Am I sane?

2009-02-14T16:33:00.002-05:00

I'll just jump right into this one.
Back when I was about 15 I started having what I know now to be panic attacks. At the time I just thought I was dying. Truly. I remember I had my first one on the school bus. So, now, public transportation of ANY kind is a huge obstacle for me.
Anyway, I continued to have them, well, forever. Because I still have them. That's 22 years of unnecessary adrenalin pumping through my veins, washing over my body and saturating my heart. This cannot be good for my health. At first the panic attacks came infrequently, but they progressed to being daily in my early 20's. At one point I was almost housebound for a year or so. Going out to get my mail was an accomplishment, walking my dog around the block was almost always a failure, and grocery shopping was impossible. Due to my emet, when I have panic attacks, I am unable to eat, so throughout my 20's and early 30's, I was exceptionally thin. Like, accused-of-having-an-eating-disorder thin. I went from a curvy, healthy, slightly plump weight of 120-125 down to a skeletal 92 in a few short months. In my mid-20's I was FINALLY diagnosed with panic attacks and depression and put on an antidepressant and anti-anxiety medications. They helped immensely and I was able to function much better in the world.

Which brings us to now......well, last year really. Being on daily medications for 13 years was taking its toll on me mentally and physically. I was always tired. And not just tired, but genuinely fatigued. To the point that some afternoons I was physically unable to keep my eyes open. My children got used to seeing me in bed. ALL the time. I also had gained 20 (yes TWENTY!) pounds over the last 2 years. I decided I had to go off the anti-depressant and see if that would alleviate the fatigue, help me lose weight and give me my life back! I talked to my doctor and very slowly weaned myself off of the AD over a period of 6-8 weeks. In a very short amount of time I started having more energy! I even hired a personal trainer to start working out to try to lose that weight. I had pretty much stopped having regular panic attacks and therefore was eating very well and was in no danger of anyone thinking I had an eating disorder....unless it was overeating ;-) I had completely stopped my AD in April and decided in May that I wanted to wean myself off the anti-anxiety med which I had taken every single day for the last 13 years. (I had previously went off the AD several times over the 13 year period I was on it). I wanted to see how I could cope without any medication. Like a normal person. Again, I talked to my doctor and very slowly weaned myelf off the anti-anxiety medication and was med free by July. Yay me!
Things went well for quite a few months. In late December/early January I was feeling a bit depressed, but weathered it and attributed it to the winter blahs. There is always a chance I will have to go back on them, but for now I'm ok.
Now, for the anti-anxiety meds.....I'm not so sure I am doing well off of them. Back in the early winter I realized I was having more panic attacks, and closer together. And, even worse, my panic attacks were manifesting themselves in what I refer to as 'episodes' wherein I typically wake up in the middle of the night and a panic, thinking I am sick, and I fight getting sick for hours until I collapse into a phenergan induced coma. Then I am unable to eat for days.......and sometimes-- like today- these episodes come on out of the clear blue in the middle of the day....
I am just so exhausted. A couple weeks ago I decided to start taking my anti-anxiety every other evening to see if it will reduce or eliminate (or at least reduce the severity of!) my panic episodes. When these episodes come on, I usually start out feeling fidgity and progressing to feeling like I am coming out of my skin. In the midst of them, I also feel deeply depressed and wonder how I am supposed to get through life having to endure these things over and over and over and over and over and over again :-( And at this point, I cannot understand how I will. It's depressing, honestly. And exhausting. The episodes can progress to me feeling like I'm going to throw up for several hours and I typically must take some of my anti-anxiety meds and some phenergan in order to survive them. I admit that each one I go through makes me want to die. It remains to be seen if the addition of the anti-anxiety meds on an every-other-night basis will help with reducing/preventing/reducing the severity of the episodes.
But I pray that it will. Otherwise I will have to go back on my anti-depressant and go back into hibernation for the rest of my life :(

This was a very depressing post. I'm sorry!

Reflections....

2009-01-06T00:27:00.004-05:00

So tonight is premier night for a ton of TV shows I watch. One is The Secret Life of the American Teenager. It's about this 15 year old girl who gets pregnant. On tonight's episode, she marries her high school sweetheart......and they elope to do it. It took me back 19 years to when I married Chuck in the Mayor's court of the City of Englewood on May 18, 1990. Looking back....I realize I was so young, so naive. I think I've become jaded. Anytime I see really young people getting married I think, uh-oh, that can't last. I know, it's not nice, but it's what I think. Probably because I've taken the plunge five times. That is not a typo. And I was actually engaged (with a ring!) at least 3 additional times. I dunno, I guess I'm addicted to love. Or engagement rings ;-)

But back to Chuck....I was so in love with him. I truly wanted to spend the rest of my life with him. I wanted to have his babies. So what happened? Why did I change my mind? Why did I change it so many other times, too? This is something I have been talking about in therapy and something I really haven't gotten an answer to yet. I guess, with Chuck, I just didn't realize the true meaning of what I was doing. That I should have put someone else's happiness ahead of my own. I'm so sad remembering that. Chuck wanted to have babies very quickly. I did not. I wonder if I had just listened to him, where would my life have been? Would I still be with him? Would we be celebrating our 19th anniversary this year? I'm not sure I 'regret' anything I've done, though I do reflect on those things that I wouldn't repeat and wonder how my life would have turned out if I hadn't done that thing or made that choice. I heard a quote somewhere that I love..."Regrets are mistakes I didn't learn from, and I learn from all my mistakes, so I don't have regrets"....or something close to that. You get the idea. I think it's a nice sentiment. Of all my divorces, I miss Chuck the most. And not even in a "I want to get back together" way....I just miss him. I miss me from those days. I was so young. I guess that's what I miss the most. My youth.

Wow

2009-01-04T02:44:00.002-05:00

I cannot believe how long it has been since I wrote a blog. I guess it's because I use myspace most of the time, but sometimes a girl's just gotta blog and not be distracted by all the other stuff on sites like myspace.

Anyway.....wow, yea. I'm 2 years older. And really finally realizing it. I was lying in bed a few nights ago and realized... I'm getting old. I am beyond my 'hot' years. This revelation was disquieting to say the least. I had an awkward childhood, then awkward teen years. I was cute, but because I had been such a geek in elementary school, I never saw myself as cute. Then in my late teens and early 20s I was so sick all the time, and so very thin (92 pounds at one point), that I didn't have the energy to appreciate my youth and budding beauty. My late 20s and early 30s, however, were HOT DAMN! I had some great times, I really felt good about my body and attractive, I dated alot.....they were good years. As I reflect, they were most definitely my most attractive years. At one point I had a cougar phase and, at 31, I briefly dated an 18 year old. BARELY 18. Yea, I know! In my defense, I had met him in a bar and he was wearing a wristband (indicating that he was at least 21) and he had told me he was 24. A couple weeks later, I saw his driver's license and discovered that not only was he only 18, but he had just turned 18 two months prior! Oy vey! AND he was still in high school! He had been able to hide it for a couple weeks because he went to a vocational school where he worked for 2 weeks, then attended school for 2 weeks, then back to work, etc. I had met him the weekend prior to his 2 week work phase and went and met him for lunch at his job site several times, he came and spent the night with me, etc. What was even worse was that I was only a couple years younger than his mother! Literally! Anyway, we split when I discovered how old he really was, but we remain friends. But, yea, it was a lot of fun (and very flattering!) to be 31 and have this hot, young, hardbodied teenager interested in me. As I laid in bed the other night, however, I realize that this will not be possible for me again. Well, I mean, I'm married so of course it won't happen again....but I'm just saying...if I was single, it's not gonna happen. I notice the loss of elasticity in the skin on my face and neck. I'm starting to look haggard. I can only imagine what I will look like in another 10 years. I've always prided myself on looking much younger than I am...and even well into my 30's, I was always mistaken for being in my 20s. I doubt that would ever happen again and it saddens me. It puts me closer to death, lol. Seriously, tho, I know there have to be plenty of women out there who have went through this revelation...and I wonder, how do you handle it? It's almost overwhelming to think about, but not something you can really ask someone else. I mean, if you say "Hey, I just wondered how you felt when you realized you weren't a hot young thing anymore?".....you are essentially saying 'You are not a hot young thing anymore', and that is as patently unacceptable as asking a women when she is due when she has not personally, herownself, told you that she is expecting. (Another mistake I made once, and never repeated. Oh, the embarrassment!).....So, any words of advice? Shoot them my way!

My phobia rears it's ugly head....

2006-07-03T02:38:00.000-04:00

Well, as most of you who read this know, I suffer from emetophobia {fear of vomiting} (and I DO mean SUFFER). Well, my eldest has woken us about 45 minutes ago with vomiting and he had another bout about 5 minutes ago. His stepfather, Doug, bless his heart is taking care of everything and I have simply grabbed my laptop and ran outside. Had to take an extra dose of tranquilizer and I'm freaking. All you "normal" people out there are going "what the hell is her problem??!! Her kid threw up. So what." Well, it is a BIG deal to me, that is why it is a PHOBIA. In irrational fear. And I KNOW that it is "not a big deal"....my mind really does know that.....but when something triggers me, my phobia kicks in and that's all she wrote :-( I REALLY hope no one else catches whatever he has.....poor kid.

Rosemary's Baby

2006-05-15T18:50:00.000-04:00

Yes, I did it. I designed this shirt for my little angel.....go ahead and laugh- you know you wanna!

