Earning My Stripes

photo: mine

No matter how old I get, I'll always love fun socks.  I have rainbow colored toe socks, socks with holiday themes, and among others, the striped socks to the left.

Other than their fun stripes, they might seem pretty innocuous to most people.  After all, they're just socks.  Given their source, there are probably thousands upon thousands of pairs just like them.

But not to me.

Since 2011, I had been completing at least two 5K races per year.  One of those races was in March of 2014.

I had convinced my mother and two friends to do the race with me.  A fun 5K where they threw powered paint at you?  A gorgeous path through downtown Nashville and lots of photo ops with these three amazing women?  ABSOLUTELY!

As the day broke, it was bitterly cold and raining.  We stopped for coffee on our way to the starting line and the debate about if we really wanted to do it raged. After much deliberation, we decided it wouldn't be that bad, it'll be fun, the race will be done before we know it!

Yeah, right.  We got there early, meaning we had to stand out in the driving rain, near freezing temperature, and blustery wind as the race start approached.

Thankfully, there was a booth set up for the purchasing of extra items.  As my legs were really the coldest part of me, I was seeking something to layer to get some of the feeling back in them.  I saw the socks, and I desired them at once!

I unrolled them and tried to pull them on.  The top of my socks are woven with the race name, making the top of the sock tighter than normal.  I wore them through the race, nearly cringing because of how tight they were.  By the time the race was over, I had deep grooves in my calves from the top of the socks.

After the race, the socks were washed and put away.  They were seriously uncomfortable.  Beyond that, they made me sad.  My mom had bought them for me at the race, and it was hard for me to feel like I wasn't putting her gift to good use.

A few days ago, I noticed that the socks were on my bedside table.  I don't remember putting them there.  I'm not sure if the little one pulled them out from some hidden hidey hole in my room...but they looked like a challenge.  I decided to take the challenge.

photo: mine

As I slid them up, I was just shocked.  No hesitation, no difficulty, no groovy calves (at least not due to the socks).

My brain hasn't yet caught up with my physical changes.  Like my trip to Universal, I'm still waiting for someone to tell me I don't fit, I can't do it, I'm still too large.

The only one telling me that?  Me.

But only sometimes.  Little by little, my brain is catching up with my body.  It's not longer the thing that holds me back.  It's not longer the thing that keeps me from playing, running, cuddling...

Living.

They might be a pair of socks to anyone else, but they're a badge for me.  They're a symbol of success.  They're a badge of honor.

They're my stripes.  And I earned Every. Single. One. 

Perception

"Don't be afraid of the X in front of that L, honey."

-Angelina Santiago

I detest shopping.  I always have.  When your clothes are twice as expensive as the rest, clearance means you're paying a smaller person's full price, and your selection is limited, there's not much joy to be had in shopping.  Add in that I am tall with an above average shoe size and shopping for myself is a miserable experience.

Or rather, was a miserable experience. 

At my heaviest, there were 5 or 6 X's in front of that L.  My selection was limited to items with glitter splayed across the chest amid motifs of flowers not found in nature.  Why yes, please, I'd love to look like a sparkly couch.  That's been my desire:  to have my girth not hidden but designed to catch attention as far as the eye can see. 

Since the surgery, I haven't really noticed my clothes changing.  It almost always has to be pointed out to me.  It's not until I bend over and nearly lose my pants that I think maybe these ARE a little big now.

You see, I'm still that lady.  Mentally, I am still the owner of those X's.  They follow me around like a prison sentence.  My perception is that I need them.  They are comforting.  They cover my shape, they keep attention at bay, and no one laughs if I think I'm invisible.

The reality is that I WASN'T invisible at 380 pounds.  The extra weight didn't protect me or provide a barrier, it made me more visible.  It drew attention like a magnet:  nearly all of it negative.  Stares, smirks, whispers, full out demeaning comments from those brave enough to just berate me out loud; I've been subjected to it all.

I was fully prepared for it to happen again.

You see, we just recently returned from vacation.  I had to walk into one of my biggest fears:  a theme park.  About three years ago (in the midst of my first round of weight loss), I got stuck.  I thought I'd lost enough to ride a ride at a fair.  Not so much.  I had to wiggle myself out of a swinging seat in front of what felt like a million people. 

