Conor's Birth Story 2004: Part 2

The Birth Story Part 2:  Ready or Not, Here comes the Bun

We left the hospital at 10:15.  My water broke at 11:00, and we were back in the car at about 11:05. 

Dave was very tense as he drove the car.  I couldn’t open my eyes, but I could tell we were going very fast.  I kept having contractions and I kept feeling liquid running down my legs.  I was sitting on a towel so that whatever I felt leaking out during the contractions would not strain the car seats. 

Later, Dave and I found out that we were remembering the same part of the childbirth class.  I kept repeating in my head “Once they know there’s a problem, they can get the baby out through a 5 minute c-section.  5 minutes.  If there’s a problem, the baby’s out in 5 minutes.”  Dave’s mantra was “All hands on deck.”  It’s the phrase our instructor used for how the medical staff responds to an emergency c-section.  Everyone leaves to help get the baby out. 

We were both very, very scared in the drive back to the hospital.  I still tear up thinking about it.  I have honestly never been so frightened for my health in my entire life.  We had just been told 45 minutes earlier that nothing was going on, and now I had fresh blood streaming down my legs.  It was OK to think that something bad could be happening to me, but I could not let the thought enter my head that anything would be wrong with the baby. 

We arrived at the front entrance of the hospital.  A security guard came running towards Dave.  “Do you need a wheelchair?” she shouted.  “Yes, take her to the 8^th floor!”  Dave responded.  She ran to the car with a wheelchair, and helped me in.  “Honey,” she told Dave, “You just park the car.  We’re going to take good care of her.”  Dave later said her reassurance was the first time he felt things were going to be ok.  She put me in the wheelchair and ran with me towards the elevators.

We arrived back at the 8^th floor.  They put me back in the same room.  A new nurse took over my care.  I immediately took my clothes off as soon as I walked in the room before the door was even shut.  I told them my water had broken and that I was bleeding.  From all the liquid I felt running down my legs, I was fully expecting to see bright red stains down the legs of my pants.  But there wasn’t.  What if they didn’t believe me again!?

I told them that I’d had fresh red blood at home.  “How much?” they asked.  “More than a cup or less than a cup?”  I paused for a moment and said, “Definitely less than a cup.”  On the one hand, this felt like good news; maybe less than one cup of blood wasn’t a life threatening emergency.  But on the other, what if less than one cup of blood meant they didn’t believe me and told me again that nothing was going on? 

“It’s running down my legs!”  I insisted.  “That’s OK, Anita,” she said.  “That’s still your water.”  Well, that was the first unexpected news that didn’t frighten me.  Apparently, when your water breaks it doesn’t all come out.  For me, it continued to trickle out at every contraction until we were ready to push. 

I got back into the hospital bed and they started to attach me to all the machines.  Dave walked into the room and announced that Shelli was coming back and would be there shortly.  Someone came in to give me an internal exam. 

The checked my cervix and announced that I was dilated 7-8 cms.  From the time my water broke 20 minutes earlier until that moment, I had dilated 7 to 8 cms.  FINALLY!  Finally, I had proof that I was in labor!!!

Now, if I had been in any way similar to my regular self, I would have stood up in bed and commenced to give a two handed bird-flipping salute to every person in that room, and several others in the hall as I loudly shouted “I fucking told you I WAS IN LABOR!!!!!!!!!”  Fortunately for whatever dignity I had left, I only moaned. 

Contractions were becoming horrendous.  I was grabbing Dave’s hands and trying to do my relaxation breaths with very little success.  I was so incredibly scared.  Despite knowing that I had proof I was in labor and knowing that I wasn’t being rushed in for a c-section, I still had the panic from coming back to the hospital the way we did and I still wasn’t sure what was going on.  I really wanted an epidural.  My revised goal had been to get to where they would give me an epidural and now I believed it was possible. 

The doctor came back in and checked me.  I was dilated to 8 cms.  She began to question me.  Are you sure you don’t have endometriosis?  No.  Do you have fibroids?  No.  Have you had dysplasia?  Have you had a cryo process?  Dave responded No.  I responded Yes.  Yes, I had had dysplasia 20 years ago.  And yes, I had a cryoprocess---essentially freezing my coochie----20 years ago.

