Letters to My Girls

To Test or Not To Test. Cancer is The Question.

Dear Girls,

I went to the doctor recently to find out how much closer to menopause I am now than I was last year.  During the appointment, along with the usual tests that are ordered, I was offered a new test to determine if I have a certain cancer gene.

The test is for relatives of those who have had colon cancer, uterine and ovarian cancer, and pancreatic cancer.  The three cancers are linked, and there is a common gene that, if identified by the test, increases your chances of developing one of those cancers by as much as 70%. 

Unfortunately, I have all three of those cancers in my family, so the chances that I could test positive for this gene are reasonably high. 

Now, I'm not afraid to find out if I have that gene.  The fact is, since my dad, my sister, and my grandfather have all died from those cancers, I've been more vigilant about getting unusual symptoms checked.  I learned a long time ago that worrying about getting cancer is useless, so finding out my chances are high doesn't make a huge difference to the way I live my life. 

Nevertheless, making a decision on whether to have the test, or not, has been difficult.

Sure, if I knew I had the gene, I could be even more focused on testing and prevention.  I could have a hysterectomy to prevent the possibility of getting estrogen-based cancer.  I could get mammograms and colonoscopies more often.  There could be drug studies or treatments open to me that might not be without knowing.  You might think this is the most responsible way to respond. 

Beyond the obvious - the stress of knowing cancer would be lurking in the background for the rest of my life - there are even more difficult issues we would have to face.

It's clear that insurance companies deny claims and/or eligibility to people who cost them money.  Just because it's illegal for insurance companies to deny coverage for people who test positive for this cancer gene, doesn't mean they won't, either now or in the future.  Laws change.  The denial of coverage could wipe us out financially. 

Suddenly, the decision isn't just about me anymore. 

Then, there's the very real possibility that, if I have the gene, you may as well.  I am not only completely mentally unprepared to test you children, the idea of trying to explain to you how to hear and respond to the information is beyond daunting.  As adults, we can deal with the realities we face when it comes to our own life, illness, and eventually, death.   I can't even conceive of what it might be like to manage my own child's potential health concerns.  And, I have no idea what it would be like, as a child, to manage the constant threat of illness.  

I've asked the advice of friends and family.  And, I sit quietly with the idea of having the test.  I haven't decided yet.  I can see benefits and drawbacks to either decision.  I don't particularly want to be a martyr, but I certainly don't want to cause the mental or financial demise of my family.  I don't want to have cancer, but knowing I have the gene doesn't mean I will or won't get the disease.  We also have heart disease in my family, a deadly alternative, and I don't do much to prevent it for myself.  There are other types of cancers on dad's side of the family.  I drive a car.  I occasionally cross busy streets on foot.   I drink cola every now and then.

Making decisions isn't easy.  There are always consequences to making decisions, some foreseeable, some not.  You'll make mistakes, and learn from them. You'll change your mind. You won't always have support from others for decisions you make.   No question - these life-changing ones are tough, but infinitely, life-affirmingly, worth it. 

I love you both,

Mommy

 

Why This Mommy is Losing Her Mind!

One of the reasons I started blogging was to commiserate with other menopausal mommies.  I sort of expected them to come out of the woodwork once I let the secret out that, hey, it's OK that your uterus is shriveling up and you're still changing diapers! 

Let's get rid of the boring factoids right up front:  Menopause is defined as the cessation of menstruation which usually happens to women in their late 40's.  For the lucky few, the process begins in the early 40's and in its entirety, can last, well, years. 

Even luckier are those (that would be me) who start the process early after just getting over the hormonal chaos caused by child birth.  Yes - menopause complicated by small children.  Joyful! 

You're going to hear more about this in the news as we career women who put off childbearing so we could "do it all" before "settling down" become more plentiful and start becoming the poster children for the condition.  Yes - I called it a condition, and condition it is. 

I don't know how other women began the process, but I can tell you all the weird things that happened to me:

Truth is, I've always had skin trouble, but was blissfully unaware of it while I was, a) on birth control pills (pre-tubal ligation) and, b) pregnant.  During that ten-year period, my hormones were balanced and while I had scars from years past, I didn't develop much that was new.  Over the past three years, I'm once again struggling like a teenager with over-active oil glands and breakouts.  I had to completely change my routine and I still haven't found any real solutions.  And yes, I've tried everything. 

I started having short-term memory problems, like the day I specifically left the house with kids in tow to mail a letter.  Got all the way to the wrong destination (ended up at the mall - go figure) and then suddenly remembered why I went out in the first place.  No letter to be found, and angry kids in the backseat, I drove home to find the letter perched on the counter, evidently right where I left it.  It could have been an alien abduction, but I think it was just my faulty hormone-soaked brain. 

I also used to be a really good speller.  REALLY good.  So good, that I was the go-to girl for all-things-writing.  Suddenly, I was writing emails and would find myself unable to recognize a word - and I'm not talking about big fancy words such as "snuffaluffagus".  I'm talking about words like, oh, I don't know, "out" or "like" or "crazy."  I would write a word, look at it with head cocked, and not really know if that was the word I wanted or if it was spelled correctly.  Then, I started making spelling and grammar errors - the really bad kind that make you look like a total idiot if you're a writer/editor.  Things like using "their" instead of "they're" or using the word "asses" which frankly made me look like one.  There was the word "philisophical" (my friend the rocket-scientist had a ball with that one..."Cream cheese?" he asked.)  The other day I very thoughtfully and methodically wrote the phrase "right of passage" even with my grammar alarm ringing loudly in my brain.   