As I stood in line with my rollercoaster buddy (AKA, my son), I could feel that anxiety welling up.  What if I don't fit?  What if I have to get right back up in front of all these people? What if I disappoint him?

With a 45 minute wait to the front of the line and plenty of people smaller than me to look at, I just KNEW there was no way I was going to be able to ride.  At the end of the wait, I sat down.  Pulled the lap bar across me...and heard the buzz that indicated it was locked.

It. Was. Locked.

I. Fit.

No stares.  No smirks.  No whispers.  Just me, my son, 167 feet, and 65 MPH of pure triumph.  I was able to ride on everything I wanted.  It was amazing.

On the way back, we stopped for a little shopping.  I know I need new work clothes, and I'm trying to space out purchases as much as possible to not have to buy repeatedly.  I held an XXL up to me, thinking it might be a little snug.  My mom's response?

"That's too big."

And she was right. All the tops I purchased now only have one X in front of that L.   Another top, with a more formed style, was purchased for when I could fit it later. 

It. Fits.

So that's the current focus:  working to change my perception of what fits.  Not just in clothing, but in size.  I'm not the scared girl who needs to hide behind food to be comfortable.  I no longer have to fear that I won't fit, because I fit me.  I fit my family.  I fit in this world exactly as I'm meant to fit. 

Yes, it's going to continue to change.  I know (sort of) that I'm going to eventually lose the X in front of that L. 

But for now:

It. Fits.

A Step Back

pic via www.ccvend-usa.com

I felt it was important, before I get into the current journey, to step back and look at how I got to the point of exploring bariatric surgery in the first place.  I own it.  It's mine. 

But that wasn't always the case.

While I'm not big on most reality shows, I've been watching My 600 Pound Life for many years.  I was always curious to see how people managed to get that size, because I wasn't yet willing to acknowledge how I'd gotten myself to 379.6 pounds. 

In previous seasons, Dr. Now has only made his patients prove they could lose weight before he agreed to perform the procedures.  That has led some of the patients to struggle to own the underlying causes of their obesity.  

I say that to mean that if you watch the show, most of the patients have abandonment issues, have dealt with physical, mental, or emotional abuse, and/or have depression or anxiety.   Without addressing those underlying issues, it's difficult to be able to create a new reality.

In the most recent season, nearly every patient has undergone some type of therapy.  Dr. Now might have done this with other patients before, but this is the first season where it was very clearly shown. 

Early on, I only owned that the fact that I have PCOS was keeping me from losing weight.  With the condition, it's very easy to put weight on.  But each pound you put on becomes a beast to take off again.  So, that's what I used.  I couldn't lose weight because the PCOS didn't let me.  I'd take some off, put some back, take less off, put more back on.   

Finally, just after I turned 30, I realized that I'd have to do something different to have something different.  I had to own the fact that while PCOS might have been the biological cause, there was at least another reason:  I LOVE FOOD. 

I love to eat all those wonderful things that aren't good for me:  egg rolls, chow mein noodles, fried rice, French fries, hamburgers...augmented by the occasional sweet or cake. 

I worked to change my relationship with food.  I knew eliminating them all and saying "I can't have this" only led to guilt and binging when I slipped.  So, I started by refusing to feel guilty for eating the "bad" foods.  I really tried to see that those foods are made every day, so I didn't need to eat as much of them as possible.    I subbed a small order of fries for a supersized one.  I subbed a salad for the side with my cheeseburger. 

And it worked for a while.  I was able to lose, in total, about 115 pounds.   And then some of it crept back.  I struggled to get any more of the weight off, and I began restricting even more of what I was eating.  That still didn't bring the scale down any more.

I started the sleeve process in February of 2014.  Two weeks in, I learned E was coming.  So, I delayed (obviously).  I hadn't gained any weight during my pregnancy, but I started my pregnancy about 30 pounds lighter than my lowest in the last few years.   After she was born, I focused on my eating and worked to slowly drop the weight again.  No matter what I did, it seemed like it wasn't going anywhere. 

Because I was struggling with postpartum anxiety, I had already started on medicine.  I also decided before I'd take any other steps, I was going to really address the underlying cause of my obesity.

Protection.  My fat was comfortable.  I understood that life.  Trauma of my childhood led me to keep my weight on as a shield.  It was also one of the driving forces of my anxiety.  I feared for my child, my children really.  I struggled with how I might make their lives different.

