Here is this month's column on allergysense.com. I learned a great deal researching this topic.
Food allergies and Passover
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
Monday, March 1, 2010
Own the Podium
I am in serious Olympics withdrawal today. For the past 17 days, I have been glued to the television, loud and proud to be Canadian. I have prayed for people I don't know, such as the family of the Georgian luger, and Joannie Rochette. I have laughed at the antics of Jon Montgomery. I have cried in joy with Frederic Bilodeau, in shocked grief with Joannie Rochette and in shared disappointment with Melissa Hollingsworth, Patrick Chan, Manuel Osborne-Paradis, and a host of other athletes who didn't make the podium and felt like they let Canada down.
Canada's "Own the Podium" program has been roundly criticized. Canada set very ambitious goals for Vancouver 2010. We were supposed to dominate the games, leaving no doubt that Canada was THE winter sports nation. Millions of dollars were spent on training and helping athletes to focus on training, rather than earning the money to allow them to train. When we didn't hit the contrived medal projections the program was branded a failure.
A failure? Are you kidding me? We won more gold medals than any other nation. We won more medals than we've ever done before. We made breakthroughs in sports like ski jumping and cross country skiing.
Why do athletes "lose the gold" instead of "win the silver?" Why is a personal best not good enough? Why did our 4 men bobsleigh team have to "settle for bronze" in a sport when hundreds of seconds determine the end result? They won a bronze medal. They WON a bronze medal.
The world just witnessed some of the best sporting moments ever to happen. How much courage did it take the Georgian team to march into the stadium after the horrific crash that killed one of a team that wasn't big to begin with? How much mental strength did the cross country skier with 5 broken ribs need to finish the race and win Bronze? I can't begin to imagine how Joannie Rochette skated, although I can understand it a bit because I've had to sing at the funerals of close friends and family members and you do it because you have to and then fall apart later. How much focus did it take Patrick Chan to go out and skate his long program, knowing that his dream of Olympic medal had ended in a split second on a jump?
Am I proud and happy that Canada won more golds than any one else? Hell yes. Am I proud that it is suddenly cool to break into O Canada? Hell yes. Did I wear my red mitts everywhere for two weeks? Hell yes. Did I go watch the torch go through, taking my 5 year old daughter to something she won't remember? Hell yes (and nearly got beaned by a protester waving a 2 x4 in the process). Did I wear my team Canada hockey sweater and yell like a banshee at the television yesterday when Sidney Crosby got 'er done in overtime? Hell yes. Am I proud that my daughter wants to be "an Olympian" some day, sport to be named later. Hell yes. And do I think that 4th place, 2nd place, 5th place, 12th place is great if it's a personal best? Hell yes.
Canada needs to build on this national pride, but in a positive way. We don't need to be in-your-face patriotic, but I don't think we need to take a back seat to anyone anymore either. We also need to continue to provide funds for our athletes so that they can focus on achieving a personal best without having to juggle three jobs to do it. We have always been proud to be Canadian; we were waiting for the right time to let that pride show. And like the genie in the bottle, now that it's out there, we need to be careful what we wish for.
The International Olympic Committee needs to get over themselves and accept that girls can play too. Our Canadian women kicked butt and took medals. Women should be able to compete in ski jumping. And just exactly how are the women's hockey teams supposed to improve to the level of Canada and the USA if they are not given opportunities to play in Europe, and have a goal of Olympic medal to work towards? Answer me that, Monsieur Rogue. And so what if the Canadian Women's Hockey team celebrated with beer and stogies? Jon Montgomery chugged beer in Whistler and ended up on Oprah. Women's hockey players chugged beer and had to apologize.What for? What did they do wrong except celebrate a well-earned victory? Oh, were they not ladylike enough? Whatever. If the men's hockey team had done the same thing it would have been no big deal. (although since all the media were at the closing ceremonies, they might of and no one knew) Double standards are so last century...
Our children need to know that their best is good enough. Our children need to know that they can do anything they set their minds to, regardless of gender. If they do their best, fairly, honestly and with dignity then that should be good enough. Sometimes, in spite of our best efforts and preparation, life sucks. That's not such a bad lesson to learn. It's not what life throws at you, but how you deal with it that proves the measure of the person. Owning the podium is good. Doing it with class, dignity and personal accomplishment is better. The only thing worse than a sore loser is a poor winner.
I am Canadian and my heart is still a-glowing.
Canada's "Own the Podium" program has been roundly criticized. Canada set very ambitious goals for Vancouver 2010. We were supposed to dominate the games, leaving no doubt that Canada was THE winter sports nation. Millions of dollars were spent on training and helping athletes to focus on training, rather than earning the money to allow them to train. When we didn't hit the contrived medal projections the program was branded a failure.
A failure? Are you kidding me? We won more gold medals than any other nation. We won more medals than we've ever done before. We made breakthroughs in sports like ski jumping and cross country skiing.
Why do athletes "lose the gold" instead of "win the silver?" Why is a personal best not good enough? Why did our 4 men bobsleigh team have to "settle for bronze" in a sport when hundreds of seconds determine the end result? They won a bronze medal. They WON a bronze medal.