I literally thought I was losing my mind.  And, hoping, praying, that I wasn't losing it to early onset brain necrosis due to the infiltration of Amazonian worms, found out from my doc that I was "entering that stage of life..."  Hater. 

I'm also exhausted.  I know - it could just be that I run around after two small kids every day, and awaken to crying a few times each night.  The thing is, this is the kind of exhaustion that makes a fire in the living room a non-event, if you know what I mean.  I'm waiting for the day when the kiddos figure this one out and begin asking for all sorts of favors when my eyes glaze over and they see that I'm no longer able to discern the difference between the words "toy" and "boy." 

I can't remember who anyone is anymore.  I can look at someone I'm quite certain I know and have no idea where that person fits into my life.  This is really a drag at school when I can't remember the names of children or mommies.  It gets worse.  The other day, I found myself introducing my daughter to "Tommy's mom" when she shook her head and whispered to me, "No - I'm Ellen's mom."  Rather than just believe her and move away quickly to cover, I found myself just about to insist to her that, yes, she was Tommy's mom. 

I've also arrived at the "turning into my mother" phase of menopause.  My neighbor-two-doors-down was standing on her roof the other day cutting branches.  I heard myself yell across the entire distance in a disapproving, sing-song rant, "What [the hell] are you doing up there?"  It must have been one very impressive motherly moment because she came over later that evening to let me know she survived.  Oh, the horror of it!  

By the way, I'm just about to move into the "discussing minutia of illnesses" phase, so you better steer clear of me if you have a runny nose or a tummy ache.   

I know - you're waiting for me to talk about the really fun parts of menopause like constant hot flashes, night sweats and the "permanent cessation of menses."  Don't rush me - I've only just started on the odyssey of physical symptoms, and at any moment I might burst out with a slew of fascinating facts about sweat. 

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Tell me your mommy menopause stories!  What are you experiencing?  Do you feel like you're losing your mind?  Comment below! 

Naomi's Story: Infertility, Loss & Love

When I asked my friend, Naomi, to be my first guest blogger, and knowing what a devoted mother she is, I knew she would have stories to tell.  I've read this one now a half-dozen times, and I still feel a little piece of me fall away each time the message hits me.  This story poses those "why?" questions we so often never find answers to, and end up carrying with us throughout our lives, the possible answers (if there are answers) changing as we grow and become wiser. 

Sit down with a box of tissues, and read about what this brave mommy had to endure. 

My admiration and thanks to you, Naomi, for sharing your story.     

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As a child, I always envisioned myself as a mother.  I would get married and have 2 or 3 kids.  They would be little stair steps like my sisters and I.  They would grow up fighting over crazy little things and be there to comfort each other when the little kid down the block was being mean.  Never once in my childhood fantasy world did I see struggling with infertility.  Growing up I never heard about anyone not being able to have a baby or having a baby that was stillborn.  I never considered the possibility.

My husband and I got married in June of 1993.  In October of that same year we bought our first  house.  In November I was pregnant with our first child.  Everything was going according to plan.  I worked full time during the pregnancy and never had an issue.  Jordan was born August 12, 1994.  He was 8 pounds 5 ounces and completely perfect.  I was 23 when he was born.  I enjoyed every stage and every accomplishment.  Jordan started walking around 10 months old.  He would hold onto furniture and eventually started racing around on his own little feet.  When he was 17 months old he stopped being able to walk.  His balance was gone.  He would stand up and just fall over.  We took him to our pediatrician and he thought it was something viral but wanted to do an MRI of Jordan's brain to make sure.  We went to Children's hospital and had an MRI.  Our worst fears came true as the doctor told us Jordan had a brain tumor.  It was on his cerebellum and that was causing his balance issues.  Jordan immediately had brain surgery and the tumor was completely removed with two surgeries.  His recovery and stay in the hospital is enough for a whole different story that I will tell another day.  He made an amazing recovery and we feel blessed every day for that!

 Once Jordan was home and healthy John and I decided to have another baby.  It truly was like that….hey let's have another baby.  It came so easily the first time, we assumed it would be the same.  Jordan was two years old when we started trying.  Every month was another disappointment.  When Jordan turned three we figured it was about time to see a specialist.  I went and saw a fertility doctor the fall of 1997.  He assured me that my body just needed a little push to get pregnant again.  I went on Clomid for a few cycles, the pill for a few cycles after the Clomid to regulate my system.  Next thing I knew, it is December of 1998 and still no pregnancy.  That month John was transferred and we moved to Indiana.  After unpacking the house and getting us settled, it was time to find a new fertility doctor.  This doctor said I needed surgery.  In the spring of 1999 I had scope surgery to determine if I had endometriosis.  During the procedure it was determined that I did in fact have endometriosis and the doctor removed a bunch of "stuff.”  I'm not sure what the official term is, but I knew this stuff was supposed to be keeping me from getting pregnant.  After recovering from the surgery the doctor suggested we try insemination.  This was the next step, the next push my body would need to get pregnant.  We did two rounds of insemination….no luck.  Now it is December of 1999 and guess what?  John got transferred again.  We packed up the house and moved again.  We arrived in our new town, I unpacked the house, John went to work, and Jordan started preschool.  Preschool?  I couldn't believe my little boy was old enough for preschool and still had no siblings!  Next on the to-do list was find another new fertility doctor. 

