Nummies 911

Crazy Club gets a new member

Dooce had her baby.

For certain I have readers that do not read Dooce’s blog, so I’ll give you a little synopsis. Dooce, aka Heather Armstrong, had a baby, went into severe post-partum depression (PPD), was hospitalized, recovered, and went on to write a book about it. She then got pregnant again and had her baby recently. Her first post about her experience with post-partum depression with this baby was June 30, 2009.

It was this post that made me realize, she is just as crazy as the rest of us. But what makes me upset is that she is in the public eye and people are listening to her. I don’t purport to know the extent to which she influences the public, but if you look at the comments, I see a lot of mothers, both new and experienced, following her and lauding her efforts in bringing the dark side of PPD out into the open. Well, that is all fine and well, but as evidenced by her recent comments, she hasn’t learned nearly as much as I would have thought.

She has talked extensively about her medicines and her therapy in the past. But in her recently she says she was experiencing anxiety after her birth and I guess she thought she needed help. Good so far. But did she call her psychiatrist? No, she went and found the doctor who treated her as an inpatient.

“So early last week we called the doctor who treated me in the hospital back in 2004. He does not normally see patients who are not in the hospital, but by some lucky twist of the universe he thought I was someone else, someone whom he owed a favor, and agreed to see me as an outpatient.”

Then she says:

“So we did a lot of talking, and since he's been treating women for this very condition for over 30 years I did a lot of listening and learning. The odds were completely stacked against me, and he said that if I had been gearing up and treating the possibility of this in my third trimester I might have been able to avoid it. But since I didn't it was time to attack it now.”

This last part sent me over the edge. My GOD woman you were hospitalized for severe post-partum depression. The very least you should have right now is a good working relationship with a psychiatrist (and therapist) along with the ongoing prescriptions. Even a mediocre doctor would have been anticipating this and “gearing up!”

Ok, so let’s get this straight, you had a baby, went crazy, were hospitalized, wrote a freaking book about it, but just thought, hey, maybe it won’t happen to me again, so we’ll just wing it and hope for the best. Because that is what is sounds like.

If that is the case, you just joined the ranks of every other depressed, bipolar or schizophrenic who don’t take their meds or see their doctor because they feel fine, right now.

Let me say this. Post-partum depression is serious! If you have ever battled clinical depression in your life (note I said clinical, which is different from being depressed during a life trigger such as the death of loved one, divorce, etc.) then you are a shoe-in for PPD. If you get PPD with your first baby, you are most likely going to experience it with your others, perhaps even more severely. Get HELP! This can be life or death.

Help is out there. There are wonderful sites dedicated to the subject. There are great books out there. There are support groups you can attend. But none of these is a substitute for a relationship with a doctor you trust, who can help you when you are in crisis. If you had cancer, you’d have an oncologist. If you were pregnant, you’d have a midwife or obstetrician. If you have post-partum depression or you are at risk for it, you need a psychiatrist, preferably one who has successfully treated many women before you.

So, congratulations to Dooce and the birth of Marlo, and if she has raised some more eyebrows, I hope it has served as an example of what not to do. Remember, crazy is as crazy does.

Birth Philosophy

Charlotte is a stray cat that Molly brought home a few weeks ago. I, of course, do not need another living thing in this house, so I kicked her out at least five or six times, but she always found her way back.

After a couple of weeks of this, I realized she was pregnant. So we became Charlotte’s foster home. The last time I had a pregnant cat I was 8 or 9 years old, so I did some reading.
•    Cats can become pregnant as young as 4-6 months old.
•    Cats can become pregnant as soon as 48 hours after giving birth.
•    Cats are very needy and moody when they are pregnant.
Sound familiar? (By the way, a six-month-old cat is the equivalent of a 10-12 year old human.)

I’ve learned some other things along the way.

