All relationships are complicated. This one is no exception.
I love to cook. No really. I love to dredge and dice, to saute and stir. I love to bake and broil. (I also love alliteration!)
And I own numerous kitchen gadgets and cookbooks. My very favorite cookbook is my Julia Child's "Mastering the Art of French Cooking" cookbook (thanks F for the fantastic 30th bday present!).
But when I say I love to cook - I really mean - I love to cook when I have time to plan menus and research options. And when I have time to enjoy the therapy that comes with the chopping. But let's face it - with real life comes real time management issues, and more often than not - cooking becomes something we do so that our kids don't starve or wind up as the poster children for unhealthy eating habits. We cook out of guilt that we simply MUST have family dinner time to prevent our children from developing a drug habit and to be able to reconnect with them and our spouse. We cook out of a misplaced sense of obligation? tradition? responsibility?
And we end up hating it. Even as much as I love to cook - there are many nights where I stagger home from the office and resent knowing that the first thing I must do is stare into the abyss of the refrigerator and drum up something tasty, healthy and quick. I've just spent 8+ hours dealing with stress and chaos to come home and create more stress and chaos in my kitchen. Is it any wonder that far too often the local restaurants win?
And I've tried weekly menu planning. And I stink at it. All that happens is I move "staring into the abyss of the refrigerator" to "staring into the abyss of the grocery store/newspaper ad/cookbook". It is still the agonizing process of trying to find creativity when my brain is fresh out of creative juices.
But lately. . .I literally stumbled across something that has made cooking quite a bit more enjoyable.
A local business offers weekly organic produce delivery - and while I can chose to have the box delivered each week. . .I do not get to choose what comes in my box. The box contents are predetermined by what produce is available by the season and on Fridays I get a new box full of new stuff.
Of course, a good deal of it is stuff I pretty much know what to do with:
Apples - those go in lunchboxes for the girls
Romaine lettuce - salads
Garlic - general cooking
But then there is also. . .
Beets - ?? !!!!! ????
Leeks - what exactly is that??
Rainbow Chard - ummmm ????
And then I have this produce. . .which I have paid for already and am NOT going to let rot in my fridge, that I had better make plans to feed to my family. And so I break out the google-fu and look for ideas. The beets became Chocolate Beet Cupcakes, the Leeks went into a fantastic Leek and Potato Soup, the chard into a gratin.
And my family is learning to eat new foods, I'm learning to cook new foods and remembering . . .that I love to cook.
Thursday, September 9, 2010
Thursday, May 6, 2010
What it feels like for a girl
So. . .I've gone back to work full time.
I know you are shocked - but I'm a bit obsessive compulsive, so I made a flow chart to help me get ready in the morning.
(you'll probably need to click to enlarge to see it fully)
I know you are shocked - but I'm a bit obsessive compulsive, so I made a flow chart to help me get ready in the morning.
(you'll probably need to click to enlarge to see it fully)
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
Mischief Maker
Mischief is finishing up her first year of school (Pre-K) and I am beyond thrilled that we've made it through the year without any episodes of nudity or hair cutting or "artistic creativity" beyond the scope of the teacher's acceptance. And just like with Drama Queen, watching her grow and change is fraught with both sadness and wonder.
Her curls have grown long and beautiful and unruly - and so has Mischief herself. She is tall compared to Drama Queen at this age and she smiles and laughs freely - in a way I'm afraid Drama and I never will. She loves to dress herself in a velvet dress, red cowgirl boots, pink camo tights and a purple quilted jacket. And mommy is having to learn to be comfortable accompanying her in public in just such an outfit. She is quite capable of coloring in the lines and yet perfectly happy to color outside them. She doesn't just march to the beat of a different drummer - she goes marching through her day with a song in her head that most of us would assume wasn't music at all.
Her smile is amazing, lighting up her entire face, the entire room, sometimes I think the entire world. Often her smile appears for only a split second, before it travels to the light in her eyes, and breaks wide open into a loud, tonsil-baring laugh that can cause even me, in the weariness of the end of the day, to find my own smile.
She loves princesses, kittens, and caterpillars. Her favorite colors are pink, purple and black. Cupcakes, tootsie rolls and grape tomatoes. She is 100 percent little girl cliche and yet somehow 100 percent against the grain.