The world just witnessed some of the best sporting moments ever to happen. How much courage did it take the Georgian team to march into the stadium after the horrific crash that killed one of a team that wasn't big to begin with? How much mental strength did the cross country skier with 5 broken ribs need to finish the race and win Bronze? I can't begin to imagine how Joannie Rochette skated, although I can understand it a bit because I've had to sing at the funerals of close friends and family members and you do it because you have to and then fall apart later. How much focus did it take Patrick Chan to go out and skate his long program, knowing that his dream of Olympic medal had ended in a split second on a jump?
Am I proud and happy that Canada won more golds than any one else? Hell yes. Am I proud that it is suddenly cool to break into O Canada? Hell yes. Did I wear my red mitts everywhere for two weeks? Hell yes. Did I go watch the torch go through, taking my 5 year old daughter to something she won't remember? Hell yes (and nearly got beaned by a protester waving a 2 x4 in the process). Did I wear my team Canada hockey sweater and yell like a banshee at the television yesterday when Sidney Crosby got 'er done in overtime? Hell yes. Am I proud that my daughter wants to be "an Olympian" some day, sport to be named later. Hell yes. And do I think that 4th place, 2nd place, 5th place, 12th place is great if it's a personal best? Hell yes.
Canada needs to build on this national pride, but in a positive way. We don't need to be in-your-face patriotic, but I don't think we need to take a back seat to anyone anymore either. We also need to continue to provide funds for our athletes so that they can focus on achieving a personal best without having to juggle three jobs to do it. We have always been proud to be Canadian; we were waiting for the right time to let that pride show. And like the genie in the bottle, now that it's out there, we need to be careful what we wish for.
The International Olympic Committee needs to get over themselves and accept that girls can play too. Our Canadian women kicked butt and took medals. Women should be able to compete in ski jumping. And just exactly how are the women's hockey teams supposed to improve to the level of Canada and the USA if they are not given opportunities to play in Europe, and have a goal of Olympic medal to work towards? Answer me that, Monsieur Rogue. And so what if the Canadian Women's Hockey team celebrated with beer and stogies? Jon Montgomery chugged beer in Whistler and ended up on Oprah. Women's hockey players chugged beer and had to apologize.What for? What did they do wrong except celebrate a well-earned victory? Oh, were they not ladylike enough? Whatever. If the men's hockey team had done the same thing it would have been no big deal. (although since all the media were at the closing ceremonies, they might of and no one knew) Double standards are so last century...
Our children need to know that their best is good enough. Our children need to know that they can do anything they set their minds to, regardless of gender. If they do their best, fairly, honestly and with dignity then that should be good enough. Sometimes, in spite of our best efforts and preparation, life sucks. That's not such a bad lesson to learn. It's not what life throws at you, but how you deal with it that proves the measure of the person. Owning the podium is good. Doing it with class, dignity and personal accomplishment is better. The only thing worse than a sore loser is a poor winner.
I am Canadian and my heart is still a-glowing.
Friday, February 5, 2010
10 Great ideas for Valentine's Day
Here is my article in Allergysense.com for Valentine's gift ideas for people with food allergies.
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
Lessons in Patience
It's been a week since Stan was evicted. The hysterectomy operation happened without any major complications, which allowed me to come home the same day. (I don't recommend that. I was roaming the house at 3am, in excruciating pain, nauseous, weak from hunger and wishing there was a nurse call button). I have 3 small incisions that seem to be healing nicely, and I get a bit better every day, unless I overdo it.
This surgery is forcing me to be patient, something that does not come easily to me. I'm used to soldiering on, teeth gritted, shoulders squared, pushing through pain, injury and whatever else my body throws at me. I don't do help. I do things myself. This time, however, my body has quietly and firmly said "no."
This recuperation is also forcing me to accept help. My momma taught me to be self-sufficient. I'm the one who supports everyone else, but I tend, as one of my very astute friends observed, to be "cat-like in pain" retiring and making do. Even coming out of the anasthesia last week, I was saying please and thank you to the nursing staff, and apologizing for bothering them when they had to help me shuffle to the washroom.
My husband has taken over the day to day running of the house. He's competent, he knows how to cook, he's made our daughter's lunches for school and gotten her there on time. He's had a couple of minor snags, like forgetting to send her water and milk one day in her lunch, or buying the frozen meatballs that I can't eat because they have garlic in them, but he's generally managed fine. He doesn't cook like I do, so the kid has been a little stressed, but nothing catastrophic. He's a good man and means well in everything he does. He brought me a coffee and donut in the recovery area at the hospital, because he knows how much I love my java, and reasoned I'd be hungry. He nearly sent the nurse into a cardiac arrest, but no danger, I was too nauseated from the surgery to even contemplate sniffing the coffee, much less inhaling it. I appreciated the gesture and the love behind it.
I've had to get help with things this week, and it's been hard. Have I mentioned I don't do help? I'll help anyone who needs it, but take care of my own affairs, thank you. The first time I had a shower after the surgery, my husband had to skulk in the bathroom with me to make sure I didn't pass out. My shower time is precious to me. I ponder things. I visualize worries and stresses washing down the drain. I find solutions to the niggling bits of writer's block. I find inspiration and subjects to write about when I'm not actively thinking about it. I've let my guard down and sobbed in the shower, only to straighten my shoulders and get on with things when I pull back the curtain. To have someone else in that space, no matter how reasonable and logical it was, was tough to take. What was especially hard, was that I was spent by the end of the shower and needed him to help me step out.