Ding ding ding ding ding.  I could hear the bells going off over the doctor’s head.  I saw the light bulb flashing.  I saw the relief on her face as she understood what had happened.

She explained to us that I must have had a good deal of scar tissue left over from that procedure.  My cervix had not been dilating because scar tissue is very inflexible.  The fresh blood I saw was from blood vessels breaking as the cervix expanded so quickly once all the scar tissue gave way.  It was not anything to do with the baby, or my placenta or my uterus.  It was not anything harmful to the baby!  I immediately asked her how this would affect future pregnancies.  (Yes, even at this awful painful point, I wanted to know if I could have more babies.)  She said that now that the scar tissue had broken, we would never have this problem again. 

So here I was.  I had what I thought was a normal beginning to labor only to be told it was not.  Then I had an experience that clearly wasn’t normal at all.  And now I was finally at a normal stage of labor.  Unfortunately, that stage was transition—the one stage of labor I was dreading the most.  And I’d started it in a panic and my doula had not yet come back.     

They had put an oxygen mask on me to help the baby.  During each contraction, I was chewing on it as I grabbed Dave.  Our nurse came over to help telling me to relax and breathe through the contractions and that I was in control of this situation.  If I’d been able to cuss, I would have had a few choice words for her, but she was foolish enough to let me hold her hand.  Her protests that if I broke her hands she couldn’t help me gave me a little bit of comfort. 

I really tried to breathe through the contractions, but I was so frightened it was difficult.  I’ll be honest and say that when I could relax and breathe through them, it was very doable without drugs.  But I was having a really hard time keeping focused at that point.  And when I could not get my will around the pain, the pain was truly awful. 

By the time they were ready to give me the epidural, I was 9 cm dilated.  The doctor, the main nurse and the anesthesiologist all asked if I was sure I didn’t want to go natural all the way.  To be honest, my trust was running low and pain was running high.  Although things were moving quickly now (it was about an hour after I’d come back to the hospital), I was still in the “it’s going to be 48 hours before I’m in labor” mindset.  Shelli had not come back yet due to some unlucky bad Charlotte traffic and Dave and I were struggling together through this bad stage by ourselves. 

My labor, at this point, was like a really, really, really bad marathon.  I was at mile 24 and only had 2 more miles to go.  I was going to finish the race, but I still had the choice to run it in or walk it in.  In either case, I’d done a boatload of work and I was going to finish the marathon.  So I chose to walk the last 2 miles of this marathon. 

Shelli arrived just when they were putting in the epidural.  We updated her on what was going on and what we had discovered.  She began calming me down and helping me through the contractions explaining what was happening in my body.  She also explained why I kept feeling like I had to “poo” at every contraction:  The baby was moving down and my body was getting ready to push.  This was a good thing.  I have to admit though that feeling like you’re peeing yourself (the water still trickling) and feeling like you have to “poo” are not the most glamorous feelings in the world, even if they are helping you give birth. 

Here’s the weird thing.  I don’t remember any difference in pain from before and after the epidural took effect.  I’m not kidding.  To be honest, I don’t even remember the pain of the contractions in transition before the epidural.  Instead, I just remember that when the epidural took effect, I was getting calmer and more like myself.  I knew something was happening because all of a sudden I remembered to tell Dave to get the camera so that we could get pictures of the baby.  Before I was just trying to make it through each contraction.  After I was more like me. 

However, I could still feel when I was having each contraction.  And I still felt like I had to poo with each one. 

Finally, it was time to push.  Apparently, despite being a big woman, I have a narrow-ish pelvis.  Who woudda thunk?  Pushing was more difficult than I anticipated because I couldn’t feel my muscles.  I couldn’t concentrate my efforts on what I was doing.  Yes, at some point here I wondered if I would have been better without the epidural, but I’m not going to regret it.  They were doing some pretty vigorous perineal massage and I’m not sure I could have stood that without the epidural 

I pushed for 30 minutes.  The doctor used a mild vacuum to help him out because his cord was wrapped around his neck.  As soon as his head popped out, she clamped and cut the cord.  And then he was out!!