I knew that before I could venture back into the sleeve process, I HAD to release myself from that prison.  I needed to make sure that I could handle being the person without the physical protection I'd carried for so many years.

I went looking for a psychiatrist who specialized in helping bariatric patients.  I found another Dr. R.  I met with her for several weeks, talking through my struggles, my stresses, my triggers.  I didn't have to be brave; I didn't have to be strong; I didn't have to keep it together.  I was able to be vulnerable, something I'd always avoided because I have to be the strong one.

After several weeks, I decided that I was ready to move forward.  I still have moments where I battle those fears, but now I can recognize them for what they are, talk myself through them, and move forward.

It was only when I could do that: own the eating, understand the cause, manage them, that I knew I could have the surgery.



********
Again, my journey.  You have to do what you do for you, meaning talk to your own physicians and make your own choices.  This is not a substitute for medical advice.  :)

 

In For A Penny, To Lose A Few Pounds

photo via livescience.com

Over a year ago, I started down this path.  My journey was derailed for the best and cutest reason.  As my daughter hit six months old, the continued concern of how long I'd have my health reared its ugly head.

Would I be able to keep up with two children?  How do I find the energy to meet both their needs?

The answer brought me back to the need to lose weight.  I had tried to capitalize on the weight lost after E's birth, only to find that my hormone changes had made losing weight a struggle.  I tracked my eating, reduced my carbs, began walking.

In four weeks time, I'd taken off a whopping three pounds.  Not exactly setting the world on fire.

So, A and I revisited the idea of bariatric surgery.  Since I'd taken precautions to prevent another surprise bundle (ahem), I was confident that we could just pick up where we left off.

There were a few steps to complete that were the same:  psych eval, support group, pre-op class, revisit with nutritionist and surgeon.  I had decided to switch to the other doctor in the office who performs the surgery, based on word of mouth.  It was a good choice.  Dr. R is a Christian man, married, who has struggled with infertility.   He is kind and compassionate, and he has a clear desire to help his patients.

There was one change I wasn't anticipating.

In the year since I had surgery, my insurance company changed requirements.  Where they previously required a letter of medical necessity, they now wanted six consecutive months of documented attempts at controlling weight.    I completely get why.  This is NOT a decision to be taken lightly.

Knowing that is one thing.  Realizing you could be so close and yet possibly so far was another.  

My stomach sank with that news.  I had been working on it for over six months, but I wasn't sure it was documented. Here's where my postpartum anxiety actually came in handy.  Due to medicine changes, I had checked in with my OBGYN almost every month since E was born...the exception was April.

My surgeon set a goal of a 20 pound weight loss and a follow up appointment.  I was given "the book" for how to eat and sent on my way to wait and see if I could get the approval for surgery.

As I was leaving, I asked if I could move my appointment up if I lost the 20 pounds faster than 6 weeks.

The nurse simply smiled and handed me the appointment card.


*******************************************************************************

Disclaimer:  this is MY journey and is in no was a substitution for advise from your own physician.  I definitely recommend research and discussing options with your doctor.   Don't just take it from a lady on the internet :)

Still Not Normal

Photo copyright Wisconsin Kelly

A few weeks ago, I gave one side of my postpartum experience.  I thought I'd take another chance to give the other.

After what seemed like futile attempts to have another child, we had accepted that our son would be one and only.  We changed life direction...and then I learned I was pregnant.

Having experienced what I did after my pregnancy with Z, I immediately knew I couldn't do that again.  My first prenatal appointment with my very awesome doctor was a conversation about the impact of my son's birth.  With a husband, son, new baby, job, and LIFE, I refused to check out again.   I anticipated having moments where I had no desire to leave my bed and the same disconnect I had with him.

What I didn't anticpate is what REALLY happened.  My love and desire to protect E was there from the minute I was born.  In the hospital, I had that same initial guilt for failing to feel that way about Z. I acknowledged it, and remembered I'd more than made up for it in the 8 years that had passed.    My doctor had prescribed Zoloft to ward off any of those postpartum issues.  I initially didn't take it, but after a conversation where I learned it can take 2 weeks to be effective, I gave in to a small dose.

Smart girl, listening to the man who actually WENT to medical school.