I haven't been able to drive, so my husband had to pick up my medications, my new glasses and drive me to the follow up appointment with the surgeon. I'm used to getting in my car and going. He doesn't mind. I do.
I can't lift anything over 5 lbs, including 2 bags of milk (I tried, to my peril). I can't lift most of the pots in our kitchen, so when my husband returns to work, I'll have to know what we are having for dinner so he can lift the pot out before he leaves. Our freezer normally has things on top of it. They all have to be moved so that I can get food out. I can't lift any of them. And while stubborn and determined are my usual modus operandi, I am not stupid enough to jeopardize my recovery by lifting more than I'm supposed to. Besides, it hurts.
My mother is stubbornly self-sufficient, refusing help and doing things herself. I am my mother's daughter, and that realization is disconcerting. A couple of my friends have brought us soup or casseroles. I am touched that they went to the effort, pleased that I don't have to worry about meal-planning and struggling with the notion that I have to accept help because I'm not quite up to it yet. It's hard when I've often only had myself to rely on. It's hard for me to let my guard down, to be less than super-woman and admit that I am, after all (gulp) only human.
As my brain surfaces from the fog that anasthesia creates, I've been pondering these forced lessons in patience. Why do I have so much trouble accepting help? Is it arrogance-am I so confident that my way is the only way to do things? I suppose there's an element of that. I have a certain way of doing things- folding sweaters, putting the sheets on the bed, placing the dishes in the sink-that makes sense to me. In honesty, though, I suppose it's because I never learned how. My mother took care of everyone else, but takes care of her own affairs.She stopped driving a couple of years ago when her car died and started walking instead. She hates winter, because it means she can't pull her bundle buggy through the graveyard to get her own groceries, and must take a ride instead. Both my and my daughter's birthdays are coming up and she has no way to get our birthday presents without getting a ride, and the source of that ride isn't driving right now.That is vexing her and causing her stress, which in turn causes me stress because I can't fix it right now. I am fundamentally a fixer.
From the time I was small, my mother did it herself. I learned that. It's ingrained. People love to help, for the most part, but don't like to intrude. It's the asking part that I'm still working on. It's hard to let down the guard and admit vulnerability, even to my closest friends. It's hard to be less than self-sufficient.
And so I make do, I ponder and I ask for help through gritted teeth. And now, I have to go, because my small child needs help with something. I'm teaching her that it's okay to ask for help. It's a good lesson to learn.
This surgery is forcing me to be patient, something that does not come easily to me. I'm used to soldiering on, teeth gritted, shoulders squared, pushing through pain, injury and whatever else my body throws at me. I don't do help. I do things myself. This time, however, my body has quietly and firmly said "no."
This recuperation is also forcing me to accept help. My momma taught me to be self-sufficient. I'm the one who supports everyone else, but I tend, as one of my very astute friends observed, to be "cat-like in pain" retiring and making do. Even coming out of the anasthesia last week, I was saying please and thank you to the nursing staff, and apologizing for bothering them when they had to help me shuffle to the washroom.
My husband has taken over the day to day running of the house. He's competent, he knows how to cook, he's made our daughter's lunches for school and gotten her there on time. He's had a couple of minor snags, like forgetting to send her water and milk one day in her lunch, or buying the frozen meatballs that I can't eat because they have garlic in them, but he's generally managed fine. He doesn't cook like I do, so the kid has been a little stressed, but nothing catastrophic. He's a good man and means well in everything he does. He brought me a coffee and donut in the recovery area at the hospital, because he knows how much I love my java, and reasoned I'd be hungry. He nearly sent the nurse into a cardiac arrest, but no danger, I was too nauseated from the surgery to even contemplate sniffing the coffee, much less inhaling it. I appreciated the gesture and the love behind it.
I've had to get help with things this week, and it's been hard. Have I mentioned I don't do help? I'll help anyone who needs it, but take care of my own affairs, thank you. The first time I had a shower after the surgery, my husband had to skulk in the bathroom with me to make sure I didn't pass out. My shower time is precious to me. I ponder things. I visualize worries and stresses washing down the drain. I find solutions to the niggling bits of writer's block. I find inspiration and subjects to write about when I'm not actively thinking about it. I've let my guard down and sobbed in the shower, only to straighten my shoulders and get on with things when I pull back the curtain. To have someone else in that space, no matter how reasonable and logical it was, was tough to take. What was especially hard, was that I was spent by the end of the shower and needed him to help me step out.
I haven't been able to drive, so my husband had to pick up my medications, my new glasses and drive me to the follow up appointment with the surgeon. I'm used to getting in my car and going. He doesn't mind. I do.
I can't lift anything over 5 lbs, including 2 bags of milk (I tried, to my peril). I can't lift most of the pots in our kitchen, so when my husband returns to work, I'll have to know what we are having for dinner so he can lift the pot out before he leaves. Our freezer normally has things on top of it. They all have to be moved so that I can get food out. I can't lift any of them. And while stubborn and determined are my usual modus operandi, I am not stupid enough to jeopardize my recovery by lifting more than I'm supposed to. Besides, it hurts.