They placed him right on my belly and he was warm and wet.  And then he let out a loud, lusty, full blown squeaky cry!  It was the cutest thing I’ve ever heard.  Most babies’ cries are irritating, but our little guy has the cutest squeaky cry in the world!!  I fell in love with him at first squeak.  (He continues to squeak and chirp on a regular basis and I absolutely love it! He cries, too, but even that is a very cute.) 

Dave went with them for the cleaning and first weighing.  He’s officially 7 lbs 2 oz and 20 ¾ inches long.  He has the longest arms and legs I’ve seen on a baby.  He gets his feet and hands directly from Dave.  His foot is the length of my middle finger:  3 inches.  His toes and fingers are sooo long.  He certainly lives up to his nickname of little monkey! 

He scored 8 and 8 on his 1 and 5 minute APGAR scores.  He was counted off 1 point both times because he’s so pale.  The nurse explained this saying they were a little concerned because they couldn’t tell if there was a respiratory reason for it or, as she paused and gave a long look at Dave, if it was genetic.  A respiratory technicial, a resident pediatrician and a nurse practitioner all checked him out and decided that our son takes after his very pale Irish father. 

He was born at 1:30, 2 hours after we returned to the hospital.  According to the official records, I was in labor for 2 ½ hours.  According to me, I was in labor 20 hours.  In either case, the little bun has popped out of the oven. 

I was so glad to have him out of me that day.  I honestly don’t know how I could have taken the pain for 12 to 48 more hours.  I still don’t know if the pain I was feeling was “normal” contraction pains and I’m a big fat wuss or whether the pain I was feeling was due to the scar tissue trying to stretch.  I was hurting a lot when they kicked me out of the hospital. But they had no way of ascertaining whether I was a wuss or something was wrong, either. 

The frustrating thing about pain is that you are the only one who ever knows what your pain is.  No one else can ever “feel your pain” and in this experience, there was no objective way for them to see that my body was trying to progress into labor. 

So why wasn’t the dysplasia or my procedure in my chart?  That is the question.  When my primary doctor came to check on me the next day, he was visibly upset that he did not know about this part of my history.  It’s hard to remember back one year to my first OB-GYN visit, but I do believe that what happened is that I downplayed it to my doctor’s nurse (“I had dysplasia 20 years ago and was frozen to fix it and I haven’t had a problem since!”) and she didn’t mark it down on the chart.  My impression of the nurse on that first visitwasn’t all that positive, so it makes sense to me.  I honestly have no idea if that’s what happened, although it feels like it to me.  And I don’t really care.  I know the dysplasia and the cryo process are a big deal and I always bring it up.  (BTW, both the doctor and my nurse had had dysplasia and the cryo process, I believe.  The nurse—Ms. You Can Control This Pain--- even shared that when she gave birth she was begging for an epidural at 4 cms.  I did cuss at her in my head, but out loud, I simply said, Ahhhh.)  As far as what I’ve thought about my own procedure, I’ve always focused on the dysplasia more than the process, and after 20 years, I’ve had no problems with dysplasia.  I am sure I downplayed how much of a problem it is in my life today. 

The good news is that I’ve had my son and I shouldn’t ever have this problem again.  It was very scary and very painful, but I survived with most of my dignity intact.  I’m proud of myself that I didn’t curse during transition.  Dave swears that nubain is the anti-swear drug because the worse things I said were “God!”, “Jesus!” and “Poo”  and I don’t think I’ve ever said “poo” in my life.  I wish I could have handled myself better in the transition phase, but I don’t see how anybody could do well in that stage after starting it as frightened as Dave and I were.  Breathing and relaxation did work in reducing the pain.  Even in transition, I was able to handle it whenever I could focus enough to breathe and relax. 

So yes, we had a labor with a few unexpected twists and turns.  I’d really rather have had the textbook labor, but it’s done and we have a baby.  And, to be honest, we’ve got a story with a couple of scary twists but a good ending to tell our son about his birth day. 

