A whole lotta TMI.

I actually miss my OBGYN. Yes, I’ll admit it. I never thought I’d think that, ever.  Who misses the person who routinely spelunks your nether region?  Well, if you are a particularly amazing person, who makes an effort to make her patients comfortable and relaxed, who pays attention to the individual issues, then there will come a time, after the regular appointments of a pregnancy, where that patient realizes that they actually like being around this particular health care provider.  She is just a positive, cool person, and I like her, and I like her staff. When I go there, I'm not all tied up in knots of worry about what is going to happen... I'm looking forward to the friendly people.

As I realized this today, it put me in mind of the doctors I don’t miss. And one in particular who pretty much soured me for the already trying experience of the Obstetrics and Gynecology facet of medical care. 

Being a woman sucks. Guys get all freaked out about the prostate probe but that is tame next to what women have to endure just for routine examinations. Some women handle it with little issue, and could happily lie there while reading a magazine, but for most women it is an invasive procedure. It is a procedure that requires women to bare the most intimate part of their being to a virtual stranger, and to relax while this stranger roots around inside her.

For most women, it’s tolerable, but for some it isn't at all. I know it is over-sharing  but I will come out and say that as a child, my mother took on an affair with a younger man. That younger man was purely attracted to her because she had young daughters. That resulted in my being extremely sensitive about anything south of the equator, and I do not like to go to the OBGYN at all. Ever.

A few years ago, when I was diagnosed by my primary care physician with PCOD/PCOS, he referred me to an OBGYN in Portland. I scheduled an appointment as directed, and showed up on time. I had no idea what to expect, and nobody told me what I should expect. I arrived, and was given a clipboard containing a small stack of new-patient forms to fill out. I dutifully filled them out.  One of these pages was a history questionnaire asking a number of pertinent questions; questions that would ultimately have an influence on how the doctor approaches the appointment. One of those questions was: Have you ever experienced sexual trauma/abuse?  I checked the yes box. It’s not the first time I had to check that yes box, and so I did.

Now, this office was set up to be the most efficient OBGYN office possible. Set up with the efficiency of a cattle stockyard, designed to funnel women through with order and accuracy. Come in, pee in a cup, go down the corridor to your room, get your exam, move on to the desk for instructions, and then out the door.  I was greeted, I filled out my papers, which took me a good quarter of an hour, I was sent to pee in a cup, and then directed to sit in a tiny exam room, wherein I sat for a good twenty minutes undisturbed.

Then a nurse came in with a fresh-faced young man in a white doctor’s smock in tow. “This is a student doctor. Is it okay if he asks you a few questions?” she asked. I nodded, and the student doctor settled in on the roll-stool and lifted up the clip board, and proceeded for the next quarter of an hour to ask me the exact same questions I spent the first quarter of an hour answering in the waiting room, including that fateful question about being abused. It assured me that they would know this, and approach me appropriately.

The student doctor concluded his redundant questioning, and exited, and then the doctor entered, took one look at me and turned around to shout at the nurse that I wasn't ready.  I heard some chatter outside the exam room door, and a nurse came in holding a packet containing the paper gown for me to put on, and the paper blanket they give you to cover one's bottom.  “You need to be undressed.  You can leave your socks on…” she says before shutting the door. I stand there for a second in shock. I was not told I’d be examined at all. They didn't even ask me if I was cycling. But I complied, my skin clammy cold and my stomach in a tight knot of anxiety as it always is when  go in for my pelvic exams.

Just as I clamber up onto the table, and cover my legs with the paper blanket, the doctor, the student doctor and two nurses all cram into the room, and they enter pushing what turns out to be an ultrasound machine. The doctor, between his various barked commands, informs me he is going to look for a cyst on my ovaries. I expect he is going to use the little device to slide around on my tummy to see inside. I am told to lay back, and to relax, in spite of the small horde of people all crowded around the table. I’m already on the edge of tears from this.  I then see the doctor lift up the pelvic ultrasound wand. This was my first encounter with this device. He slathers it liberally with KY and without any warning or ado, he just woopsies it right in there.

My reaction is to stiffen up, and immediately, my eyes fill with tears.  The nurse grips my hand and while he roots the thing around roughly inside me, this doctor, who expressly asked me TWICE in his forms whether I had experienced sexual trauma, proceeded to tell me, “Relax. Stop crying. I know this doesn’t hurt.”  I was sobbing by the time he confirmed and measured out my egg-sized cyst encasing my right ovary. With a disgusted sigh, he finally reprieved me of the invasive pelvic wand, and the horde filed out, one nurse telling me over her shoulder that it was okay to get dressed. Shaken and harried, I stumbled through the corridor chutes to be scheduled for surgery by the desk.

I can’t say he was a bad doctor. He was an older gentleman who obviously had been doing this job for a very long time, and who saw countless women day after day. He was getting on with business, and the operations he put in place to avoid the kind of experience I had were ignored and glossed over. If those questionnaires were not created for this purpose, they *should* be. The fact that he is a man probably also has something to do with his utter lack of sensitivity.  I had my surgery with him, and had one follow up appointment and after that, I chose another doctor in a smaller office where my personal issues were considered each time, and I didn’t leave sobbing and feeling like I’d been violated all over again.

Dr. Jill Shaw was the antithesis of that kind of care provider. She makes a concerted effort to make her patients feel comfortable, and when I expressed my issues, which I have now learned to do from the start, she handles me with sensitivity, and expedites anything down south so that she’s in and out as quickly and efficiently as possible. She remembers this about me, so I don’t have to remind her. 

That is why I miss Dr. Jill. Because she gives a crap. My pregnancy required many such invasive events, and Dr. Jill made it as painless and smooth as humanly possible. Otherwise, I think all of the additional appointments required for an ‘advanced age’ pregnancy, which includes a number of pelvic ultrasounds, would have otherwise been a terrifying and horrendous experience, ruining what should have been a joyful time.The efforts I undertook to conquer this infertility issue I have caused me to face these psychological problems every time. It was hard enough working up to the pregnancy for eight years, exposing myself to procedures and doctors and discomforts I cannot begin to describe. My pregnancy was challenging as it was. I didn't need to have trauma added to it too. I am grateful every day for Dr. Jill and her friendly demeanor and wonderful staff. I'm so glad I found her.

