came out. That day I called Chris at work.
"Honey, can you do me a favor on your way home from work?" I asked.
"Sure, what do you need?"
"I need you to stop by the store and pick up a small sieve."
"A sieve. Ok. What for?"
"I'm going to be prospecting for gallstones."
"Are you serious?"
I'm sure at this point he was thinking he had created a monster because anyone who was willing to pick through their own poop was surely mad. But I wanted verification in numbers and the only way to do that was to rescue the stones and collect them in a baggie. So, that's what I did. With the sieve, rubber gloves and several disinfecting supplies, I set out on my quest for the mother lode. In all, I collected more than 15 stones that were larger than a pea. Now because cholesterol will eventually melt and because I wanted to save them to show the doctor, I did what any rational person would do. I stored the baggie of stones in the freezer.
The next day, I met with the surgeon to discuss options and I brought my stones with me. When he came into the room, he introduced himself and began talking about my symptoms and issues. Then he stopped dead in his tracks upon discovering a small baggie on the counter with a strange substance inside. He peered at it curiously, leaned over to get a closer look and then said, "What is this? Did you bring this in?"
"Yes, those are my gallstones."
"Really. And how did you come by these?" he asked, humored.
"I flushed them out," I said proudly.
"You did. And how did they come out? Through your stool?" He seemed amused, shocked and a little put off all at the same time.
"Yes. It wasn't pleasant, but there they are."
"Interesting. I have to say, no one has ever brought their stones in with them. We don't see this sort of thing around here very often. Would you mind if I showed them around?"
"Be my guest," I said.
So, like show-and-tell, the nurse picked up the baggie and toured my stones around the office. After a few moments of Q & A with the surgeon I returned home to think about having the surgery. Basically my options now are to either live in constant fear of having another attack every time I eat fat or to shit myself every time I eat fat. When they say pregnancy is hell on your body, you think sure, stretch marks, saggy boobs but you never imagine that it could mean losing parts of your body or having chronic diarrhea for the rest of your life. So anyway, I'm not out of the woods yet. Basically, my experience with pregnancy is still resonating and I'm still not back to normal. Now, I'll never be. Instead, I'll forever be one organ less than normal and one ass explosion away from a very humiliating situation.
Turns out, I was passing a gallstone. Who knew a knot of cholesterol the size of a pebble could make you pray for a swift death. Since that night, I have had at least 10 additional attacks, on average, about one a week. At first, Vicodin was heading off the pain when one would strike. But recently, it is taking more drugs and more time for the pain to subside. In the meantime, I practice my Lamaze breathing, I meditate and I try to relax in a hot bath.
The discussion of having the gallbladder removed has been going on since the first attack but Chris was not convinced initially that surgery was the best option. So he did some research and found a homeopathic remedy for gallstones and encouraged me to try it first. So, a month ago, I did my first flush. This consists of fasting, drinking dissolved Epsom salts, then drinking olive oil and lemon juice. The next day is spent running to the bathroom every twenty minutes. During the first flush, I wasn't confident it would work. Upon having a bowel movement one is supposed to be able to see small green stones in the toilet. But the first time I ran to the potty, nothing popped up. Then they arrived. It was like Christmas morning! I was so excited. I woke Chris up at about 4 a.m. to give him the news and asked him if he wanted to see them. He opted to stay in bed.
Thankful for the success of the home remedy, I was mistakenly under the impression I was now stone free. I was wrong. A few weeks later, the pain hit again. Hard. So I prepared for my second flush. This time I was going to get more involved in the process to be sure many stones came out. That day I called Chris at work.
"Honey, can you do me a favor on your way home from work?" I asked.
"Sure, what do you need?"
"I need you to stop by the store and pick up a small sieve."
"A sieve. Ok. What for?"
"I'm going to be prospecting for gallstones."
"Are you serious?"
I'm sure at this point he was thinking he had created a monster because anyone who was willing to pick through their own poop was surely mad. But I wanted verification in numbers and the only way to do that was to rescue the stones and collect them in a baggie. So, that's what I did. With the sieve, rubber gloves and several disinfecting supplies, I set out on my quest for the mother lode. In all, I collected more than 15 stones that were larger than a pea. Now because cholesterol will eventually melt and because I wanted to save them to show the doctor, I did what any rational person would do. I stored the baggie of stones in the freezer.
The next day, I met with the surgeon to discuss options and I brought my stones with me. When he came into the room, he introduced himself and began talking about my symptoms and issues. Then he stopped dead in his tracks upon discovering a small baggie on the counter with a strange substance inside. He peered at it curiously, leaned over to get a closer look and then said, "What is this? Did you bring this in?"
"Yes, those are my gallstones."
"Really. And how did you come by these?" he asked, humored.
"I flushed them out," I said proudly.
"You did. And how did they come out? Through your stool?" He seemed amused, shocked and a little put off all at the same time.
"Yes. It wasn't pleasant, but there they are."
"Interesting. I have to say, no one has ever brought their stones in with them. We don't see this sort of thing around here very often. Would you mind if I showed them around?"
"Be my guest," I said.
So, like show-and-tell, the nurse picked up the baggie and toured my stones around the office. After a few moments of Q & A with the surgeon I returned home to think about having the surgery. Basically my options now are to either live in constant fear of having another attack every time I eat fat or to shit myself every time I eat fat. When they say pregnancy is hell on your body, you think sure, stretch marks, saggy boobs but you never imagine that it could mean losing parts of your body or having chronic diarrhea for the rest of your life. So anyway, I'm not out of the woods yet. Basically, my experience with pregnancy is still resonating and I'm still not back to normal. Now, I'll never be. Instead, I'll forever be one organ less than normal and one ass explosion away from a very humiliating situation.
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