Conor's Birthday Story from 2004: Part 1

The Birth Story Part 1:  I Didn’t Expect the Unexpected

Shelli, our doula, arrived at the house around 11:15 pm.  It was probably too soon to call her over.  I was having contractions around 4-6 minutes apart, and they were variable in pain.  However, the doctor had said to call the office if the contractions were less than 5 minutes apart and I didn’t know what to do.  Shelli said that that’s what she was here for and left her family to come help us start ours. 

Things felt very much like I would have expected.  I would feel a mild to moderate contraction, which I described to Shelli like my cervix was pulling apart or stretching, and I would try my darnedest to relax everything and take slow deep breaths until the pain went away.  The contractions lasted anywhere from 30 seconds to over a minute and I found that the longer I went between contractions the harder and longer they actually were when I had them. 

We put Dave to bed about 1:00 am so that at least one of us would have some energy for later.  Shelli and I stayed up and tried a variety of positions and methods to both preserve my energy and get this show on the road.  I took an hour long nap, but had to get up when lying down caused the pain to be too strong.  I did figure-8’s around the kitchen and dining room while Shelli and I talked about life, liberty and the pursuit of celebrity gossip.  (People, get a doula.  It is way cool to have an experienced woman help you out mixing in the right amount of fun talk and coaching.)  Shelli coached me through visualizations my cervix opening and the baby moving down into my pelvis.  We tried some tailor sitting on some of my chairs and stools which occasionally lead to a massive contraction pain. 

At this point, I was feeling that everything was going as planned.  I felt that the contractions were coming more frequently.  I kept making sure we called them powerful and not painful, and that they were certainly feeling more powerful.

About 3:30, I decided I wanted to go to the hospital.  I was not in such a chipper mood by that time and Shelli was thinking perhaps I was 4-5 cms.  I had wanted to arrive at the hospital right before transition (I think between 6 and 7 cm), but at this point, I just really wanted to go.  We woke up Dave, called the doctor from our practice (not my primary OB, but fortunately, my first choice after him), finished packing up, and headed to the hospital. 

Once we arrived at the maternity ward, I was having a hard time sitting down during the contractions.  During the 8 minute or so drive over, I had two contractions that made me have to lift myself off the seat.  Sitting on a bench or a chair just felt like too much pressure.  They checked us in, asked a whole variety of questions, took the vitals, and wanted hooked me up to the monitor and proceeded to assess how much my cervix was dilated.

Here is where things took a big turn away from my expectations. 

When I got on the labor bed, I became extremely nauseous.  I had been feeling a bit sick to my stomach, but it hit pretty hard and I was able to give enough alert for some help before I threw up 4 times.  Then, they wanted me to lie back on the bed, and I had an amazing pain in my lower abdomen. This threw everyone for a loop.  Why could I sit up but not lie down?  Where was this pain?  It felt like my cervix.  I could point to where it was, but apparently, it was not something that other women had a problem with.    

The nurse in charge of the room asked me on a scale of 1 to 10 how I would rank these pains.  Here is where I wish I wasn’t a psychology professor who specializes in research methods.  I like the type of scale where someone asks a relative number.  However, with these types of scales, it’s hard to know what is really being measured.  Are they trying to assess how much more I can take (in that case, we were probably around a 5;  I run marathons; I can withstand a great deal of pain and keep going).  Or are they trying to assess how I compare with other women in this stage of labor.  I also recalled my physical therapist from my first marathon saying that if the pain is a 1 or a 2 you can keep running, if it’s a 4 or above, you should stop the activity because you’re muscle is in danger of being injured.  And no, I’m not kidding that this all went through my head before I finally said a 6.  I think that most women would have called that pain a 6 although I felt like it was more of a 5.  

Now it was time to check my dilation.  I was so hoping that we were closer to 5 or 6 cm than to 2 or 3 cm.  I really wanted to be moving along on this delivery. 

