Happy Trails to You

So this will be the last blog entry, if you've even bothered to continue checking. I started this when I was pregnant and had the time to...have thoughts. It was a great thing to be able to write about Philip's then-upcoming surgery, but that's come and gone, and now we're rocketing into the great beyond and I can barely keep myself on top of the day-to-day. Sure, that involves Bravo reality shows and home pedicures, but it doesn't leave time for Deep Thoughts. So I bid you all farewell, at least from this page, and thank you for reading/commenting/giving a rat's ass.

And one last thing: if you were offended in the slightest by my last post (which was about me and no one else), well you missed the point and perhaps are yourself a little defensive due to the hand you were dealt. Oh, I'm not saying I don't understand! But I think some of you may have interpreted things a little more personally than I meant them. Why don't you write about it? I don't know your sitch, don't pretend to, and wouldn't dare write about you because I couldn't possibly. That post was NOT about unattractive people. 'Twas about me and me alone. How people saw me, or how I thought they saw me, and how all that has changed as I have. Plain and simple. The title was something I used to say when I was in middle school, and came from anger and pain and was aimed at no one.

Much Love, Internets!
Gretchenosis

I may be fat, but you're ugly, and at least I can diet.

That was a line I used to practice in my mirror at night (one of those mirrors that could do the day or night or evening or office looks?)

I spent the overwhelming majority of my childhood and teen years extremely overweight. Like, about a hundred pounds. Many of you know this because you were there, but I don't know if anyone who didn't live it or some similar physically apparent affliction can truly know the scars that it leaves. I'm not even talking physical, though I've had the stretch marks of a new mom since I was about eight years old. I remember sitting on the floor of my shared bedroom, playing with Jo, and she caught a glimpse of the bright red tiger stripes ripping through my stomach flesh, and she asked, slightly horrified, "EEEeewww...what are those!?" I didn't actually really know back then what they were; I hadn't seen anything like it on anyone, but I knew it was from being fat. From a young age, I had the sense I was being punished by someone, maybe God, for my problems. I had this gorgeous older sister, so popular through high school and so perfectly shaped. I had this ballerina little sister, always tiny and cute and then tiny and beautiful. I was the fat sister, whose face no one really even saw because what's the point? I was a shame. My father's mother greeted our family one year at the Dallas-Ft. Worth airport by barking, "Everyone looks good except for Gretchen; she's fat." It has stuck with me that neither my father nor my mother said a word, and it was only more proof that I was worthless, not to be counted, not female because I was not attractive. I developed a punishing relationship with food. I ate to the point of vomiting so many times; ate until there was no taste, just texture and the sound of chewing setting my thoughts to a soothing rhythm. I was given books to read about fat kids who lost the weight and became beautiful, but they made me feel so much worse. There were no pretty fat girls. Pretty girls and fat girls are opposites. I was talked down to by everyone, singled out, stared at. Never, ever, ever considered in gym or at recess, never called on in class. Bullied and mocked on the playground. My sisters knew the quickest way to hurt me in a fight: tell me I'm fat. It was soul-crushing because it was true. I used to grab my stomach in fistfuls and squeeze until it hurt too much. I would punch myself in the gut and thighs.

But I also looked in the mirror and saw my face. I thought it was beautiful, I always did. I knew it, and there was rage at feeling no one see it. I spent so much time in make-believe worlds where I was beautiful. Even from avery very very young age, I would make-believe in my world that a man would see me and instantly fall in love. Somewhere in there, I was taught that I must by thin and gorgeous to be loved.

And so I'll jump to the present to say some stuff that may piss some people off, but I'm being honest here because this is my perspective. I'm not totally sure what got me so fat in the first place because I have blocked out nearly all of my emotional life from before I was an obese person. That's neither here nor there for this post, though. I am resentful that my youth was taken from me and don't really sympathize too much with people who got a little chunky in college from too much beer and cafeteria food and try to tell me their story. Anyone complaining that they look or feel fat who has not been fat, or who is not covered in stretch marks from being fat (not pregnant) or who has never been treated disrespectfully because of their weight can go fuck themselves for saying that shit. I know we all have our days of feeling gross, and are equating 'gross' with 'fat', but can't you just say gross? In our culture, fat doesn't just mean fat. It means ugly, worthless, disgusting, gross, nasty, you name it. I'm not saying I'm not guilty of describing someone as fat, but when I say it, all I mean is overweight. And I don't mean chubby. If I say someone is fat, I mean they are quite obese, and I mean it by way of description and not accusation or insult. But many people are not like me and don't mean it that way. Many people describe someone as fat and mean to degrade them for it.