My mother is stubbornly self-sufficient, refusing help and doing things herself. I am my mother's daughter, and that realization is disconcerting. A couple of my friends have brought us soup or casseroles. I am touched that they went to the effort, pleased that I don't have to worry about meal-planning and struggling with the notion that I have to accept help because I'm not quite up to it yet. It's hard when I've often only had myself to rely on. It's hard for me to let my guard down, to be less than super-woman and admit that I am, after all (gulp) only human.
As my brain surfaces from the fog that anasthesia creates, I've been pondering these forced lessons in patience. Why do I have so much trouble accepting help? Is it arrogance-am I so confident that my way is the only way to do things? I suppose there's an element of that. I have a certain way of doing things- folding sweaters, putting the sheets on the bed, placing the dishes in the sink-that makes sense to me. In honesty, though, I suppose it's because I never learned how. My mother took care of everyone else, but takes care of her own affairs.She stopped driving a couple of years ago when her car died and started walking instead. She hates winter, because it means she can't pull her bundle buggy through the graveyard to get her own groceries, and must take a ride instead. Both my and my daughter's birthdays are coming up and she has no way to get our birthday presents without getting a ride, and the source of that ride isn't driving right now.That is vexing her and causing her stress, which in turn causes me stress because I can't fix it right now. I am fundamentally a fixer.
From the time I was small, my mother did it herself. I learned that. It's ingrained. People love to help, for the most part, but don't like to intrude. It's the asking part that I'm still working on. It's hard to let down the guard and admit vulnerability, even to my closest friends. It's hard to be less than self-sufficient.
And so I make do, I ponder and I ask for help through gritted teeth. And now, I have to go, because my small child needs help with something. I'm teaching her that it's okay to ask for help. It's a good lesson to learn.
Sunday, January 10, 2010
Thoughts on Infertility
WARNING-I talk about reproductive systems and menstruation in this post. If you're squeamish-click away. It's okay. I understand.
I'm not often lost for words. Normally, the words flow effortlessly when I've decided on a topic. I'm struggling this time, not so much because of the topic, but because of the delicacy surrounding it.
My name is Lisa and I am infertile. In 24 hours, after the scheduled hysterectomy, the last vestiges of biological fertility will be gone. In truth, they were gone years ago. I never wrote about it. It's time.
I married at 35, and we started trying to have children immediately. We knew we wanted children-plural-and we knew that time was not on our side. I had always been regular as clockwork. My period would arrive on the 30th day, by 11am. Sometimes it went as long as 5pm that day, but I was predictable.
And then I was late. 5 days, 6 days, 8 days...other weird things were happening as well. Women know their own bodies, and we know when something is odd or different. This was not a late period. This was something else. 12 days late, and all of a sudden, I started spotting. I'd never done that before. 3 days of spotting, bright red woosh of blood and the odd feeling went away. This happened 3 times that I recall. Another time, there was cramping, the sudden appearance of a round disc of red the size of a silver dollar and then nothing. Twice, I went to the doctor for a blood test. I registered an HCG of 4, but to be considered "pregnant" HCG had to be 5. Both times, as I was scheduled for a follow-up blood test, spotting, woosh and no more symptoms. Because I had never registered an HCG of 5, my family doctor never considered me pregnant. When I was referred to a gynecologist, he confirmed that I had very likely been pregnant, but that the egg had not implanted. His succinct response "women know."
And then the fun began. We started doing fertility tests-both of us-and I started taking hormone shots to boost the probability of success. Intercourse then became something driven by a positive ovulation indicator rather than passion. After a couple of months, we found out that medical issues existed and that we would not be able to have children naturally.
Infertility feels like a betrayal on the most basic, human level. Women are genetically created to have babies. It's what we do. When I couldn't I felt like a failure on a fundamental level. I remember thinking "I can't even have a baby...what good am I?" It's hard to explain the profound sense of hopelessness and loss unless you've also walked through the tunnel. I have never felt so inadequate and useless as when I received the news that I could not have children.
It's funny the things that all of a sudden come into sharp focus. As I dealt with the blow of infertility, I suddenly noticed all the women with multiple children. It was hard to fight the feelings of resentment for strangers who appeared to have no trouble conceiving children.
We chose to go the adoption route. It was not without its own heartbreak, when the first adoption fell through when the birth mom changed her mind and kept the baby. We have a wonderful little girl, and she is the child that we were meant to have. We have only one, but she is the miracle that we often didn't dare to hope for.
My reproductive system wasn't finished with me yet. About 3 years ago, my like-clockwork periods started going wonky. Some months it was 45 days. Some months 20 days. At first, I passed it off to pending menopoause-I was warned that I would be in full-blown menopause in 3-5 years, and it was right on schedule for that prediction. Then the period didn't stop for a month. It included blood clots the size of marbles, periods that flooded through super tampons, maxi pads, underwear and jeans in an hour, only to do it again an hour later, and drained me of energy. Soaking my pyjamas daily became part of the morning ritual-I became quite efficient at it and soaked them in the shower. I slept on a bath mat when I grew tired of changing the sheets. I was afraid to leave the house when the periods were at their heaviest. I could flood in an hour, and I was left feeling dizzy and almost passed out driving the car one day. This was more than menopause.