Turns out there is an old technique in birthing kittens that if the mother does not lick the kitten to stimulate it to breathe, you can “gently” swing the kitten downward between your legs to force out the fluid and clear the airway. WHAT!?! Seriously, that sounds as barbaric as some of the things we do to women in labor and delivery. Science only gets us so far. Doing things the way they’ve always been done, will get you all the way to crazy.

One information source made the declaration: There are no consistently safe and effective ways of inducing labor in a feline. Amen to that, and ditto for women! If only THAT was printed on every little thing a pregnant woman receives from her clinic, than maybe, just maybe, it would have sunk in by the time she reaches 36 weeks. I’m gleaning a little from the next lesson.

My kids have forgotten everything I’ve ever taught them about birth and babies. Being a childbirth educator, doula and finally nurse, I have always talked plainly and truthfully to my children about sex and birth and breastfeeding. However, this experience has taught me that unless you talk about it everyday, most of what you may have considered “covered” is actually “forgotten.”

Leaving things alone is the best way to get things right. In birth anyway, it has a design that works, if only we would let it. Almost everything I read encouraged the pet owner to NOT interfere with the cat's labor and delivery, but to be there as a "lifeguard" if something goes wrong. And yet, when we as humans have just as good a design on labor and birth, we REFUSE to believe in it. We judge it, question it, doubt it. Are there no wise women left who believe that birth is right, natural and best left alone? Are there no women who want swim with lifeguards? I could go on and on about this one, but I'll leave it for now.

While most sources say that a cat prefers seclusion, Charlotte wanted my attention in labor, so I sat with her, and petted her and tried to support her. But as any good doula knows, you cannot possibly prepare a female for what happens at the moment of birth. Charlotte became wide eyed as her first kitten emerged and she literally tried to climb up my arm. It was a familiar sight, one I’ve seen so many times as young, first time mothers climb to the top of the birthing bed to “get away” from the pain. The next time is better because while it hurts the same, we know what to expect and the panic is not as bad. By the third kitten, Charlotte didn’t even make a sound.

 

The children’s reactions to the kittens just exemplify how very different each child is. Cullen is squeamish and Camille is not. Cullen touched one of the kittens and then felt the umbilical cord. He freaked out and ran to the bathroom to wash his hands. Camille laughed and at 3½ years old, she mocked him with waving hands and laughing, said “I’ve got to wash my hands!” Camille picks up earthworms with her bare hands.

While Molly is imaginative, Camille is rather concrete. Molly is projecting personalities onto the kittens, determining little scenarios and trying to find names that fit.
Camille asks, “Is my kitten sick, or is he OK?”
She says, “I’d like my kitten to be a girl.”

Later, Camille thinks we should sing a song to the kittens.
“Do you know any kitten songs, Mommy?” she asks.
I reply, “No, that would be Molly’s department. Go ask her. I’m sure she can make up a kitten song for you.” And she will.

 

Shared Thoughts

June 24, 2009

Outside my window...a hot summer evening and grass that needs cutting.

I am thinking...I hope I’m here when this cat goes into labor.

I am thankful for...the quiet that is mine this week.

From the kitchen...cheese, bread and wine (my absolute favorites.)

I am wearing...a long skirt, deep purple…a white tank with a light purple top, no shoes.

I am creating...a copycat necklace out of Garnet Hill.

I am going...to enjoy the evening.

I am reading...back issues of magazines in order to recycle them.

I am hoping...to get the grass mowed this week.

I am hearing...the small gurgling water of the fish tank.

Around the house...sleeping dogs and cats.

One of my favorite things...having cut flowers from my garden on my end tables and bedside tables.

A few plans for the rest of the week: a little sewing, maybe dinner out.

Here is picture thought I am sharing...

This journaling idea from The Simple Woman's Daybook

Eight Months = 90lbs

Here I am at work, 90lbs lighter.

This month, I'm opening it up to questions. What do you want to know?