 In the spring of 2000 I found a wonderful fertility doctor.  He patiently listened to all my stories, what we had already tried, what surgeries I had, what I felt.  He suggested a dye test, injecting dye into my tubes to make sure all was open and well.  Of course they were and he wanted to try in-vitro fertilization.  John and I agreed and this started the year from hell!  As anyone who goes through the in-vitro process knows, it is a mind twisting, body tangling, confusion inducing process.  The first obstacle for me was giving myself shots.  They were daily and required a self pep talk every time I looked at that needle.  Then there were the egg retrievals where they use a drug called Versed which puts you in la -la land but you are still awake.  I once woke up to a room of laughing nurses who told me I said I was "dreaming of the Backstreet Boys."  Next up is putting the fertilized eggs back in.  Once that happens, you stay in bed for a few days hoping they will implant.  Then the real fun begins with every other day blood draws and ultrasounds.  The doctor monitors all sorts of levels in your blood and changes on the ultrasound.  After two weeks of this when you are very cranky and almost annoyed with the process, the doctor calls and says the words you have waited to hear forever…..YOU'RE PREGNANT!

I heard those wonderful words in December of 2000!  John and I were so excited but with reservations.  We knew it was so early and we could lose the pregnancy but I just felt like it was all going to be okay.  In no time we made it through the first trimester.  I was ecstatic!  Now nothing could go wrong!  That honestly was my thought!  I am good as gold!  In April we went to Disneyworld.  John's parents came with us.  It was our last big hurrah with Jordan as an only child and we wanted him to have a blast.  Three days into the trip we were standing in line for a show.  I felt like I was peeing my pants and realized I was leaking amniotic fluid.  I ran to the bathroom and John's mom followed.  We both knew this was not good and someone called an ambulance.  I made John's parents take Jordan back to the hotel because I didn't want him to see me loaded into the ambulance.  John and I went in the ambulance to the hospital.  They did an ultrasound and put a heart rate monitor on me.  The baby seemed fine.  There was still enough fluid and they couldn't tell what was causing the leak.  I stayed in the hospital for the next 4 days.  The fluid stopped and they released me on the last day in a wheelchair to catch the flight home.

We arrived back in Ft. Wayne and my first trip was to the OBGYN.  He for the first time used the word that I came to hate….fluke!  He saw no signs or issues from the previous week.  He put me on modified bed rest at this point.  No lifting, no exercising, etc.  I felt relieved and again felt like we had made it through what would be the worst and the baby would be here in a few months.  May and June were uneventful in a good way.  The baby continued to grow and all was well. 

I woke up the morning of July 24, 2001.  I was getting my haircut that day.  I showered, got ready and Jordan and I went to the salon.  John came and got Jordan and they went and had lunch while I got my hair cut.  That afternoon Jordan and I went home.  I felt something was off and I wasn't feeling the baby move.  I took out my trusty What to Expect When Expecting book and read about less movement later in pregnancy.  The book suggested drinking some fruit juice and see if the baby moved.  I had some apple juice and nothing happened.  I called my friend and asked if I could drop Jordan off.  I called the doctor and he was out playing golf, but suggested I go to the hospital where they could monitor me since his office was closed.  I arrived at the hospital feeling sort of silly.  I thought the nurses would all think I was overreacting.  I got checked in and the nurse tried to find a heartbeat.  She couldn't.  Then she brought in an ultrasound machine.  I had so many ultrasounds during the pregnancy that I knew what to look for.  The nurse also assumed everything   was fine because the screen was facing me.  As the ultrasound started, the screen became clear and the nurse quickly turned it away.  She was not quick enough as I had already seen enough to know that baby was gone.  The baby was lying across the top of my belly, arms hanging down.  I was 35 weeks and 4 days.

At this point I was still at the hospital alone.  I hadn't called John because I figured all would be okay.  I had to call him and tell him over the phone that the baby was dead.  I honestly don't remember making the call.  I do remember him asking if I was sure.  He came to the hospital and we just cried.  Neither one of us could speak.  Then the reality of it started to hit.  I had to have a C-section.  John had to go get Jordan.   Someone had to tell our families.  The next couple hours were truly a blur.  I don't remember all the details.  I remember being wheeled in for the C-section, the epidural, again being given Versed so I wouldn't remember.  Soon I was in recovery and the nurses were bringing me my little baby boy, wrapped in a blanket, a little cap on his head.  He was perfect.  The chaplain came in and prayed with us, baptized him.  We named him Austin John, as we had always planned to do.  We both held him.  We cried.  We said goodbye. 

 The only explanation I have is that word…..fluke.  There was no explanation.  There was no separation of the placenta.  The cord was not around his neck.  Maybe the cord wasn't strong enough.  Maybe the blood supply wasn't enough.  Maybe if I had gone to the hospital earlier.  All these maybe's that are still there as I type this 9 years later.  I will never know why Austin was stillborn.  I will never know why my body decided to betray me.  All I know is that this long and winding road has made me appreciate my son Jordan all the more.  If it weren't for Jordan, I don't know that most days I could've gotten out of bed.  He was my light in a very, very dark tunnel.   This road also led me to Jillian.  Without Austin I wouldn't have Jillian.  That is what I always tell myself.  It is the only explanation that I have.  He was my light that led me to her.  I don't understand it!  I don't think I ever will, but I have two amazing children that I get to look at every day and one that I talk to every night in my prayers and my dreams!