But beyond all of these marvelous traits, the thing that I love the most about my little Mischief maker is her unbelievably sweet nature.
Far too early in the morning, when I still reside in the land of Nod, she often stumbles into my room, her curls tangled into a halo, her sleepy face back lit by the hall light she has turned on as she traveled from her bed to mine. She climbs in next to me and somehow melts against me into the most comfortable snuggling position ever imagined. She turns up to look at me and with a look of absolute adoration that I have done nothing to deserve she whispers, "I love you mommy. You are the bestest." She will then begin to pepper my face with kisses, taking a break every so often to doze back off, and then wake back up to kiss me again.
Eventually we'll have to get up and get ready for school and work and she will find her way back into her unknown rhythm that often frustrates me. But as I drop her off at school and dash away - my mind already starting to think about what waits for me at the office - she turns and throws me not just a good-bye kiss, but a hug as well. She wraps her arms around herself, makes a little squishy noise like she has been hugged a bit too tightly and then flings her arms open in my direction. And her hug hits me squarely in the heart. Every time.
Her curls have grown long and beautiful and unruly - and so has Mischief herself. She is tall compared to Drama Queen at this age and she smiles and laughs freely - in a way I'm afraid Drama and I never will. She loves to dress herself in a velvet dress, red cowgirl boots, pink camo tights and a purple quilted jacket. And mommy is having to learn to be comfortable accompanying her in public in just such an outfit. She is quite capable of coloring in the lines and yet perfectly happy to color outside them. She doesn't just march to the beat of a different drummer - she goes marching through her day with a song in her head that most of us would assume wasn't music at all.
Her smile is amazing, lighting up her entire face, the entire room, sometimes I think the entire world. Often her smile appears for only a split second, before it travels to the light in her eyes, and breaks wide open into a loud, tonsil-baring laugh that can cause even me, in the weariness of the end of the day, to find my own smile.
She loves princesses, kittens, and caterpillars. Her favorite colors are pink, purple and black. Cupcakes, tootsie rolls and grape tomatoes. She is 100 percent little girl cliche and yet somehow 100 percent against the grain.
But beyond all of these marvelous traits, the thing that I love the most about my little Mischief maker is her unbelievably sweet nature.
Far too early in the morning, when I still reside in the land of Nod, she often stumbles into my room, her curls tangled into a halo, her sleepy face back lit by the hall light she has turned on as she traveled from her bed to mine. She climbs in next to me and somehow melts against me into the most comfortable snuggling position ever imagined. She turns up to look at me and with a look of absolute adoration that I have done nothing to deserve she whispers, "I love you mommy. You are the bestest." She will then begin to pepper my face with kisses, taking a break every so often to doze back off, and then wake back up to kiss me again.
Eventually we'll have to get up and get ready for school and work and she will find her way back into her unknown rhythm that often frustrates me. But as I drop her off at school and dash away - my mind already starting to think about what waits for me at the office - she turns and throws me not just a good-bye kiss, but a hug as well. She wraps her arms around herself, makes a little squishy noise like she has been hugged a bit too tightly and then flings her arms open in my direction. And her hug hits me squarely in the heart. Every time.
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
Summer
She was defined by the summer. The winter months left her hollow and dry – the lack of sunlight and the constant bitter wind turned her into a husk of a woman. During those long cold spells without even the beauty of snow to bring her cheer, she would often retreat into a book or into the embrace of her bed, in the desperate hope that upon her return to reality the sun would have returned as well. As spring began to bloom she would often devote herself entirely to a diet and exercise regime that would shame the most devoted of athletes as she worked to whittle her body into the shape of the models of the latest fashion magazines. The work was not without merit, but genetics won most of the battle, leaving her with sculpted arms and abdomen, but with the birthing hips of her mother exactly as they had always been. Despite this frustration, the radiant heat of the southern air always managed to coerce her into a swimsuit and into the water.
She lived for the heat of summer, the lazy cadence of the long days with abundant light and warmth, brought her to life like no other time. She found peace in the chaotic mess of having both children home with her, of late nights by the pool, of picking wild blackberries along the edge of the woods and frequent trips to the library and sleeping in. The laundry piled up and the supper dishes were frequently left undone until the morning as she swam until it was too dark to feel safe with the children there with her. Then, loading them up, she would return home, startled by the sudden chill of darkness and everyone would run to change into something warm – leaving the soggy suits in piles to be hung out on the porch later. There they would dry in the night breeze and be waiting for them in the morning to swim again. She and the children turned as brown as walnuts from the exposure to the sun and spent the days in a variety of undress, often spending most of the morning in their pajamas before changing into their suits after lunch.