Turns out that although my body couldn't nurture a baby, it had no problem growing uterine fibroids. Mine was the approximate size of an orange and was causing all the bleeding and other problems. I named it Stan because anything that big growing inside me needed a name. I also had a cyst on an ovary that accounted for the pain. Once more my body had betrayed me.
Infertility can be very isolating. It's hard for other women to understand unless they have also blinked back tears at the arrival of a period that was late, but definite. It's hard to explain the envy and jealousy we try to ignore when friends and colleagues show off their bundles of joy. Just after our first adoption fell through, a colleague announced that she was having twins. She already had 2 boys, and although I was genuinely happy for her, I struggled with the unfairness. After all, she was going to have 4 babies and all I wanted was one. Being around babies is like ripping a bandage off an open wound continually. It's sorrow on a fundamental, personal level that's hard to fathom. When we give in to the resentment and envy, even for a minute, we feel like a horrible person.
I couldn't talk abotu the miscarriages-for that is what they were, even if they were early on. I couldn't talk about it..
I have long since come to terms with things. I'm looking forward to the surgery tomorrow, as much as one can look forward to major surgery, because it will solve the health issues that have been plaguing me and ruining my quality of life for almost 3 years. The fact that I am losing my ability to have children is a non-issue. I mourned that loss years ago.
To anyone dealing with infertility, I send you a sympathetic hug and a nod of understanding. There are no words, even though people try to make you feel better. People can say very dumb things when they don't know what to say and feel like they should say SOMETHING."I'm so sorry" and a hug covers things nicely. I'm so sorry that you are going through this.
With this post, I bid a not so fond farewell to Stan and turn the page on that chapter of my life. I look forward to the next chapter. Infertile I may be, a failure I am not.
I'm not often lost for words. Normally, the words flow effortlessly when I've decided on a topic. I'm struggling this time, not so much because of the topic, but because of the delicacy surrounding it.
My name is Lisa and I am infertile. In 24 hours, after the scheduled hysterectomy, the last vestiges of biological fertility will be gone. In truth, they were gone years ago. I never wrote about it. It's time.
I married at 35, and we started trying to have children immediately. We knew we wanted children-plural-and we knew that time was not on our side. I had always been regular as clockwork. My period would arrive on the 30th day, by 11am. Sometimes it went as long as 5pm that day, but I was predictable.
And then I was late. 5 days, 6 days, 8 days...other weird things were happening as well. Women know their own bodies, and we know when something is odd or different. This was not a late period. This was something else. 12 days late, and all of a sudden, I started spotting. I'd never done that before. 3 days of spotting, bright red woosh of blood and the odd feeling went away. This happened 3 times that I recall. Another time, there was cramping, the sudden appearance of a round disc of red the size of a silver dollar and then nothing. Twice, I went to the doctor for a blood test. I registered an HCG of 4, but to be considered "pregnant" HCG had to be 5. Both times, as I was scheduled for a follow-up blood test, spotting, woosh and no more symptoms. Because I had never registered an HCG of 5, my family doctor never considered me pregnant. When I was referred to a gynecologist, he confirmed that I had very likely been pregnant, but that the egg had not implanted. His succinct response "women know."
And then the fun began. We started doing fertility tests-both of us-and I started taking hormone shots to boost the probability of success. Intercourse then became something driven by a positive ovulation indicator rather than passion. After a couple of months, we found out that medical issues existed and that we would not be able to have children naturally.
Infertility feels like a betrayal on the most basic, human level. Women are genetically created to have babies. It's what we do. When I couldn't I felt like a failure on a fundamental level. I remember thinking "I can't even have a baby...what good am I?" It's hard to explain the profound sense of hopelessness and loss unless you've also walked through the tunnel. I have never felt so inadequate and useless as when I received the news that I could not have children.
It's funny the things that all of a sudden come into sharp focus. As I dealt with the blow of infertility, I suddenly noticed all the women with multiple children. It was hard to fight the feelings of resentment for strangers who appeared to have no trouble conceiving children.
We chose to go the adoption route. It was not without its own heartbreak, when the first adoption fell through when the birth mom changed her mind and kept the baby. We have a wonderful little girl, and she is the child that we were meant to have. We have only one, but she is the miracle that we often didn't dare to hope for.
My reproductive system wasn't finished with me yet. About 3 years ago, my like-clockwork periods started going wonky. Some months it was 45 days. Some months 20 days. At first, I passed it off to pending menopoause-I was warned that I would be in full-blown menopause in 3-5 years, and it was right on schedule for that prediction. Then the period didn't stop for a month. It included blood clots the size of marbles, periods that flooded through super tampons, maxi pads, underwear and jeans in an hour, only to do it again an hour later, and drained me of energy. Soaking my pyjamas daily became part of the morning ritual-I became quite efficient at it and soaked them in the shower. I slept on a bath mat when I grew tired of changing the sheets. I was afraid to leave the house when the periods were at their heaviest. I could flood in an hour, and I was left feeling dizzy and almost passed out driving the car one day. This was more than menopause.
Turns out that although my body couldn't nurture a baby, it had no problem growing uterine fibroids. Mine was the approximate size of an orange and was causing all the bleeding and other problems. I named it Stan because anything that big growing inside me needed a name. I also had a cyst on an ovary that accounted for the pain. Once more my body had betrayed me.
