Time for some warp drive.
Today I had to face the needle, actually two. The day might as well have been nurse ratchet coming at me with a 2 foot needle and maniacal laughter - yes I reverted back to infancy.
I slept OK last night, tried to at least after going to bed 3 hours later than I should have. All day I was having mini panic attacks about going for the Sacroiliac Joint Injections. I was a moron and got online and searched out the procedure and read other's comments and had reached a level of mania that I couldn't turn off. I was talking myself out of the procedure every passing minute. By the time I had gotten home from work all I could do was say I don't think I can do this. I forced myself to my PPD group, hoping to find the needed encouragement to balance my racing mind. Group went well, and was a better distraction than anything else.
I woke up normal time - 5am - and fed bubay. She was so happy to get to snuggle with mommy for a change and go back to sleep - the blessing of working home is that I don't have to get up to get ready...just roll out of bed and log in so I had an extra 2 hours of slumber. I was able to relax and fall back asleep and woke up rested. I logged into my work and started my day. I was busy enough to keep me away from my anxiety, so much so that I almost forgot that I had a 2 hour fast coming up quickly so I needed to down some Gatorade and Honey Nut Cheerios 10 minutes before my fast was to begin.
Here comes the panic...
I kissed bubay and grabbed my xrays and MRI envelope, put a spare gatorade in my purse and some butter mints for the given pass out, and loaded into the car. I don't remeber speaking much, and hubby knew now was no time for a lecture. He did reassure me every so often that I'll be ok and it will all be over soon. Damn...stopped traffic on 422...I hate construction. At least I could bitch about something other than those shots for a few minutes.
The closer we got to the doctors office the louder my heart sounded and the faster my breath escaped. Damn it. It won't hurt...just a sting...they numb it...I can do it. Rich can hold my hand. We arrived at the procedure suite on time, and then we waited...an hour. One excruciating hour. I didn't open my mouth except to bitch about the pain of the wait. I couldn't make up my mind whether it was better to hurry and get it over with or prolong the inevitable for a few more minutes of hysteria. Neither was an option I wanted.
Finally there the waiting room was empty and even the receptionist left her desk for lunch. They called me in and I grabbed Rich's hand and walked towards the door. "O, no dear, I'm sorry, he ca't come with you." "WHAT?!" "I'm sorry, but the procedure is done under floroscopy and no one can be in there." "Well you give me a twilight or something don't you?" "No, I don't know what gave you that idea." "I'm not doing this. I can't do this. No. No. No. No. Uh huh. I can't." "It's up to you, dear." "No it's not up to me...I have to do this, but I can't."
I was paralyzed. I couldn't move through the door, but I couldn't run away from it either. Then I started to cry and gave in to the nurses pull.
I sat on the table and started mumbling and shaking and trying to get a hold of myself. The doc comes and introduces herself and says that I can take a bit it'll be ok. And if I need to stop they will stop. Then she goes, "why didn't you take your valium?" "What valium...I'm breastfeeding." "Oooooooo". Suddenly all the staff started to swarm around me in comfort instead of exasperation.
27 August 2009
13 August 2009
Crippling pain
My frustration and irritation grew. I begn sniping and sulking. I couldn't move or enjoy my bundle of joy (and I was set that she hated her mother anyways) and a return to the office was peaking over the horizon...I was perched atop the roller coaster...and I don't like roller coasters.
I tried the theory that movement would loosen me up. I suggested to myself that I needed to move more instead of just snuggling my wee one. I had grown quite fond of staying in bed or on the couch talking and nuzzling my quickly growing angel. I didn't want to do much more than that no matter what else I should be doing, including grocery shopping and household chores. But I needed to move merely to remind myself that I could do it.