She taught the children to swim with an ease that belied her own early fears of water. As a small child she had fought the required swimming lessons, crying to her parents that she would simply never go near the water, if only they would not make her go to her lessons. In truth, swimming was not what she feared, but diving – a fear she never truly conquered – but maneuvered around until it was simply not something she ever had to do. Now, in her adulthood, she found the pool or the ocean to be where she felt the most graceful and at ease. The water buoyed not only her body but her spirits and she found that she could move easily in the water, sliding through the waves with the elegance of a dancer. Her strokes were long and purposeful, propelling her body forward, forward to the next lap, the next wave.
She was distracted by her husband whenever he was near. While childbirth and a schedule that often caused her to feel as if she were drowning had added unwanted weight to her body, he had only grown more muscular and defined. She constantly felt a misguided comparison to his perfection, that in his beauty, her imperfections were magnified and amplified and impossible. One could not help but be aware of her unease – the way she unconsciously pulled the towel to cover her body when at the pool, or wrapped her arms around her own waist as if by wrapping tightly enough she could force her entire body to disappear in her own embrace. Her easy manner and grace disappeared in his presence despite her insane love for him and she found she did not eat when he was around, and found it hard to lie next to him and sleep in their bed. She often crawled out of their bed and spent an hour or so downstairs waiting for him to fall soundly asleep – knowing she would find it easier to sleep when she could be sure he wasn't aware of her width, of the larger space she occupied in the bed. She attributed much of this to girlish vanity, but still found herself wishing that he not be so perfect, but wondering if she would love him if he were any other way.
She frustrated him often, he not understanding her strange feminine needs and desires. Why would someone need so much reassurance? Did he not come home to her every night? Did he not work tirelessly so that she might be able to spend more time with the children? But despite this, she felt unsure of his devotion, unsure that he loved her with the ferocity she felt for him. He was, above all things, logical, rarely showing emotion – emotion that she felt she needed to see, to understand him. How could one love without enthusiasm, without passion? She often thought that she would never find a better man, but wondered if she might find a man better suited to her. Not a man that she would ever love more – for she felt this was not possible – but a man who loved her more, who found her enchanting and wholly desirable. She would quickly throw this thought out with the evening garbage – for what about her was enchanting? No, she decided – this was her place in life, a wonderful man who loved as much as he knew how, but not as much as she wished. Everyone should be so cursed.
Their children were bright and beautiful, small girls with infectious laughter and twinkling eyes. She found their children to be a constant reminder of happiness – the oldest reminding her of her best traits, the youngest, his. She would find herself short with them often, when the demands of the day kept her overly busy, but she loved them insanely and would hold them gently each evening, kissing their cherub faces as she wished them sweet sleep. She marveled at their energy and intelligence – wondering how long it would be before they overtook her knowledge, amazed at their abilities and progress. Above all, she found their tender hearts to be the most amazing – not yet hardened by the severity of the world, spirits not yet broken by reality – she wondered if there was anything she could do to keep them this way, to keep them soft and sweet. But she thought not, and thought that perhaps, this too was best – no one can live life under the umbrella of naivete, the world and all in it, must be understood, evaluated and absorbed.
She lived for the heat of summer, the lazy cadence of the long days with abundant light and warmth, brought her to life like no other time. She found peace in the chaotic mess of having both children home with her, of late nights by the pool, of picking wild blackberries along the edge of the woods and frequent trips to the library and sleeping in. The laundry piled up and the supper dishes were frequently left undone until the morning as she swam until it was too dark to feel safe with the children there with her. Then, loading them up, she would return home, startled by the sudden chill of darkness and everyone would run to change into something warm – leaving the soggy suits in piles to be hung out on the porch later. There they would dry in the night breeze and be waiting for them in the morning to swim again. She and the children turned as brown as walnuts from the exposure to the sun and spent the days in a variety of undress, often spending most of the morning in their pajamas before changing into their suits after lunch.