About 3 weeks after E's birth, I noticed some things.  I didn't want to go out, I didn't want her around others, and I was only comfortable if she was with one of four people.   I tried to rationalize it as simply being the fact that she was born in the winter, and there was the potential for her new immune system to be weak.   In reality, I had the beginnings of what would become full blown Postpartum Anxiety and OCD.

Again, from Postpartum Progress, the symptoms of Postpartum Anxiety:

You may have postpartum anxiety or postpartum OCD if you have had a baby within the last 12 months and are experiencing some of these symptoms:

• Your thoughts are racing. You can’t quiet your mind. You can’t settle down. You can’t relax.
• You feel like you have to be doing something at all times. Cleaning bottles. Cleaning baby clothes. Cleaning the house. Doing work. Entertaining the baby. Checking on the baby.
• You are worried. Really worried. All. The. Time. Am I doing this right? Will my husband come home from his trip? Will the baby wake up? Is the baby eating enough? Is there something wrong with my baby that I’m missing? No matter what anyone says to reassure you it doesn’t help.
• You may be having disturbing thoughts. Thoughts that you’ve never had before. Scary thoughts that make you wonder whether you aren’t the person you thought you were. They fly into your head unwanted and you know they aren’t right, that this isn’t the real you, but they terrify you and they won’t go away. These thoughts may start with the words “What if …”
• You are afraid to be alone with your baby because of scary thoughts or worries. You are also afraid of things in your house that could potentially cause harm, like kitchen knives or stairs, and you avoid them like the plague.
• You may feel the need to check things constantly. Did I lock the door? Did I lock the car? Did I turn off the oven? Is the baby breathing?
• You may be having physical symptoms like stomach cramps or headaches, shakiness or nausea. You might even have panic attacks.
• You feel like a captive animal, pacing back and forth in a cage. Restless. On edge.
• You can’t eat. You have no appetite.
• You’re having trouble sleeping. You are so, so tired, but you can’t sleep.
• You feel a sense of dread, like something terrible is going to happen.
• You know something is wrong. You may not know you have a perinatal mood or anxiety disorder, but you know the way you are feeling is NOT right. You think you’ve “gone crazy”.
• You are afraid that this is your new reality and that you’ve lost the “old you” forever.
• You are afraid that if you reach out for help people will judge you. Or that your baby will be taken away.

I had many of those.  If someone jokingly commented about "stealing" my baby away, I immediately began to imagine graphic, unpleasant ways to prevent that from happening.    I had fears about what if I couldn't protect my children.  What if someone tried to really take them?  What if I couldn't teach them to guard themselves?  What if that same thing happened to them?    It began to impact my every day life.  My husband wanted to get out; I had near panic attacks at the thought.  We went to church on Christmas Eve.  I still can't tell you the content of the sermon. I was too busy watching other people to make sure they weren't watching us.   

I knew I needed more help.

First, we increased my dosage again.  It helped a little but not enough.  Next, I did something I hadn't done before:  I looked for help.  Z had seen a psychologist due to ADD symptoms, so I made an appointment to be assessed.  That led to a referral to a counselor.  I was worried about what others might think about my need for therapy.  I hoped my husband and mom and friends wouldn't think it meant I didn't trust them.  I was just worried that they might not be able to effectively help me out of my own head, given that they love me too much.

When I started therapy, I think I initially expected her to help me figure it out.  After a few sessions, I realized her job was to help me figure it out for myself.  Her job wasn't to fix me, it was to help me fix myself. 

With one more med dosage change and more therapy sessions, I began to feel mostly like myself again.  I've always had OCD tendancies, but I was finally able to control them. Getting upset didn't lead to baseboard cleaning on my hands and kneew. And while I still get up to check my children some nights, it's not every night and it's not over and over again.   I'm able to leave the house, go to church, be in public, and simply say thanks when someone gets close enough to tell me E is adorable.  My nightly bouts with insomnia are getting fewer and further apart.

My experience this time has been so much healthier.  In addition to the meds and therapy, I've met three wonderful women who also have varied degrees of PPD/PPA.  Our shared experiences make for a safe haven.  Nothing we can admit thinking is met with judgement or scorn.  We all know it's not normal, and we are able to help one another through those moments and make it over to the other side.