I wouldn't take the baby out of the house with me, especially if I was alone. I couldn't grasp how I could manage the shopping and the baby. What if she started screaming? What if I had a spazm and couldn't carry her? I had to plan my trips out around my husband or mother's availability and in between feedings...no small task I can assure you. If my husband was delayed or my mother could not come over I was instantly caught between rage and fearful tears, paralyzing any rational thought left in my brain. I yelled and screamed or cried uncontrolably at everyone else's inablity to understand I needed to go to the grocery store at that second and how could they be late or have forgotten.
Instead of grabbing the little one and taking her to her first shopping trip I would hold her and sulk and feel betrayed and let down and o so many emotions that I still haven't come to define yet. What I hadn't realized was that the pain in my body was working in conjunction with my declining mental state and I was crippling myself both mentally and physically. And instead of those around me comprehending my downward spiral they became equally frustrated with the missing me. My husband would get pissy and walk away and even disappear for several hours "doing something"; my sisters tried to come and help out, but there was only so much they could do other than suggest I get to a doctor. My mom was already becoming self absorbed in her own drama -- no job and losing the house soon...which later on will become my icing.
Each day I counted down to my return to the office. I started panicing because I didn't want to leave my precious. For the first time in my life I wanted to be at home. I could barely walk, I didn't want to leave the house, and I was starting to cry...all the time.
I tried the theory that movement would loosen me up. I suggested to myself that I needed to move more instead of just snuggling my wee one. I had grown quite fond of staying in bed or on the couch talking and nuzzling my quickly growing angel. I didn't want to do much more than that no matter what else I should be doing, including grocery shopping and household chores. But I needed to move merely to remind myself that I could do it.
I wouldn't take the baby out of the house with me, especially if I was alone. I couldn't grasp how I could manage the shopping and the baby. What if she started screaming? What if I had a spazm and couldn't carry her? I had to plan my trips out around my husband or mother's availability and in between feedings...no small task I can assure you. If my husband was delayed or my mother could not come over I was instantly caught between rage and fearful tears, paralyzing any rational thought left in my brain. I yelled and screamed or cried uncontrolably at everyone else's inablity to understand I needed to go to the grocery store at that second and how could they be late or have forgotten.
Instead of grabbing the little one and taking her to her first shopping trip I would hold her and sulk and feel betrayed and let down and o so many emotions that I still haven't come to define yet. What I hadn't realized was that the pain in my body was working in conjunction with my declining mental state and I was crippling myself both mentally and physically. And instead of those around me comprehending my downward spiral they became equally frustrated with the missing me. My husband would get pissy and walk away and even disappear for several hours "doing something"; my sisters tried to come and help out, but there was only so much they could do other than suggest I get to a doctor. My mom was already becoming self absorbed in her own drama -- no job and losing the house soon...which later on will become my icing.
Each day I counted down to my return to the office. I started panicing because I didn't want to leave my precious. For the first time in my life I wanted to be at home. I could barely walk, I didn't want to leave the house, and I was starting to cry...all the time.
10 August 2009
Alien being
Here I am with a beautiful daughter, a wonderful husband, and an invasion of the body snatchers. I no longer looked like me, and now I was physically incapable of moving like me. Where did the dancer-me go...my hips refused to shake, my legs couldn't move one in front of the other, and my feet needed to be surgically removed from the pain. I stopped trying to figure out if the tears came from emotions or physical hurt.
I started explaining to those around me that I wasn't well - in a not so obvious manner. I slowly hinted at unfathomable feelings and stresses and tried to explain my physical inadequacies to my husband and family - even some of my friends. Some responded positively with recovery is slow, and you'll feel back to normal soon. Others patted my shoulder and said poor dear. And then there were a few who impolitely snorted.
Everday I woke up with my little lovely and smiled. I maneauvered myself with boppy on lap and baby latched and kept my eyes closed imagining blue oceans and warm breezes instead of searing flashes of pain and saddness. As long as she was happy and content I could hold on to my vision. But as all babies thrive there are good and bad days.