The Aftermath

2006-05-15T18:19:00.000-04:00

OK, so as I'm getting discharged from the hospital I'm told that I cannot drive (ok, not so bad) & cannot go up or down ANY stairs. Um, not an option. We live in a quad level home. You walk in and you are in the living room, walk through that and you are in the kitchen and dining room. To get to the downstairs (which has a family room, bathroom, office and laundry room) and the basement you have to-- yes, go downSTAIRS. Or, alternatively, if I wanted to go up to the bathroom and bedrooms, I had to go upSTAIRS. I did opt to sleep on the couch so I would be more comfortable (it was easier to get up and down from the couch than the bed), BUT I had to make several trips a day up the stairs or down the stairs to one of the bathrooms. It was a slow and painful process, I can assure you. I would place one hand on my incision site as if to protect anything from falling out and then use my other hand and arm to try and pull myself slowly up or down the stairs. Then, when I actually made it to the bathroom, I had to carefully undo my girdle thing, then SLOWLY lower myself onto the toilet. Probably TMI, but I'm just being honest here and want ya'll to realize how painful it was!! After I was done peeing, I had to SLOWLY stand back up, very gently pull my drawers up and then put my girdle back on (OH! I LOVED my girdle!!! it made me feel more secure :-) then I'd shuffle my way slowly back to the couch. I repeated this process many times over the next 10 days or so. It took a good 2-3 weeks after the surgery for me to feel human again, but the bright spot is that I lost alot of my pregnancy weight very quickly! (Hey, gotta try and find a bright spot here).
Now, here I am 10 months post partum and I'm down to and stuck at 120. I want to be at, like 112-114. I guess if I actually worked out sometime I might get there. Bikini season is almost here, so I'm gonna do my best.....will update again tomorrow and let ya'll know some new things that have been going on. Ciao, mi bellas!

The LONG awaited ending to my birth story....

2006-05-14T01:49:00.000-04:00

I figured I better get this done before the baby turns one, eh?
OK, so where were we? Oh, yea, in recovery after the c-section, shivering uncontrollably....

So, after shaking like an epileptic with no meds for an hour or so, I finally was able to regain a little bit of composure about myself. They piled on blankets and this really cool heat filled thing that resembled a pool raft and it helped to warm me up and was really cozy :-) Doug went on to the nursery with Jaxon while I slept.
Several family members were able to come back into the recovery area and visit with me, but I was pretty out of it and don't remember a lot...I know my mom was there and Doug's mom was there and I think Heather, Dad, Glenda & Greg all came back, too. Greg had taken some pictures of Jaxon getting his first bath on his digital camera and he showed them to me. I was getting REALLY anxious to see my little munchkin and was kind of jealous that everyone else was getting to see him EXCEPT me....Doug finally came back and then Jaxon was-- FINALLY-- wheeled in in his little hospital bassinet so I could see him!! I had them sit my bed up a bit so I could hold him and the first thing I did was take his knit cap off so I could see his head and ears and hair. I hadn't seen anything except his scrunched up little face when I was in the surgical suite and I needed to see him, all of him, all his parts. Unfortunately, since they swaddle the newborns up like little burritos, I was only able to see his head and his hands, but that was enough, for now. The nurses took him back to the transitional nursery and finally wheeled me up to my room around 5:30 or 6pm. Jaxon's blood sugar had dropped and he was having trouble maintaining his temperature so he had to stay upstairs in the transitional nursery for awhile longer. He was finally brought down to my room around 8pm and I was able to nurse him a little. I was still on IV fluids and I still had my urinary catheter in. I actually LIKED the catheter! It meant I didn't have to get up to pee!! Call me weird. I was given Pitocin and precautionary antibiotics, as well as duramorph for pain. We slept off and on Wednesday night and Jaxon spent part of the night with us, and part in the nursery which was right across from our room. I spent most of the evening having my vitals checked every couple hours and C-A-R-E-F-U-L-L-Y and VERY slowly changing positions. After my surgery, then had bound my abdomen with a girdle and I LOVED IT. I wore it faithfully, even long after I was home from the hospital. It REALLY helped with the pain and walking....and I felt like my insides were going to fall out if I didn't wear it, LOL.

Thursday morning my catheter was removed and my IV fluids were stopped, though they kept my IV line in my arm to give me injectible torbuteline? torbitrol? something or other for pain. I refused any oral pain meds because I was afraid they would make me feel sick....I think I was the strangest OB patient they had ever seen. The nurses kept offering me Vicodin or Percoset or other narcotics for pain and I kept refusing. I guess most people ask for MORE and I was refusing to take any at all....after a c-section no less!...and they just didn't know what to make of me....I don't know if they thought I had some secret stash of something I was taking on the side or if they thought I was just crazy, but oh well...
Since my IV was out, I had to start taking things by mouth. I started out with sucking on ice chips and I ate a little jello and some saltines. My OB, Dr. Imbody came by to check on me and he explained that I had lost a lot more blood than usual during my surgery (damn that irritable uterus!) and that I was very anemic. My hemoglobin was only around 6.5 or so and if it dropped to 6 or below, then I would have to have a blood transfusion. Oh joy! Of course, all I could think about was that when we give dogs blood transfusions, they often vomit, so I was absolutely NOT going to let them put someone else's blood in me and take that chance. I begged them to let me take some vitamins and retest me in the morning, which they did. Friday morning (my birthday!!), my hemoglobin was up to 7.1 so I was saved from a transfusion and was very happy about that. Later in the morning, Dr Thesing stopped by to check on me and he explained that I had bled more because my uterus had been contracting so hard for so long (since 29 weeks, remember?!?) that it was just worn out and couldn't contract properly to stop the bleeding during the surgery. I'm so thankful that we went ahead and scheduled the c-section when we did or it could have been worse.
I continued nursing Jaxon Thursday and Friday. Thankfully, as with Gavin, he caught on easily and I didn't have any problems other than the HUGE bruise the nurse left on my boob when she was trying to show me how to get him to latch on properly. She squeezed my boob so hard, she left a bruise that lasted a week! I'm SO not kidding! Anyway.....Jaxon was circumcised by Dr Thesing on Friday and you could hear the poor thing crying all the way from the nursery into our hospital room :-(
The first time I got out of bed to pee was on Thursday after they removed my catheter. I waited as long as humanly possible before I did it, but finally my bladder was beyond full and I had to attempt the long walk to the john. It took several minutes to actually sit up, get my feet over the edge of the bed and then attempt to stand, but I managed to do it and it wasn't too bad because I had a lot of painkillers left in my system from the surgery. On Friday afternoon, everything started wearing off and I started getting really painful. It was very, very difficult and painful to get out of bed and walk a little in the halls, but I had to keep doing it. The nurses said it would make me recuperate faster, although after I was chatting a little with one of the nurses in the hall and she realized I was the anemic patient, her mouth literally dropped and she said she had NEVER seen anyone with a blood count as low as mine be able to get up and walk around. She was amazed and I just kept trucking along. I want to see if I can explain the pain I felt....There is, of course, the residual pain of having all those contractions for hours, days, weeks.....but, then there is the actual surgery pain. The only surgery I had had prior to this was to have my wisdom teeth removed when I was 25. I wasn't at all prepared for the pain. The incision was a horizontal incision very low on my bikini line, only about 6 inches across. For some reason, it hurt the worst on the right side of my body. Every single time I tried to get out of bed or change positions, it felt as if I were being stabbed and seared with a hot poker. I don't know how else to describe it. I now know what "searing pain" means. It's quite literal. On Friday, bless Doug's heart, he helped me to take a shower. This took quite a bit of planning and strategy. I managed to get up, shuffle into the bathroom, get undressed and s-l-o-w-l-y step into the shower (you'd be amazed at how much it hurts to step up 2 inches when your insides have just been dissected). Then I had to figure out whether I could stand for the shower or whether I was going to use one of those dorky looking "shower seats". Considering that the shower was only about as wide as my ass, I opted to stand so I could wash and get out quicker....I figured the seat thingy would just hamper things. Doug stood with me and helped me wash and he didn't even act grossed out when he saw me completely naked, jelly belly and all. He washed my hair and was just a wonderful husband. Then he helped me to get out and dry off and get my fishnet underwear and diapers back on. I don't know how on earth he could ever have wanted to have sex with me again after seeing all that, but bless him, he does :-) He also spent every single night at the hospital with me and only left to go home and feed the dogs. He had a little routine in the hospital where after I would nurse Jaxon, he would put him in his bassinet and take him for a ride around the hospital corridors....it was such a cute thing to see. I knew Doug would be a good dad, but I can tell you he is a GREAT dad......I was often heard exclaiming to anyone who would listen that if Doug had boobs, he wouldn't even need me because he does everything for Jax. OH, and to top everything off, he snuck off and told the nurses that it was my birthday on Friday and the cafeteria staff brought me a little birthday cake! My doctors wanted me to stay until Sunday, but I REALLY wanted to get home, so they released us on Saturday afternoon. It's amazing how quickly you are admitted to a hospital and how s-l-o-w-l-y they take to release you....guess they gotta milk the insurance companies for all they can, eh?