Infertility can be very isolating. It's hard for other women to understand unless they have also blinked back tears at the arrival of a period that was late, but definite. It's hard to explain the envy and jealousy we try to ignore when friends and colleagues show off their bundles of joy. Just after our first adoption fell through, a colleague announced that she was having twins. She already had 2 boys, and although I was genuinely happy for her, I struggled with the unfairness. After all, she was going to have 4 babies and all I wanted was one. Being around babies is like ripping a bandage off an open wound continually. It's sorrow on a fundamental, personal level that's hard to fathom. When we give in to the resentment and envy, even for a minute, we feel like a horrible person.
I couldn't talk abotu the miscarriages-for that is what they were, even if they were early on. I couldn't talk about it..
I have long since come to terms with things. I'm looking forward to the surgery tomorrow, as much as one can look forward to major surgery, because it will solve the health issues that have been plaguing me and ruining my quality of life for almost 3 years. The fact that I am losing my ability to have children is a non-issue. I mourned that loss years ago.
To anyone dealing with infertility, I send you a sympathetic hug and a nod of understanding. There are no words, even though people try to make you feel better. People can say very dumb things when they don't know what to say and feel like they should say SOMETHING."I'm so sorry" and a hug covers things nicely. I'm so sorry that you are going through this.
With this post, I bid a not so fond farewell to Stan and turn the page on that chapter of my life. I look forward to the next chapter. Infertile I may be, a failure I am not.
Thursday, December 24, 2009
Confessions of a Reformed Grinch
It's Christmas Eve. Any second now, my little daughter will spring out of bed, turn the Christmas tree lights on and do a check to make sure all the presents with her name on it are still under the tree. She will ask for the chocolate in her Advent chart, try to scam a gingerbread cookie before breakfast, ask to watch the Grinch and then remember that there are no more sleeps until Grandma comes and Santa comes tonight. And my smile will match hers, because I have rediscovered the joy of Christmas through my little girl's eyes.
It hasn't always been that way. For many years, Christmas was a time to be survived, dreaded and the time was spent in a state of suspended animation waiting for "it" to happen. My father's favorite Christmas companion was Cutty Sark, and his favorite target was his only daughter. Mom and I spent year after year holding our breath, waiting for daddy to get mean when the booze hit. I remember one Christmas when I almost threw a tv tray though the television because, for reasons I still don't know, my father wasn't speaking to me at Christmas and we spent Christmas dinner in stony, awkward silence as mom and I filled the gap. Christmas was not a fun time of year.
The irony, of course, is that my father loved Christmas. He would put the Christmas carols on at the end of October, so we were well and truly sick of "O Come All Ye Faithful" by Christmas Eve. My mother decorated the house beautifully, and in those days, Christmas was spent with the Allison clan, like all our holidays then. We usually went to mass on Christmas morning, and then either the Allisons came to us or we went to them. Either way, I tried to keep out of dad's line of fire.
I've always liked parts of Christmas. I love to buy presents for people, although wrapping is not a favorite job. I love to write and receive Christmas cards and I still send 60-70 every year. When I was an awkward, zero self esteem teen, I discovered that not everyone baked from scratch and thought that Christmas cookies, and people who bake them, are brilliant. From that point on, I turned out dozens and dozens of Christmas cookies. I tried a new kind every year, often baking 7-8 different kinds and even branched out to making my own hand-dipped (3 freaking days to make) truffles and dipped cherries. I added cheesecake a few years ago. The "wow" factor I got from my baking boosted my shaky self esteem and made me feel better about myself...for a little while anyway.
Times change. My uncle Ken and Aunt Helen Allison both died young and the Allison boys moved away. We moved to Kitchener and started spending Christmas with my father's family instead. Christmas Eve at Donovans is still a must-do, happy event, even though we lost Aunt Kay just after Christmas a couple of years ago. After dad died, it was often just mom and I. After I married, we started the tradition of always hosting Christmas, and my mom and Dave's parents come to us.
Still, some legacies are harder to shake, and Christmas remained a tough time of year. No one is yelling at me in a booze infused rage anymore, but I still did not count Christmas as a favorite time of year. Too much work, too much hassle...and then our daughter arrived.
Whatever our personal opinion, we try to make Christmas magical for our kids. I've cut back significantly on the amount of baking I do, but have continued with the family favorites-shortbread, sugar cookies, gingerbread and melting moments. I jettisoned the truffles a few years ago, and Christmas still came. This year, my daughter was old enough to help decorate the cookies, and although it took 5 times as long to bake 4 pans of gingerbread, the pride on her face was worth it.
After skidding into Christmas last year, I put my foot down and the decorations were completed by the end of November. My daughter helped decorate the Christmas tree, and has assumed responsibility for turning on the tree lights, a job she takes very seriously. She started school this year, and her excitement about Christmas has been contagious. You can't be dour when there is a small voice singing "rudolph" to herself in the back seat of the car. Her enthusiasm has been staining backwards on my heart, erasing the years of pain and making room for the happier memories that had been swamped by the pain. Through the eyes of a child, I'm rediscovering the beauty and excitement of the season.