Those days and nights of crying and fussing with spitting up and red faced screaming were getting more difficult. My husband would offer to take her and rock her back to sleep, but I was insistent that I could be a good mom and settle her down. Sometimes I succeeded and was rewarded with baby snoring and contented sighs. Then I would collapse exhausted and worn, praying all the while that she would rest long enough for me to recover. Other times I would put my head down and hand over the squalling bundle in defeat. I swore she hated me already.
Getting out of bed at night to change her diapers or retrieve her from the bassinet became more difficult each night. We developed a routine of hubby getting her changed and handing her to me for feeding. I was lucky and blessed. When I couldn't get her back into the bassinet she would sleep in the crook of my arm. Even with the amazing help, inevitably the water I drank to keep hydrated while nursing had to release, and the trek down the hall, down the stairs and through the house to the one and only bathroom became a chore. Sometimes I would barely make it to the bathroom in time. Some trips I would have to crawl down the stairs because I couldn't put any pressure on my feet. I startde letting my husband sleep thru the changing and feedings since I had to move anyway to get to the bathroom. In my head it was senseless to wake him up if I had to get out of bed anyway. That was foolish.
My exhaustion was building.
I started explaining to those around me that I wasn't well - in a not so obvious manner. I slowly hinted at unfathomable feelings and stresses and tried to explain my physical inadequacies to my husband and family - even some of my friends. Some responded positively with recovery is slow, and you'll feel back to normal soon. Others patted my shoulder and said poor dear. And then there were a few who impolitely snorted.
Everday I woke up with my little lovely and smiled. I maneauvered myself with boppy on lap and baby latched and kept my eyes closed imagining blue oceans and warm breezes instead of searing flashes of pain and saddness. As long as she was happy and content I could hold on to my vision. But as all babies thrive there are good and bad days.
Those days and nights of crying and fussing with spitting up and red faced screaming were getting more difficult. My husband would offer to take her and rock her back to sleep, but I was insistent that I could be a good mom and settle her down. Sometimes I succeeded and was rewarded with baby snoring and contented sighs. Then I would collapse exhausted and worn, praying all the while that she would rest long enough for me to recover. Other times I would put my head down and hand over the squalling bundle in defeat. I swore she hated me already.
Getting out of bed at night to change her diapers or retrieve her from the bassinet became more difficult each night. We developed a routine of hubby getting her changed and handing her to me for feeding. I was lucky and blessed. When I couldn't get her back into the bassinet she would sleep in the crook of my arm. Even with the amazing help, inevitably the water I drank to keep hydrated while nursing had to release, and the trek down the hall, down the stairs and through the house to the one and only bathroom became a chore. Sometimes I would barely make it to the bathroom in time. Some trips I would have to crawl down the stairs because I couldn't put any pressure on my feet. I startde letting my husband sleep thru the changing and feedings since I had to move anyway to get to the bathroom. In my head it was senseless to wake him up if I had to get out of bed anyway. That was foolish.
My exhaustion was building.
Terror in the mirror
I stood in front of the mirror in disbelief. I looked up and down and all around, but no me. My hair, freshly washed and coiffed, looked dull and nappy; my comfy clothes did more to hurt my lack of shape than hide its imperfetions; my skin looked ruddy and my face seemed mis-shapen. I turned away and left the room, fighting back the water rush from my eyes.
Ugly doesn't tip the iceberg when it came to how I felt about my reflection. I know as a mom I might change my clothing a bit even my hairstyle, but never had I expected to not look like me. The disgust at my reflection started a domino effect on my already declining mental state. I avoided any mirrors opting for my imaginary self-vision to get me outside an get the mail. I refused to have pics taken of me with the baby because I didn't want my little angel to look at them someday and think how terrible her mother looked. I didn't want to see friends or go anywhere I didn't have a good reason to leave the house. I didn't want my husband to have to look at me let alone touch me.
Adding insult to injury I began noticing that the pain my body had during my pregnancy was not only not going away, but seemed to be getting worse. Some moments I couldn't even get up to walk to the bathroom, and mostly I didn't want to move for fear of the pain.