Naomi's Story: Adoption and Sisterhood

I strongly believe that certain souls are placed into your life to teach you something you need to know that is spiritually significant.  My friend, Naomi, is one such person in my life.  We worked together in the 80's in banking, where I was lucky enough to learn some very useful lessons in management from her.  She helped me to be a kinder, gentler person.  We lost touch, found each other last year on Facebook, and she now is teaching me even more about life and motherhood.  I knew she had stories to tell, so I asked her to be my first guest blogger. 

Naomi (39) lives in Illinois with her husband, John, son Jordan (16 and just started driving), and daughter Jillian (5).  She is the consummate stay-at-home-mom, with family, photography, and fitness her chief interests.  And, she has some beautiful, touching stories to tell us.  Today's story is about how adoption became a part of her life through her sisters and her children.  Check back next week to read her story of living with infertility and the loss of a child.  

Thank you, Naomi, for being my first guest blogger!  

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From as early as I was old enough to understand, I was told my oldest sister, Lainie, was adopted.  Lainie was the firstborn.  Jess and I soon followed, biological daughters of my dad and my mom.  I always knew we were different because people were always very quick to point it out….how come Lainie doesn’t have blond hair?  How come Lainie is so quiet?  Lainie must look like your dad (always the assumption made when the three of us girls were with my mom).  Jess and I were the spitting image of my mom, blond hair blue-eyed Norwegians.  Lainie had dark hair and different facial features.  As the three of us girls got older the differences became more obvious.  Lainie was a straight A student.  She was very quiet in the classroom and obedient.  Teachers loved Lainie.  Next in line was Jess.  Jess was also a straight A student and the teachers love her too,  but she was much LESS quiet in the classroom.  Back in our high school days, teachers gave a letter grade for assignments and a number grade for “respects the rights of others” and such.  Lainie always had A1’s, which meant quiet and a good listener.  Jess always got A3’s, meaning not so quiet and not a good listener unless that meant listening to gossip.  When I entered high school it was inevitable that I would get the same teachers as my sisters.  I remember one teacher saying, “So which sister are you like, Lainie or Jess?”  She said it with such hope….hoping my answer would be Lainie.  I guess my behavior modeled more closely to Lainie's and teachers were happy about that.  As I recall I had a lot of A's on my report card too, but not straight A's.   The comparisons and the questions never sat very well with me.  I always took it as some sort of dig….like the difference wasn’t good. 

As the three of us entered college and went our separate ways in the world, we followed our own paths.   As we were all in different cities and rarely got together, we weren’t compared to one another as often.  Jess and I each got married.  We both got pregnant at the same time.  We delivered our boys within 3 days of each other.  Lainie soon followed with marriage and a baby girl.  Now we were all mothers.

 After I had my son, my husband and I started trying to have another baby.   The second time it wasn’t so easy.  We found ourselves unable to have another baby and started thinking about adopting.  My first thought was, what if our child is treated differently like Lainie?  You see, growing up I always cringed when the questions would come.  It made me uncomfortable and it made me sad for Lainie.  When John and I started seriously considering adoption my first phone call was to Lainie.  As John and I were looking at  all ethnicity options of babies we might receive I couldn’t help but think of how different they might be from us.  When I called Lainie I simply asked her, “How did it make you feel when people would ask why you looked different?”  In typical Lainie fashion she said, “Well I always knew I was adopted, so to me  it was such a stupid question.  Duh.”  It truly amazed me.  What I had always seen as a jab or a dig, Lainie saw as a stupid question.   She always knew she was wanted.  She was loved.  She was part of a family.  She had parents who loved her the second she was put into their arms.  She had sisters that would be with her for life.  Suddenly having a different “birthparent” seemed so irrelevant.

Shortly thereafter John and I dove headfirst into the adoption process.  We filled out all the paperwork, usually me filling out the papers while reading aloud to John.  I recall his only hesitation.  We were filling out our preferences for a child.  I checked off ethnicities I didn’t even know existed.  John nodded or voiced a yes as I went.  We got to type of birth….I read single, check.  Twins, check.  Triplets, check!  John yelled “WHOA.”  That seemed to be his only concern.  We did the FBI background check, home study, and fingerprints.  We made a book of pictures and descriptions of our family, why we thought we would make a good adoptive family.  The first week of July we received a letter from the adoption agency saying all our paperwork was done and we were ready to be “shown” to birthmothers.  The last week of July we got a call from the agency….a birthmother had chosen us.  I remember being overjoyed and just knew this was meant to be!

Jillian Faith was born November 17^th.  John, Jordan and I flew to Florida the day she was born.  When we arrived at the hospital, we went straight to our birthmother’s room.  We all took turns holding Jillian, staring at her, crying with joy.  When our adoption coordinator told us it was time to leave, my heart sank and I cried.  The birthmother had until the next day to change her mind.  We went back to the hotel and waited.  The next afternoon, we got the call to come pick up our daughter at the hospital.  We couldn’t get there fast enough.  The nurses took us through everything that I remembered going through when I left the hospital 10 years before with Jordan.  It still didn’t seem real.  Did we really get to leave the hospital and bring this perfect little life with us? 

We did!  As I write this I am trying to think when Jillian became ours.  Was it always written this way?  From the first phone call from the agency, she seemed like my daughter.  Was it our first meeting with her birthmother when she said she would trust us to raise her birth child?  Was it during the last couple months of her pregnancy when I dreamt about when this baby would come, what she would look like, what our first moments together would be like?  Was it the first time I held her in the hospital?  Was it when we left the hospital as a family of four?  I don’t know exactly when it happened, but I do know that Jillian was meant to be my daughter and I was meant to be her mom, the same as Jordan was meant to be my son and I was meant to be his mom.  I see no difference between them, no distinction of biological and adopted.  Maybe that is why Lainie never saw the questions as an issue….she was raised not thinking there was any difference between adopted and biological and that everyone looks different.  That is what makes us each unique and wonderful in our own way.