May you find small pockets of joy in this season. May you feel peace and love. Two acquaintances of mine have terminal cancer, and this will be their last Christmas. I wish them a day free of pain and full of happy memories, and I wish their families the best Christmas ever to treasure in years ahead. I wish you all happy memories, unexpected moments that make you laugh, and I send you a hug, peace and love. Merry Christmas and all the best for 2010.
It hasn't always been that way. For many years, Christmas was a time to be survived, dreaded and the time was spent in a state of suspended animation waiting for "it" to happen. My father's favorite Christmas companion was Cutty Sark, and his favorite target was his only daughter. Mom and I spent year after year holding our breath, waiting for daddy to get mean when the booze hit. I remember one Christmas when I almost threw a tv tray though the television because, for reasons I still don't know, my father wasn't speaking to me at Christmas and we spent Christmas dinner in stony, awkward silence as mom and I filled the gap. Christmas was not a fun time of year.
The irony, of course, is that my father loved Christmas. He would put the Christmas carols on at the end of October, so we were well and truly sick of "O Come All Ye Faithful" by Christmas Eve. My mother decorated the house beautifully, and in those days, Christmas was spent with the Allison clan, like all our holidays then. We usually went to mass on Christmas morning, and then either the Allisons came to us or we went to them. Either way, I tried to keep out of dad's line of fire.
I've always liked parts of Christmas. I love to buy presents for people, although wrapping is not a favorite job. I love to write and receive Christmas cards and I still send 60-70 every year. When I was an awkward, zero self esteem teen, I discovered that not everyone baked from scratch and thought that Christmas cookies, and people who bake them, are brilliant. From that point on, I turned out dozens and dozens of Christmas cookies. I tried a new kind every year, often baking 7-8 different kinds and even branched out to making my own hand-dipped (3 freaking days to make) truffles and dipped cherries. I added cheesecake a few years ago. The "wow" factor I got from my baking boosted my shaky self esteem and made me feel better about myself...for a little while anyway.
Times change. My uncle Ken and Aunt Helen Allison both died young and the Allison boys moved away. We moved to Kitchener and started spending Christmas with my father's family instead. Christmas Eve at Donovans is still a must-do, happy event, even though we lost Aunt Kay just after Christmas a couple of years ago. After dad died, it was often just mom and I. After I married, we started the tradition of always hosting Christmas, and my mom and Dave's parents come to us.
Still, some legacies are harder to shake, and Christmas remained a tough time of year. No one is yelling at me in a booze infused rage anymore, but I still did not count Christmas as a favorite time of year. Too much work, too much hassle...and then our daughter arrived.
Whatever our personal opinion, we try to make Christmas magical for our kids. I've cut back significantly on the amount of baking I do, but have continued with the family favorites-shortbread, sugar cookies, gingerbread and melting moments. I jettisoned the truffles a few years ago, and Christmas still came. This year, my daughter was old enough to help decorate the cookies, and although it took 5 times as long to bake 4 pans of gingerbread, the pride on her face was worth it.
After skidding into Christmas last year, I put my foot down and the decorations were completed by the end of November. My daughter helped decorate the Christmas tree, and has assumed responsibility for turning on the tree lights, a job she takes very seriously. She started school this year, and her excitement about Christmas has been contagious. You can't be dour when there is a small voice singing "rudolph" to herself in the back seat of the car. Her enthusiasm has been staining backwards on my heart, erasing the years of pain and making room for the happier memories that had been swamped by the pain. Through the eyes of a child, I'm rediscovering the beauty and excitement of the season.
May you find small pockets of joy in this season. May you feel peace and love. Two acquaintances of mine have terminal cancer, and this will be their last Christmas. I wish them a day free of pain and full of happy memories, and I wish their families the best Christmas ever to treasure in years ahead. I wish you all happy memories, unexpected moments that make you laugh, and I send you a hug, peace and love. Merry Christmas and all the best for 2010.
Friday, November 27, 2009
Living inside the Box
Today was Fashion Disaster Day at Kindergarten. The children were supposed to dress in a funny way, with mixed up colours, mismatched socks and have fun doing it.
My daughter was a wee badger this morning and wanted no part of anything but going back to sleep. She's been living up to her Vampira, Mistress of the Dark nickname, again. I pulled some clothes out of her closet and tried to make her a fashion disaster.
Problem was, coordinating outfits in an acceptable manner has been drilled into me since I was my daughter's age. Colours HAD to match, outfits HAD to be appropriate to the occasion, and my mother didn't care a tinker's damn if everyone else was wearing it, her daughter wasn't. Period. End of conversation and turn around, go upstairs and change. I'm 46, and she still checked to make sure I would be dressed appropriately for my aunt's funeral last year. Socks must match. Colours must coordinate. Clothes must fit properly and be appropriate. What would people think otherwise?
I had a real struggle with letting go of that. It's Kindergarten, not Christmas Dinner with my mom. It was supposed to be a fashion disaster. And yet, even though my daughter went off to school decked out in multi-coloured tights, a purple skirt, an orange Halloween top, purple and lime hoodie and purple hair...all the colours were in the tights and worked. The purple hair was essential to "disasterfy" it. I couldn't get away from coordinating, even though I was aware of my weakness and tried hard not to conform.