The first RN could barely find my cervix.  It was posterior, pointing backwards, meaning it wasn’t even close to being “ripe enough” for childbirth.  Maybe something was mucked up about my cervix and it didn’t do the normal move from front to back, I thought, but it would still be dilated.  She then announced that I was 0 cm dilated.  Whaaaaaaaa?  She called in back up.  This woman also announced that nothin’ was going on.  Nada.  Closed shut like a trapdoor.  They continued to do the monitoring and I must have dozed off because I was awoken by a RN straddling me in the bed to give one final in depth check of the cervix and who agreed that I was not, in fact, actually in labor. 

After they told me I was 0 cm dilated, I looked at Shelli and said what I’m sure she considered to be an incredibly wimpy (or naïve or just stupid) statement: “They’re going to want to do an emergency c-section because I’m in labor and my cervix isn’t dilating.”  She assured me that we weren’t at that stage yet.  

The doctor arrived and gave the final pronouncement.  No dilation.  Not in labor.  Actually experiencing prodromal labor  A “very drawn-out latent labor that…is not only difficult to interpret but difficult to endure…[in which] uterine contractions characteristically drag on with little or no acceleration in their frequency or intensity and very little or no cervical dilation…the contractions are not usually overwhelmingly painful during this time, but they are strong enough to keep the woman awake and in need of some comfort measures.  The greatest difficulty with this kind of labor is the exhaustion and discouragement that a woman feels…making mild contractions seem strong and the prospect of dealing with the ‘real labor’ yet to come seem overwhelming.”  (Sears & Sears, 1994, The Birth Book, p. 202)  Well, I didn’t have the Sears book with me at the time, but I can relate to that definition. 

To provide some comfort to me at this point, and I believe to see if they could relax me into jump starting this labor, they gave me nubain.  On my birth plan, I said I would like this intervention and that I would like to have it at half dose.  I have no idea if they gave it to me at half dose, but I took it and it knocked me out for about 3 to 4 hours.  According to Dave, I would awake during the contractions and moan but that the contractions were about 7 to 8 minutes apart and falling well below the “100” on the chart to be considered a real contraction. 

When I finally woke up, they gave me the news that unless this thing started for real, they were going to kick me out.  That’s when I started the “I can’t go home” chant, pretty much to no avail.  We tried walking the hall, but I couldn’t walk during the contractions.  I still felt really out of it due to the nubain, and I wanted the pain to stop. 

At this point, I turned to Shelli and made the epidural plan.  If this wasn’t real labor and I was in this much pain, then the goal would be for me to simply get to the earliest they could give me an epidural and take it.  My goal was no longer unmedicated. My goal was to survive until I could get an epidural. 

I was also feeling very embarrassed. Here I was an endurance athlete who thought she could endure pain and I wasn’t even dilated and I could barely stand it.  Later, Dave and I remembered the woman ultramarathoner (i.e., who runs 50 to 100 mile races) who said that marathoning was completely different than childbirth because never during an ultramarathon did she ever shout out “Jesus. Fuck. Kill me!”  But again, I had always assumed this was during transition.  They were telling me I hadn’t even started yet!! 

We arrived back at the room and they had my discharge papers ready.  Our labor nurse reiterated that this was not real labor.  During my protests that this really hurt, she kept insisting that yes, labor really hurts, giving birth to a child really hurts.  But, in fact, I was not in “real labor” and “real labor” may not start for another 12 to 48 more hours.  I may have to endure 48 more hours of the pain I was experiencing, but really, these were not the real labor pains.  I would know when real labor started.  When she told me “I would know when real labor started” I had some evil thoughts.  First and foremost I really wanted to say, “Listen, you fucking bitch, this IS real labor and I know it!” 

However, I didn’t say that.  Instead, I thought 1) if this lasts for 48 more hours, I’m going to find a gun and shoot myself.  But then I decided that would not be good for the baby, so I decided, along with Dave and Shelli, that 2) we would wait until my primary OB came on call at 6 (we hoped) and ask him to cut this thing out of me.  At least, that’s what I was thinking. 