We talk about Jillian being adopted.  She knows we brought her home from the hospital when she was one day old.  Jillian understands as much as she can at 5 years old that she was in another woman’s belly. She knows that her birthmother gave her to us because she thought we would be the perfect family for her.  We certainly don’t talk about it everyday.  But I want Jillian to be aware of it, to know it is part of her story, to understand that being adopted is a great thing.  That way when the questions come, the differences are pointed out, she can embrace it and tell her story just like Lainie always has.  No big deal.  I’m different because I am me.  Adopted or not, isn’t that the best lesson we can all learn?  Embrace the fact that what makes you different, what sets you apart, what some people criticize and fault,  are the same amazing things that make you you!  Nobody else in the world is just like you?  That is a wonderful thing!

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Have a question or comment for Naomi?  Write us in the comments section below and Naomi will answer! 

Super-Glue and the Urge to Extricate

My darling girls:

I was thinking about Super-Glue this weekend.  When you get Super-Glue on your fingers and then press them together, they stick, right?  What's the next thing you do?

I don't know what you do - maybe you are calm, cool, and collected in the face of fingers stuck together.  What do I do?  I pull them apart.  I don't just try to pull them apart - my fingers panic and they pull apart all by themselves, no matter how hard I try to stop them.  In fact, because my fingers are so intent on being apart, they don't really care if they have to tear themselves up to do it.  A little bit 'o thumb on my forefinger; a little smidge of forefinger on my thumb. 

This has me thinking about human nature and what happens to us when faced with uncomfortable changes.  And, it has me thinking about how I personally react to that feeling. 

As I've grown, educated myself, experienced more, and take more calculated risks with my life, my first response to being trapped isn't panic anymore.  More often, I shake my head a little, roll my eyes, and think, "Fuck me!"  (Yes, Virginia, I do use the "F" word occasionally.) Then I figure out how much danger I'm in, what my options are, and extricate myself.  (Lately, I'm also thinking about what the experience will look like in blog-form.  Go figure!)

I suppose you might think, then, that you grow older and wiser, and therefore handle things better, but I don't really think that's always true.  I also think that handling things well is situation-dependent.  Anything you haven't thought through or experienced before can tend to bring on that same sense of panic.  And of course, there's the Super-Glue factor - the idea that a permanent change to something you've taken for granted all your life is worthy of the most volatile reaction.

So, then I wonder whether I am now too restrained when it comes to extricating myself from difficult situations.  Have I evolved so much as a human being that I no longer have that natural adrenaline, that response to get away when a threat appears?  And why, in the face of something so benign as Super-Glued fingers, wouldn't I choose to just go upstairs, get the acetone, and calmly correct the situation?  Why do glued fingers inspire such drastic human response?

I think in my mid-forties, I've come to trust myself well enough to know I can handle just about any situation.  There isn't really much in life that remains mysterious to me if I'm interested in it, and I'm not afraid to explore things to which I once would have fearfully shut my eyes.  And, having seen the circle of life play itself out so many times around me, I know that the worst possible result of any difficult situation is death, and that the chances of it are unlikely under most circumstances. 

So, going back to the start of this dicussion - why do glued fingers still make me automatically want to pull them apart, in spite of the damage it causes?  Is it because I know the pain and potential blood involved is survivable?  Is it because the feeling of losing control over a lifelong relationship with my fingers is so uncomfortable that I have to get them back to normal, even if it means a painful process to get there? 

I don't  know the answers (yet), but I hope you'll take this away: 

Educate yourselves on everything you can.  Knowledge and experience help you evaluate difficult situations and react more appropriately.  And, know that it isn't necessary to hurt yourself to get out of a sticky mess, but it helps to know that if you do, you'll survive. 

With love,

Mommy 

 

Your Health, Your Doctor, and Self-Advocacy

My Dear Daughters:

We will spend lots of time talking about your health.  We'll talk about how to care for your body, how to feed it, exercise it, nourish it, respect it.  I'll tell you the mistakes I made and why.  We won't focus on what we look like, how much we weigh, cellulite, or emotional eating - I promise.  I won't tell you "it's all in your head" and I will listen compassionately to your thoughts about your bodies.  If there's a question about whether you need a doctor, I will always take you to the doctor.  If we have to go to three doctors, we will go. 

I was faced today with one of the most baffling mysteries of medicine.  No, it wasn't the fact that I'm now ten days into an allergic reaction to a mystery substance, though that certainly is one for the books.  It's the fact that I'm standing here ten days and three doctors into the situation, and I still feel odd about stating the facts of my own case. 

Doctor One put me on anti-histamines for a massive allergic reaction, in part because he never looked at the hives on my body and consequently underestimated the condition.  Doctor Two told me two days later upon seeing the head-to-toe hives and swelling that I was "so far gone" by the time she saw me, she had no choice but to hit me with massive steroids to control the condition.  Doctor Three came into the ER room saying, "I don't know what else I can offer you..." before even looking at me (he was about to send me home), and then once he saw my ballooning head and realized I was having massive chest pain and shooting pain down my arms that maybe I needed a little epinephrine and some additional anti-histamines. 