Ugly doesn't tip the iceberg when it came to how I felt about my reflection. I know as a mom I might change my clothing a bit even my hairstyle, but never had I expected to not look like me. The disgust at my reflection started a domino effect on my already declining mental state. I avoided any mirrors opting for my imaginary self-vision to get me outside an get the mail. I refused to have pics taken of me with the baby because I didn't want my little angel to look at them someday and think how terrible her mother looked. I didn't want to see friends or go anywhere I didn't have a good reason to leave the house. I didn't want my husband to have to look at me let alone touch me.
Adding insult to injury I began noticing that the pain my body had during my pregnancy was not only not going away, but seemed to be getting worse. Some moments I couldn't even get up to walk to the bathroom, and mostly I didn't want to move for fear of the pain.
06 August 2009
WT...Who?
Having spent the better part of 6 weeks alternating 2 sets of PJs and a sleep bra, I avoided the mirror naturally. Who wants to look at their bloated self in total disarray when there is nothing to be done in the interim anyhow. The shiny grey-white roots were already a beacon in the bathroom mirror, which cannot be avoided. Yet now reality comes knocking and I can no longer allow my daughter to think her mother is a troll who smells bad and looks like a character from "Where the Wild Things Are".
I decide that since I still couldn't fit into regular clothes between my enromous knockers and lack of waistline that Victoria Secret sweats were the safest bet for daily wear. I already resigned myself to the fact that I would be wearing at least my maternity tops and xtra large yoga plants for the better part of the coming year, and I was fine with that considering how complimentary they are to my middle.
I crossed my fingers and hoped that the baby would sleep long enough for me to humanize my outter self. Hubby encouraged me to get moving, and into the shower I went...razor, shampoo, conditioner, hair treatment, aromatherapy body wash...ahhh the warm water...I never want to get out. Conscious of the time limitations I didn't allow too much of the luxury. Dried off with towel on my head I rushed upstairs to face my eyebrows...ACK...where did that unibrow come from?! I tweezed and waxed and finally felt like I had a face again even though the red splotches rose in protest of my mini makeover.
Clean tee shirt and trendy sweats I looked in the chevalier mirror. WTF?
I decide that since I still couldn't fit into regular clothes between my enromous knockers and lack of waistline that Victoria Secret sweats were the safest bet for daily wear. I already resigned myself to the fact that I would be wearing at least my maternity tops and xtra large yoga plants for the better part of the coming year, and I was fine with that considering how complimentary they are to my middle.
I crossed my fingers and hoped that the baby would sleep long enough for me to humanize my outter self. Hubby encouraged me to get moving, and into the shower I went...razor, shampoo, conditioner, hair treatment, aromatherapy body wash...ahhh the warm water...I never want to get out. Conscious of the time limitations I didn't allow too much of the luxury. Dried off with towel on my head I rushed upstairs to face my eyebrows...ACK...where did that unibrow come from?! I tweezed and waxed and finally felt like I had a face again even though the red splotches rose in protest of my mini makeover.
Clean tee shirt and trendy sweats I looked in the chevalier mirror. WTF?
05 August 2009
I don't recognize you
After my doc appointment I began to contemplate the meaning of the questions I was asked and the reality of how I answered them. Eh...what's the big deal. I was still on maternity leave and wasn't too worried that my baby blues would disapate over time. And then...only 6 weeks left until I returned to work. What! How the heck did six weeks go by already and only 6 more weeks is no where near enough. The panic flashed.
My mom started coming over a few days a week to watch the baby so hubby could do some chores and I could go to sleep. It was nice having a laid off spouse to add extra help during this transition. And even nicer to have my mom come over and encourage me to rest. I tried napping. Sometimes I managed 2 hours, but usually only a half hour between the time I fell asleep and when the baby was ready for her next meal with the boobs. This cycle of 2 hours sleeps around the clock were taking their toll. The mood swings bungied from out of nowhere.