My advice to the hurried, insensitive Dr. Ds of this world… slow down. You implemented the paperwork, read it.  Look at the faces of your patients, and pay attention to what they are trying to tell you. And don’t turn their appointments into a three-ring circus.

Alexander arrives. November 17, 2012

A proud papa.

After 36 hours of labour that did nothing to dilate my cervix,
my doctor decided that Baby J was too stressed, and the amniotic
fluids were too low, so she made the call. C-section in half-an-hour.

We went into surgery at 9. Baby J was born at 9:08 AM.

My sister Helen cannot keep from crying because Baby J
looks remarkably like our father.

Auntie Jessica and Cousin Baxten.

Thanks S2 for these precious pictures.

6 pounds, 6 ounces.

Pregnancy… Glow Schmow

This sort of thing is what makes
pregnancy tolerable. Teeny tiny socks
for teeny tiny feets.

My mother once told me that there is a biological mechanism that enables women to almost forget the time leading up to a birth because if women really and vividly remembered what they felt before their baby was born, they would have no more children.  I took what she said in stride, instead thinking it was just that she never really wanted us to begin with that motivated her to tell me that.  Instead, I listened to the women who I now wish to punch in the face; every one of them, personally… The women who said this sort of stuff to me:

“Oh, pregnancy was such a blessed time for me, it was such an amazing experience.”

“I never felt better in my life than I did when I was pregnant.”

“I didn’t even know I was pregnant until I started showing.”

Now seeing how long I’ve been trying to get pregnant, which has been more than eight years, you’d think I’d be more grateful and shut my yap… but if you know anything about me, you know that isn’t the case. I’m going to bitch incessantly about this until I’ve instilled at least one iota of humbling reality in women who are also seeking to ‘glow in the experience of pregnancy’.

For one or two women, pregnancy might indeed be a nine-month reprieve from the inconvenience of the menstrual cycle, with some mild binging on forbidden foods and a period of great hair and skin.  But for many women, pregnancy is an arduous, difficult thing, and there is NOTHING WRONG with resenting how the experience makes you feel. It is HARD. And it is something I wish men could experience, because if they did, they would respect women a LOT more… hell, we’d rule the world because they would be bowing to us in awe. 

My pregnancy has been one awful set of symptoms transitioning into another awful set of symptoms for the seven months I’ve been enjoying this state. The only thing that keeps me going and positive and laughing it all off is the knowledge that the squirmy little bugger inside me is the end result. Otherwise, I’d have probably killed at least four people by now. I’m serious. Starting with my mother, in spite of her foreshadowing wisdom I’d chalked up to her Borderline Personality Disorder.  I’ll talk more about her later—everyone probably wants a Satan update.

Anyhow, I’m sure if you’ve been reading this blog since the unexpected and downright miraculous discovery of my being pregnant after having been cut off my fertility meds in December.  When I took my pregnancy test, I just missed a couple of days’ work for being sick. At the time I thought it was something viral. I was vomiting, and I had the worst headaches. But when at work one morning after entertaining my coworkers with the sound of my violent retching, I realized there were other discomforts I hadn’t noticed. The daily morning mild migraines were constant. But I noticed my breasts were really super sore. Now my breasts, being large and annoying, are often sore even when not pregnant, it’s just the side-effect of having DDDs, I guess. But this was a special kind of sore. A ‘don’t brush my boobs on the edge of my desk’ sore. A ‘if you even look at them, hubby, I will hit you’ sore. 

Out of habit from my clomid days, I was still counting days on my calendar, tracking my cycles. Thank goodness I’d written down the last date of my cycle. It wasn’t SO late that it was alarming to me, at the time I think I was about nine days late, which wasn’t unusual when not on Clomid. I’ve always been irregular.  I resolved to watch for the next few days… usually what would happen in the past was I’d be late, I’d get my hopes up, I’d rush out and get a pregnancy test, and then the day after the negative result, my cycle would begin. I didn’t want to endure that again. I decided to wait until at least 12 days.

Meanwhile, my symptoms were increasingly telling.  I guess after years of being keenly aware of my body, looking for signs, I was really honed in on the severity of these symptoms.  I did wait three more days, got sick at work each of those days. I texted my hubby to warn him there was the possibility I would come home crestfallen and crying again, and he discouraged me from getting a pregnancy test because he didn’t want me to be disappointed.  Regardless, I was resolved. I went to Walgreens and then an errand to the bank. I couldn’t wait, so I actually took the test at the bank.

It took two of the 99% accurate tests to convince me it was POSSIBLE. It took another test at a resource center for me to text husband and to confirm that yes, I have positive pregnancy tests. It took seeing the little heartbeat of the bean for me to accept that this was indeed a real pregnancy and it was happening.  I would spend the next two months in a state of worry, knowing how high-risk this pregnancy was and how tenuous those first three months are.

The first three months were HELL.  My hormone levels were SKY HIGH. I was sick every morning. I missed so much work, I ended up having to take leave. My headaches each morning got worse and worse. And even as the nausea began to abate, the migraines got worse. Constipation, hemorrhoids, dry retching, acne, fatigue of the likes I’ve never experienced… fall asleep sitting up kind of fatigue, something I’ve never been able to do.  But this new symptom is probably the worst of all.  Now those of you who are squeamish might wish to stop reading (probably should have stopped when I talked about sore boobs).

We saw this a couple of weekends ago on our way to Pine State Biscuits.
It was that day I had my first Braxton-Hicks contraction. That was fun.
I'm sad I missed this event. Maybe I can enter when Baby-J is crowning.