My whole life is about structure. I need to know what I'm doing, when I'm doing it and how long I am doing it for. I can be spontaneous...just warn me and I'll mark it on the calendar. The only time I have ever been spontaneous in my life was on our honeymoon and that was because Hurricane George crashed it and we were tossed off Sanibel Island and HAD to improvise. I didn't like it. Part of it probably stems from life as a teen with an alcoholic father when I could never predict what I would be walking into when I got home.
I write stories following an outline. I start at the beginning and write to the end. The ultimate in daring for me would be to write a scene in the middle before I got to it. I haven't actually tried it yet but I think it would be terrifying but liberating. The most adventurous thing I wear are brightly coloured, handknit socks, but only with my jeans. Everything else will match. I think I once did the radical move of wearing blue socks with black pants, but I was in a hurry and they were dark blue.
I've always played by the rules, dressed the way my momma told me to dress and conformed. I have questioned stupid rules but followed them nonetheless. I will stick up for someone being mistreated, sometimes longer than a smart person would do. The most dramatic things I have ever done in my life were to quit a full time job at Customs (that was sucking the life out of me) to go back to school to do my MA(on full scholarship, in 8 months) and venture into freelance writing so I could stay home with the wee badger in the orange Halloween shirt. My ears are pierced exactly once, I have never ridden a motorcycle, and I have no tattoos (although I secretly covet one). I hate rollercoasters, spicy food and am quite happy to stay home. I envy people who have let their hair go naturally grey or dye their hair wonderful, wild colours. I don't have their courage (and as far as the hair goes, I'm 46 with a 4 year old. I don't want to be mistaken for her grandmother.)
I need to shake things up a bit. I need to get out of this rut that I find myself in, find out who I am again and take some risks. Darn it, I'm going to write the final scene for my YA novel, even though I'm only at the beginning of crafting it. If JK Rowlings can do it, so can I. But first, I need to go put on a different shirt because I'm wearing a sweatshirt, taking my mom shopping and it's not an appropriate thing to wear out of the house. To my mother's horror, I lived in jeans and sweatshirts for 4 years at university, but that was then...
Baby steps...
My daughter was a wee badger this morning and wanted no part of anything but going back to sleep. She's been living up to her Vampira, Mistress of the Dark nickname, again. I pulled some clothes out of her closet and tried to make her a fashion disaster.
Problem was, coordinating outfits in an acceptable manner has been drilled into me since I was my daughter's age. Colours HAD to match, outfits HAD to be appropriate to the occasion, and my mother didn't care a tinker's damn if everyone else was wearing it, her daughter wasn't. Period. End of conversation and turn around, go upstairs and change. I'm 46, and she still checked to make sure I would be dressed appropriately for my aunt's funeral last year. Socks must match. Colours must coordinate. Clothes must fit properly and be appropriate. What would people think otherwise?
I had a real struggle with letting go of that. It's Kindergarten, not Christmas Dinner with my mom. It was supposed to be a fashion disaster. And yet, even though my daughter went off to school decked out in multi-coloured tights, a purple skirt, an orange Halloween top, purple and lime hoodie and purple hair...all the colours were in the tights and worked. The purple hair was essential to "disasterfy" it. I couldn't get away from coordinating, even though I was aware of my weakness and tried hard not to conform.
My whole life is about structure. I need to know what I'm doing, when I'm doing it and how long I am doing it for. I can be spontaneous...just warn me and I'll mark it on the calendar. The only time I have ever been spontaneous in my life was on our honeymoon and that was because Hurricane George crashed it and we were tossed off Sanibel Island and HAD to improvise. I didn't like it. Part of it probably stems from life as a teen with an alcoholic father when I could never predict what I would be walking into when I got home.
I write stories following an outline. I start at the beginning and write to the end. The ultimate in daring for me would be to write a scene in the middle before I got to it. I haven't actually tried it yet but I think it would be terrifying but liberating. The most adventurous thing I wear are brightly coloured, handknit socks, but only with my jeans. Everything else will match. I think I once did the radical move of wearing blue socks with black pants, but I was in a hurry and they were dark blue.
I've always played by the rules, dressed the way my momma told me to dress and conformed. I have questioned stupid rules but followed them nonetheless. I will stick up for someone being mistreated, sometimes longer than a smart person would do. The most dramatic things I have ever done in my life were to quit a full time job at Customs (that was sucking the life out of me) to go back to school to do my MA(on full scholarship, in 8 months) and venture into freelance writing so I could stay home with the wee badger in the orange Halloween shirt. My ears are pierced exactly once, I have never ridden a motorcycle, and I have no tattoos (although I secretly covet one). I hate rollercoasters, spicy food and am quite happy to stay home. I envy people who have let their hair go naturally grey or dye their hair wonderful, wild colours. I don't have their courage (and as far as the hair goes, I'm 46 with a 4 year old. I don't want to be mistaken for her grandmother.)
I need to shake things up a bit. I need to get out of this rut that I find myself in, find out who I am again and take some risks. Darn it, I'm going to write the final scene for my YA novel, even though I'm only at the beginning of crafting it. If JK Rowlings can do it, so can I. But first, I need to go put on a different shirt because I'm wearing a sweatshirt, taking my mom shopping and it's not an appropriate thing to wear out of the house. To my mother's horror, I lived in jeans and sweatshirts for 4 years at university, but that was then...
Baby steps...
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)