My reality no longer felt like reality. The fog of the first week home never left, but I was too busy and too tired to notice. I had to start putting on clothes when I woke up. Talk about every ounce of energy being zapped out by a menial task like showering and putting on sweat pants. The day time naps were helpful, and even made me feel like I could start to function again.
But getting dressed ad showering brought me a new horror...my reflection.
My mom started coming over a few days a week to watch the baby so hubby could do some chores and I could go to sleep. It was nice having a laid off spouse to add extra help during this transition. And even nicer to have my mom come over and encourage me to rest. I tried napping. Sometimes I managed 2 hours, but usually only a half hour between the time I fell asleep and when the baby was ready for her next meal with the boobs. This cycle of 2 hours sleeps around the clock were taking their toll. The mood swings bungied from out of nowhere.
My reality no longer felt like reality. The fog of the first week home never left, but I was too busy and too tired to notice. I had to start putting on clothes when I woke up. Talk about every ounce of energy being zapped out by a menial task like showering and putting on sweat pants. The day time naps were helpful, and even made me feel like I could start to function again.
But getting dressed ad showering brought me a new horror...my reflection.
Who's Reflection is that?
It's become increasingly evident that I no longer exist, or at least my idea of me is lost in this inky world. Let me begin from this stranger's beginning about 6 weeks post partum...
I was so excited to go to the doctors and thank him for bringing my baby into this world and for being more supportive during that disorienting time than I expected. How many male docs do you expect to accept a doula in the birthing room and offer a bedside manner even in a potential emergency?! Well, I was one of the lucky ones and was eager to say thank you.
First thing first...paperwork. The sheets in front of me asked questions from the physical to the mental and my overall experience and changes and caring for my new baby...I expected this post partum fill in, but was surprised that I could outsmart the questions. Exhausted: yes; moody: sometimes; crying: um...no; sleep: never. I thought about each question carefully, knowing that certain ones were red flags. I wanted to make sure I was honest, but didn't need to be too honest. I wasn't sure that there was anything that concerning at the moment.
What I knew about PPD ranged from the Lifetime movies about mothers hurting or even killing their helpless children accidentally in a PPD psychosis and the feud between Brook Shields and Tom Cruise. I knew it was a real illness brought on by the hormones and life changes and the stress of being a parent. I knew that I had some blues and fears, and that they should be buzz feelings, but didn't realize that was the darkness creeping into my reflection.
My 6 week check up went smoothly right down to losing those 20 pounds I had gained during pregnancy. I couldn't believe it, but my body still seemed like it had an extra 60 pounds and was shaped funny...no worries it's only been six weeks, and everything else looks and healed wonderfully. Thanks, and see you next year.
I was so excited to go to the doctors and thank him for bringing my baby into this world and for being more supportive during that disorienting time than I expected. How many male docs do you expect to accept a doula in the birthing room and offer a bedside manner even in a potential emergency?! Well, I was one of the lucky ones and was eager to say thank you.
First thing first...paperwork. The sheets in front of me asked questions from the physical to the mental and my overall experience and changes and caring for my new baby...I expected this post partum fill in, but was surprised that I could outsmart the questions. Exhausted: yes; moody: sometimes; crying: um...no; sleep: never. I thought about each question carefully, knowing that certain ones were red flags. I wanted to make sure I was honest, but didn't need to be too honest. I wasn't sure that there was anything that concerning at the moment.
What I knew about PPD ranged from the Lifetime movies about mothers hurting or even killing their helpless children accidentally in a PPD psychosis and the feud between Brook Shields and Tom Cruise. I knew it was a real illness brought on by the hormones and life changes and the stress of being a parent. I knew that I had some blues and fears, and that they should be buzz feelings, but didn't realize that was the darkness creeping into my reflection.
My 6 week check up went smoothly right down to losing those 20 pounds I had gained during pregnancy. I couldn't believe it, but my body still seemed like it had an extra 60 pounds and was shaped funny...no worries it's only been six weeks, and everything else looks and healed wonderfully. Thanks, and see you next year.
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