OK, here is a list of visitors we had while in the hospital:
I already mentioned who was there on Wednesday, but here is who came on Thursday:
Dad & Glenda (they brought Gavin who got to see Jaxon for the first time!! Gavin was SO excited-- he wanted to stay in the hospital with us!)
Gavin (obviously)
Helen & Sophia
Mom & Heather
Sara
Brandy, Jerry, Haylee & Ellie
Melanie
Friday visitors:
Dad, Glenda & Gavin
Donnie Rineer
Greg
Dorothy
Mom & Heather

So, that is the birth story of Jaxon Jett Ivey......and here is a picture of him today, at 9 months....

Trying again...

2006-03-15T00:08:00.000-05:00

to post a picture....

looks like it worked, but I can't get the darn layout right....well, here's a few pictures of my cheeky monkey and a few of me & Doug when we actually got to be adults and go out Friday night! I got to put on makeup. YAY for me!!

Time flies

2006-03-14T23:54:00.000-05:00

Oh my GOODNESS! Has it really been nearly 3 months since my last post?? I am SUCH a liar.I still need to write part 2 of my birth story before I forget it! As soon as I find my notes, I will write it...I promise!!!
Here's my little booger, at 6 months

OK, freaking blogger won't let me up load a pic for some odd reason....I'll try again tomorrow....wasn't this an exciting post!

Merry Christmas

2005-12-25T00:08:00.000-05:00

Yea, I said it. Merry. Christmas. I don't know why everyone has to get offended by something nowadays. Today is Christmas. The day we celebrate the birth of Jesus. The day non-Christians also celebrate family and friends and good food. When I was a kid, my best friend was Jewish. They had a Christmas tree up in their living room. So why, now, do so many people get "offended" by being wished a "Merry Christmas"....would they rather I say "go fuck yourself"??!! Yea, kinda extreme, I know, but that's how some people react. Stupid people....the same people who bitch about being wished a Merry Christmas haven't boycotted tha day as far as I can tell and love opening their presents as much as everyone else. Oh, well, c'est la vie. But as for me, it's MERRY CHRISTMAS & HAPPY NEW YEAR and may we all find something more productive to bitch about than someone saying a kind greeting to us. Like how we suck at feeding & housing our homeless. Or how we don't provide healthcare for ALL US citizens, etc, etc, etc.

MERRY CHRISTMAS TO ALL

AND TO ALL A GOOD NIGHT.....

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, JESUS!

Vestiges of pregnancy.....

2005-12-13T20:38:00.000-05:00

So, it's been 4 months now since I was cut open and my youngest son wrested from my body. I've survived the c-section, severe anemia, non-stop crying for hours on end (mine AND Jaxon's), functioned on an average of 13 minutes sleep and changed approximately 1,078 diapers. And those were the highlights :) Just kidding. Jaxon is a wonderful, sweet baby, even if he is what my grandmother terms, a "high needs child". And that, he is. He knows what he wants and you better had given it to him 5 minutes ago. And shame on you if you couldn't figure out what he wanted fast enough, damn it!

But I digress...I've been having some annoying little symptoms that haven't went away with time, so I went to the doctor today for a bit of a tune up. He checked me over, had a nurse draw some blood and then referred me to a proctologist for my "other" problem. That's right, I have to go see an ass doctor. And if you laugh, remember that karma will kick you in the ass. Pun intended. I'm REALLY looking forward to this. Yea. Like a root canal.

On an entirely unrelated note, I'm finally starting to get back into the swing of things and I hope to start posting more regularly in my blog. I never did write "part 2" of my birth story, so I really need to do that. Here's a picture of me & my big Elf.....oh, and Jaxon, too :)

Merry Christmas!!!!

Before I die.....

2005-12-06T00:21:00.000-05:00

I got to thinking the other day about all the things I want to do before I die....I mean, I'm already 34 and feel as if I've wasted away the vast majority of my life thusfar. I thought it would be interesting to make a list of the things I'd like to do before I leave this earth. And, hey, I'm gonna dream BIG! After all, it's my list & my life :)

1) Go back to Alaska
2) Own another horse
3) Win the lottery
4) See the pyramids in Egypt
5) Ride a horse on the beach
6) Go on a European vacation (ireland, italy, germany...)
7) Get in REALLY good shape and have the body I've always dreamed of
8) Get baptized
9) See the Holy cities-- Jeruselum, etc
10) Overcome my phobia
11) Write and publish a book
12) Act in something (play, film,whatever)
13) Graduate college
14) Go on a road trip out West
15) Breed a Westminster winning dog
16) Buy a really cool sportscar.....Accura NSX, Toyota Celica...something along those lines
17) Become a world famous photographer
18) Have my own newspaper column
19) Become a grandma
20) Retire to someplace warm and sunny

Hmmmmm.....that's all I can think of for now....

A little less fat and a lot more happy...

2005-10-23T21:58:00.000-04:00

Whoa. OK. It's been a loooong time since my last post and this one's gonna be a doozy....so grab a cuppa joe, tea, ice water, jack....whatever your poison is, and settle in for the ride. Or move on to the next blog. Your choice. But don't bitch about it being too long. I warned ya!

As you may have noticed if you've ever read my blog, I was pregnant. And hated every nanosecond of it. Now I'm not! YAYAY! I can't tell you how VERY happy, thrilled and ecstatic I am that I am currently no longer pregnant, nor will I ever again be in the future. But I digress....

It all started one dark and stormy night. Haha, just kidding. That's actually when he was conceived, which is an entirely different post. So, seriously, here we go....

I started having contractions at 29 weeks, as you may remember from my "I'd be irritable, too" post. The contractions continued on and off throughout the pregnancy, and got worse around 36 weeks. No one, and I mean NO ONE expected this kid to cook for the entire 40 weeks, much less OVER 40 weeks! No way, no how. We were allll wrong. So very, very wrong. When I was 39 weeks, 6 days pregnant, I had super-duper contractions for FIFTEEN hours, but as luck would have it, not a single, itty-bitty change in my cervix. No dilation, no effacement. They tried telling me that I was having "Braxton Hicks" contractions. Well, this ain't my first rodeo, cowboy, and those weren't BH contractions. Something was W.R.O.N.G., wrong. My OB examined me on Monday, August 8th, a day AFTER my due date, and told me that the baby's head simply wouldn't descend into the pelvis, hence the lack of progress despite the hours of horrendous pain.
So, we decided we'd better do a c-section before I killed myself. I'm kidding. Sort of.

On Wednesday, August 10, 2005, at 40 weeks, 3 days pregnant, I arrived at the hospital, scared shitless but wanting to get it over with already. Because of my retarded phobia, I was petrified that I would throw up at some point before, during or after the surgery. So, to all my emet friends that read my blog, I have a MUCH longer, intricately detailed version of this story that I will post just for you so you'll know exactly which meds I was given in which order and when to keep me from getting sick.

Now, for the normal people, I'll get on with the story.

I was to arrive at the hospital at 8:45am and my surgery was to take place at 10:45am. Has anything in this pregnancy went as planned?! Noooooo. So, although I arrived at 8:45am, my surgery wasn't until later than scheduled. MUCH later. But I've jumped ahead, let's rewind. I get to the hospital, get checked in and sent up to the obstetrical pre-op area. I took one look at all the hospital "gear"- IV's, beds, heart monitors, catheters, urine bags, emesis basins, etc, and I started bawling. I grabbed ahold of Doug, sobbing, and told him I couldn't do it. HAHAHA! As if I had a choice! You should've thought of this before-hand, genius. I really, honestly thought "I'm just NOT going to do this. Nuh-uh." Well, guess what? I had to do it. The first thing the nurses had me do was strip down to nothing and put on one of those large, printed handkerchiefs that they call "hospital gowns". And it wasn't like they had a changing room. They had me waddle over to a tiny community bathroom with not so much as a stool to sit on to change. Picture this: a large-- no, make that a VERY large, hairy pregnant woman trying to maintain her balance while changing out of her "street" clothes and into that horrid gown, all the while trying not to touch anything because it *might* have germs on it. Ewwww.
So, I get changed, put into bed, have all sorts of bodily fluids removed: blood for tests, pee for whatever. They put an IV in, shoot me up with some drugs and then tell me to just wait. And wait. And wait. And wait. Oh, and did I mention we had to wait? Then they were just downright cruel-- around an hour after my operation was originally scheduled for, the nurses came in and said that my OB was there and that I would be going into surgery. I thought, FINALLY! But, no sooner had the words passed their lips, they were apologizing and saying that he had to leave to go back to another hospital for an EMERGENCY. Um, HELLO! Ten-months-plus pregnant woman who hasn't eaten in twelve hours sitting right here! Here's your emergency!
Anywho, another few hours pass and he finally, really does come back to deliver me from my own personal hell. I get wheeled into the surgical suite, which is FREEZING. I mean, you can nearly see your breath. I get all hooked up with the epidural, which was REALLY funky-- it was like being paralyzed from the boobs down. Then they started carving me up like a Thanksgiving turkey. Then one of the doctors climbed up on the operating table and started jumping up and down on my abdomen. Well, ok, not literally, but that's pretty much what it felt like. It only took a few minutes and Voila! my baby was born. I had labored long and hard (pun intended), but was I even shown my little bundle of joy? Noooo! They whisked him away because, as I found out later, his Apgar was only 3 and my little munchkin needed some assistance to adjust to this cold, cruel world. Meanwhile, back at the operating table......remember my "irritable" uterus? Well, she turned out to be a real bitch. She'd been working so hard during my pregnancy, that when delivery time came, she crossed her proverbial arms and shook her head "no" and said "This chick ain't working no more, no sir!" and she refused to contract to stop my bleeding, so I started hemorrhaging, which was really fun. The magical doctor finally got it stopped, THEN he did the MOST IMPORTANT THING EVER-- he gave me a tubal ligation. YAY!!! NO MORE PREGNANCY! I was thrilled, to say the very least. Then I was stitched up and wheeled back to Recovery, where they gave me some lovely stuff called MORPHINE. You really should try it if you get the chance. I hadn't been in recovery for more than a minute when I started having this major seizure. Or, at least that's what it felt like. I was shaking so violently from head to toe, I was sure I was gonna shake myself right off the bed! The nursese came in and I asked them what was going on and they said "Oh, that's normal. But let us know if you need anything." Um, yea, I "need" to stop shaking! It was REALLY weird, but it did stop after about an hour.