Here's something else, though. Yes, I was treated very differently when I was obese. I see it especially now because I'm treated differently for being attractive. I've gotten free food and drinks, discounts on clothes, breaks for parking and speeding tickets, jobs that I wasn't qualified for, raises I didn't deserve. At first, I couldn't believe it, and got myself into some stupid situations before I realized I should turn it all down with a sarcastic remark and saunter off, letting these men know that, now that I have it, I totally don't want or need their approval or attention. It means so little to me. And it feels good, sort of like revenge, to make these guys who think they're being so great feel a little stupid and like dirt. But the people who treat me the most differently? Are obese women. It kills me because I don't see myself differently than I ever was. When I have a 'fat' day, it is because I truly can't see a reflection in the mirror any different from the one before. I see it as plain as day, and I feel the weight and the sadness. When I'm having a 'fat' day, it is because my spirit is the same and is still hurting and always will.

So (and I say this with love): Bridget, get over your fat day.

Scabtacular

Before I could even finish the post I've been working on (but stop reading here and catch up if you've not read it!), his bandages are off!

I went in to what I was led to believe was his two-week checkup. I had no idea what would happen at this appointment, as I'd been told he would wear these things for three weeks at least. When the nurse came at Philip with the cast scissors, I was like 'whaaaaa?' Sure enough, Dr. Waters walked in to confirm that today was the day. I was in no way prepared: we had an appointment about an hour from then to do our taxes, and I was alone at the hospital. Now I'm a strong lady, but I don't want to deal with Chunks and his exposed scabby hands by myself. Visions of him eating his own flaking flesh triggered my gag reflex pretty much right away. Alas, what could I do? The time was upon me, and I was both totally thrilled and freaked.

The nurse removed his bandages to reveal enormous scabs, skin peeling away from the fingers, and--lo and behold--four seperate fingers on each hand. It blew my mind, mainly the stench of flesh that hadn't seen the light of day, breaking down and regrowing. Philip held both hands out in front of him, looking from hand to hand, at the back and the front. He cooed and grinned a private little smile. He had missed them, after all, and hadn't even known it. Immediately, he flexed his fingers, opened and closed his fists and--yep--tried to eat the scabs.

So now I have to bathe him every day to soak off the scabs, and have to re-bandage him as well, creating gauze wedges to fit between the fingers. Philip hates this activity, and I can't say I'm a fan, but OH GOD THE SWEET RELIEF of being able to set him down to play by himself! And he was just as ready for the break as I, it seems. Oh, my back can un-wrench a little now, my arms can stop aching so deeply! Our walks can be for pleasure and not out of desperation!

They don't look great, but Dr. Waters says his fingers are right on track. I'm just now comprehending how much I held the anxiety of this in my body. He wears these gauze wedge thingies for another week, then spends a week sleeping with splints that continue to coax the fingers and skin to heal seperately, then we are done done done!


The first thing he affectionately touched with his pointer finger was my nipple, which he sang a little Tikatu song to in celebration.

After the After

So I have no idea why it took them so long to get us to his recovery bed, because when we got there, he was still knocked out, snoring a bit. This, I told myself, is the After. I was shocked to see how big his boxing gloves were...I had imagined something relatively closer to his actual hand size, but these things are enormous. The first thing that I thought of was how he was going to lift these things, but the nurse reassured me that they were lighter than actual casts. I have noticed his biceps bulging a bit, and he often breaks a sweat when doing a lot arm-pumping/singing (one of his favorite activities, something akin to conducting and moaning).

When Philip is in deep sleep, the corners of his mouth turn way down, as in a mock frown. He had this going on after surgery, and a very puffy little face. There was tape residue where they had run a tube down his throat, and he smelled like medicine, kind of minty and chemical-y. After a bit, he tried to open his swollen eyes, and turned toward the sound of my voice. He opened his mouth and let out a tiny, poor croak, and when I kissed him, he fell back to sleep. He would stay that way for about an hour or so. Eric left then to get my mother from the airport, and as much as I didn't want to leave his bedside, I had to pump my milk desperately. Up until then, I'd held out hope that he'd be out of surgery by 1 and might even nurse, and didn't want to pump and dump (because he still won't take a bottle). I wanted to save it all for him, but I could tell he wouldn't eat anytime soon.

