July 2022 Comes Early

Holy Mary Mother of God! This morning when I woke up I felt...good. Like, really good. Like, not pukey at all. AND, I felt so good I made biscuits for R. and me. And, here I sit with my cup of tea (which smells good!), the sun streaming in the window and think to myself, "There's a whole day in front of you, little lady, what you gonna do now?" And because I don't feel sick the possibilities are endless...a trip to the library? A long walk or, dare I say, a run? Washing the family room windows which I've been staring at for lo those many days on the couch? Sky-diving? Pole vaulting? Hog tying? The possibilities stretch before me like a patient etherized on a table (alright English majors, who said it?).

And, I just had to tell my little blog community first. Because, well, because you're all so sweet to me and it was about time I had happier words to share.

I feel like it's Easter morning. Christ is risen, risen indeed!

Never Fear...

All is well.
Baby's fine.
I'm fine.
Dachshund's fine.

I haven't written because I can't keep my head out from the toilet bowl.

More posts to come when this phase passes.

Like maybe in July 0f 2022.

Neti Pot

There is so little to report on this front. I vomit. I take anti-nausea medicine. Then I sleep for many hours. I wake up with smeared mascara and bedhead. I eat. I vomit....you know, lather, rinse, repeat. Same old, same old.

I've become pretty accustomed to the whole routine by now and my staff have learned that when I walk out of my office door toward the bathrooms with my toothbrush in my hand and "that look," that they should all be really nice to me. I am blessed to work with colleagues who are empathatic in the extreme, and I came out of the restroom the other day, with my make-up smeared and a toothbrush in my hand only to find one of our nurses standing with a wet washcloth, a glass of ice water, and some crackers. I could not work for a more flexible and giving agency.

But enough about the 'ole emesis. Since I've already freaked you out with my vomitspeak, let me enlighten you on the most wondrous tool in the history of humankind. The legendary neti pot.

Now I know, when you click the link it's a little frightening, what with the blue nozzle shoved up the nice lady's nose and all, but let me tell you that as a life-long sinus sufferer, I have become a neti-pot devotee. And now that I can take absolutely NO sinus medication for the foreseeable future I am have become an apostle of the neti-pot. I am, dare I say it, a neti-pot prostitute. Lo, I remember the day when the neti-pot first came into my life, my ex-husband and I were in Washington D.C. visiting friends and happened upon a natural food store, and having read about the neti-pot in some obscure naturopathic literature which my ex-husband was often fond of reading, and being neti-pot virgins, had our first glimpse of the beloved pitcher. We took it back to our friend's home that night and poured salt water into our noses with wild abandon and never looked back. I would guess that no one else in the D.C. metro area had such clean nasal cavities that night. When we divorced, there was actually a Very Serious Talk about who should get the neti-pot. I still worry about poor K.'s sinuses.

R. is not a neti-pot devotee. He refuses to try it. He refuses to talk about it. He refuses to accept that the neti-pot is clearly the finest piece of medical technology ever invented. And I'm sure his sinuses cry every night in frustration. In fact, when I told him with glee that I was writing an entry on the neti-pot he said, "Oh, aren't the vomiting entries enough?" To which I say, "Hell, no!" And, I say it with clear sinuses and only a little bit of water dripping out of my nose.

And Dooce Called It, "The State of My Weight"

One of the phenomenal blogs that I read is dooce.com. Dooce is irreverent, honest, wickedly funny, and wise beyond words. I've been rereading Dooce chronicles from her pregnancy in the Dooce archives and found a brilliant post which she called "The State of My Weight." She bemoaned the many pregnancy books which go on and on and on in an incredibly prissy tone about how imperative it is that one not gain too much weight in the first trimester, and how incredibly annoying said books are because most women in the first trimester cannot keep anything down their throats long enough to convert to actual caloric gains.

In the first trimester, I have learned, it is a crapshoot. Eat what you can. Fend for yourself. Who knows what will stick (case in point, the greasy Quarter Pounder with cheese and large fries from McDonalds did NOT make me puke. However, the healthy watermelon and green beans barely hit my esophagus before they were rejected...go figure!). I am actually at a negative weight gain in the ten weeks of this pregnancy, despite the fact that I can no longer squeeze into my favorite jeans. So, dammit, I'll eat the Quarter Pounder, prissy pregnancy book. So there.

However, there is a larger truth here which I need to address. And I speak it in all seriousness and with all vulnerability. I am afraid of gaining too much weight. Throughout my life I believe I have flirted with an eating disorder. I have never starved myself, or exercised to oblivion, or thrown up purposefully. But, I have learned that sometimes eating disorders come through an unhealthy obsession and focus on what one eats, and perhaps I am like many other American women who struggle in this realm.

I am a feminist. I hate what our culture does to dupe women into believing that they have to be a certain size. I hate the airbrushed images which flood through the television, and magazines, and other print media. I hate that food has become an object to which we assign moral values (how many times have you heard someone say, "I'll pay for this tomorrow. This cake is so sinful!"). I work tirelessly at reinforcing positive self-image into my step-daughters and in hiding from them my own "body issues." Frankly, It embarrasses me that I care about weight and body shape. And it shames me that at a time in my life when my body is nourishing another life I worry about being too "fat."