I'll finish with part 2 when I get a few extra minutes in the next few days (hopefully!).

Glowing, my ass.

2005-07-27T19:28:00.000-04:00

Don't you just love it when people say pregnant women "glow"? I've been pregnant 3 times....1 resulted in a baby, 1 in a miscarriage and now I'm on my 3rd. And I've yet to glow. In fact, I DESPISE being pregnant. It sucks a big fat one. What on earth is fun about feeling sick for 10 months, getting fat, not being able to see your feet, not being able to shave your hoo-haa or your legs, having your legs, feet and hands swell up like little vienna sausages......and then, as the icing on the cake, you get to push a 7-9 pound child out your vagina! Oh, yea, that sounds like LOADS of fun. I'm thinking I really HAVE lost my mind to think that I actually did this to myself *on purpose* after having already experienced it once. I'm completely insane. There, I said it.

Oh, and maybe you noticed where I said "feeling sick for 10 months" and you're thinking....'oh, poor thing is so off, she doesn't even realize that pregnancy lasts NINE months, not 10.'

FAT CHANCE. The 9 month pregnancy is a myth perpetuated by MEN. Any woman who has ever carried a little/big parasite in her gut will tell you that pregnancy lasts FORTY weeks....sometimes 42. And 40 divided by 4 equals what?? You got it: TEN. Ten long months. Ten months in purgatory. Ten months of sharing your body with another being. Ten months of HELL.

One of my favorite books I've read during this pregnancy is "Pregnancy Sucks: What to do when your miracle makes you miserable" by Joanna Kimes. She is a pioneer. She has shattered the myth that *all* women enjoy pregnancy, and , glow.

So, I'm 38 1/2 weeks pregnant...or 9 1/2 months, however you want to look at it. And I hate my life right now. I want this kid OUT OF ME, yet I am also terrified of the whole process of getting him out!! I daydream about the good ole days when doctors just gave the mom to be a really cool cocktail of drugs and she went nighty-night while they took care of getting the baby out, cleaning it up and then presenting her with the bundle of joy after she woke up. But noooooo-- we've progressed!!! NOW, we get to experience all the joy and pain of pushing a watermelon through an opening the diameter of a banana. We get to be awake as we poop on the delivery table as we're trying to push the thing out. Yea, that's progress for ya. Kiss my ass.

Elvis lives!

2005-07-23T17:27:00.000-04:00

OK, so there's my handsome husband, Doug. He really does look like Elvis. Young Elvis. Pre-pill-poppin' Elvis. Except he's taller. And more handsome :)

I just have to give a shout out to the man on here. We've only been together since October of 2003. He's welcomed my 7 year old son with open arms, treating him as his own, taking him camping, taking him to Cub Scouts, etc. He's put up with my miserable pregnancy.......doing everything around the house: dishes, laundry, vacuuming......he even rubs my feet every night.

Not to mention that he has been sent to the barn quite a few times to take care of my horse, Romeo, when I haven't felt able. Oh, and he cleans out the dog kennel, too! Seriously, he's been such a wonderful husband, I feel truly blessed. And scared. I mean, I'm used to the assholes, ya know? The bad boys are the ones I always wanted and had to have. Now, here I am, married to not only a *nice* guy, but a nice guy with a college degree and a very nice job. I hit the lottery, folks! Oh-- and to put the icing on the cake-- I've NEVER had to clean a toilet since we've been together, bless his heart.

I gotta give him props...this pregnancy has been really hard on me.......BUT also, because it's been hard on me, it's been hard on him. He had to take over complete care of my son-- taking him to school, feeding him, getting him in bed at night, etc....during the first difficult months of my pregnancy when a trip to the bathroom was a feat in and of itself. He continued to work full time AND took over the entire household which included- in addition to my son, Gavin- 3 dogs and 1 horse. All without complaint. All without asking for anything in return. (OK, so I was baking his child in my belly, maybe that thought kept him going! LOL). As the pregnancy has progressed, I've felt better but I've gotten HUGE and developed some nasty habits. Like farting. All. night. long. And TOTALLY hogging the bed. He's 6'3". I'm 5'3". If he's lucky, he gets an 8 inch wide slice of our queen size bed. I think he only got up and slept on the couch once.

As I've said before, bless his heart.

If you're reading this, I love ya, hon! Thanks for putting up with me. Hopefully, only a few more days and then YOU can take care of Jaxon for 9 months!! Just kidding!! **Maybe! LOL!

Tweedle Dee

2005-07-09T18:45:00.000-04:00

I try to avoid looking in the mirror these days....for obvious reasons. Specifically, 45 of them. That is- the 45 pounds I've gained in this pregnancy! And maternity clothes are the product of satan. Sure, they're comfy. Just don't look in a mirror or you'll realize you could be a stunt double for TweedleDee or TweedleDum. HOW do the movie stars manage to gain nothing except a tiny little belly......I mean, it looks like they swallowed a volleyball and THAT's IT! No cellulite on the butt, no saggy arms, no puffy face.....it's not fair. Blogger says I can upload images now......let me give ya'll a before and after......

Before pregnancy directly above (with the blonde hair)........during pregnancy as seen above to the left (with the red hair). Yes, they are both me. Yes, I change my hair color often.

So....wonder how long it will take me to get the "before" body back again?

Ok, so back to pregnancy talk......I've gone to the pool a few times this summer and anytime I mention to someone that I wear a bikini, I get a *horrified* look in return. As if stretching a yard of floral lycra maternity suit across my behemoth mass is going to hide the fact that I'm almost 9 months pregnant!

In a tone that is usually reserved for those who have been diagnosed with terminal illness, I get "You're wearing a -- BIKINI-- to the pool?!?!??"

Um, yea. Why wouldn't I?

You're pregnant!

No shit, Captain Obvious! You really think a little more fabric is going to hide that fact! HA! So, I put on my bikini and I get my tan on! Even some of the other pregnant women at the pool look at me as if I have broken some pregnancy code of honor. Give me a break.

I'm gonna go put on my bikini and get a tan :0) Have a great day!

Can. Not. Sleep.

2005-07-08T06:21:00.000-04:00

UGH! Don't you just hate that! It's 3:21am and I CANNOT SLEEP. Nevermind that at 11:30pm I could barely keep my eyes open as I stumbled to bed. Got my pillows arranged (takes quite an effort to keep this mammoth-sized body comfy), laid my head down and....nothing. Staring at the walls, the ceiling, the red numbers on the alarm clock. For hours. Finally I said "screw it" and I got up and got on the puter. Yay. I just don't understand it and it's frustrating the hell out of me! ARGH! I'm exhausted, so tired, and yet I cannot sleep!

Ok, so I haven't updated my blog in awhile. Obviously, the 4th of July has come and gone. Me, Doug, Gavin and Fajita went and watched fireworks. That was fun-- Gavin really enjoys them :)
The week prior, Doug and Gavin went to Tennessee for the Ivey family reunion......which is only once every 5 years.....and I wasn't allowed to go because of my 'condition'. Nice, huh? So, I basically just stayed home and cleaned a bit, hung some pictures on our newly painted walls, slept...while they did all sorts of fun things like swimming and eating and going to the Space and Rocket Center in Huntsville, AL.

OK, this is totally rambling, but Jaxon is *really* starting to make me wonder if he is Rosemary's Baby. I don't know what the hell he is on, but he is doing things in my uterus that shouldn't be possible at this stage in a pregnancy.....I'm looking at my belly and it looks like that little baby creature from Alien is trying to escape. Really, it's so weird. Gavin never moved this much. Makes me terrified I'm going to have one of those kids who never stops....YOU know the ones....they get up at like 6am, never take a nap, climb the walls, demand all your attention, run out in the street to play, hate all kinds of food and don't go to sleep until midnight. I swear if he comes out like that, I'm selling him to the gypsies. I'm in a lovely mood, eh?

I suppose the events of today (well, technically yesterday) in London aren't helping. When are these freaking IDIOTS going to STOP?!?!?? Another terrorist bombing. All over the mass transit system in London. Dozens of people dead and hundreds more injured. Will it never end?
I guess I just don't understand the cowardice that these extremist groups exhibit.
'Hey-- lets go bomb a bunch of innocent civilians'
'GREAT idea!'
'And we can just wait till after all the damage is done, then email someone that our group is responsible'
'Cool!'