I'm not so arrogant that I can argue with any of the three doctors.  I think they all did the best they could under the circumstances and evaluated the situation as accurately as possible.  The thing that has me absolutely bamboozled is that, once I finally had a clear enough head to think through the situation and do a little research, I still felt odd stating my thoughts to the doctor this afternoon. 

First, suppose I take responsibility for the Doctor One not getting the whole picture because I wasn't assertive enough about making him look at my hive-covered ass and melon-like kankles.  Had I insisted he stay in the room while I dropped my pants, perhaps he would have understood why I was there at the Urgent Care at 8:00 a.m. on Monday morning. 

Second, I have sympathy for Doctor Three walking into the room with a conclusion before even looking at me or talking to me.  Had I come in crying, exclaiming in pain, breathless, irrational - perhaps I would have made a more impressive patient.  I shouldn't have been so stoic, I guess. 

Doctor Two, who clearly got the message and put me on the right drugs at the right time, got it just right except for the fact that we didn't anticipate the chest pain thing on a day she wasn't in the office. 

But, here's the thing.  I spent some time researching what happened to me today, before going in for follow-up treatment this afternoon.  I had several possible conclusions about what my body did, but I'm not a doctor.  I know that, so I went in and patiently explained that I had lots of information and needed help putting it all together. 

Since I had failed so miserably stating my case to the doctors to begin with, I wanted to be sure at this visit to explore what was going on in my head - make sure I didn't leave anything out that was potentially important.  I wanted to take an active role - not just sit there and hope the doctor would somehow see everything there was to see.  I also wanted an education - I knew some of my theories were wrong, but I didn't know why.  And, I need to know. 

So, why did I feel so lame giving the information I had and asking questions?  Why, after not getting what I needed from Doctor One and almost missing the boat with Doctor Three, did I have the impression the information I had to offer was not appropriate for discussion?  Why have I felt like I was over-dramatizing my condition to friends and family asking after my welfare? Why did I feel like I needed to dumb it down? 

I remember so distinctly hearing my sister's voice become more and more thready as she went through weeks of mis-diagnosis before someone finally, finally did a chest x-ray and found she had lung cancer.  I remember hearing how beaten she was after someone at an ER told her "this place is for life and death illnesses" and was sent home with "the flu."  I remember that from her sickened state, she had few words to describe the symptoms she had and how serious she could feel they were to her mortality.  I remember the doctor who hospitalized her one day, not because of the description my sister gave, but because when she got up from a chair to get on the exam table, she was unable to lift herself and walk without assistance.   

She didn't cry or wail, either. 

I remember with you, Izz, that you were breach in my tummy and that I didn't want the doctors to try to turn you.  You had been lying hammock-style in my belly for the last three months of the pregnancy and it seemed clear to me there was some reason for that.  The fact is, it could've gone either way, but in the end, when they delivered you via c-section, the doctor immediately saw that you were stuck in that position, and she told me there was no way they could've turned you - meaning, without hurting you. 

My girls, I hope to give you many gifts - I won't lie.  I won't say this is the most important thing you need to know because we haven't even started talking about sex, drugs, and alcohol, and I have lots to say about those things and how they affect your life.  But, please take this one seriously - you must advocate for your own health, and surround yourself with the support so you can do that. 

I hope I can be there when the time comes, but if it's not me, ask Dad, a friend, a trusted teacher, or a family member to help you.  Talk through what's happening to you so you have some practice at telling the story.  Research what you can and take notes.  Always command the discussion with your physician - set the agenda and be sure you get everything discussed.  Be curious.  Ask questions.  Trust your instincts.  But, also be ready to accept change when the facts belie your theories.  Don't stick to a solution that doesn't make sense if you have no facts to back it up. 

One thing I've learned over the years is that being emotional in a doctor's office is almost never productive.  I hate to tell you that, because when you are sick or have problems with your body, it can be scary.  Lean on me for emotional support and I will help you manage any stress you have before you go to the doctor.   

Above all, know that it is your right to know what is happening to you and why.  It's your right to ask what the treatment options are and to make the best decision you can based upon the facts and your own instincts.   It is your right and responsibility to give all pertinent information.  It is also always, always, better to know what's happening to your body than to hide from it.  Most of the time, I promise, you will come out healthy.  Those times you don't, the earlier you catch a problem and get it checked, the better. 

Despite feeling odd about discussing what happened to me today with my doctor, I did get my questions answered and I said everything I wanted to say.  I endured a few moments of embarrassment at my own ignorance, and that's OK.  I came out with what I need, for now, and maybe because of the information I shared today and the requests I made, I will get some answers, and be better off for them.

My deepest love for you both, 

Mommy

 

Peri-Menopause, Brains & Boobs

by Lorie Fuller

We joined the YMCA at the beginning of the summer, partly to give the kiddos access to the pool and some activities, partly to give me a chance to get physical.  I termed it, "The Naked Y," because there's a bright-shiny-new-pool with bright-shiny-new-bikini-mommies.  Oh, and the yoga girls.  But, that's another story.   

I blew the dust off my active-wear drawer and shook out a few old athletic bras and some spandex butt-boosters.  You can tell your old workout clothes are in bad shape when the elastic crackles like breakfast cereal in milk.  You can't expect disintegrating elastic to hold in all the jiggly bits and keep the boobs from getting, errr, too far ahead of you. (Those of you over a 36D will understand what I mean.)