She taught the children to swim with an ease that belied her own early fears of water. As a small child she had fought the required swimming lessons, crying to her parents that she would simply never go near the water, if only they would not make her go to her lessons. In truth, swimming was not what she feared, but diving – a fear she never truly conquered – but maneuvered around until it was simply not something she ever had to do. Now, in her adulthood, she found the pool or the ocean to be where she felt the most graceful and at ease. The water buoyed not only her body but her spirits and she found that she could move easily in the water, sliding through the waves with the elegance of a dancer. Her strokes were long and purposeful, propelling her body forward, forward to the next lap, the next wave.
She was distracted by her husband whenever he was near. While childbirth and a schedule that often caused her to feel as if she were drowning had added unwanted weight to her body, he had only grown more muscular and defined. She constantly felt a misguided comparison to his perfection, that in his beauty, her imperfections were magnified and amplified and impossible. One could not help but be aware of her unease – the way she unconsciously pulled the towel to cover her body when at the pool, or wrapped her arms around her own waist as if by wrapping tightly enough she could force her entire body to disappear in her own embrace. Her easy manner and grace disappeared in his presence despite her insane love for him and she found she did not eat when he was around, and found it hard to lie next to him and sleep in their bed. She often crawled out of their bed and spent an hour or so downstairs waiting for him to fall soundly asleep – knowing she would find it easier to sleep when she could be sure he wasn't aware of her width, of the larger space she occupied in the bed. She attributed much of this to girlish vanity, but still found herself wishing that he not be so perfect, but wondering if she would love him if he were any other way.
She frustrated him often, he not understanding her strange feminine needs and desires. Why would someone need so much reassurance? Did he not come home to her every night? Did he not work tirelessly so that she might be able to spend more time with the children? But despite this, she felt unsure of his devotion, unsure that he loved her with the ferocity she felt for him. He was, above all things, logical, rarely showing emotion – emotion that she felt she needed to see, to understand him. How could one love without enthusiasm, without passion? She often thought that she would never find a better man, but wondered if she might find a man better suited to her. Not a man that she would ever love more – for she felt this was not possible – but a man who loved her more, who found her enchanting and wholly desirable. She would quickly throw this thought out with the evening garbage – for what about her was enchanting? No, she decided – this was her place in life, a wonderful man who loved as much as he knew how, but not as much as she wished. Everyone should be so cursed.
Their children were bright and beautiful, small girls with infectious laughter and twinkling eyes. She found their children to be a constant reminder of happiness – the oldest reminding her of her best traits, the youngest, his. She would find herself short with them often, when the demands of the day kept her overly busy, but she loved them insanely and would hold them gently each evening, kissing their cherub faces as she wished them sweet sleep. She marveled at their energy and intelligence – wondering how long it would be before they overtook her knowledge, amazed at their abilities and progress. Above all, she found their tender hearts to be the most amazing – not yet hardened by the severity of the world, spirits not yet broken by reality – she wondered if there was anything she could do to keep them this way, to keep them soft and sweet. But she thought not, and thought that perhaps, this too was best – no one can live life under the umbrella of naivete, the world and all in it, must be understood, evaluated and absorbed.
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
Crazy Eights
Enough about me. Lets talk about Drama Queen. She turned 8 this year and something magical, or maybe the exact opposite of magical, happened. The world became real.
It didn't happen instantly, but at some point rational and logical thought took over and the part of her that believed in fairies, magic and perfection was disbanded. The haze with which children view the world, the haze that prevents them from seeing the ugliness of life and instead causes them to view every day as amazing began to dissolve and she began peeking at the real world through a tiny hole in that veil.
The first clue was Christmas. In the car, on the way home from a Christmas party she piped up to ask F. . "Daddy, Santa isn't real is he?" It was a gut twisting moment that we had known would be coming soon - but this felt just a bit too soon. She explained that it just didn't make sense, that one man could visit every child in the span of a single night. We discussed that as her parents - we would never tell her what to believe - but that she should decide what she believed based on what felt right to her. We watched as she thought, with her brow furrowed and then looked at us and said "No. He doesn't exist. But it was fun to believe in him when I was little - so I'll help make sure Mischief still believes."
Christmas 09 was bittersweet for sure.
Valentines Day rolled around and brought with it another dose of reality. Valentines parties at school and big red construction paper hearts have always been fun, exciting, silly. This year the party at school turned into a true glimpse of the unfortunate harshness of the world.