I also felt very alone at this point.  I was humiliated that I did not know what “real labor” was, and that I did not know my own body.  I felt like the only people in the world on my side were Dave and Shelli and I questioned whether they were there for me only because they loved me and not because they really believed me.  Dave says that Shelli completely believed me.  She had seen the change in the amount of pain I was experiencing and couldn’t understand why I wasn’t showing more dilation.  I was really clinging to the hope that I could hang on from 10:15 (the time they discharged us) until that night when my doctor came on call so I could get some help. 

So we left the hospital.  On the ride home, I couldn’t keep my eyes open.  I would have a “fake” contraction, moan, hold myself off the seat, and try to think about making it until the night.  We arrived at home and Dave on the doula’s advice decided to draw a bath for me as a way to help me relax and maybe sleep.  I went to the other bathroom to sit on the toilet because that idea was appealing.  I had two more fake contractions while sitting there and actually fell asleep between them.  Both Dave and Patches came to check on me and I told them I was fine. 

Then, I felt something different.  I felt something run out of me and looked in the toilet to see fresh blood.  I used a tissue and saw more fresh blood.  I remember when they discharged us that they said something about fresh blood versus bloody show.  One was normal and I seemed to recall the other wasn’t.  I couldn’t remember which was which. 

Dave said that the bath was ready so I headed to the other bathroom and asked if there was something in our release sheet about fresh blood.  He went to find the release sheet and I sat back down on the toilet, because, I swear, it felt good.  I had another fake contraction and there was an explosion of blood and liquid out of me, into the toilet, out of the toilet, onto the floor, onto the bathtub and onto our purple bathroom rug.  I looked in the toilet and there was bright red blood.  I used a tissue and saw bright red blood.  I threw it into the sink in case I needed evidence for the hospital because they still didn’t believe that something was really going on.  I used another and another and another tissue, collecting around 6 tissues covered in blood to use as evidence. 

Dave read the discharge sheet.  What I was looking for was the section that says that if you see enough fresh red blood, “the same as you see during a period,” to call the hospital. The problem here, as with the pain issue, is that being a runner, I don’t really have periods.  I haven’t had what most women would consider a “real one” in years (and years and years).  I just don’t bleed.  So any amount of red blood on more than one tissue is “the same” as what I’d have during a period. 

For some reason, I wasn’t focusing on the fact that my water had broken, another good reason to call the hospital.  I still was convinced that they wouldn’t believe that I was in real labor, or worse that something was wrong.  It had only been 30 minutes since we left the hospital!  I just knew they would tell me that I had to wait 48 more hours before I could convince them that I was in labor.  I would bring the tissues with me if they wouldn’t believe me. 

Dave decided to call our doctor’s office again and told the call service to tell our doctor that my water had broken and that I was bleeding.  I somehow ended up in the kitchen. Another contraction hit.  I could feel liquid pulsing down my leg as an enormous pain hit that I had not had before.  I doubled over and grabbed the kitchen sink.  Dave says that I began to pull the faucet off the sink.  He was afraid that I would pull off the faucet and that he’d have to shut the water off to the house before we left for the hospital again.  All I remember is Dave trying to pry my death-grip fingers off the faucet which was starting to actually bend in my hand. 

The phone rang.  I heard Dave’s voice crack as he said “OK.”  He got off the phone.  “They said to get back to the hospital.”  I was frightened.  I knew Dave, who is my calm emotional bedrock, was scared, too.  After being home for 20 minutes and out of the hospital for 45, we headed back to the hospital. 

Continued in Part 2

Losing Weight: What it feels like when there is less of me

I have been trying to lose weight for quite a few years.  Let's see, how old are the children?  That's how long I've been trying to get back to my pre-children, just married bod.  And that's not even my lowest weight. That's the weight I felt like I could be flexible in what I ate and still feel healthy. (I don't like to say thin.  I like to say healthy)

Pretty much, since about the age of 30, I've spent some amount of time in every 10 lb range in the 100s.  ((Some of that was when I was pg with the twins. When I was as big as the broad side of the barn))

Four years ago, when everything went to hell in a hand-basket with Bridget's lungs, I had just gotten to my healthy weight.  And I compensated for the massive stress I felt with her illness with food and alcohol.  I ended up over 2 or 3 years gaining even more weight than I had started out, starting to creep into the I-look-like-I'm-pg-with-twins-but-I'm-not.