I mean, seriously, what is the point? To *really* prove that they are impotent piles of shit? That they have NO balls. That they can't fight like a REAL man.....out in plain sight, giving his opponent at least a fighting chance at defending himself??!!! Noooooooo! Let's just fly planes into buildings and plant bombs on trains. That's SO much braver! And WAY cooler. And just PROVES how freakin' STUPID you are! Assholes.

Sorry.

But.

I just don't get it.

OK, maybe I really should try and sleep now. If this creature in my gut ever settles down enough so that I can!

Till next time....

I'm melting!

2005-06-25T13:36:00.000-04:00

Oh boy, is it HOT out! Like 90 something degrees. Fahrenheit. At least it's not Celsius! My son was in a parade this morning (he's a Cub Scout) and I trekked to the parade route, scouted out a spot in the shade and parked my ass there for an hour or so, wilting as it got hotter and hotter so I could see my little man wave at me and my hubby throw some candy in my direction, lol. When we got home, I got the bright idea to wash my car, so I stretched my bikini over my 8 1/2 months pregnant butt and soaped up and rinsed the car. It actually was kind of fun and I drenched myself with the hose when I was done. Now I'm sitting in the AC just soaking it up :) I think I'll take a nap.

I know this is a totally boring and random post, but, hey, that's my life ;)

My first kiss

2005-06-24T20:51:00.000-04:00

This is an essay I started, but never really finished, therefore it's basically a rough draft, but you'll get the idea....

James

It's always been "James". Never Jimmy or Jim or Jamie. Even at 12, James was "James". It never occured to me for it to be any other way. The first time I laid eyes on him was on the bright orange-yellow schoolbus that took us home from middle school. I was in 8th grade, he was in 7th. I was invited over to his house to ride bikes after school and when I rode up, there he sat......jet black hair, bronzed skin and brooding gray eyes. He was shirtless and wearing cut off jeans. I loved him immediately. I got my very first kiss from him standing under a huge oak tree in my front yard. We had just returned from his 13th birthday party, he was wearing jeans and a t-shirt; I was in black parachute pants and a white & pink mesh top, and he had walked me home. Under the stars and with a cool breeze in the night, he kissed me. I'd love to say it was romantic and swept me off my feet, but I thought it was gross and slobbery! The fact that I was taller than him didn't help much, either. We rode our bikes through "the desert", a barren patch of land just outside the housing plat he lived in, and owned by my father. He made me laugh and I thought he was the cutest boy on earth. We spent a glorious 6 weeks "going together" and then we just....weren't. No fights, no publisized breakup, we just gradually stopped calling and seeing each other. A couple years went by and we were now in high school. I was a junior, he a sophmore. Again, we ran into each other on that same school bus. He looked at me with the same eyes and smiled that same mischievieous grin and I was in love again. We had another whirlwind romance, another wonderful 6 weeks together and then I had to move. My parents were divorced and had been battling out custody issues for years. I felt like a human tug-rope. My dad had had me, now it was mom's turn. I was sad to leave James, but somehow knew it wouldn't be the end.

I graduated high school, got married and moved to Alaska. Turns out I married too young and so I came back home in January of 1992. I was staying at my dad's house temporarily until I could get on my feet and get my own place. The phone rang one day and a guy was asking for my sister. I said she wasn't there and he asked "Is this Carey?". I replied that it was and asked to whom was I speaking. He said "It's James!". My heart started beating furiously in my chest and I got all flushed. He suggested I come over to a neighbor's house that evening to play cards. I thought I would die with anitcipation. It had been 5 years since I had last seen him. I was walking over to the neighbor's later and caught someone walking towards me out of the corner of my eye. Tall, about 5'11", dark hair, wickedly handsome. James had grown into a man! He got closer and my knees went weak. I smelled the scent of his cologne: Preferred Stock. 14 years later, I can still smell it. From that point on, we were inseparable & eventually moved in together. That's when my personal heaven turned into a veritable hell. My sweet James was a Jekyll & Hyde. He could charm you one second and rip your heart out the next. I spent the next 7 years allowing him to do both. We married, James went through 2 very difficult brain surgeries, we had a child. I honestly thought I would grow old with "my James". After so many years of emotional, mental, verbal, and physical abuse, I just could take no more. We separated in July of '99 and our divorce was final in March the following year. I'll never forget the date:
3-21-00. Almost as if God was telling me "Ok, Three, Two, One-- GO! It's time to start your new life!"

How do you fit 20 years of love, hate, laughter, tears, passion, lies, deceit, shame, pity, lust, frustrastion and anger into an essay? I don't know how. James will always be a part of me. We share a child together. He is a lost soul, though, and I'm not sure he will ever find happiness. He finds solace in a bottle, comfort in a line or a pill. He's approached me many times about a reconciliation, and- each time- my heart skips a beat, I wonder "Could it happen, could My James still be in there somewhere?"

Sadly, the answer is no. Sometimes love is not enough. Sometimes the pain outweighs anything and the risk for more is simply too great a gamble to play with one's heart.

How much is that puppy in the window?

2005-06-23T15:23:00.000-04:00

Those of you who know me, know how passionate I am about dogs, breeding, training, etc. Here's an essay I wrote about pet shop puppies....

What could be more adorable than walking through the mall and coming across a pair of warm, chocolate eyes and the wiggly bottom of a Beagle puppy in the pet store window? The employees are more than happy to let you hold the puppy and inform you that they accept credit cards and monthly payment plans. They don’t ask any questions, they don’t care if you have a fence or if your last dog was dumped at the pound because it no longer matched your home’s décor. What they won’t tell you is where that puppy came from and how much it will likely cost you in the coming years in veterinary bills for illnesses and hereditary diseases.
Most pet stores purchase their puppies from what the USDA and AKC term “commercial” or “high volume” breeders. Responsible, ethical breeders call them “puppy mills”. They are run by people who view puppies as a cash crop and cut every possible corner in order to increase their profit margin. Most puppy mills are located in the Midwest states of Kansas, Missouri and Iowa, although the Amish farmers of Lancaster County, Pennsylvania are definitely cashing in on this huge money-making opportunity. The largest puppy mill in the nation is known as the Hunte Corporation and they are located in Missouri.

Every week, pet stores receive faxes from their chosen puppy mills that tell what this week’s “specials” are (older or sickly puppies that are sold at a discount) and which breeds are available for delivery. Puppy mills are a veritable buffet of puppies, with one mill often breeding hundreds of dogs in dozens of breeds. There is no regard for the well-being or socialization of the puppies or the breeding stock. These poor animals are nothing more than “livestock” to those that run the puppy mill industry. The dogs are often kept in rabbit-hutch type caging, stacked in rows on top of each other, with the feces and urine of the dogs on the highest level dropping down onto the dogs and puppies below. Their coats are often matted to the skin with open wounds, festering sores and maggots on the breeding animals. Many go blind or lose parts of ears from injuries sustained in fights from the stress of being cramped into such close quarters, day in and day out. They usually receive no veterinary care, no vaccinations, no worming, inadequate food & water and no love. They never see the sunlight and they never step foot on grass. The mothers are usually bred from the time they are 6 or 7 months old until they are “bred out” at which time they are shot, euthanized, dropped at the pound, or -if they are exceptionally lucky-- given to purebred rescue groups to be rehomed. Puppy mill dogs and puppies are housed in converted barns, silos and outbuildings with no air conditioning to protect them from the sweltering heat of summer, nor any heat to comfort them in the chill of the harsh Midwest winters. Many puppies and dogs die from exposure every year. Those that survive are “lucky” enough to be weaned at 4-5 weeks of age so that they can be packed into the shipping vans and reach the pet stores by the time they are 6-7 weeks old. Since they are born in cages and never have any chance to run around on grass or any surface other than chicken wire, they are often very, very difficult- if not impossible- to housetrain. Dogs naturally eliminate away from their eating and sleeping areas. When raised in the confinement of a puppy mill cage, they never learn to eliminate in an appropriate area so they “learn” to just go wherever and whenever. A responsible breeder, in stark contrast, provides their puppies with comfy sleeping areas, stimulating play areas, quiet eating areas and clean elimination areas, so they are usually quite easy to housebreak.

A trademark of a puppy mill puppy is “alternative” registration, although AKC registration is still quite common among them. “Alternative” registries include APR, API, CKC, NKC and others. The “papers” they provide aren’t worth the ink that’s dried on them. ANYONE can get papers on a pure or mixed bred dog from any of these registries as long as they are willing to pay the $10 or $15 registration fee. At least the AKC requires proof of parentage, although there have been many cases of falsified AKC papers on pet shop puppies. I’ll never forget the time I worked at Dayton Emergency Veterinary Hospital and a client brought their “Pomeranian” in for treatment. This dog was about 30-35 pounds and stood about 16-18” tall. When questioned about the breed, the owners insisted it was an AKC registered Pomeranian and they had purchased it at a certain local pet store. It was blatantly obvious that this dog was a mixed breed. What is even more frustrating is that pet stores often charge MORE for a sickly, possibly mixed bred, and definitely pet quality puppy than a reputable breeder would charge for a Champion bred show quality puppy!