A boy asked Drama Queen out on a date.
Never mind that the boy was also 8 and I have no idea how this plan was going to work in his brain (was he going to pick her up on his bike?) and never mind that she said "no". The disaster was wrapped up in the fact that the whole class heard about it. And tormented my little Drama Queen relentlessly. She held it together throughout the day and then exploded into tears as she got in the car. Everyone was just so mean. Cruel. Heartless. And these friends that she had played with all year found it more fun to pick on her than to stand up for her.
Just a few short days later these friends would also chose to vote for another student for class president based off his promises to "help their hair grow faster" as opposed to her promises "to work with school staff to encourage additional lunch options". She was utterly devastated at their ability to believe such nonsense and the ease with which they were swayed. The reality of human nature was a hard lesson to learn, and a hard lesson to watch her learn.
Then finally, there was Toby. Toby the rescued kitten, who brought with him gray-green eyes and crazy fur that sticks up no matter how much you brush it, and a realization for Drama Queen that mommy and daddy might have been tip-toeing around the truth when it comes to how babies are made. Because Toby is a boy cat. And when we made the appointment with the vet to have him "fixed" she looked at me with eyes that questioned my sanity. "Mom. He is a boy. He cannot have babies." She clearly thought I had dropped my brain somewhere.
And so - we had THE talk. And at 8 years old she listened as we had an anatomy lesson, a human sexuality lesson and a biology lesson all wrapped up in one. And she took it in stride. She thought it was cool the way God made us different so that both mom and dad could have a part in making a child that was part of each of them.
And so, it is not so much that she is growing up - although of course that is happening too. It's that she is growing wise. And rubbing elbows with reality in a way that I didn't expect to happen for a while. It is just all happening a little faster than I had hoped. And while it is painful and sad to watch, it is also, just a little bit, magic.
It didn't happen instantly, but at some point rational and logical thought took over and the part of her that believed in fairies, magic and perfection was disbanded. The haze with which children view the world, the haze that prevents them from seeing the ugliness of life and instead causes them to view every day as amazing began to dissolve and she began peeking at the real world through a tiny hole in that veil.
The first clue was Christmas. In the car, on the way home from a Christmas party she piped up to ask F. . "Daddy, Santa isn't real is he?" It was a gut twisting moment that we had known would be coming soon - but this felt just a bit too soon. She explained that it just didn't make sense, that one man could visit every child in the span of a single night. We discussed that as her parents - we would never tell her what to believe - but that she should decide what she believed based on what felt right to her. We watched as she thought, with her brow furrowed and then looked at us and said "No. He doesn't exist. But it was fun to believe in him when I was little - so I'll help make sure Mischief still believes."
Christmas 09 was bittersweet for sure.
Valentines Day rolled around and brought with it another dose of reality. Valentines parties at school and big red construction paper hearts have always been fun, exciting, silly. This year the party at school turned into a true glimpse of the unfortunate harshness of the world.
A boy asked Drama Queen out on a date.
Never mind that the boy was also 8 and I have no idea how this plan was going to work in his brain (was he going to pick her up on his bike?) and never mind that she said "no". The disaster was wrapped up in the fact that the whole class heard about it. And tormented my little Drama Queen relentlessly. She held it together throughout the day and then exploded into tears as she got in the car. Everyone was just so mean. Cruel. Heartless. And these friends that she had played with all year found it more fun to pick on her than to stand up for her.
Just a few short days later these friends would also chose to vote for another student for class president based off his promises to "help their hair grow faster" as opposed to her promises "to work with school staff to encourage additional lunch options". She was utterly devastated at their ability to believe such nonsense and the ease with which they were swayed. The reality of human nature was a hard lesson to learn, and a hard lesson to watch her learn.
Then finally, there was Toby. Toby the rescued kitten, who brought with him gray-green eyes and crazy fur that sticks up no matter how much you brush it, and a realization for Drama Queen that mommy and daddy might have been tip-toeing around the truth when it comes to how babies are made. Because Toby is a boy cat. And when we made the appointment with the vet to have him "fixed" she looked at me with eyes that questioned my sanity. "Mom. He is a boy. He cannot have babies." She clearly thought I had dropped my brain somewhere.