The newest symptom is frickin’ AGONY. It started sometime in August and has been getting progressively worse since. I now understand why pregnant women walk the way they do. I thought it was because of the ungainly belly.  I have learned otherwise.  You see, for some women, I’m not sure how many; the pressure of having a baby’s head pressing on the pelvis creates a sharp pain that feels external… almost like the pain of a fresh burn that occurs, well, to put it delicately, in the ‘saddle’ area. In less delicate terms, I grumble about my Vajayjay a lot.  It started off as a pain that sharply appeared the moment I tried to stand from a sitting or laying down position, and would abate after a minute or two, if I didn’t lift my legs. Lifting my legs… ::shudder:::  As the weeks have worn on, the pain is pretty much constant when I’m on my feet.

Now mind you, the women who are disposed to effuse smug and unsolicited advice say things like “Walk… it’ll make you feel better.” That is 100% bull crap. Walking exacerbates the pain. Although while walking, the pain may dull down, after I sit down and get up again, the soreness is amplified by TEN. If I do a lot of walking one day, the next day is like I’m being tortured by the Spanish inquisition.  I want to slap every woman that tells me to walk.  I want to slap any woman who mentions Kegel exercises to me. Seriously? This is pain created by pressure and spreading of the PELVIS bone, it has nothing to do with your Vajayjay muscles. And honestly, the fact that the baby is sitting smack on your bladder, the kegel is getting PLENTY of straining exercise since I’m CONSTANTLY holding back the three drops of urine that feels like a deluge pressing against a dam. Shut up, you damned women! SHUT THE HELL UP! ::gargh:: 

Baby J is an active, seemingly healthy baby so far. He’s happily doing his impression of Michael Flatly and Bruce Lee inside me, and every squirm is a consolation. He’s okay. He made it through the first three months; his heartbeat is regular and steady. That is what keeps me from becoming a homicidal maniac, killing advice-giving moms.  This is what I’m going to hold onto, and I am hoping, just like that cheesy moment in ‘What to Expect When You’re Expecting’ when the long-suffering character, after nearly dying during a C-section, sighs out in relief when holding her baby and says that the past nine months were beautiful… I’m hoping that will happen.  The idea of two more months of this blinding pain in my crotch is almost unbearable.  I keep thinking Baby-J, Baby-J, Baby-J… The fatigue, I can handle, the occasional retch fest, I can handle, the softened migraine, I can live with… but this whole pain down there is absolutely dreadful. Sixty more days!

It’s a dangerous time, but not for me. It’s dangerous for women who come to me with happy faces, boasting about easy pregnancies, or giving annoying trite advice I already read on the web… It’s dangerous for them. I’m a ticking time-bomb. I may have to break my foot off in someone’s ass if they keep babbling their crap at me. ::grump::

So please, women who are actively trying to get pregnant… it may not be the blissful, golden-lit time of flowy hair and glowing skin. It may be nine months of abject humiliation, pain, discomfort, fatigue and increasing annoyance as other women feel it necessary to patronize you to death with their unwanted advice. It might be more than two months of walking like John Wayne in chaps because your crotch-area feels like someone just jammed a red-hot cattle brand onto it. It is months of going pee about nine times a night, having to get up and fight the crotch pain to shuffle to the bathroom in agony.  It is trying to be pleasant to people when you really just want to kick their face in for not having to endure this pain.

Oh, incidentally… I wanted to find somewhere where we could take pre-natal classes; newborn care and breastfeeding and such.  I found a number in Gresham and called it, it turned out it was a couple of Doulas who gave these classes. So I dialed up the number in the car with hubby listening. We were completely floored by the conversation, and laughed about it all the way home.

“Hi, I’m interested in finding some classes on newborn care and breastfeeding. Possibly pre-natal classes if need be…”

“Oh, then you’ve phoned the right person! We work with all kinds of women, preparing them for childbirth and teaching them to care for the child afterwards.”

“Cool. “

“It’s a nine week course. We work mainly with women who are hoping to have natural childbirth, but we have all sorts in the class, we don’t judge.”

“I am unapologetic about the fact that I will have an epidural if I can,” I laughingly reply. The woman hesitates and then says:

“Well, we don’t judge, but we do like to work with women who want to at least TRY to have natural childbirth…” ::eyeroll:: Way to go on not judging there, Sparky.  Good god. $35 an hour to pay for a sanctimonious granola to tell me what to do while sneering down on my epidural-using ass? No thanks.

Some clarification

My sister's congratulatory gift for the 'bean'. She painted it in oil.
It's called 'Shetland in Grass'. She knows my weakness for ponies.

I’m surprised. I provided a good clue in my last post as to what my ‘news’ is. It’s right there in the text. The first letter of each line spells it out. And it says: OMG I AM PREGNANT.  Nobody figured it out!


Yes. I am pregnant. It happened. How, I do not know. Running on one ‘cylinder’, with odds of <20% WITH Clomid, never mind without Clomid to help me ovulate. Back in January, my doctor decided not to renew my Clomid prescription. I’d taken my last ones in December and failed to get preggers. I was pretty depressed to say the least. But I found her decision to stop easier to accept than I thought. I was sad, granted, but I was also relieved. Not thinking about it all the time, not stressing myself out about it... it is probably the reason why we were received this incredible surprise back in March.

I’m sure the loss of 30+ lbs had something to do with it too.

Yes, I will not lie. I heard this story OVER and OVER and OVER again when we were struggling with the whole fertility thing. “You shouldn’t worry about it... it’ll happen. My sister/friend/cousin’s best friend’s brother’s coworker was trying for years and years. They gave up and boom, as soon as they did, she got pregnant.” Or “My brother in law and his wife tried for years, and then decided to adopt a baby from China. Two months after the adoption went through, she was expecting.” I heard these stories ad nauseam these past seven or eight years. Now we’re one of them.

My last Clomid treatment was in December. After Doc cut me off the Clomid, I said “screw it” and finally decided to give in and turn the spare room into a sewing room. So the bed went into the attic, and it was reorganized so there was room for a cutting table, and my sewing table, the shelves, my trunk for costumes... and I won’t lie, the room is AWESOME. So of course, of COURSE, the moment I do this, I find out I’m pregnant.