Some people may argue that it is much simpler to go to the pet shop and pick out a puppy from the many offered breeds than it would be to look through the paper or call the local kennel club for breeder referrals and go out looking at individual litters of puppies from responsible breeders. What these same people don’t realize is that taking just a little time to educate yourself on the breed that suits you (not the one you think is *cutest*) will be priceless. Not only will your puppy not be an impulse purchase, but you will be purchasing your puppy from a breeder who will often have not only the mother, but also the father on site. You can see the parents, interact with them and the litter. You can get an idea of what the puppy will look like as an adult and an idea as to its future temperament. Responsible breeders are available 24 hours a day for the rest of your puppy’s life for advice and guidance. They CARE where their puppies go and are eager to help you on your puppy-parenting journey. A responsible breeder will only offer 1 or 2 breeds of dogs, and only produces 1 or 2 litters per year. The puppies from a responsible breeder are socialized from birth and are often very easy to housebreak-- a stark contrast from a pet store puppy. They also will take the puppy back if you ever need to rehome the dog, or they will help you find an appropriate home for it-- ANYTIME during the life of the puppy. Responsible breeders do the appropriate health clearances on their breeding stock to help ensure that their puppies do not inherit any genetic diseases such as hip dysplasia, juvenile cataracts, deafness, luxating patella’s, open fontanels, etc. that many, many pet store puppies end up with because puppy millers do NOT health test their breeding stock.

So- just how much IS that puppy in the window? Is it worth the years of pain and suffering that its mother & father endured? Or the years of pain and suffering the pups may endure and the hundreds or thousands of dollars in veterinary bills that the owner may aquire due to preventable genetic and/or health problems? How do you put a price on that? Do you REALLY want to pay $800-$1000 for an APR registered Beagle puppy when you can have a healthy, well-adjusted, socialized, Champion bred, AKC registered puppy from a reputable breeder for $300 or $400?

PLEASE do not buy puppies from pet stores. When there is no more demand, the suffering of the thousands of breeding animals and puppies in commercial kennels will finally stop. Until then, their agony continues.

Grab a box of tissues.

2005-06-22T19:34:00.000-04:00

Gairab
It only took about 15 seconds, but the whole scene played in slow motion as I watched. Down, up, down, up, down, up and finally, mercifully, down again. My heart and mind were screaming as I delicately ran across the railroad trestle towards my horse- even though no sound came out of my mouth. He was twisted, broken. Legs in positions that nature never intended. I sat down next to his head and gently stroked his head and neck. It was then that I looked up at my friend Gwen and choked out a cry "I've killed my horse!". I looked down at Gairab, my beloved 19 year old Arabian. He had been a gift to myself when my ex-husband finally left and the abuse had stopped.

No more would I stand in his stall and cry into his mane while he consoled me just through his mere presence. No more would I stroke his velvety soft muzzle as I leaned my head against his and stand eye to eye, breath matching breath. No more lazy summer afternoons when I would doze on his back while he grazed in the pasture. Never again would I fall off his back and have him come running back to get me......all because of a stupid mistake, because he fell through a railroad trestle on an unfamiliar trail. I had dismounted to see if it was safe to cross, Gairab was closer behind than I anticipated and he spooked when we got close to the trestle and he started running across it.....but never made it to the other side....

Now Gairab lay still in the chilly February air. He strained his eyes to get a glimpse of me, so I moved closer to him, closer to his line of sight. I don't know exactly when I started crying, but the tears were blurring my vision as I very, very gently lifted his head to remove the metal bit from his mouth. There was a light pink froth slowly forming and even though he had to be in the most unthinkable pain, I had to alleviate some of it, I had to redeem myself in some way. So I removed his bit. Such a tiny gesture with the grandest of meaning.

A rider came by and I cried out "Do you have a gun?!", he rode off to get help. I'm not sure how long I lay there on Gairab's neck, stroking him, making sure he didn't try and get up again and hurt himself even more.....watching the rocks below us turn crimson with his blood. My stomach turned as I looked at the mutilated body of my beautiful, elegant, noble horse. One rear leg was broken in multiple places and hung down between the railroad ties, the other rear leg laid out useless behind him. A front hoof was caught in the railroad track and bent his front leg at a sickening angle. Pieces of skin and hair clung to the railroad ties behind him like a grisly Hansel and Gretel trail, bearing witness to the horror he had just endured. I sobbed until my lungs hurt. Then I laid on his neck again. Breathing him in, his sweet horsey smell mixed with sweat and blood. I knew I would never see him stand again, I would never lay in the sun in his pasture while he grazed around me...and my heart couldn't bear it. I started to sob again.

A man came and gently started to try and pull me off of Gairab so they could "take care" of him. I screamed and held tight. My Gairab. I couldn't let him leave this world so brutally!
My mind wandered back to only days before when we were riding in the woods and came across a small herd of deer, as we so often did. Off we went to chase them across the meadows, then stop and sit and just.....exist. Together.

I was being pulled away again, this time with more force. I felt like a child being wrenched from its mother and I watched in horror as his life kept dripping out of him and into the water below. I was bundled into a car and driven back to the barn. The car had stopped and there it was. The gunshot. Then another. My Gairab was gone. And so was a piece of my soul.

A blanket of yellow roses covered his grave. Now, every Feb 20th I put a yellow rose on the trestle where he died, ask for forgiveness, and pray that he is in a better place. I sit and remember the horror of that day in 2000 and I sob again; after 4 years you think the pain will subside. It doesn't. It will never be erased from my memory and I will never forget my faithful Gairab.

We will meet again and as the old Bedouin proverb says

"My treasures do not chink or glitter; they gleam in the sun and neigh in the night".

Good night, sweet Gairab.

But seriously....

2005-06-21T16:28:00.000-04:00

OK, up to now my blog has been just random humorous stuff going on....but I thought I'd post a few of the essays I've written over the past couple years. I'll warn ya, all of them are pretty depressing/sad/emotional. Hey--- I can't make ya laugh ALL the time :)

This first one is called "The Inspiration of Gavin" and I wrote it about my son.

The Inspiration of Gavin

In his eyes I see the future. The first time I beheld him, he was wet and bloody; his head misshappen, blue eyes just slits as they tried to adjust to the brightness of life outside the womb. His maiden cry sounded like a goat and he had a line of soft hair from the nape of his neck down to the middle of his back. He's six years old now and still has that "monkey hair", as I lovingly call it. I was never sure I wanted to be a mother. I've never particularly liked children and I've always been extremely selfish and self-centered. Where would a child fit into my life, I wondered. By the time I was in my mid-twenties, I decided I most definitely DID want to be a mom- not just "have a baby", as so many women do, but I truly wanted to mother a child. My husband had just endured 2 extensive brain surgeries over the past year and he was a year sober- our relationship had never been better. To celebrate his new life, we created one. Gavin Tyler Hudson made his debut into this world at 8:39am on a Saturday morning in early April of 1998. My life has never been the same.

In his eyes I see the person that I can be. I've suffered from clinical depression for years, and have always seen myself as 'broken'. Naturally, I expected to suffer some degree of post-partum depression. I was wrong. There was never a twinge of regret, never a moment I thought "uh-oh, what have I done?". Gavin has enabled me to see that I am a worthy, whole, wonderful, unique person- not in spite of my mental illnesses, but because of them. The first time he smiled at me, he was a month old and it was Mother's Day. Those blue eyes already turning grey, framed by the outrageously long, black lashes; his button nose and ending with his pink, gummy grin. The Hope Diamond couldn't have compared to his tiny little newborn smile, the sweet baby lotion and milk smell of his body, the scent of the back of his neck after he awakens from a nap a little sweaty. When he wrapped his tiny hand around my finger, he also wrapped it around my heart. I have never loved anyone the way I love Gavin. I've struggled with relationships my whole life. I've never had a normal, lasting relationship of any kind: not with my mother or father or various step-parents, boyfriends and husbands. For once, I felt unconditional love and devotion for another human and from another human. I have blossomed.

In his eyes I see his father. His father before life and bad choices molded him into the bitter, sad, and hopeless person he is today. I see in Gavin a chance for James to be reborn and to live a life that we both wish we had lived: loved by our parents, accepted by our peers, successful in love and life. In Gavin, I see who his father could have been. When he wakes me in the morning, coming into my room, and softly stroking my face and saying quietly "Good morning, Angel Mommy", I melt. I feel supreme happiness, yet a twinge of sadness at the same time. I think this is the potential James had, this is who James would have been. I vow that Gavin will not suffer the hardships that have made James's life misery. When Gavin is hunkered down by his bicycle, "working" on it with his toy tools, concentrating intently- his little tongue stuck out to the right of his mouth and subconsciously licking the corner over and over, I see James at 13- feverishly working on his dad's old car, tongue doing the same thing. I watch them simultaneously-- Gavin through a 32-year-old mother's eyes and James through a 13-year-old girl's eyes. James has been recreated.

Seeing life through a child's eyes is refreshing. At 27, after 2 divorces and another soon-to-fail marriage, I was jaded. Until there was Gavin. Laying on a blanket in the sun in the warm spring breeze, he would marvel at a cloud or a flower or a bird. As he got older, I'd take him to parks, fairs, and museums just to watch his reactions as he would see a duck or an otter or a clown for the first time. I was relishing being able to witness the birth of a human mind. His innocent, contagious laughter tickled my heart and brought sunlight into my soul. He restored life to a hopeless and sad person- me. I've never depended on Gavin for my happiness, and don't plan to live my life over again through my son, but he has changed my life profoundly- I have evolved from flighty to sagacious. He is his own distinctive, magnificent soul. I never could have comprehended the impact he would have on me. At 32, I have finally decided to go back to college, and I am fighting my many disabilities so that I can be a person that Gavin will be proud to call Mom. I'm tired of "just scraping by" and really want to provide a better life for both of us. So, for myself- with the inspiration of Gavin- I am becoming a better person.

