March 14, 2009
I have a pretty well-known fear (at least amongst my friends) of the dentist. I’m not really sure why as nothing traumatic ever happened. I used to be okay with the dentist. The usual dislike of them was there, but not a fear. Not this anxiety that sends me in to each cleaning white knuckled and breathing a little more shallow than I’d like to be breathing.
I let that fear get in the way of my dental hygiene for far too long and a few months ago I decided that I just needed to get over it and get my teeth repaired so I could start fresh and maintain regular appointments.
I went in last month and, sure enough, was told I had lots of work and appointments ahead of me. I just shrugged and said to myself that, well, it had to be done and it was the price I was paying for slacking off all those years. I went in for two appointments after that for hygienist cleaning and they penciled me in for March 14th for my biggest fear. Wisdom tooth removal.
For the last five weeks I have been dreading today. Whining about today. Hoping today would never come. I knew they’d be giving me good drugs, but I also know that my body doesn’t really react strongly to pain meds or other medicines. I showed up for my appointment an hour early as they asked me to and they gave me valium. That totally makes me laugh. I was on VALIUM. Also Demerol. They told me in about an hour I’d be nice and loopy. Except not so much. My head felt a tiny bit heavy when I sat still, but I was nowhere near loopy and the anxiety that they promised the valium would cure? Was SO much still there that I cried when I sat down in the chair. That’s right, people, I’m a total mess when it comes to heavy duty dental work.
The good news is that I made it out alive and the actual procedure wasn’t excruciating. It was decidedly uncomfortable and I’m not looking forward to round two when they do the left side of my mouth and the last two wisdom teeth, but at least I’m not looking to that appointment with as much dread as this one.
That said, the entire right side of my face is just burning now. It throbs all the way up to my eyeballs. Wow, am I ever uncomfortable. Fortunately I’m loaded up with some codeine enhanced Tylenol (which actually seems to be working more than the Demerol did) and now I’m going to plant myself in front of the television with my mashed potatoes, my pills and some Buffy the Vampire Slayer, aka The Best Show On Earth.
Is anybody else this irrationally afraid of the dentist? I CRY, PEOPLE. Pathetic.
March 10, 2009
I’ve been feeling a bit down lately. I really have no reason to, but here I am all mopey. Is it possible to develop post-partum depression seven months after giving birth? No, no, I don’t think that’s what it is. I know what it is.
The problem is that I have zero self-confidence these days. Nada. I’m pretty used to this feeling, but for reasons that I’m getting to (eventually) it is worse than usual.
When I was younger, I was ridiculously skinny. I weighed 110 pounds and I wore a juniors size 5 jeans. Loosely. I was also a drama queen, but that’s neither here nor there.
Then I went to college and became another weighty college statistic. I gained a few pounds here and a few pounds there. I also made my male friends put on my dresses and then grabbed their man-boobs, but also, neither here nor there.
Next thing I knew I was getting married. My wedding day came and went and I looked back at the pictures and my first thought was that I hated them. I was so huge. How could I have gotten married when I looked so awful?
I wish I could say that my disgust with my wedding pictures was enough to convince me I needed to change my lifestyle, but, nope. It wasn’t. I just kept gaining more weight. Slowly enough that I didn’t really notice it until once again, in pictures, I couldn’t stand how I looked.
I know that this entry doesn’t require pictures, but maybe I need to shame myself into action. Nothing else seems to work. I was given a half-assed diagnosis of diabetes in 2004 and still I ate oodles of fast food, baked goods and carbs carbs, glorious carbs.
The first time that I began to take this weight/healthy eating/exercise thing seriously was when I found out that I was pregnant. This time it wasn’t just about me. It was about my baby.
I blossomed during my pregnancy. I loved being pregnant. I felt great, I think that I looked great and despite being pregnant, I was even LOSING weight. I gained two pounds throughout my entire pregnancy and walked out of the hospital twenty pounds lighter than when I found out that I was pregnant. I felt fantastic.
So what happened? Why wouldn’t I want to hang onto that amazing feeling? All I know is that I didn’t maintain myself. I’ve gained back ten of those lost twenty pounds. I feel miserable. I feel ugly. I feel disgusting. Worse even than all of that is that I officially have type 2 diabetes. I’ve known since January and I just… hate it. I hate that I couldn’t keep my weight down and the diagnosis from being official.