Finding out was sort of an exercise in convincing myself. I was feeling awful during the middle of March—I took a day off work for being extremely ill. Weeks back, out of habit, I’d marked the first day of my cycle in February on my calendar, but I’d forgotten about it. I had no need to track it anymore, I wasn’t taking Clomid. So I just flipped the next month on the calendar over and didn’t pay it any heed.

My birthday rolled ‘round (I’m marginally sure that this child was conceived on or near my birthday), and somewhere along the line, my one working ovary popped out an egg, and somewhere along the line, a horde of eager swimmers swarmed it and one tenacious little bugger punched through and got the whole thing started. It happened. Holy crap!

I was about weeks on when I began to suspect something. For one, my ‘girls’ were MEGA sore. They get sore as a mean when my cycle rolls ‘round, but they were super-extra-grandé-sized sore. They are ‘don’t even look at my boobs or THINK about looking at my boobs’ sore. I was also getting really bad tension headaches EVERY day, suffering from light sensitivity, I had to pee constantly and I just wasn’t feeling well. At some point, it occurred to me that maybe I should see if I was late. So I looked at my calendar, and thankfully, I marked the date of my last cycle. At that point I was close to 9 days late.

I’ve been late before, and after all the constant years of disappointment, I refused to give up the idea that I was fooling myself. I convinced myself that if my cycle didn’t start by the 12th day, I’d get a pregnancy test.

When you struggle with infertility, getting a pregnancy test is a torturous thing. You are filled with hope every time, and when it comes back negative, you are so crestfallen, no matter how well you’ve convinced yourself not to get too excited. Over the years, I used to sit and plan all the ways I’d tell my husband if I came back with a positive, I had all these elaborate ideas, like a treasure hunt with baby-items, or whatever. Stupid stuff. But this time, I was too afraid to believe it. So I called my husband and warned him; I was late, I wasn’t feeling hot, my boobs hurt, so I was going to get a pregnancy test. He also had a little trepidation about it. He knows how disappointed I got, and didn’t want me to be crestfallen again.

I left work during lunch and zipped up to Walgreens and bought a 2-pack of EPT tests. I had to swing by the bank, and I was so anxious about it, I actually did the test at the bank. I sat in their restroom staring at the positive with complete incredulity. I thought I was reading it wrong. That maybe I did the test wrong. I read the instructions several times to insure I was reading it right, and feared I’d held it in the stream too long, or at the wrong angle, and got this false positive. I rushed back to work to confer with my coworkers. I spread the instruction sheet over the table and the three of us studied it like a bunch of generals in a war-room studying a map. We looked again and again and the consensus was; positive. The line that was faint was the one that was supposed to indicate negative. The line that indicated positive was not only quite blue, it was heavily darkly blue.

I still thought there was room for doubt. Go figure.

But doubt still filled me, so a few hours later, I did the test again. Once more, the test was positive. It was a fast-positive, immediate. No waiting time for the line to darken, it was a strong, vivid blue line. You’d think after getting positives on two 99% accurate tests would be proof enough, but for someone who has lived with disappointment over pregnancy over and over again, I STILL required convincing. So the next day, I went to a pregnancy resource center, and because I made the mistake of telling the lady I was an atheist, I had to endure long-winded faith-based lectures about the pitfalls of abortion (::oy::) and was then subjected to attempts to coerce me to find faith-based support groups for parenting. Their intentions were respectable but wholly unnecessary. In general, Atheists are not evil fetus-ejecting jerks. We can be decent, respectable, loving people (with an occasional streak of cynical snarkiness of course). I smiled and thanked the lady, and proceeded with the test. She set a timer for five minutes but I got a positive within 20 seconds of my urine being dropped onto the test. This was my first clue about my HCG levels. They are SKY HIGH.

At that point, I accepted the fact that I was pregnant, and I totally lost it. I burst into blubbering tears while clutching the hand of the center’s volunteer lady. She was so sweet, and she even gave me a pair of knitted booties. I texted my husband. Mind you, it’s hard for a young, healthy young woman to hold onto her baby for the first three months.

I wanted a blood test (further confirmation perhaps) and to talk to my OB. That was when I found out she retired without telling me, and I had to hunt down a new OBGYN. I found one, had my first appointment the next week, and our first ultrasound the week after.

Surprise, motherf**kas, I iz here.

I’m now at 10 weeks. Only two more weeks and I’m through with the first trimester.. scary huh? I’m almost a third the way through the pregnancy. The baby is due November 20ish if all goes well.

This first trimester has been HORRIFIC. My HCG levels were 10x what is considered normal. I’ve been violently sick for weeks. I’ve lost six pounds in two weeks, in fact, I’m at the lowest point I’ve been on the scale in many years, and have broken my WW plateau. I am quite sure I’ll gain it back and then some if I get through this colossally horrid pukey phase and am able to eat anything besides bagels, bananas and rice crispies.

So I’m on my way, and the little lima-bean in my tummy (now about the size of a kumquat and looks disturbingly like a teeny-tiny Voldemort) is still there (at this point...) we’re about to embark on our next appointment today, and hopefully we’ll have a new ultrasound soon enough. Because I’m of ‘Advanced Age’ I will need a specialist doctor who is used to geriatrics with babies and more monitoring to ensure a healthy pregnancy.

As I get closer to the end of the first trimester, the chances of the baby sticking around to full term become much better.

This is how my husband chose to announce it on Facebook.
Yes, those are my toe-socks.

So yes. At 41 years of age, I’m about to have my first (and last) baby. I still can’t believe it. But last night, when I turned onto my tummy in bed, I could actually feel the little nugget in there pressing against my pelvis. Pretty soon I’ll be showing. How weird is that, to imagine there’s a tiny, wriggly little ‘skwerm’ inside me. It is already so loved, and it’s only 10 weeks old and an inch and a quarter long. Hubby is on cloud nine.