And so - we had THE talk. And at 8 years old she listened as we had an anatomy lesson, a human sexuality lesson and a biology lesson all wrapped up in one. And she took it in stride. She thought it was cool the way God made us different so that both mom and dad could have a part in making a child that was part of each of them.
And so, it is not so much that she is growing up - although of course that is happening too. It's that she is growing wise. And rubbing elbows with reality in a way that I didn't expect to happen for a while. It is just all happening a little faster than I had hoped. And while it is painful and sad to watch, it is also, just a little bit, magic.
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
I'm not crazy I'm just a little unwell - Conclusion
The doctor's office calls - my results are in. But I must come see the dr to get them. They won't mail them, or tell me over the phone. I have to wait another 5 days to see the doctor and be told in person. They do tell me I have a vitamin D deficiency and should start taking supplements - but nothing else.
I go to my appointment with my heart beating out of my chest. This is it. . .this is where they tell me A - I have this disorder that requires this drastic life change, B - I have some rare and deadly disease and I should begin making a will or C - there is nothing wrong with me except the crazy.
The doctor comes in - she is a sweet, young woman with an understanding smile that has heard my story several times. She inspires confidence in her abilities, at the same time, making me feel like perhaps we would be friends if I were not sitting naked on a paper covered table with nothing but a thin cloth covering my body. She smiles and opens my chart.
It takes her an eternity to look over it all. "Well, Ordinary Idiot, you do not have adrenal fatigue." My breath, which I had been holding, flies out in a single "woosh" that sounds loud in the quiet room. I'm so confused. I was so sure this was going to be the answer. I'm at once relieved (I had really missed my coffee) and devastated.
She clicks on her laptop. Her face registers something like surprise. She looks up at me. "Ms. Idiot - you do not have adrenal fatigue. You have a crazy severe progesterone deficiency." My mind goes racing - what does that even mean? She goes on to explain:
Normal range for progesterone is between 150 and 270. Mine is 17. Seventeen. She tells me she is impressed I am upright and walking. Low progesterone causes: fatigue, depression, weight gain. Think PMS without an end. The treatment: a lotion. Every day, I have to put a progesterone lotion on my arm.
And that is it. It almost seems too easy.
I go to my appointment with my heart beating out of my chest. This is it. . .this is where they tell me A - I have this disorder that requires this drastic life change, B - I have some rare and deadly disease and I should begin making a will or C - there is nothing wrong with me except the crazy.
The doctor comes in - she is a sweet, young woman with an understanding smile that has heard my story several times. She inspires confidence in her abilities, at the same time, making me feel like perhaps we would be friends if I were not sitting naked on a paper covered table with nothing but a thin cloth covering my body. She smiles and opens my chart.
It takes her an eternity to look over it all. "Well, Ordinary Idiot, you do not have adrenal fatigue." My breath, which I had been holding, flies out in a single "woosh" that sounds loud in the quiet room. I'm so confused. I was so sure this was going to be the answer. I'm at once relieved (I had really missed my coffee) and devastated.
She clicks on her laptop. Her face registers something like surprise. She looks up at me. "Ms. Idiot - you do not have adrenal fatigue. You have a crazy severe progesterone deficiency." My mind goes racing - what does that even mean? She goes on to explain:
Normal range for progesterone is between 150 and 270. Mine is 17. Seventeen. She tells me she is impressed I am upright and walking. Low progesterone causes: fatigue, depression, weight gain. Think PMS without an end. The treatment: a lotion. Every day, I have to put a progesterone lotion on my arm.
And that is it. It almost seems too easy.
I'm not crazy I'm just a little unwell - Part 2
Fast forward 5 months from the last anti-depressant pill. And we are all still surviving. I'm at the gym enough that they are considering giving me a cot in the locker room to reduce wear and tear on the parking lot. But I'm still exhausted. And moody. And the weight comes off in fractions of ounces and jumps back on in pounds and pounds.
So I do a bit of research on my own at the encouragement of a friend - and I decide to have my IUD removed. I've had the IUD since Mischief was born and had no complaints, but some of the research I'd found online reported side effects similar to my symptoms and at this point - I'm out of ideas and quickly running out of hope. So - I have it removed. And I wait 5 more months to see if my symptoms improve (I'll give you three guesses - and the first two don't count).