This pregnancy is an utter gift from God and I am blessed to be able to carry a child. I know this. But the broken and damaged parts of me need to be reprogrammed through grace and I am slowly, and carefully learning to embrace my body as it is, rounded and whole. But, again, my confession to each of you is that this is still hard for me.

It is time for me to practice a radical acceptance, because this is no longer just about me. But sometimes I don't even know how to begin.

And If you Have a Weak Stomach...STOP Reading!

When I was a little girl, I got a terrible case of the flu after Easter one year. As is often the case when my temperature goes above 101 degrees, I began to get "a little squirrely" (as my father refers to my high temperature hallucinations )and began to believe that marshmallow peeps Easter bunnies and duckies were chasing me. To this day, I shudder when I see marshmallow peeps reappear in March or April in the grocery stores. I am haunted by the yellow and pink marshmallow creatures. Which I vomited day and night in the spring of 1978.

To that end, it now appears that I will be haunted to the end of my days by the following items:
Golden Grahams cereal, lime jello with pears, peanut butter toast, Ginger ale, Zesta saltines, and assorted other foods.

In the last week, I have tossed my cookies more than I have in the past twenty years. On top of which, I have a nasty virus, a temperature, a sniffly nose, aches, chills, and other related symptoms. I have been out of work for too many days to count and am living in fear of being fired, or worse for this people-pleaser, not believed.

I simply want my health back, even if it is just for long enough to feel like less of a burden to my sweet husband who has been patiently catering to my every whim. He is a Mensch.

My doctor prescribed an anti-nausea drug which seems to keep the pukes at bay, but which also seems to keep my ability to stay awake at bay...but for now, it's a welcome relief.

Cat Killer

All day I have been wallowing in guilt.

Why do I have to love animals so much? It just hurts. Even animals who don't own me end up affecting me.

This morning I left to go for a walk in the neighborhood and noticed that our friendly neighborhood stray cat, the tom cat who drives my cats to distraction by sleeping on our lawn furniture directly in front of the living room window where Cooper and Moses perch like sharks, tails wagging and voices yowling, was curled up in a ball in the neighbor's yard. "Ah," methought, "Mr. Tom is having a little siesta this afternoon." And with that, I began my four mile trek through the neighborhood (which isn't nearly as invigorating now that I've been banned from running).

You can see the end coming, can't you?

At the end of the walk, Mr. Tom was still curled in his kitty fetal position, and I wandered over slowly, not wanting to touch him because all the pregnancy gurus say, "If you're pregnant, stray cats are the enemy...beware of toxoplasmosis...danger, danger!" I got near him and whispered, "Hey, kitty..." and poor Tom opened his blood-matted eyes and stared at me with a pathetic look. I realized that Tom was a sick boy. He was breathing quickly and shallowly. It wasn't good.

I asked around to some of the neighbors whether anyone knew where Tom lived, what happened, what should be done, and from a conglomeration of sources learned that Tom was fine yesterday, but apparently had been hit by a car (the report of a four-year-old), and had been curled up near that same tree for the past day. No one seemed interested in pursuing the matter further.

R. and I chatted. It was, after all Labor Day, where could we turn? We didn't have the money to invest in getting Tom taken care of at the Emergency Vet, nor did we have a home for Tom to return to (my cats are fiercely protective of their turf and would attack a weakened male in a heartbeat, not to mention spray every conceivable surface with urine in the process). I called the SPCA, who had a nice holiday message saying to call the Humane Shelter and Animal Control. I debated. I hemmed and hawed. I went out to check Tom again. Still sickly. Not opening his eyes. Poor baby.

I called the Animal Control folk and explained the predicament. They were very helpful, said they'd send someone out to "help." And, they did. Three hours later. Which turned out to be fine, as Tom was in the exact same position, with a few leaves which had fallen out of the tree resting gently on his little yellow back.

Mr. Cat Catcher showed up with his cat catching paraphenalia. I showed him where Tom was sleeping. Tom didn't even wince or put up a fight when the cat catcher picked up mama-cat style by the back of his neck and placed him in the rusty cage. I began to cry. "What will happen now?" I asked the nice man. He smiled sadly and said, "I think you know. We just don't have the resources to help each cat."

It took everything I had not to interrupt him and say, "I changed my mind. Nevermind. I'll take him. Give him to me."

But I didn't. And I'm not sure I can forgive myself for that. I feel like a traitor. I feel like a skunk. I feel like I took the easy way out.

I came in the house and lay my weary body on the couch and continued to weep, and out of nowhere I felt tiny paws kneading my side. Moses had jumped onto the couch and offered his own little brand of cat sympathy. But I'm not sure I deserve it.

Thought for the Day

There is nothing dignified about puking in a grocery store parking lot. Nothing.