I will have to find something to do with my horse for the rest of the year. I was hoping to pasture him; I don’t want to lease him out to an inexperienced or bad rider. I have that to figure out, and the sewing room now baby-room. I’m trying not to panic. :)

Thank goodness I didn’t get rid of all that baby stuff. Who knew?

Surprise.

First office-special in a long time. :)

Oh man,

My head is about to explode.

Give me some air!

In the span of a few weeks

A lot has happened.

More than I could have imagined.

Probably more than I can handle.

Really, everything will be okay.

Even if everything is going to change.

Granted, I wasn’t expecting all this.

Not when I had already resigned myself.

And given up.

Now that’s usually when it happens.

To tell the truth, I’m terrified.

~~~~

Maybe this will explain my silence and cryptic posts of late. It was an eventful birthday indeed. :)  I'm treading softly, it's a delicate time. Things could change.

Big Pony Club.

Photos courtesy of Sassy Shots' Stephanie R.

Life has been super-full and busy these past few weeks. My weight hasn’t moved since the 34lb mark, except to go up or down by a few pounds here and there. It's probably due to my being a complete hog and eating like a savage, but I could be wrong. I’m keeping an eye on it though, and trying to discipline myself (while trying not to think about the sack of Orange Milanos in my cupboard behind me). I can only say that I guess, maybe with the prettier weather, or whatever it is, that I am coming out of the weird low-grade fugue that has been hovering over me for almost two years. I’ve been inordinately grumpy, and I know this. There have been moments of better moods here and there, mostly when I’ve been intermingling with people in my comfort zone.

I haven’t been able to spend much time with my horse this past month, which is awful. He is my therapy, and being away from him makes the fugue harder to overcome. But these past few days have been kind of nice, I have to admit.

It’s strange to say this, but giving up on the whole pregnancy and adoption thing, as sad as it is, has also eliminated a surprising amount of stress. It’s weird, but not having to worry about it, and think about it makes the whole thing easier somehow. We’ve decided to let the chips fall as they may for the next couple of years, and when things get better for us financially, we can look into adoption again (hopefully with a kinder, more human caseworker on our side).

That doesn’t mean it’s not still on my mind every day. This past weekend, for instance, I spent time with two adorable girls who reminded me how much I love spending time with children, and how fulfilling it can be to be around them.

My BFF Stephanie II asked if her boyfriend’s girls could come and meet Tag, so we arranged for them to come to the stable to meet him and have a little ride. Once upon a time, when my family owned a riding club, I used to instruct. I enjoyed it immensely in spite not always being reliably committed to it during my teens, but hey, I was a teen! I’m a pretty good riding instructor, and I taught Pony-club for a long time too, working with kids and ponies. So it felt natural to work with the kids and help them feel confident around horses. Tag being a big stampy boy also helped them develop a bit of confidence too in his own way.

Tag is doing what he's known for; attempting
escape from the purgatory of grooming. He is good
at undoing knots.

When we got there, Tag was in his dirty stall looking bored. I hadn’t ridden him for a MONTH. He was pretty mellow though, thanks to the warmish day, and he behaved on the most part. He does however, look like a massive scraggle-muffin with his winter coat and uneven roach. I’ve been cutting down his mane with scissors lately because my clippers just aren’t strong enough to make it through the broom that is his mane. Nonetheless, I set out the brushes and the girls helped me brush him down (Alizabeth could only do his lower half, but she managed well enough).

Then I threw the saddle on him and let him run on the longe for a few minutes to make sure he wasn’t in one of his moods that might endanger the girls, but Tag is a pretty good horse on the most part, and usually only misbehaves when he’s challenging me and I'm making him do things he doesn't want to do, which is good because he seemed to like the doting attentions of the two girls.

Invariably, we hucked the small one into the saddle. I started by leading them. I had to twist my stirrup leathers ‘round twice for Alizebeth’s teeny legs. Her heels barely cleared the edge of the flap. LOL. Then After a long time leading, I eventually let them take the reins (when they were confident enough to let go of the pommel), and ‘steer him’. They both did wonderfully, so I unclipped his lead rope from his halter and let them ride him without my help, but with me at their side all along. They were in the saddle combined over an hour.

I did not ride myself, but I confess, I didn’t mind. I forgot how much fun and how gratifying giving riding lessons can be. And teaching them the proper way, right from the start is the way to go. I too often see new riders being taught the wrong way by instructors that obviously have been taught the wrong way themselves; stirrups too short, back too arched, stiff seat, strange positions, toes sticking out like Charlie Chaplin... it’s hard not to stick my nose in and say something, but I have to curb my tongue and let things be. I’ve gotten dirty looks at my barn several times for correcting people, which is obnoxious on my part, but when I see those bad traits being taught, I see only danger. There’s no connection when a rider is too stiff, when the back is too arched, they’re not ‘sitting deep’... it’s frustrating.

A little sitting on him bareback does wonders for balance and confidence.
It also teaches riders to relax their legs and ride long.

Both girls took to Tag’s long strides quite well, and were riding all by themselves (with me nearby of course) by the end of each lesson. They were quite proud of themselves. I was quite proud of my big boy, who behaved like an angel, as if he knew that the little people on his back were in his special care.

When the other wasn't riding, Stephanie II put them to work cleaning
Tag's stall. Nothing says lovin' like child labour!

We ended the day with a fatty dinner at the Huckleberry Inn at Government Camp. It was a nice day. When Alizabeth snuggled on me, and used my markers to colour pictures, all I wanted to do was tuck her under my arm and take her home. Get her a pony and tiny Jods and paddock boots. Sew her regency dresses and elaborate Halloween costumes.

Oh well. :) A good thing is that I went into Marshall’s and bought myself some jeans on Saturday before I hit the stable. They were on sale for $10. Two, almost three sizes down from what I wore before. That was a great feeling too.

Yeah, we’ve had some stress these past months. We were named in a lawsuit along with our insurance company (but we’re protected, they tell us), we have tight bills as usual, new boss at work, my computer died (which is AWFUL!)... but I’ve been feeling okay. Managing to muddle through.