And now, at six, Gavin has grown so much. His blue eyes turned to dark brown (but he's kept those gorgeous, model-long lashes!), his blonde hair now a sandy brown. He doesn't smile ALL the time anymore. Being six, he has his moments of impetuousness, furrowing his brow and frowning and declaring "That's not fair!" when I won't let him play video games for hours on end or buy yet another toy-of-the-moment. This is usually accompanied by a foot stomp and crossing of the arms.Then I tell him I love him and he runs to me, laughing. When he hugs me, his head rests on my belly button. Right where his life began. Right where my life began. And I thank him.

I'd be irritable, too!

2005-06-14T13:10:00.000-04:00

Today I had my first of many "fetal non-stress tests", more commonly known as an "NST".
Basically, since my first born son had a condition called IUGR (a fancy acronym for "you've got a small baby in there"), they are monitoring me closely with this pregnancy. Um, I don't need an MD behind my name to tell you that THIS baby is NOT small....not small at all. But, I figure I'll humor my doctor and come in twice a week for these tests.....what do I have to complain about? I get to lay on a comfy table, in the air conditioning, prop my feet up and read, daydream or doze uninterrupted for 20-30 minutes or more! Besides, my insurance company has pissed me off, and anything I can do to stick it to them royally is A-OK in my book....and these NST's ain't cheap, baby! $150 a pop and I get 2 a week!
OK, so today was my first NST. Gavin's out of school so he came with me and kindly read me Dr. Suess's Green Eggs & Ham while I was laying there. " I do not like green eggs and ham, I do not like them Sam I am. I will not eat them in a box, I will not eat them with a fox, I will not eat them here nor there, I will not eat them anywhere."
Gavin thought it was really cool when he got to hear the baby's heartbeat when they strapped me onto the machine, and all the aquatic "whooshing" sounds of little man doing backflips in my belly (of course, he thought it was MUCH cooler when he found a Gameboy game cartridge under the chair that someone had dropped....). Remember when you were a kid and you'd swim to one side of the pool, flip around real quick and push off the side of the pool- HARD- and swim back to the other side, and repeat it, again and again and again? Well, that's what this baby does. Only in my abdomen. And occasionally, he pushes off of my lungs, bladder or other vital organs, instead of "just" my uterus. And people wonder why I'm getting spayed! HA!
Back to the NST. They hook me up to a machine that records contractions and the baby's heartrate. I have to hold a little thing that resembles a penlight and push it every time the baby moves....this way they can see of the baby is getting "stressed" when moving. (Hey! What about ME??!!) All of this is recorded on a long strip of paper that resembles a lie-detector test thingy (I SWEAR, that is the technical term for it!).
The more a baby moves, the less time you have to spend hooked up to the machine because they can see right away whether "the heartrate is nice and strong and baby is tolerating life in the uterus ok."
So, since I have an amatuer gymnist in there (that, or Rosemary's baby-- I'm still not sure which), my test only lasted about 10 or 15 minutes today. The doctor comes in, looks at the little printout and says "Ooooohhhhh, very active baby!"
Thanks, Captain Obvious.
Then....."and I see your uterus is irritable."
"Well, I'm pretty irritable myself these days...." I replied....not sure how I should respond to the observation that my baby's temporary housing is 'irritable'.
The doctor kind of laughs and explains that actually my uterus just doesn't like being pregnant (well, at least we have ONE thing in common!) and that it's already (or *still*, as I believe) trying to put this baby out on the mean streets so it can go back to room-mate free living.
For the 2nd, or 15th time (can't remember!) this pregnancy I'm told to "take it really easy and drink LOTS of water!"
Alright, can do.
Do the dishes? Sorry, Doug, gotta TAKE IT EASY-- Doctor's orders.
Vacuum? Sorry, Doug, gotta TAKE IT EASY-- Doctor's orders.
Laundry? Ditto.

Hmmmm......this doesn't seem so bad after all.....

ABC's & 123's

2005-06-06T19:47:00.000-04:00

What on EARTH are they teaching in elementary schools these days?!?!? Last week my 7 year old son, Gavin, came home from school. He's in 1st grade. He had a crudely folded piece of paper in his folder with a cute little pencil drawing of a kitty cat on it. I thought "Awwww! His first love note!"
I proceeded to open the note and Gavin tried to grab it from me. I thought he was just embarrassed because it was from a GIRL, so I got it back and opened it up. What I read left me speechless. And that is a feat in itself. Scrawled in a child's sloppy handwriting, but clear as day:
"Do you want to have sex with me? ________ yes or no"

WTF???? Rewind! I had to read it a couple of times for it to sink in. Gavin just stood there looking at me. I asked him who had written the letter. A little girl named Lauren had given it to him. The same girl he had been complaining about all school year long for "being mean" to him. Uh-huh. Looks like she wanted to make up for it now. I asked Gavin if he knew what it meant and he got really embarrassed. He obviously doesn't really know what it means, but he knows it has something to do with kissing and stuff. I had him point her out in his class picture and I have to admit, she's a looker-- one of those little girls who is obviously going to be model gorgeous with no effort at all. (Way to GO, Gavin! JUST KIDDING!)

Well, pardon me, but I don't want my 7 year old to even be thinking about STUFF! As old as I am, I CAN remember being in 1st grade, and I can assure you that the word "sex" never crossed my mind. In fact, I don't think anything worse than holding hands with a boy ever occured to me until 5th or 6th grade.

The next day, I took Gavin to school and gave the note to his teacher and said who it was from. She happened to be standing in the hall with one of the other 1st grade teachers. They both opened it and read it and-- I kid you not-- said "Considering who wrote it, it doesn't surprise me one bit!"

Pardon me?! Doesn't surprise you? They proceeded to tell me that this angelic looking little creature was really satan in disguise. She had been in more trouble than just about any other kid in class but her parents were insistent that the teachers were just "picking on her" and "singling her out" and that "she's s good little girl." Um, yea...if she keeps this pace up, she's going to be one VERY popular little girl with a couple of kids by the time she graduates!

This little incident was only the most recent in a string of fun little lessons my child has learned. The week prior to the sex note incident, we were all sitting at the dinner table and Gavin announced "Did you know Michael Jackson spent 5 days in jail and he's GAY?"

Does anyone know the Heimlich!?!?!?

When I finally managed to swallow my food, I said "OK, first of all, I don't think he spent 5 days in jail, and even if he did, it has nothing to do with being gay! He's in court right now and is on trial for doing inappropriate things with little boys, but he's not been found guilty and he hasn't gone to jail. Oh, and do you even know what 'gay' means?"

Gavin says "yea, it's when a boy kisses another boy."

Oh boy :(

Thank GOD Friday was the last day of school for Gavin....at least until July 19th when he will be starting at the NEW elementary school I enrolled him in. I sure hope the kids are a bit more innocent there!

Calgon, take me away..........

2005-05-30T17:25:00.000-04:00

Sooooo........it's Memorial Day weekend. What have YOU been up to? My week has been cursed. Honest to God. Flashback to last Friday....remember my little bike riding incident? Well, that and the following day's cleaning frenzy put me into some fun little pre-term labor, just in time for my baby shower! YAY!
So, I was put on bedrest for a bit to get the contractions to stop. Relax, watch some TV, eat in bed.....the usual. I rested all week. Come Thursday, it was time to get my little doggie Dior groomed for his Memorial Day weekend shows. Dior just so happens to be a 100+ pound male Rottweiler who slobbers like Hooch and farts approximately every 30 seconds with a stench that could be bottled and used as biological warfare. Needless to say, I volunteered my husband to take him to the groomer :) I'm evil.
Now, this is probably where I will lose some of you. I mean, what I'm about to moan about seems minute and stupid. But it was important to me, so shut up and read or move on to the next blog :)
I've used this grooming shop before-- they've done a really good job on my boy and don't charge me an arm and a leg. I felt confident he would come out "Extreme Makeover" style, doggie version. I'm so naive. I'll explain briefly. Dior is a Rottweiler. I've been showing/breeding and training these monsters for 15 years. I'm not new at this. But, being 7 1/2 months pregnant and on bedrest, I opted to have someone else do the heavy lifting of bathing and blow-drying a 100 pound Rott'n teenager. SOME people who show Rottweilers trim their whiskers (those little black prickly things on their faces that keep them from running into walls, LOL). MOST don't trim them. I fall into the latter category. SO, knowing I am dealing with a busy grooming shop, I made 2 separate calls to the shop to make sure they knew NOT to trim his whiskers AND, just to be sure, I had my husband tell them to have the person who was going to groom him *CALL ME* before they started on him so I could MAKE SURE they wouldn't trim the whiskers.
Yea, you guessed it, genius. They trimmed the whiskers. And not even very well! My 7 year old could have done a better job with his purple-plastic-safety Fiskars. But I digress. On arriving home and discovering the horror of Dior's naked nose, I promptly called the shop to lodge my complaint. I just couldn't understand HOW they did NOT get my messageS to "NOT TRIM THE WHISKERS" when I did everything except stand over them while they were grooming him!
The woman who groomed Dior happened to be the co-owner of the shop. In her defense, she did apologize and offered a free groom in the future for the mistake. Meanwhile, my husband also called to make a complaint and they end up saying they will just refund our money and we can stop and pick it up the following day. Well, I was going to be at the show, so he asked that they just tear my check up and was told that would be fine. I was satisfied at this outcome, if still a bit peeved that my dog was no longer a "whisker virgin" :(
The following day we are getting ready to leave for aforementioned dog show when I get a lovely telephone call from the OTHER owner of the shop, who happens to also be the sister of the woman who groomed Dior. My guess is this chick is the older sister, in charge of the finances, etc. Well, she informed me in no uncertain terms that not only were they NOT tearing my check up, but that they were depositing it, and that she KNEW they had done a fantastic job on my dog and if I didn't like what they did, too damn bad. I went over the whole story of how I made EVERY EXTRA EFFORT to make sure they had the correct instructions for my dog and how, when they groomed him last year for me they didn't trim the whiskers, just as I had requested. This is a snippet of our convo:
Her: We're not giving you a refund, we worked hard on your dog and he looks great.
Me: Yea, except for missing the whiskers that I told 3 different people were NOT to be trimmed.
Her: Well, *I* am a member of the BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH CLUB and WE always trim whiskers for showing.
Me: Last year when you groomed him, you left his whiskers on just like I asked.
Her: No, we didn't
Me: YES, you did!
Her: NO, we didn't!
Me: YES, you DID and I have the show pictures to prove it!
Her: We ALWAYS trim the whiskers.
Me: Well, the last time I checked, *I* am the customer, *I* paid for this service and *I* requested that it NOT be done-- do you not honor your customer's requests?
Her: Not always.
Me: OK, are you a member of the Better Business Bureau?
Her: Yes, and you go right ahead and file a complaint! AND DON'T EVER BRING YOUR DOG HERE AGAIN!