So then I hear of this new doctor in town - she does testing for a disorder called "Adrenal Fatigue". I research this and Oh. My. Heavens. This is what I have. I am beyond positive. It matches every symptom, even the ones I haven't been worried about in the past. It is like they are writing about me.
I make an appointment. We chat. She also feels pretty sure that this is what I have. She also wants to test my hormone levels (estrogen, progesterone and testosterone) and my vitamin levels just to double check all possibilities. She thinks I probably have a slight progesterone deficiency just based off of my cycles.
I am giddy with anticipation of these test results - I know this Adrenal Fatigue is my disorder. The treatment sucks - it is a total lifestyle and diet change - and after 12 months you might see some improvement. I take the test and wait the three weeks for the results. During those three weeks I begin the changes I'm sure I will need to make once the positive results come in.
I give up:
coffee (AHHH!!!)
sugar - all sweeteners in fact
dairy
wheat and wheat products
fruits
I survive on water, vegetables, brown rice and hope.
And the results come in and they are not at all what I expected.
Conclusion
So I do a bit of research on my own at the encouragement of a friend - and I decide to have my IUD removed. I've had the IUD since Mischief was born and had no complaints, but some of the research I'd found online reported side effects similar to my symptoms and at this point - I'm out of ideas and quickly running out of hope. So - I have it removed. And I wait 5 more months to see if my symptoms improve (I'll give you three guesses - and the first two don't count).
So then I hear of this new doctor in town - she does testing for a disorder called "Adrenal Fatigue". I research this and Oh. My. Heavens. This is what I have. I am beyond positive. It matches every symptom, even the ones I haven't been worried about in the past. It is like they are writing about me.
I make an appointment. We chat. She also feels pretty sure that this is what I have. She also wants to test my hormone levels (estrogen, progesterone and testosterone) and my vitamin levels just to double check all possibilities. She thinks I probably have a slight progesterone deficiency just based off of my cycles.
I am giddy with anticipation of these test results - I know this Adrenal Fatigue is my disorder. The treatment sucks - it is a total lifestyle and diet change - and after 12 months you might see some improvement. I take the test and wait the three weeks for the results. During those three weeks I begin the changes I'm sure I will need to make once the positive results come in.
I give up:
coffee (AHHH!!!)
sugar - all sweeteners in fact
dairy
wheat and wheat products
fruits
I survive on water, vegetables, brown rice and hope.
And the results come in and they are not at all what I expected.
Conclusion
I'm not crazy I'm just a little unwell - Part 1
So I decided it was about time to give you all (all 2 of you) the skinny on my weirdo medical stuff. Every once in while in the past I've blogged about my eternal fatigue, my struggles with depression, my absolute inability to lose weight . . . and every once in a while a doctor would order a new test, or a new medication in an effort to handle these things and then. . .nothing would work. I believe the last time I posted anything medical it was that the latest doctor had recommended coming off of my anti-depressant in a belief that my "magic pills" were causing the fatigue.
So I came off of them. And God bless F for staying with me during that roller coaster ride. Coming off anti-depressants (especially after long term use) is probably the most insane thing you could ever ask a depressed person to do. It is right up there with cutting off your own foot without pain medications while balancing on your head and discussing the proper conjugation of Latin verbs. It makes no sense. It is painful - literally painful. And it will drive you crazy (um, crazier). Your body and mind actually go into withdrawal similar to that of other drug users. You deal with nausea. Headaches. Shakiness. Dizziness. And your emotions go diving down into a pit formerly only known by evil sorcerers in the darkest fairytales. During that time and the months that followed (for it is a long process), the following happened: I gained 10 pounds, Drama Queen had a series of frightening, although ultimately benign health scares that resulted in her wearing a heart monitor for 60 days straight, and I closed my Pilates studio due to this toilet we call an economy.
Remarkably I'm still married. And not in jail. And able to type. So, despite the withdrawal and the crazy life that just seems to be normal around here, we all survived. And. . .drum roll. . .the fatigue, the headaches, the depression, the weight. . . did not go away. Awesomeness! All of that and - NOTHING. I plotted against my doctors and their stupidity. However, life without the meds was in no way worse than life with the meds, so I decided against going back on them. I went to the gym - alot. I took sleeping pills to sleep at night and medicated myself with coffee to wake up in the morning. And I kept going.