Oh! I nearly forgot. Before all the horse stuff on Saturday, I followed my husband on his motorcycle so I could bring a new tire to the dealership for him to install on his bike. I went home via downtown Portland and stopped at Zupans to discover that they carry the Lars Belgian Sugar Pearls. Methinks some waffles are in order soon!

34lbs lighter and really grumpy.

December, Saturday Market. Portland's homeless
find creative ways to tug at the heartstrings.

So it’s been a while since I’ve talked about weight. And that’s because I was plateauing again for months, vacillating between 29 and 30lbs from the end of August all the way to December—so there wasn’t much to talk about. After the holidays, I finally began to see movement again. I have now lost a total of 34lbs as of this morning. It’s good to see movement again. My husband suspects that the Lupron and the Clomid might have had something to do with my weight not moving at all, who knows? I’m just relieved it’s happening again. If it was the fertility stuff, I suppose my renewed weight loss is a positive consequence of being ‘cut off’ of the fertility stuff by my doctor (I’ll elaborate upon this later). The fact that I’ve plateaued for months doesn’t mean I was going to give up—I wasn’t gaining weight during those months, but I *was* definitely was getting annoyed with my husband hitting 55lbs lost. He’s the incredibly shrinking man.

We were both exposed this weekend to the typical defensive attitude towards our weight loss, which really fired me up. A friend of ours, who has been struggling with his weight these past four years, made a comment upon seeing the incredible shrinking man, and basically told us that our efforts will inevitably fail. Wow. Thanks a lot d-bag. He then proceeded to give us advice on how to better lose weight. Looking at his unchanging weight, I was dubious at best. The whole thing sent me into a Facebook rampage. It’s annoying when the people you care about are not supportive, even though they somehow think they are being so.

Every time I post something about diet on Facebook, there’s this woman who invariably will go on some windy litany about the types of food she eats and how much they’ve helped her and blah blah blah. No offense but I don’t care! We’re doing Weight Watchers, it’s working for us, we’ve lost almost 90 lbs between both of us, shut up! We get all this unsolicited advice on diets that supposedly make you lose weight faster and blah-de-freakin’-blah... We are not interested in hearing about trend diets that don’t work. No carb diets, Atkins diet, gluten-free diet... There’s no long-term habit-changing on these deprivation diets, just momentary results that, if you stop or change, will go away and bring you more weight back in the end. Don’t tell me you skip a meal, or eat only a little bit and claim you’re losing weight, that’s just plain stupid. Nothing makes a body hoard fat more than depriving it of food when it needs it to function. Starvation mode is not dieting, and it doesn’t work for weight loss, except for maybe for anorexics—but that could ultimately result in lovely extras, like binging and barfing and sometimes a sad, rickety, always-cold, hairy body death. Oh, and death-campers and Ethiopians--starvation works for them too.


This is what weekends usually look like at home. I'm under all that.

Keeping track of what goes into your mouth every day is a good way to put your diet into perspective. Try it for a few days. Write EVERYTHING you eat down. Trust me, it’s mind boggling if you’re 100% honest with yourself and you don’t change your diet for the duration. It’s amazing, now that I look back on the last twenty years, how much I deluded myself about how much and how badly I actually ate each day. I would skip meals, pick at my food for one meal, and then gorge on another, and it all equaled out to BAD, although somehow my brain was really great about fooling me about exactly how much I was actually eating, and what horrid foods I was eating. My god, the justifications too! Thinking I was eating healthy when I was eating all the wrong things—eating a healthy meal but then eating ice cream (OMG so, so bad) or a chocolate bar, drinking lattés every day. It’s a recipe for disaster. I see it now. Don’t try to convince me, now that I’m losing weight, that there’s a better way. This way works, and I’m sorry to say, contrary to your statements Mr. D-bag, that it works for EVERYONE. Hundreds of thousands of people who stick with this program lose tons of weight and keep it off. Hundreds of thousands! The only people who are failing in my husband’s WW group are people who gave up and didn’t stick with the program, the people who always make excuses and lose no weight, or the people whose family and friends are not supportive at all, exposing them to bad foods daily, and enabling them to fail at every turn. D-bag’s attitude is, well, I don’t want to stop doing what’s easy and comfortable—but I don’t want it work for you either 'cause then I'd have no excuse, so I’m going to sabotage you as best I can and try to undermine you. Some friend. D-bag! ::argh!::

Portland's usual overreaction about a few inches of snow. This was last week
There was no snow on the ground, yet there was the reporter, preaching doom & gloom.

Anyway, other than that diatribe, nothing much else has been going on. I’ve been ‘cut-off’ on my fertility meds by my OB/GYN. So that’s the end of that. ::sigh:: I can’t afford a specialist so we will probably be a childless couple, since we are apparently not good enough to adopt from the state either. I’ve been pretty upset about the whole deal, but dealing with it. There’ve been lots of distractions at work to keep me from really getting mired in the whole ‘wah-wah-call-me-a-wahmbulance’ part. The whole thing is exhausting so I’m kind of relieved that I will no longer have to be poked and prodded anymore or put through an emotional wringer for no good reason. This whole odyssey has been such an exercise in wretchedness. Feeling like less of a woman for being unable to conceive, the devastating monthly disappointments over and over, and not being able to stop hoping every time, a day or two late, and I’m looking at cribs at IKEA... then bam... surprise, no baby for you ::said in soup Nazi voice:: The adoption process gave us such hope, only to dash them in one ten-minute home-study with a case-worker who obviously couldn’t give a bigger f**k anymore about her job. She is the honeybadger of caseworkers.

Oh well, at least the crafts and storage can stay in the spare room for the time being.