So, I went shopping at the local discount-designer place and began flipping through the fitness clothing.  Everything was sort-of so-so.  Typical sports bras and tops, sort of shapeless and clearly made for someone less amply endowed than I.  But then, I found this:

Having once been quite stylish and believing I have good taste, not to mention knowing I had years of shopping experience under my belt, I immediately recognized that this particular top was unique.  Yes - it was different, stylish, and I thought how clever it was that the bra part was on the outside.  Madonna.  I would be Mama Madonna around those skinny beach bitches.  I wondered, "Gee, do you suppose you get better support with a style that has the bra on the outside?"  I didn't have time to try it on, but tossed it into my basket, purchased it, and wore it the next day. 

Yes, I was wearing the latest style of sports bra and I was, well, not to pat my own back, but HOT!  I could tell all the bikini-mamas were impressed.  They would probably run right out to the store to try to find one too, right after they finished suntanning themselves into skin-cancer oblivion.  Ha!  I....I was Workout Girl!  I was leading the pack! 

I wore my new garment, oh, three or so times in the weeks that followed, back straight, chest out, lookin' gooood. 

Then, yesterday, I was doing the laundry.  And, out of the washing machine came this:

Wait!  Had I bought two athletic tops, and if so, why had a I purchased something so lifeless, without shape, without style?  Maybe this wasn't mine at all and....oh no! 

Then it hit me.  I approached the top, slowly, so as not to alarm the poor thing, pulled the neckline out very carefully, and looked down into the garment.  NO!  No, no, nononnonononononono!  It can't be! 

It was my stylish new sports bra!  Inside out!  Wait - no - it wasn't inside out.  It was....the way it was supposed to be.  Oh....my....God! OhmyGodohmyGodohmyGod!

No wonder everyone had been looking at my boobs! It wasn't because they were stylishly perky and fabulously reigned-in.  It was because I was wearing the damn bra inside out. 

Disclaimer that should have been on the tag:  Please don't wear this garment like a complete idiot should the stocking clerk accidentally put the top inside-out on the hanger.  There are no side seams on this garment. When turned inside-out, the bra seams go to the inside of the garment, and the tag that is printed directly on the fabric is in ink that blends in so you can't see it.  This makes it appear as though the garment is right-side-out even when it isn't.  Just say "No!" to sports-bra foolishness and only wear as directed.  Not responsible for mental distress or injury due to mis-use of garment and subsequent hazing by bikini-mommies.  Peri-menopausal women should consult with a physician before wearing this garment. 

Here's the back view:

_________________

Lots of odd things have been happening to me these past months.  I can't spell anymore.  I have no short-term recollection.  I have to take reading glasses with me everywhere because I can no longer read any font smaller than 14 pica. I can't open medicine bottles anymore.  I'm angry as hell.  I'm headachy, hot, and exhausted.  Only about 20% of my brain is working.  All, according to my doc, due to the onset of peri-menopause.   

I think there should be a Peri-Menopause Foundation.  I think you should be able to get one of those helper-dogs when you enter peri-menopause.  Or an interpreter - someone who can see tags on garments and remind you what words mean.  Or maybe a stylist - someone who will tell you honestly when you're about to make a damn fool of yourself at the Naked-Y, in front of all the scantily-clad, 25-yr-old, mommies. 

The Body Talk

by Lorie Fuller

My Dear Daughter:

You've been asking me lots of questions lately.  Your 5-yr-old brain is constantly turning, wondering, wandering down a series of paths at an alarmingly faster rate each day.  Those innocent, precious blue eyes peer into mine as you ask some of the most difficult questions a mom will ever try to answer. 

You're too young to be embarrassed yet by the discussions we've had about boys, bodies, pregnancy, peeing, puking, digestion, boobs and endless other things.  Either fortunately or unfortunately (you'll have to decide), I'm one of those moms who will talk about anything.  I may not always have the words (hence the trip to the bookstore today) to explain, but I promise I'll always try to give you the best information I have.  One day, after you graduate from medical school (no pressure, though) you can come back and tell me what I got wrong. 

I hope you'll always ask me questions, even if what you're asking seems weird or embarrassing.  I hope you know I'll always do my best to answer honestly and completely.  I won't leave anything out to preserve anyone's modesty or to try to make you believe something that isn't true.  I won't try to make you afraid, but I will always tell you the risks. 

I hope you won't talk about your body with your friends until you're older and can evaluate what's plausible and what isn't.  Friends aren't always a good source for information, but a mom is.  As you become more knowledgeable about your physical self, I hope that things won't be so mysterious that you feel compelled to explore before you're ready.  I believe that the more you know, the more comfortable you will be with yourself and with what you want, and the more prepared you will be when you get to make choices for yourself.   So, I will share everything I know to help you. 

One thing I dearly love about you is that you talk about what's going on in your head.  You love to explore and learn.  You're willing to look at things that might seem frightening or mysterious.  You don't hide from oddities.   

When you asked me this week to talk to you more about bodies and babies, we did what I've done my whole lifetime - find books on the topic!  We looked at anatomy books, books about reproduction, books about sex, bodies, and numerous others.  I encourage you to learn to research for yourself, and to arm yourself with knowledge. 

We also talked about touching - the good kind and the bad.  What's appropriate and what isn't.  What to do if someone tries to hurt you or touch you without your permission.  Some of these things are scary for both of us, but you took it in stride, and I'm trying to do so, as well. 

As you grow up, your body will begin to tell you things.  You may not understand, and you most assuredly will need to ask questions. I hope you'll never be afraid to ask me, or a doctor, about anything that seems odd to you.  Most of the time, what you experience will be normal, and you'll find that everyone else is experiencing the same thing. 