So a friend at work started losing weight. And she was working out like a wild woman and she looked very healthy.  I decided that my "Just eat healthy food, exercise regularly, and stop obsessing with your weight" diet that hadn't done anything wasn't working.

So I jumped.

I've always lost weight on my own.  But my friend was going to clinic.  I investigated.  It is a mostly low-carb clinic.  I balked.  I am a runner.  I think low carb is bullshit.  My friend lost more weight and looked even healthier.  I took the plunge.

And now I'm about 23 lbs down officially (although I lost two lbs right before I started due to a para-influenza).  And I have about 12 more lbs to go.  ((My one counselor thinks this is too much to lose, but the PA at the clinic supports it))  I've been going for 20 weeks.  I think I have about 10+ more weeks to go.

Dang it, that's a lot of prelude to the point of this post.

1)  I'm going to a Medi Weight Loss Clinic.  They are a chain of clinics around the country.  I'm learning how to eat a bit differently.  I am not going to say I'm eating healthier, because I have *always* been a healthy eater.  But I have given up a lot of starches, which is a big change for me. But here's the thing about this clinic:  they tell me *to* eat starches because I'm a runner.  ((more on that in another post))  Starches are not evil at this place.  You do eat them, especially if you are athletic.  You just don't each as much as you did and you time them around your exercise.

2) I freaking LOVE the weekly check-in with my counselor.  It keeps me accountable.  I have accountability each week.  I have my favorite counselor that all the athletes fight over seeing.  There was a woman in front of me today who didn't get to see J and was cranky about it.  I didn't see him either and I was cranky about it.  I love J.  J knows me and knows what I can and cannot do.  This is  one of the best parts of this clinic.  Plus, with NCBCBS and I'm off most supplements, my visits don't cost me anything.  Nada.  Outstanding interactions with a great clinic counselor and I'm moving forward on my goals.

3)  Nothing has changed. Here's the weird part about losing weight.  I am happier when I try on clothes.  I have a bigger variety of clothes to choose from.  But I'm still me.  When I look at myself in the mirror, I don't see anything all that different.  There's definitely less of me.  But it's still *me*. I know I look different but I'm really exactly the same. If you haven't lost a shit ton of weight, you probably don't know what I'm talking about.  Skinny me and fat me are still and always will be ME.  Nothing internal or important or substantial changes when you lose weight.

I've done this once before and have ended up model skinny (when I was in my 30s and in the 110s.  At 5'8", that is really skinny even though I was still very muscular) So let me say this again:

Nothing internal or important or substantial changes when you lose weight.

Yes, it's easier to considered attractive by society when you are thinner.  But not a DAMN thing is different.  I really LIKE being thinner.  I certainly prefer it.  But it's not going to make any major changes to my life or my happiness or my success as a human woman.

So you better damn well like yourself wherever you are on the scale.  That is HARD.  Trust me!  I know how disgusted I felt looking in the mirror before I started. But all that *really* changes is how my clothes fit.

Funny story on how things change in my interactions with others.  We went to the minor league baseball game on Friday.  (Go Knights!!) While Dave and the kids were away getting snacks and I sat in our seats, some drunk 40 something men came by and there was a seating question.  They ended up sitting beside us, but not until one essentially asked if the rest of the people I was sitting with were pretty girls.  (I will say that there was a "too" implied but I'm not going to report that's what he actually said)  Strange dudes saying anything remotely flirty with me is so far out of my wheelhouse.  So far.  It's not near my strike-zone. ((Huh! Who knew that wheelhouse was inspired by baseball.  I thought it had something to do with boats))

ANYHOOOOOOO. My response to the question of whether the rest of my party was pretty women was a snarky, pretty sharp retort of "THEY ARE MY CHILDREN!!!"

It took my quite a few minutes and more than a few times of replaying the comments in my head to realize someone had been trying to flirt with me.  Or at least, this dude thought I had pretty women friends worth flirting with.