Our septic tank has been abandoned and in its place is the costly bottomless sand-filter that has completely changed the landscape of our back yard, and removed all of our shade trees, not to mention the cute river-stone retaining wall and my giant, beautiful ferns. BOO! The garage now must be entered from another direction, and next to it, where the driveway used to be is a big raised pillow of sand the size of an in-ground pool. We tried to salvage some of our other trees, and replanted them, but honestly, the cedar and Special Ed (the Christmas Tree) are not looking too pleased by the whole upheaval. And Sherry, my co-worker was talking about how backhoes can often compress soil around roots and kill trees, so I’m watching the maples closely to see if the backhoe murdered any more trees. Our backyard looks like the trenches of WWI. It’s disheartening.


This is Dan screwing in the new ply on the floor.
That is Simon, 'helping'.

We also redid our bathroom. Our toilet started sinking into the floor because of a gasket leak that had been surreptitiously going on for a long time, eating through two layers of ply (but not eating the subfloor thank God). Hubby tore it all out, we had to huck the sink console and the toilet and we redid everything. Of course it’s not perfect and that hideous bath is still there (I want a nice corner stand-up shower unit) but it’s a start.

That’s what we’ve been doing. I have hardly seen my horse at all this past month. I’m a bad mommy. I’m going to try and get some riding time in tonight. I could use the therapeutic effects being around my horse provides. Ai ai. Anyway... that’s it for today.

‘Tis the season to be grumpy, fa la la la... meh.

It’s beginning to look a lot like annoying. It’s taken quite a while for me to even begin to feel that Christmas spirit, and when I say feel the spirit, I mean barely even acknowledging that it exists. Part of my scrooginess was attributed to spending several days in the prior weeks being mired in a HoneyBucket Hell, which is a special place for people like me. You see, I described the septic situation we’re in at home. Well, piles of begged family money later, the back-yard looks like a WWI trench, or the surface of the moon, all the trees are gone, there’s a rectangular mound the size of an in-ground swimming pool in front of the garage where the driveway used to be, and two hideous cement manholes and a power box sticking up out of the ground behind the house. It’s hard to look at that devastation and not burst into tears. But at least we have working plumbing again. For a few days, I was consigned to the use of a Honey Bucket at home in 18º weather—and let me tell you, getting up at 3AM for a potty emergency, and having to hoof it outside to the frigid air, NOT FUN!!!! And worse? The septic tank at our office building failed back in April, and we’ve had a porta-potty at work since then, so I couldn’t get away from the freezing toilet seat if I tried. It has been a nightmare!

But, the toilet is now reconnected at home, and even though our toilet is slightly tilted, it’s warm, so that’s a bonus. It’ll be a little while longer before we can use the indoor facilities in our offices again. So all this toilet-related drama that has sort of set my mood into grump-drive for the next few weeks.

But then there’s all the other additional factors. 1) we can’t afford to give gifts again this year, not even to one another. 2) our Christmas tree didn’t arrive until this past weekend, and he was from the ‘slim-pickings’ pile, because he was cheap. Because we insist on buying live, potted trees, and buying locally, we have to move quickly to get the best looking tree. But since we waited, all that remained were several twiggy trees, a bush that thought it was a tree, and the tree we have, which I call the ‘Special Ed Tree’. I’m convinced that as he was growing up in the Mount Hood forest, all the other trees teased him and laughed at him, playing cruel tree jokes and making him cry. He probably wore a bicycle helmet too, but one of the other trees probably tore it off his top and flung it where he couldn’t reach it with his one, randomly long limb that sticks out from his bushy bottom half. His top half is a single thin trunk-stalk with about eight single branches on it, one set of four in the middle, and one set of four close to the droopy top. His one long branch sticks out from the others by at least two feet. Yep. He’s a special tree.


No amount of blurring, bad lighting or can a bad camera
hide the gaping void on the top half of the tree.
Oh well.

I decorated the hell out of him. I tried to compensate for the lack of branches on the top half by hanging ornaments all over the lighting wire and wrapping tulle around them to give him bulk. He doesn’t look half-bad, in spite of his ‘specialness’. He’ll do. He’s a Norway Spruce, so he’ll go into the back yard, now that there are no larger trees present to tease him. Maybe he’ll grow into himself a bit. Who knows? Decorating did put me in a better mood.

3) Part of my seasonal resentment is also instigated by all the snacks and meals and treats that come along with it. The holiday season revolves around FOOD and for folks trying to lose weight... it SUCKS. Since Thanksgiving, my husband and I have been beset with every temptation known to man. We’ve won some battles, but lost most, and every day is a torturous opportunity to FAIL. My weight as a result has been stagnant. The retreat did not help either because being faced with four days of Stephanie II’s cooking and trying to moderate was IMPOSSIBLE. So I have decided to pretend it never happened and move on. But trust me.. With this kind of noshy deliciousness arranged before you like a feast... There’s no stopping yourself from grazing like a blue whale inhaling krill by the thousands of pounds.

A plate of evil. Delicious, delicious evil.

The ORS retreat was a blast, if not a lot of hard work. My feet hurt for several days afterwards, my 40-year-old body just isn’t able to keep up with Stephanie II. Although I did drive her nuts with a couple of inordinately early morning wakings during the retreat. ::muaha:: I’m surprised I didn’t find sharpie written all over my face or something like that. She can be a brat that way. But that’s all right.

Here I am attempting to read two or three lines of Mary's novel
before being irrevocably distracted by tasks and fun (and also
sporting a lovely double-chin to boot).

Last Thursday, I visited Mary Robinette Kowal’s home to trim bonnets. I was trying out my new bonnet pattern and discovered to my great dismay that it did not scale right, so it’s back to the drafting board. I’ll be re-releasing the old pattern though on Etsy for the time being, until I get my stuff together. And this pattern is tried and true. So it will be for sale as it is for a while longer until I can redraft it and clean it up a bit.