I hope you develop a healthy respect for your self - your mind, body, intuition, rights, likes, wishes, spirituality, and choices.  I hope you explore others with a healthy amount of skepticism, and find some truly invaluable relationships in your life, as I have.  I hope you are not encumbered by the social expectations and rituals that seem so deeply ingrained in our society, but rather find your own definition of love, friendship, and spirituality. 

I hope you will know what it's like to be crazy in love with someone, to have the kind of passion that expands your soul and your mind in such a way you can't even imagine closing yourself up to it.  I hope you hurt little for the love of another. 

The fact is, the little biology lesson we had today is just the start of the journey toward understanding your body and how it relates to your mind and your spirit.  It may be hard to believe, but your sense of physical self will have enormous impact on your life.  What you choose for your body will directly or indirectly change the way your life plays out.   

Let's work on this together, as we did today - always. 

My Heart to Yours,

Mommy 

___________________________________________________________

For Parents:  Besides some basic books on anatomy, I found a wonderful resource called "What's the Big Secret?" by Laurie Krasny Brown.  The book is wonderful, child-friendly, not-too-complicated look at bodies and sex for a younger child.  Be sure to read it to yourself before reading it to the child, and edit to suit your needs.   

Middle-Age, Near Vision, and Secrets Between Friends

by Lorie Fuller

A friend and I were talking the other day and she admitted a secret to me.  I remember having the same secret a few years ago when "it" happened to me.  It came just after my optometrist told me that "these things happen" in middle-age.  MIDDLE-AGE?  No, I don't think so. 

As it turns out, middle-age starts in your mid-forties, and one definitive sign is the sudden inability to read the side of a yogurt container at the grocery store.  I'm sure that it happened over a period of years, but it seemed to me that it was quite sudden.  Reading a magazine or a medicine bottle became impossible, even with the glasses or contact lenses that had served me well over the years.  Trying to find a size or washing instructions on clothing tags became a challenge.  Making out the difference between a "5" and a "3" was impossible. 

The funny thing was, I actually went to get reading glasses before I really thought I was terminally vision-challenged.  I'm not sure what I thought, but getting the readers seemed like entering a right-of-passage before my time.  In fact, I was embarrassed to admit to my eye doctor I had gone that step without checking with her first.  Let's just say, she wasn't the least bit shocked. 

Now that I have a half-dozen pairs sprinkled judiciously around the house, I'm still not completely comfortable with the concept.  I don't really think of myself as being old enough to need reading glasses, yet my eyes betray me that direction every day.

Besides my annoyance at having to pick up a pair of glasses every time I want to read something, I think the saddest part about losing my near vision is that I'm missing some of the details in my kids' faces, their little dimpled hands, their beautiful hair, their perfect little belly buttons.  My daughters are better at pointing out details in nature, books, plays...then I am.  I can't help them appreciate some of those tiny details in life that take two good eyes to see.  Parenting at this age has its benefits, to be sure, but vision loss isn't one of them. 

On a positive note, I can no longer see some of the fine lines, skin imperfections, and little hairs that used to plague me in the mirror each day, and no one else my age can, either, unless they cheated and got Lasik.  I wish they were actually gone, but I know they aren't. 

So, my dear friend with the secret - I do understand exactly what you're going through, and I won't say your name here so that you can manage the transition in your own time.  I'm just glad I can be here to listen, and commiserate. 

Drugs, Children, and Bad Reporting

by Lorie Fuller

There was a story reported across the country this week regarding the practice of drugging children to calm them for traveling.  The news reported that a study performed by Dr. Shan Yin says that drugging children with cough syrup or Benadryl to calm them for travel is child abuse. 

Did you read the study ?  I did. 

The reason I read the study was that it seemed far-fetched to me to believe that a scientist would specifically study the practice of giving a kid Benadryl to travel.  How much data could actually be gathered on the subject and how was it managed?  Did someone stand at airport gates and survey families as they got on an airplane to find out if they drugged their kids to calm them down for the flight? 

The news also reported that of 14,000 cases studied, 14% resulted in "major consequences including death."  Really?  

The news folks even went out to get some expert opinions about what you should do with a child just before traveling, instead of drugging her.  

As with many studies reported in the news today, the true reason for the study, the actual numbers involved, and the derived conclusions were mis-reported.  In short, the study covered all sorts of drugs, cases of drugging that had nothing to do with traveling, and cases involving severe forms of child abuse.  The data came from reports to poison control centers across the US. 

I'm not trying to defend the practice of giving children drugs without cause.  As parents, we need to be particularly careful administering drugs to our children to prevent harm and to demonstrate how serious it is to give medicine to a child. 

What I am trying to say here is that the issue of media reporting study results incorrectly has become comical. Every time I hear those words on the news, my eyes roll back in my head.  It's as though the reporters don't ever think to actually go out and read the study to find out what it's really about. If a study is really worth reporting in the news, wouldn't a reporter want more than the typical 90 seconds to cover the facts? 

It took me about ten minutes to find the study on the Internet and read through it.  I'm not a scientist, but I could see in those ten minutes that the study really wasn't about drugging children for travel, nor did it conclude that the practice is child abuse.  

As for the practice of getting expert interviews to educate us based upon the mis-reporting of the facts, let me just say to the news folks - it doesn't add credibility to your report to give us information on how to fix something that doesn't exist in the study to begin with.  In addition, reporting cases of severe health consequences is irrelevant if the subject of your report has nothing to do with the facts of the study.

So, how many times did I link the study in this post?  Eight more times than the report I read on the news.  Get the point?