I pumped as fast as I could, which wasn't hard, thanks to the hospital-grade pump given to me. Damn, that thing got a good four ounces out of each breast. I rushed back to Tikatu (still asleep) and crawled into the giant steel crib next to him. I didn't know how to touch him, how tender I should be, and was afraid to roll him onto his side (his favorite position) for fear of tearing out an IV or messing with the heart monitor or the antibiotic tubing...it would take another several hours before they took out the IV and I could comfortably maneuver him. Even in his sleep, he rolled himself onto his side by flinging his giant mitt toward me, his mouth wide open, ready to nurse. Before he could even latch on, he was asleep again.

Soon enough, we were transferred to our overnight room. The crib was big enough for me to sleep in overnight, which is exactly what I did. We shared our room with a 2-year-old girl whose leg and pelvis was in some sort of strange cast. She was very quiet all evening as we ate our dinner, took pictures of Philip, and laughed about our nurse. Bong was an Asian nurse, very sweet, who made sure to let me make all the decisions--when to give him pain meds, when to take out the IV, when he could take Philip's vitals. He let us know that he would be our nurse until 7pm. That's right, y'all. Bong until 7pm. All in all, our treatment there was fantastic, and left me feeling in control and respected.

Philip slept peacefully much of the evening, and when he was awake, he was smiley but groggy, and spent a lot of waking time with his eyes open but staring off into space. The little girl in the bed next to us, however, had an awful night. She had an allergic reaction to the valium she was given, and was suffering through leg spasms and a rash under her cast. She also spiked a high fever and was hallucinating. When she wasn't screaming and crying, she was talking gibberish and whining. I felt so terrible for her and her mother, and lie awake much of the night listening to her suffer and wishing there were something I could do. By the sunrise, my nerves were frayed just from listening to this poor little girl go through hell, and I couldn't imagine how the mother must have felt. Philip slept through most of it, and when he was awake, we walked the halls of the recovery area, visiting nurses and just being awake. He was happy and chatted with the nurses, who loved him dearly and enjoyed the interaction.

We were discharged by around noon, and headed home. Getting him into the carseat is really difficult. His fists are the size of mine, exactly, and maneuvering him is a challenge. I also didn't realize that I would have to either clothe him strictly in muscle shirts (which is my pleasure, except that it's still chilly here in Boston) or cut up all of his clothes, which I've done. I made the nasty mistake of cutting up only on footy suit before he managed to poop it all up. Getting it off was tough, mainly because we can't immerse Philip in water for three weeks, so getting poop all up in his hair and shit is not really an option anymore. I ended up cutting the suit off of him, so it's gonna be pants and shirts from now on.

He doesn't seem even a little bit bothered by the mitts, which actually makes it harder for me. He still tries to crawl and props himself up on his fists like a tiny ape. As cute as that is, and it is, he isn't allowed to bear any weight on his hands, which means I have to carry him almost exclusively, and have to hold objects in his mouth for him while he teeths. We've taken to long walks in the backpack or the Bjorn, though he won't tolerate the stroller. Before, I would walk with a destination in mind. The drugstore, the coffeeshop, Kohl's, anywhere. But these days, he wakes up from a nap, I feed and change him and we get outside. The more I'm walking with him, the better: it gives my arms relief (the pain in my back is nothing, compared) and lets me zone out. I just walk, no destination anymore, until I feel like having the sun hit me on another side. Neither of us talks much on these walks. He used to exclaim all the time, and I would reply or tell him about the things we saw, but it seems like we're both just relieved to be out and not struggling with the situation. Or maybe he's just enjoying the fresh spring air. Who knows, and who cares.

We're almost a week out of it now, and things have gotten easier, even moreso than when I began writing this particular post. He's back to his normal sleep schedule, and is more willing to use his mitts to pick things up (basically using a bear-hug technique). I've found some toys that involve hitting large buttons to make something noisy happen, which will occupy him for a while, but the thing that has given me the most time to myself is a giant gift bow that was on Eric's birthday present last weekend. The bow is almost as big as Philip, and he likes punching, smashing, hugging, and tonguing it. He also likes heavy makeout sessions with a Dora the Explorer mylar balloon.

And now, I'm starting to look beyond this situation. I'm allowing myself the freedom to envision a summer of splashing in the backyard baby pool, playing in the sand (no doubt eating it), and any other activity involving him sitting and playing, crawling and trying to walk. I was afraid to do this before; I didn't want to make the time pass even slower or to count chickens before they'd hatched. I'm grateful this whole thing has gone as smoothly as it has, grateful for my adaptable little guy and my strong arms, the lessons in patience it has taught me. Now I'm letting myself look at what comes after the after.