Part 2
So I came off of them. And God bless F for staying with me during that roller coaster ride. Coming off anti-depressants (especially after long term use) is probably the most insane thing you could ever ask a depressed person to do. It is right up there with cutting off your own foot without pain medications while balancing on your head and discussing the proper conjugation of Latin verbs. It makes no sense. It is painful - literally painful. And it will drive you crazy (um, crazier). Your body and mind actually go into withdrawal similar to that of other drug users. You deal with nausea. Headaches. Shakiness. Dizziness. And your emotions go diving down into a pit formerly only known by evil sorcerers in the darkest fairytales. During that time and the months that followed (for it is a long process), the following happened: I gained 10 pounds, Drama Queen had a series of frightening, although ultimately benign health scares that resulted in her wearing a heart monitor for 60 days straight, and I closed my Pilates studio due to this toilet we call an economy.
Remarkably I'm still married. And not in jail. And able to type. So, despite the withdrawal and the crazy life that just seems to be normal around here, we all survived. And. . .drum roll. . .the fatigue, the headaches, the depression, the weight. . . did not go away. Awesomeness! All of that and - NOTHING. I plotted against my doctors and their stupidity. However, life without the meds was in no way worse than life with the meds, so I decided against going back on them. I went to the gym - alot. I took sleeping pills to sleep at night and medicated myself with coffee to wake up in the morning. And I kept going.
Part 2
Friday, February 26, 2010
My subscription to crazy never runs out.
There are things that you know you can do. Even if you've never done them before. . .you just know you can do them - because of who you are, what you've done before, how your mind works. For example: I love math (this makes me a nerd) and I really like computers (this makes me a geek) and if anything ever forces me to do something that involves math and/or computers - even if it is new - I know I'll eventually figure it out and get it. My brain works that way.
There are other things that you know you cannot do. And you avoid them. I will never sing for an audience other than my children or my shower-head. I know that this is a good idea to protect the ears of the innocent. As a parent, my job is to occasionally show my children the darker side of the world so that they won't be shocked by real life as adults - and so they are not saved from this travesty. But for the most part - I don't sing. And I'm fine with that.
Then there are things that fall into the third tier. I CAN do them. But I'm not sure if I am good at them. They make me nervous. And stressed. And nauseated.
I'm talking here about: Speaking. In. Public.
Even if I know exactly what I am talking about. Even if I am confident in the subject matter (Math! Computers!). Ask me to talk in front of people and watch as my heart races, my breathing changes to that of a woman in labor and my eyes go wide with mind numbing fear. I can't say no. . .its not like you asked me to sing. . .but oh. . .how I wish I could run like Forrest Gump.
So I make my notes, create my power point, go over everything 700 times in my head. I lay awake at night anticipating that my presentation will go horribly wrong and will end in tears. And then - it goes fine. No disasters. No drama. I force myself to speak slowly(ish) and pause for questions. I think on my feet when the questions come and then. . .its over.
And yet. . .the next time I am asked to do this. . .my reaction will be exactly the same. I guess it is because - I have subscriptions :)
There are other things that you know you cannot do. And you avoid them. I will never sing for an audience other than my children or my shower-head. I know that this is a good idea to protect the ears of the innocent. As a parent, my job is to occasionally show my children the darker side of the world so that they won't be shocked by real life as adults - and so they are not saved from this travesty. But for the most part - I don't sing. And I'm fine with that.
Then there are things that fall into the third tier. I CAN do them. But I'm not sure if I am good at them. They make me nervous. And stressed. And nauseated.
I'm talking here about: Speaking. In. Public.
Even if I know exactly what I am talking about. Even if I am confident in the subject matter (Math! Computers!). Ask me to talk in front of people and watch as my heart races, my breathing changes to that of a woman in labor and my eyes go wide with mind numbing fear. I can't say no. . .its not like you asked me to sing. . .but oh. . .how I wish I could run like Forrest Gump.
So I make my notes, create my power point, go over everything 700 times in my head. I lay awake at night anticipating that my presentation will go horribly wrong and will end in tears. And then - it goes fine. No disasters. No drama. I force myself to speak slowly(ish) and pause for questions. I think on my feet when the questions come and then. . .its over.
And yet. . .the next time I am asked to do this. . .my reaction will be exactly the same. I guess it is because - I have subscriptions :)
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