Here at work, my boss is retiring (today is his last day), which has stirred up a lot more emotion than I ever thought it would. I’ve found myself being unusually snippy and angry about stupid things, and this morning, when Sherry texted me a picture of the door-decorations we made all ready to be posted on his door for his last day, I had to pull over and cry. He truly is the best of bosses. He’s funny, he handles us, even at bad moments, with humour and affability, and he trusts us. I don’t know this new guy who is replacing him, except that he’s close to my age. It’s scary. For all of us, but mostly for the other two ladies in my office who have both worked with Dave for over twenty years. I’m going to miss him very much. More than I imagined. We had a little retirement shindig for him at Winestock in Oregon City last Friday. He was SO bratty and out of control. SII made a little jukebox cake (which was so soft and delicious OMG – CURSE THE CAKE!) for him (he restores jukeboxes as a hobby). Strangers in the wine place were asking for pieces of it.

On Saturday, a small group of us had tea at the Heathman Hotel to celebrate Jane Austen’s birthday. I have to say I was a bit disappointed with the Heathman. For $32, what we got was pretty laughable, and SII was scandalized. Last time we went there for tea, the portions were pretty much double what we had this time, so I’m thinking the kitchen is trying to cut costs, but holy crap... the cost is too high. I’m not sure if we are going to do a repeat of that again if it’s so little for so much. Just not worth it! The foods were also pretty mediocre. Next to SII’s teas served at the retreat? Not even close. But we all had a really great time. And a moderately OK photo of me was taken by SII.

At Saturday Market in Portland before we
made our way up to the Heathman.

Still not pregnant, but not for lack of trying. I am still popping clomid like pez every time the cycle comes ‘round. Not sure how much longer I’ll keep doing that. We’ll see.

Anyway, that’s my update for now. If I don’t post again until after Christmas, I’d like to extend my warmest “BAH HUMBUG!” to you. ;)

The HC



Thursday ramble, and an O.S.

Office Special - the first drawing in my new sketch book.

Autumn is coming. The hot nights have given way to breezes of crisp air sneaking through my still-open window at night. I love the smell of it. The land is replenishing itself from the first of the fall rains; the river has gotten just that bit louder. The leaves are starting to turn. It’s not quite over, but the signs are there that Summer is finished. Today, the sky is vivid blue. It’s the kind of day I want to be in the saddle, overlooking some amazing view, gazing out over my horse’s perked ears, feeling the sun on my skin, but refreshed by the cool air that’s blowing around me. It’s windy. It’s so beautiful.

Ignore the lame slideshow and just listen to the music. A Belgian composer
I forgot I loved but rediscovered by accident.

This is the time of year I miss most living in New Hampshire. It’s when the Indian Summer arrives with its colours and crackling leaves, where small towns have pumpkin festivals, and you can start wearing your pea coat again. Oregon hasn’t quite achieved the palette of a New England autumn, but it’s still a beautiful time here. It’s also a blessed time for us mountain-dwellers. It’s too cold for campers, except the most determined diehards, and yet not snowy enough for the hordes of skiers to come marching up the mountain. It’s the short, brief time when we get our touristy mountain towns mostly to ourselves.

October is a busy month. My husband’s birthday is on the 10th. Our anniversary is on the 16th, and my little brother’s birthday is on the 25th. There are also a couple of birthdays on hubby’s family’s side as well. His nephew Bryan gets a year taller. And grandma turns 87. Time marches on.

Sincere apologies for my foul mood yesterday. That sort of thing *really* makes me grumpy.  I really cannot stomach ill-will between people.  It sets me off.  Obviously.

I enjoy Halloween. I complain every year how I was cheated of it as a kid. Growing up in Belgium was great, but I missed out on some American traditions I wish I could have enjoyed. We never do much on Halloween. This year, we are thinking about going to a Halloween party at Edgefield, we shall see. It’s not like staying home is worth it, since we never get trick-or-treaters anyway.

I’m in a reflective mood lately. I’m still clinging to lingering hope, trying not to set myself up for more disappointment. I can’t help it. I had always planned a future with a child in it. It’s hard to picture it now without one. But nothing’s permanent. Nothing’s set in stone. Things could happen, who knows? Should I send the little things I’ve collected along the years to Goodwill? The set of Beatrix Potter books, the copies of the Velveteen rabbit? The little silverware set made specifically for a Victorian child, the bibs and bowls and cups my sister gave me once. The handmade wooden rattle? Should I just let it all go? I don’t know. The idea of letting go of those little material things feels like I’m letting go of hope. I’m not quite ready to do that yet.

It’s probably for the best anyway. We are living on a tightrope financially anyway; a child would make that all the more challenging.

I’m still stuck at 27-29 lbs. It’s so annoying. I’m hoping this plateau will shatter soon, and I’ll start losing again. Hubby is still stalled, but he’s lost a smidge this week.

The back. It has a lace insert.

The front yoke, has a lace insert too.

On the sewing front, I’ve finished a nightgown (except for the closure). It turned out better than I had hoped. I really didn't have a lot to reference, honestly, so this design is pretty much pulled out of my derriere.  But I need something to wander around in at night during the retreat, something comfortable and that looks somewhat the part. I've since added a little lace around the collar and around the 'waistline' with a ribbon woven in to tie it.   Here are some pictures of the yoke and back, before I attached the gathered gown itself... I took some photos of the completed gown with a better camera, but I forgot to get them off my husband’s camera. I’ll post them when I remember.

I’m working on a chemisette right now. I’ve been doing it all by draping on the most part. I discovered that when I consolidated my fabric stash, that I was pretty much covered, except for maybe a few yards of silk might be required for a ball gown. Not sure yet.

Someone love me, please?

This is Jesse. She is our pot-head/alcoholic neighbour’s daughter’s dog. She drives up here to stay with her father, and brings Jessie. Jessie spends all day left alone outside. She is fearful and she cowers and pees herself if you make a sudden move. She sees our happy little dogs, and she wants to be part of our family. She comes in our dog-door and stands at the glass door from the laundry room and pines to come in. Lately, she’s been spending her evenings with us. She goes ‘home’ at night. She is sweet and attention-starved. Just like with OC the Opportunistic Cat, we are being ‘adopted’. I’m not sure if she’ll ever end up being ours completely like the cat, but she’s welcome for whatever time she needs of us.

Have a nice weekend all. Check it out! An office special. I got a little sketch book that I carry around with me. That’s the first drawing in it.  It's not a great drawing, but what the hell. I'm amazed I could squeeze out something creative, honestly, with this dry-spell I've been in.