The Before

The day before the surgery, we went to the hospital for all the pre-op shenanigans, like talking to the anesthesiologist about feeding before surgery (4 hours for nursing, 2 hours for water and such, which is much better than what I'd originally been told by the surgeon) and allergies and family history and stuff. They also wanted to do an EKG, as a small fraction of syndactyly cases have shown links to heart problems (his was totally normal). The entire visit took from 830am until about noon, and Phlip hadn't napped at all. Usually he's napped once or even twice by then, especially because we'd been up since before six. But that Tikatu (new nickname, the history of which I'll explain later, but know that it is an exotic bird of my invention), he didn't complain not a once, just played happily with toys and engaged other babies. When it was time for his EKG, he busied himself with the stickers on his chest and sang his little Tikatu songs as he played with his fingers. It broke my heart to watch him, so unsuspecting, enjoying the one thing that could always distract him: his hands. Everyone remarked on his dearness, his happy and engaging disposition. I was wound as tight as a wire for the whole thing, just with not knowing what to expect and how long things would take, waiting for his inevitable meltdown. But it never came, and after we'd been told many times about what to expect the next day, we were sent home. It was Wednesday, foggy and drizzly. I had planned to walk Philip that afternoon, mainly to work off my own nervous energy, and to tire him out so I could pack and prepare once he went to bed. The rain let up long enough for me to walk about half an hour, and then we headed home for his final deep-sink bath. Before I knew it, he was in bed and I was left to acknowledge that tomorrow was coming.

That night, I couldn't sleep. His surgery was scheduled for 10am, and so I couldn't feed him past six. Tikatu has a way of nursing without my knowledge; I wake up often to find him already finished, or just about to latch himself on. I had set my alarm for 5:45, hoping I would allow myself to sleep until then, but I didn't want him to feast at 4:30 and then not want anything at 6, only to be miserably hungry until 10. In retrospect, this was the thing I focused on, then thing that gave me the most anxiety: his hunger, and the screaming that would surely ensue in the waiting room. I also had many surreal dreams...not nightmares, just jumbled nonsense panic dreams that I can't even remember now.

Thursday was rainy and chilly, which gave me comfort. I've always had the superstition that performances I give on rainy days are better, and I reminded myself of that in the car ride to the hospital. Philip ate at about 5:40am; I couldn't stave him off any longer. We had to be at the hospital by 8:30am, which means leaving at 7:30 because of Boston rush hour. He fell asleep in the car, and stayed asleep until I got him into his pre-op appointment, where they just weigh him one last time and take his vitals. He woke up happy, ready to chat with the nurse (named Gretchen!), and they were ready to start early. The anesthesiologist wasn't really concerned that he'd eaten just before six; she was ready for the surgery by 9:15, and things were unfolding so quickly. Up until the moment the nurses and I set him on the operating table for his anesthesia, he was happy and curious. They told me the day before that I could bring him in to be put under as long I wasn't a fainter, which I assured them I'd never done. But when they put the tiny mask on his little face, he got so confused and nervous, and I could see the panic in his eyes as he breathed the fumes. It felt like the gas hit me, too, and I felt the floor drop out from under me. I had to look down and brace the table as I heard the doctor tell me not to panic at the sight Philip's eyes rolling around or his limbs twitching. It felt like an eternity, though I know it was only seconds. They let me lean my son back and lie him down, and his limbs were so lifeless...the memory of the feeling still disturbs me. I kissed him on the cheek and was ushered quickly out of the room. Up until then, it was all something that was about to happen. I was living in the Before, the unknown. Now it was upon me, and I cried as they walked me back to his empty recovery bed. My husband was sitting there, drying his eyes, and we held hands as a nurse guided us to the waiting area.