So, ummm,  weight loss.  Yeah. It's nice to be more societally accepted.  But it does not change a damn thing.  Except, as sociologists would say, it changes everything.

Feeling the Need to Write (about the Squirrel)

Greetings strange people.

No, you're not supposed to start a blog entry with a greeting, like a diary.  But it's been so long since I've updated this blog with something substantial that, well, I felt like I ought to welcome (both of) you back.

So, yeah.  I have my YouTube channel.  I'm on Facebook and twitter.  I have a work webpage and a business one.   But sometimes, I need to write.  I need to process everything out of my brain via the written word.

So, there are lots of things I need to process in the blog:  losing weight and how different that does not make me feel, tidying up the house, my new relaxed approach to gardening, peaking at work in one's 50s, etc.

But today is dedicated to the Squirrel.  It's probably going to be the first in a series.  But right now, she gets today's brain space.

So, we've known for a while that Bridget is very smart.  I hate to say that because it sounds like bragging.  But it's clear that Bridget is a clever child.  She started talking in 4 word sentences. Her French skills are outstanding; she's almost a native speaker. She can argue like a lawyer, even though she doesn't have all the facts straight. Or maybe *because* she doesn't have all the facts straight.  Her math skills are top of the charts.  She's a clever little Squirrel.

But she can't read for shit.

And it's been a problem for at least 4 years.  When she started writing, she wrote her name in perfect mirror.  She will say Ma for Am.  She can decode a word in a sentence but when she sees it 4 words later, it's completely foreign to her.  Every word is a struggle.

Do you see where I'm going here?

Yeah.  We got the final diagnosis 3 weeks ago:  Bridget has dyslexia.

But there are several fortunate components to this diagnosis.

First, it is verified that Bridget is a smart kid.  As the doc says, she definitely has the horse power in her engine.

Second, she only has one area of dyslexia that's a problem.  I'm not going to say which because we are awaiting the final doc report, but it's a common one?  An easy one??  One in which the doc thinks that once her special training/tutoring kicks in, she's going to really ramp up on her reading skills.

Third, we are keeping her in French school.  Her gift for oral language and know vocabulary is at the top of the charts.  It's a real intellectual "gift."  I'm not taking that away from my child.  And both her teacher and the doc feel that improving reading in one language will boost improvements in reading in the other.  It's a decoding problem.  Bridget already understands that different languages make different sounds.  So decoding a phoneme in English won't impeded decoding a phoneme in French once the tutor helps her brain make the phoneme decoding connection.

We are reading Overcoming Dyslexia, a research based book by a Yale prof on what dyslexia really (differences in brain wiring) and how to help kids and adults improve their writing.  Honestly, the stories from the prof's cases are SO CLOSE to Bridget, that I feel like she must be the prototypical dyslexic kid:  Smart, talkative, creative, logical, math gifted, and can't read for shit.  

We've explained to her that she's a clever child but her brain wiring is different from other kids and that's why she can't read.  She was honestly HAPPY to learn that.  She knows she can't read and others can.  To hear that a doc said she was smart but her brain is wired differently from most kids---but wired similarly to a bunch of other smart kids---was a relief to her.

She's really looking forward to tutoring.  She's really looking forward to learning to finally read.  She likes being a smart kid who is a little funky.

I'm not going to hide this because there's nothing "wrong" with Bridget.  There's nothing wrong with *you* and all *your* funky things. It's what makes us ourselves.  I do not ascribe shame to dyslexia and Mama Bear will come out and say some ugly words if anyone tries to shame her for something that she likely inherited.  (Yeah.  Reading the book, I'm definitely on the dyslexia continuum)

So there.  I have a honorary MD in infertility.  Our pediatrician has already said that I have an honorary MD in pediatric pulminology.  Now, with the blessing and encouragement from the doc who diagnosed Squirrel, it's time for me to get an honorary Master's in Dyslexia tutoring and advocacy.  Apparently, this is one dx that all parents *have* to become experts to navigate the public school system and to make sure their child thrives.

Clearly, this is the first in a series of blog posts.....