For Pop

I took a quiz on FaceBook the other day. "How OCD are you?" The results: "Very OCD." Lisa told me that I didn't need a quiz to tell me that. And the truth is no, I don't. But as I try each day to let things go and relax and enjoy life more, I realize that I may be losing the battle.

This past weekend I went to my brother's wedding. We were visiting with family and I related a story about how I came home from work one day and after an hour of looking at the sod that was laid in my absence, I had to take it up and do it over. I said "I'm trying to let things go..." and immediately my dad spoke up and said "Hold on to that OCD! It'll save you!" I laughed, because he had such an opposite view of our tendencies.

He related a story about unpacking a box with styrofoam pieces and how he almost lost it when someone broke one of the pieces, knowing that tiny little balls of styrofoam were scattering to the recesses of the living room. He wouldn't be able to sleep until they were all picked up. I smiled knowing exactly how he felt.

Well, today I received a package. Molly and Camille were dying to open it and in a laspe of reason, I let them, while I finished baking blueberry muffins.

This is what I found.

And it spanned several rooms....

So, while I'll spend hours, make that days, cleaning up tiny little styrofoam balls, I did NOT yell at the kids. Instead I laughed at them and smiled, knowingly, trying to accept myself. The self that is OCD. The self that finds joy in seemingly menial tasks. The self that wants to put things before people. The self that forgos sleep for order.

And I will continue to try and create a new self.  One that knows my tendencies are just that, MINE, not others. One that finds harmony living with chaos. And most importantly, one that doesn't turn longing into anger and direct it toward a three year old with a box full of styrofoam.

As I think about Pop, our connection and his philosophy, the smile gets bigger and maybe in the coming days I can come to believe that it is true...it will save me, too.

 

Seven Months = 86lbs.

It’s been seven months and I’m getting later and later posting these monthly updates as you can see. Maybe because I find it harder and harder to put into words all the subtle changes.

1.  The weight loss is slowing down. This is normal. This is expected. But it is terrifying to me. Many people have asked me, “How will your body know when to stop losing. “ I have always answered very confidently, “It just will.” I know you can’t keep losing weight at that pace forever, but the reality of it remains, if I can stop losing weight, then I can gain weight. That terrifies me more than I can say. I am eating so little now and the weight loss has slowed down, what if I continue to eat small amounts and it starts to go back up. What will I do then? This is my heart talking of course. My brain reminds me of the physiology I know, that I must slow down and eventually reach equilibrium. That calories consumed and expended do have an affect on my weight and it is not some magic spell or luck that makes me gain or lose. However, when I step on those scales, it’s the heart that yells louder than the brain. She is so emotional!

2.  Buying a bathing suit is a losing battle no matter how much you weigh. Enough said.

3.  I mourn the loss of my breasts.  The last six pounds have come directly from my breasts. I was an A in college. I grew to a C when I gained weight. I was a D when I got pregnant the first time and I’ve been a D for the past 14 years. I couldn’t tell you what I am now because the way I read it, you measure a cup size by the difference between band measurement and your breast measurement at its fullest and well, since mine are hanging a good four inches south of the band measurement, it’s difficult to say. I really don’t care though, because as long as they make a Victoria Secret push-up bra, then I will be sporting a size “whatever-I-can-get-away-with” without looking freakish. I hope my friends come to my rescue on that one. Don’t be afraid, Holly, to say, “Becki, those boobs are a bit freakish, perhaps you should downsize them a bit.” I will be eternally grateful.