The waiting area at the Boston Children's Hospital has many features, including a few rooms to pump breastmilk in peace, a breakfast cart with treats and overpriced sodas, and three different areas with tables, chairs and sofas for families to have some privacy as they waited. At the entrance to these areas is the nurse's station, where they recieve updates from the OR to give tot he parents. Eric and I chose a table and chairs overlooking the street, part of a long row of table/chair configurations. To our right was a Dutch couple whose daughter had a brain tumor, and she'd been in surgery since first thing in the morning. She would be done around 5pm. To our left was a Vietnamese woman sitting alone, no books or distractions, just waiting and staring off into space. I spent most of my time thumbing through magazines whose words I couldn't read. I don't think I even looked at the pictures. Jo called me, thinking it was the day before surgery, and brought me back from my anxiety-haze. We giggled over some things; what, I couldn't say. We mostly exclaimed over Daphne, who was complaining in her sling, and the craziness of Sophia. The silence in the waiting room was heavy, interrupted only briefly by uproarious laughter as a clown dressed in a nurse costume (with enormous hips, a doctor bag full of underwear, and a giant stethoscope) amused some family at the other end of the room. It was a welcome distraction, though too brief and, oddly, never happening again.

We were updated once by the nurse, who told us Philip should be done by 12:30, and she would come back then. 12:30 came and went, and so did 1:00. I hovered outside of her station, and she called me in to say that he was in recovery, but to wait for a nurse to come get us. Why couldn't you get off your fat ass and tell me that before? Had it not gone well? Why couldn't we go now? Is he having trouble waking? CAN HE BREATHE!? These were my thoughts, or the course of them. As the time continued to pass, I grew more irrational, aggressively eating the flesh from my cuticles until most of my nails were bleeding. Another fucking hour passed before the nurse came back to get us.

Look, Ma! No Hands!

The surgery was a success, and Philip is just as happy a babe as he ever was. I will post the story, complete with a nurse named Bong, as soon as I find the energy, for this is now one high-need baby.

Happy Meals

Philip is having surgery to have his syndactyly separated a week from this Thursday. For the most part, I've been doing my best to not think much about it, in the same way and with the same success as one doesn't try to think too hard about labor. Unless you've done it before, and even if you have, there's no way of knowing how it will play out, and so envisioning it is too full of holes. I'm not afraid of the procedure itself, which is a common one and, in the grand scheme of things, is not serious, but anyone slicing my baby and grafting his skin from one place to another is a huge deal to me, and the thought of his discomfort or pain causes me great anxiety. He'll go under general anesthesia, and stay over one night in the hospital. Only one adult can stay with him overnight, which will naturally be me. With both of his hands in casts, what worries me most is the arrangment of limbs as I nurse him. His favorite nursing position is both of us lying on our sides in bed. He sleeps that way, we nap that way, he does it every single time before he naps or sleeps. When I asked what the sleeping arrangement would be at the hospital, the surgical coordinator said he'd have a crib. I'm sure that I can talk to someone to allow him to be in the bed with me, or find some other way to be together, because he will be very unhappy and insecure otherwise. At least I hope they will cooperate, though I haven't always had the best experiences.

The Boston Children's Hospital is the second best in the nation, next to Philly's. I'm sure the surgeon is wonderful, I'm sure the procedure will be done well and that he'll get great attention. I suppose. But I haven't had the best experience getting answers from these people as of yet. They've been late to return phone calls, if they do so at all, and when I asked about breastfeeding before anesthesia, the surgeon said to me, "Oh, they just changed the rule: Basically, nursing him is like feeding him a cheeseburger, so you can't feed him after midnight the night before". This was after I was told his surgery could be as late as mid-afternoon. A few questions, doc: 1. Who is 'they'? The assholes in your head who make up info for you to give to patients because you think they are incapable of doing their own research? 2. Where in the fuck did you read/hear that breastfeeding was anything like eating a cheeseburger? and 3. Do you really think that, after you tell me some shit like that, I'm not gonna go back over the information I've already combed through on the subject to be sure that you are as wrong as I think you are?

I meet with the actual anesthesiologist on the day before the surgery, and we will be having a thorough discussion of breastfeeding/anesthesia research if he/she tries to feed me this same load of horseshit. This falls in line with Jo's post about the mass misinformation of doctors regarding the apparently mysterious and unresearched world of breastfeeding, or should I say baby-poisoning. Sorry, got a little ridiculous there at the end, but I'm channeling all of my anxiety regarding his surgery into this situation.

Given that my father is a doctor, I have been raised not to trust them, to understand that they are human and to question their authority as I would anyone's. And I do. So I can never be trusting of hospitals or doctors, and for that reason, I'm so uncomfortable about this surgery, any surgery. Actually, I'll take it one step further and say that I'm suspicious of doctors and nurses, convinced they are always trying to pull one over on me or get their way instead of cater to my needs and those of my son.

I'm going to bake some oatmeal cookies and banana muffins about it. That's a lie. I'm not going to bake them. I'm going to eat the batter and the dough.