Find a doctor, a support group, a friend.  Talk to SOMEONE.  Doctors and Nurses: again I implore you to not let "I'm okay" be the reason you don't dig a little further.   If she doesn't look okay, odds are she isn't.

If you are the friend, check in often.  Don't be afraid to suggest your new mom friend get help if you recognize the signs above in her. She might get offended at first.  Keep supporting and suggesting.  When you visit, offer to do laundry, a meal, bathtime for other children in addition to getting new squish snuggles.

As before, I'll say it again: IT'S OKAY TO ADMIT YOU NEED HELP!


Because, in the end, normal is overrated anyway.








 

No, It's Not Normal

photo via flickr: copyright Jim Mead

Wow. A year. It's interesting how life and time speed by us.  My year has certainly been eventful.  My family of three is now four, my brother's five are now six, our kids have an amazing new Gramps, and Nana is fantastic as always.  It's been unexpected and surreal, but it's been such a wonderful journey.

While watching my children grow and thrive has been the greatest experience of my life, parts of this journey were marred.  There were dark times. Struggle times. Times when I wasn't sure I could do it. Both times were tied to two of the most significant events in my life.

The birth of each of my children.

I get it; hormone changes can lead to the "baby blues." The state of being overwhelmed and wondering who got your blissful feelings of love for this new being.   I'm not in any way minimalizing these feelings.  If you have them or know a mom who is, get help or reach out to help.  New moms need all the support they can get, be it baby number one or baby number ten.

For this post, I'm referring to Postpartum Depression.  One of two mental health conditions that followed the birth of my children. PPD came with my son.   I'll explore the second in another post.

From Postpartum Progress, here are PPD symptoms:

Okay.  Here we go. You may have postpartum depression if you have had a baby within the last 12 months and are experiencing some of these symptoms:

• You feel overwhelmed.  Not like “hey, this new mom thing is hard.”  More like “I can’t do this and I’m never going to be able to do this.”  You feel like you just can’t handle being a mother.  In fact, you may be wondering whether you should have become a mother in the first place.
• You feel guilty because you believe you should be handling new motherhood better than this.  You feel like your baby deserves better.  You worry whether your baby can tell that you feel so bad, or that you are crying so much, or that you don’t feel the happiness or connection that you thought you would.  You may wonder whether your baby would be better off without you.
• You don’t feel bonded to your baby.  You’re not having that mythical mommy bliss that you see on TV or read about in magazines. Not everyone with PPD feels this way, but many do.
• You can’t understand why this is happening.  You are very confused and scared.
• You feel irritated or angry. You have no patience. Everything annoys you.  You feel resentment toward your baby, or your partner, or your friends who don’t have babies. You feel out-of-control rage.
• You feel nothing. Emptiness and numbness. You are just going through the motions.
• You feel sadness to the depths of your soul. You can’t stop crying, even when there’s no real reason to be crying.
• You feel hopeless, like this situation will never ever get better. You feel weak and defective, like a failure.
• You can’t bring yourself to eat, or perhaps the only thing that makes you feel better is eating.
• You can’t sleep when the baby sleeps, nor can you sleep at any other time. Or maybe you can fall asleep, but you wake up in the middle of the night and can’t go back to sleep no matter how tired you are.  Or maybe all you can do is sleep and you can’t seem to stay awake to get the most basic things done.  Whichever it is, your sleeping is completely screwed up and it’s not just because you have a newborn.
• You can’t concentrate. You can’t focus. You can’t think of the words you want to say. You can’t remember what you were supposed to do. You can’t make a decision. You feel like you’re in a fog.
• You feel disconnected. You feel strangely apart from everyone for some reason, like there’s an invisible wall between you and the rest of the world.
• Maybe you’re doing everything right. You are exercising. You are taking your vitamins. You have a healthy spirituality.  You do yoga. You’re thinking “Why can’t I just get over this?”  You feel like you should be able to snap out of it, but you can’t.
• You might be having thoughts of running away and leaving your family behind. Or you’ve thought of driving off the road, or taking too many pills, or finding some other way to end this misery.
• You know something is wrong. You may not know you have a perinatal mood or anxiety disorder, but you know the way you are feeling is NOT right. You think you’ve “gone crazy”.
• You are afraid that this is your new reality and that you’ve lost the “old you” forever.
• You are afraid that if you reach out for help people will judge you. Or that your baby will be taken away.