Hmmmm.......I feel this isn't going well.

So, my blood pressure skyrockets and I sit here crying after she hangs up on me. Pregnancy does weird things like that. I have to sit for an hour to get my BP down, all the while it is getting later and later and we need to leave for the show. We finally load up and are about 1/3 of the way there.....the sky is blue, the sun is shining, I'm singing along to the radio, just trying to wind down and relax. Doug is sitting beside me enjoying the ride. "Did you hear that?"
Hear what? I ask
That noise, he says.
I play along......"OK, what noise?"
"It sounds like you have a flat."
BITE YOUR TONGUE. I shoot him a look that could wilt a cactus. I turned down the radio. Then, I hear it. Poosh, poosh, poosh, poosh. Oh no. nononononononononono! We are so late that I don't have TIME to have a flat or I'll miss the show! Of course, we have a flat. I pull over and we have to unload the dog, his crate, show chairs, and all the "stuff" that goes along with going to a dog show, just to get to the spare tire and the jack. We spend the next 20 minutes fighting and screaming over the best way to change the tire and I finally end up sitting in the partial shade of the car, cursing that sunny sky, beating its relentless, cancer-causing UV rays deep into my skin.
We (meaning Doug) finally get the tire changed, get all of our gear and the dog loaded back up and I just turn around and drive home. No use wasting gas to drive to the showgrounds and admire it.
I spend the rest of the day imagining that I had just missed Dior's ONLY chance for his career-boosting Best In Show. Moping, sulking. Basically acting like a total ass.

Surely, the rest of the weekend must go well? HA!
Saturday, I do actually manage to make it to the show. Dior shows well and gets 2nd place. Out of 2. That's a nice way of saying he finished last. When we get home from Saturday's show, I lay down for a well deserved nap. And wake up to TOOTHACHE HELL. Have you ever visited there? No clue how I got there, but I was there and I was mad. As the night progressed, it only got worse. I stumbled out of bed late Sunday morning for that day's show and, yes, I was 3 minutes late and MISSED THE SHOW. Fuck. I paid $5 to park, walk 40 yards, see that I had missed his class, walk back to my vehicle and leave. Took all of 90 seconds. I head home yet again and have already decided that I am NOT going back to the show the following day (today). I'd had enough. My toothaches gets worse. I start moaning and crying. I also start searching for some pliers and alcohol to jerk the sucker out. Fortunately, 500mg of Tylenol later, my tooth is feeling better and I'm able to function. Somewhat.

Yea, that was my week. How was yours?

I just want some sleep....

2005-05-21T05:07:00.000-04:00

So, it's 5am. What on earth am I doing up? Well, haing a panic attack! What fun, you say? Not so. I don't know if you've ever had the pleasure of waking in the middle of the night to a pounding heart, sweaty palms and hyperventilation, but let me tell you, it is NOT fun. It's especially not fun when you also spent the last several hours before bed trying to get your contractions to stop since you are only 7 months pregnant- and though you are mentally ready to have this baby, the little thing really does need to cook a little longer, ya know?

OK, so I thought I would hop online and type away for a bit to settle my mind down so that I can get back to sleep for a few hours. Or until I need to pee yet again, whichever comes first. I've got my baby shower in just 9 hours, I really do need my sleep!

The birds are already chirping. Stuff a sock in it!

What a day....

2005-05-19T17:52:00.000-04:00

OK, remember I said I had to leave to go pick up Gavin from school? Well, I went out, and noticed a tornado watch on the TV as I was walking out the door. I get in my car and head up the block. Car acts funny-- like the emergency break is on. It's not. I pull over and put it in park and get out. Yep, flat tire. Completely flat. Like, sitting on the rim flat. I get back in said car and drive slowly back to my driveway and park it.

Ok, so now what do I do??? Doug is at work, which is 20 miles away and Gavin is 1 mile away waiting for me. It's raining. There's a tornado watch. So, I grab my bike and head out. What a bright idea! It is a 1 mile ride, uphill both ways. I'm not kidding. On the way there, you go uphill to a plateau, go down hill a little, back uphill, then down a REALLY steep hill to the school. Did I mention this is in the rain? And I'm 7 months pregnant? And dying?

So, I'm crying as I ride along, but no one can tell cuz it's raining anyway. Finally, I can't cry anymore because I can barely breath. Breathing takes precedence over crying. Or, I guess I should say, gasping for air takes precedence. Mind you, I am only wearing a white t-shirt, an abercrombie hoodie and cotton eeyore boxer shorts because I hadn't gotten dressed today.
I can't take the hoodie off, because I didn't put a bra on. I know, I'm a loser.

Alright, so I finally make it to the school. By this time, Gavin's the last child there. He comes out and I explain that I had a flat (I had called the school and told them so they'd keep him in the office until I got there) and that we'd have to ride the bike home. Now, you have to understand that I used to ride bikes A LOT. My father's dream in life is to ride the Tour de France. Or ride to Alaska. From Ohio. I'm not kidding. My first bike ride that wasn't just paling around the block with my friends was a 40 mile "kiddie" ride when I was about 12. My sister is going to college on a BIKE RIDING scholarship. She's on a bike team that travels all over to the country to compete (see her here: Sara Hickey http://www.cyclingnews.com/track.php?id=photos/2003/sep03/nccatrackchamps/day1/MZ10 See? I wasn't kidding!). Bike riding runs through our veins. So, I only have to ride 2 miles today. No big deal, right? WRONG. So, as soon as me & Gavin start walking across the crosswalk from the school, he's holding his belly. I ask him if he's ok. "My belly feels bad." Great. He's going to throw up and I'm a mile from home, on a bike with no anti-anxiety meds. But, I'm too out of breath and energy to have a panic attack so I ask him if he wants to ride on the bike while I push it so he doesn't have to walk (and hopefully won't throw up).

I still have the baby carrier attached to my bike from when Gavin was a baby. Why, you ask? Well, because Fajita, my chihuahua, likes riding in it. Seriously. So, I have Gavin climb up my bike, using me for support because I'm not strong enough to lift him up at this point in the pregnancy. He manages to wedge his butt down into the seat sideways with his legs hanging out over the side. I drop his backpack into his "lap" and off we go. I get on and attempt to ride the bike, but remember there is a VERY steep hill first thing. Not happening. So, I get off and start pushing the bike and Gavin up the mountain. It. takes. forever. You know those movies where it shows someone running down a corridor that just keeps getting longer and longer? Yea, that's what was happening with this hill. In the rain. Getting no oxygen. Begging for a merciful death.
I think Gavin thinks I'm going to drop the bike, and thus drop him, so he keeps saying "Mom, I can get down, I don't mind walking, really I don't. It's fun." Yea, fun like a root canal is fun.

FINALLY we get to the summit of the first mountain. Thankfully the rain has eased off to some light sprinkles. I climb on the bike and ride down the incline until it starts rising again. I peddle like 5 times and decide I'd like to go into labor now. So, I get off the bike and start pushing it (and Gavin) up the next hill. Can't breath. Legs feel like they've swelled to 12 times their normal size. Lungs feel like I've breathed in fire tinged with acid.

Somehow, I make it to the top of the second hill and I tell Gavin he can get off and walk the rest of the way, as we are only about 3 blocks from home now. I get to a safe spot and "tip" the bike over so he can get out. His butt is still wedged into the baby carrier, so it takes him a second. Now that he's out, he's cold. He has no jacket. I'm burning up. I give him mine and just hope that everyone has seen those women in National Geographic, so I don't seem like such a freak with my udders & pregnant belly in this white t-shirt.

We make it home and I collapse on the couch.

I hope I can walk tomorrow.