4.  People “see” you more when you weigh less. I spent the last weekend in Atlanta (without children.) Now, I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but there is a difference between being “seen” with children and without. When you’ve got a cute little toddler in tow, you could be Attila the Hun and people will give you a cursory smile. Without children, you are judged differently. I noticed that when I weighed over 200lbs, people did not see me. They may run into me, and that was easy to do because my butt was taking up half the aisle, but they wouldn’t “look” at me. I’ve even had conversations with people who never looked me in the eye. Fat is a huge insulator in more ways than one. However, now, I’m having to get used to people “seeing” me. They see me in stores, in restaurants, on the sidewalk.  It is a bit unnerving for me because it’s been so long, I really don’t know how to read the attention.  Near the end of my weekend in Atlanta we walked into a Starbuck’s. Nearly everyone in the establishment looked at me, a few intently. I felt as if I were being put on the possible terrorist list. 
“Do I look like a terrorist?” I asked Anna.
“What?” she said.
“Everyone is staring,” I said.
“Probably because of your breasts,” she replied.
“VERY FUNNY!” I screamed!

P.S. If you read this, and I know who you are, certainly you can do a kind deed and leave a comment. PLEASE! (I’m begging now.)

Losing your luggage

I don't fly much, but whenever I do, I'm always afraid this will happen to me.

Anthropologie, etc.

Here are a couple of my favorite finds this past weekend.
The first...slate coasters, that also double as food markers or place cards when you use the chalk to write on them.

Then, wooden plates and utensils. Cool for outside and travel use. I really don't like to eat off plastic, but with children, glass can be dangerous. So, birch and bamboo it is for me.

I can see clearly now

I am a nurse, a newborn nursery nurse. I have had some wonderful teachers before, during and after nursing school. I LOVE my job! These little babies have crept into my heart and I love taking care of them. I am excited each time a new little person appears and takes her first breath. I feel the adrenaline rush when that breath doesn't come and I know what to do. I read a lot about my field of nursing. I keep current of research and trends. I like learning and I take my job very seriously. I know the trust people place in my hands when their newborn is healthy and I take care of them. How much more so when their newborn is sick and I take care of them. I want parents to know that I am a mother as well as a nurse, and I will treat their precious babies with as much respect as I can.

Having said that, some days are very frustrating to me. I was called to a birth where we expected trouble. From my station in the room, I could not view the actual birth. When I asked if there was meconium present (so that I could provide the appropriate care), the doctor delivering the infant asked "Are you blind?" This was witnessed by at least seven staff members, another doctor, and of course the patient and her significant other.

Am I blind? No, doctor. I am not. Nor am I deaf or stupid. I am, however, angry and disappointed. I gave you the respect I thought you deserved. In return you belittled me to make yourself feel better. I do not care what kind of day you are having, as you obviously do not care about mine.

My first experience in the field of birth was to support women through their experience as a doula. In our training, we learned to be carekeepers of a woman's experience. We learned to be careful about each and every syllable uttered during a birth, because while women may forget many things during a lifetime, they never forget their birth experiences. They remember everything.

Well, I hope this woman's birth memories are not marred by callousness. I hope she instead remembers the moment I held her newborn close to her face so that she could kiss him for a brief moment. I hope that is what sticks in her memory long after the smells of birth are gone and she is home snuggling with her baby.  

So, am I blind? No, I think I'm seeing more clearly now than ever.

Six Months = 80lbs

Here are some photos of me 80lbs lighter.

This was taken after 13+ hours of work, and I'm still smiling, mainly because Meg was taking the picture. I miss working nights with Meg. Meg says eventually she is going to quit nursing and work at the beach selling frozen lemonade and margaritas. When the going gets tough, we start taking orders.

This was taken by Molly on our way out to run errands. We had to take about 15 shots, which explains my fake smile trying to hide my impatience.

I am still feeling great! I can pretty much eat whatever I want, just in small amounts. I still miss soda, but I cannot drink it. The bubbles are just too much.

I bought a few new clothes for the summer, all size medium. I have to tell you that the color and style choices for medium are much greater than for the 2-3XL sizes, but then that's a whole other rant.

Mainly I remain grateful for my renewed energy, less back pain and for being able to move with much greater ease. My thanks to everyone who has supported me this far in my recovery and for those who have been so kind as to send compliments. It means more than you know.