That last one is critical.  I didn't ask for help. I thought it was normal to feel the way I did. I bought into the lie that everyone goes through this.

No, they don't. And no, it's NOT normal.

I went through the motions. I took care of my son. He was fed, kept clean and dry, and was healthy. And while I loved the child I had struggled to have, I didn't like him very much.  I just didn't understand why.

I joke that my husband must have thought he brought someone else home from the hospital.  The reality is he did.  I didn't ask for help, and I should have.

I'm forever changed by the PPD.  I'm now an advocate for new moms.  I had to work to let go of my guilt.  And now, I work to be open and honest and let other moms know that their feelings might not be normal either and it's okay.  I reach out to those I know with new little ones to ask how Mom is doing.  REALLY doing.  I offer help. I urge you to do the same:  take a meal, do some laundry, occupy older children.

And I ask if they've talked to their doctors. If you are a doctor or nurse, I IMPLORE you to not ignore what you see in your patients.  I know you're on a time crunch, and there are many, many more to be seen behind the mother in for her six week checkup.   Please don't let that time crunch keep you from digging a little more and letting that mom know that you're there to help.

If you are that Mom:    YOU ARE NOT ALONE!!  There are specialists, local groups, and online support.  It's okay to get help.  It's okay to admit you need it.


And it's okay if you aren't normal.

Left Field

photo from iacmusic.com

I pride myself on my planning skills.  My OCD is very satisfied with lists, planning, scheduling, and completion.  Checking items off lists is the highlight of my day.  There are many things I can be called, spontaneous is not one of them.

In the last year, I have really tried to focus on my prayer life and on letting go of some of that control.   My goal in life is to put His goals first, allowing God to show me direction and guide me to be the best wife, mother, and person I can be.  For someone as controlled as I am, this is my continued struggle.

However, the past year has been a series of eye-opening lessons for me.  I watched my Pop succumb to the most evil disease on the planet.  Through it, I prayed.  I prayed for peace for my mother, my son, my family, myself. I prayed for comfort for him and delivery from the cancer that robbed him of who he was.   He knew that I wanted to go back to school to make some life changes, and he pushed me to do that.  When the first path back to school ended in a closed door due to schedule flexibility, I simply prayed.  I prayed that if that was my new path, then I prayed that another door would be opened.   And it was.

I learned that I had missed the application date for the program I wanted, but that was okay.  I had been out of school so long that I had to take some prerequisite classes anyway before I could apply, and that has worked out well.    I passed my placement test with no worries, and I am currently taking the last required class before I apply.   I had a plan, going according to plan, to start the program in January 2015.   This would give me enough time to have the gastric sleeve surgery that was planned, heal from the surgery, and get started on the program.

Best laid plans of Mice and Men and all that...

Because now the plans have to change again, but for the best possible reason.

When I wrote this post about a year and a half ago, I expected that to be my reality.  Part of the reason for working on my prayer life was to be able to reconcile the idea that Z would be an only child.  A few months after that was written, I decided to pass along Z's baby clothes to a friend who was having twin boys.  I passed my maternity clothes to Goodwill, so I could move forward and focus on my family as it was.  The trip to Disney that was going to be delayed for a few more years was taken (and will be taken again).  I settled into my reality.

And now:  this is my new reality ---------------------->

Needless to say, my first reaction was shock.  Most everyone's has been.

My mom has had the BEST reaction so far:  pure joy.  Her faith and trust and strength have always been an inspiration for me, and this time it's no different.

So far, most of this pregnancy has gone okay.  I definitely don't remember being quite this sick with my son, but I will take every ache, pain, and bit of nausea and ickiness for opportunity.  I know I'm VERY blessed to have another child.  I don't, however, think that negates my right to complain a little (or a lot) about how I'm feeling.   Having endured 13 and a half years of infertility treatment and testing, I think I've earned a little whining about not being able to eat...ANYTHING.

Right now, everything is going well.  I still plan on going to school, just a year later than expected.  Since our children will celebrate their birthdays very close together (possible within a day of each other, since I will have a scheduled c-section), I'm not comfortable heading to a full time program with a new baby.

The plan is to continue what I've been doing:  pray for the best, follow HIS plan and not mine, and work through each moment, step by step.