In just under two months I’m leaving for Mexico for a good friend’s wedding. It will be the first vacation that my husband and I have ever taken in six years of marriage. i wish I could get more amped for the trip. I wish that I was more excited. Unfortunately, all I can think of is my body and how much I am dreading the beaches and the pools and the horrors of bathing suits.
I’m lumpy. I have stretch marks that make me look like I’ve been mauled by a wild animal. I have bruises and marks on my thighs from something called Hydronitus Supportiva. My breasts are saggy and misshapen from nursing my daughter.
(I even just tried to find a picture to put here of me recently, but I don’t keep any that show really any part of my body, so, nothing to share.)
I don’t like going out. I don’t like having to find clothes that fit. I’m not happy.
So why can’t I do anything about it? Why won’t I stop eating the crap that I eat? Why won’t I get off of my ass and get into the gym a few days a week?
I’m so frustrated and disappointed with myself. Weak. Weak. Weak.
I want this girl back.
February 15, 2009
My grandmother is dying. I’m having a hard time with this. I feel like I should be some sort of expert on loss, having lost my mother as a teenager, but this… this feels so different. I feel strangely neutral about the whole thing.
It’s been a while since I saw her. Since I started this post. It’s taken me that long to process all of this information. I remember my grandmother as an alert, wiry little woman with a sense of humor. She had a loud voice and was a wonder in the kitchen. There were always fun treats at my grandparents house. They have always lived at least a state away from me so visits were scarce, but something that I looked forward to.
I feel like I need to make an effort to go try and see her again this summer, but I don’t want to. I don’t want to see her like she is. She was always well-coifed and clean. She smelled of perfume and wine. Now she smells of filth and piss. Her hair is undone and flying all over the place and her usually pristine clothes have become a tattered and dingy robe.
She speaks and she’s the grandmother that I know and love. Then ten minutes later she’s asking my sister where she lives and she wants to know where my sister grew up. Things that she KNOWS, but has now forgotten.
Instead of the usual jellybeans in the retro candy dispenser there’s now a gazillion baked goods to choose from all lined across the counter, purchased from the grocery store. Each has nibbles taken out from my grandmother scurrying into the kitchen and then taking bites with both hands, furtive glances to see who is watching her. She gets no real nutrition. She fills up on raspberry coffee cake and chocolate chip cookies and sugary scones.
My grandmother used to walk tall and proud. A bit of a rock to her stroll. Now she crouches over her walker and hobbles, slowly, each step punctuated by a horrifying moan and a plea for help for my grandfather. “Ooooooh. Paaaaaullll,” as she goes down the hall. So far she has managed to avoid the stairwell, but I fear for her. I worry about her slipping and tumbling down the stairs that my cousins and I played so many games on, so many years ago.
At night she retires to her bedroom where she thinks that people are living in her bathroom. That they’ve taken over her backyard and are hanging out downstairs. From downstairs in the spare bedroom my sister and I listen as she moans over and over and over again from her bed. Then we hear footsteps going up and down the hall, quickly, scurrying. It’s our grandma. At night she finds herself full of energy and wanders up and down the hallway, moaning, quick and tiny steps back and forth.
I’m not used to this. This trembling in fear downstairs as I worry about her tumbling down the steps. The fear as she holds my baby – that she’ll drop her. She holds Ana in her lap and I hold my camera, but can’t bring myself to take a picture. To remember her like this. I have no pictures of my daughter with her great-grandmother because it’s not the same woman that was MY grandma. It’s not her anymore.
It’s hard for me to accept.
January 16, 2009
Since Ana’s birth I’ve been a bit of a slacker in getting some important documentation taken care of. Namely, I want to make sure that Ana gets the dual citizenship that she is fully entitled to being that she has a mother who is an American citizen and a father who is a Canadian citizen.
I’ve spent the last few days trying to get this resolved and I’ve run into a complete and totally ridiculous roadblock. See, the thing is, I can prove that Ana is entitled to American citizenship (and therefore a US passport) because I can prove my own citizenship. That’s not sufficient, though. According to the US immigration website, Ana’s citizenship is granted to her automatically upon entry to the United States as long as she enters before she’s eighteen. Well, that’s fine and dandy, but I need her to have PAPERS showing that she’s a citizen.
I’m searching and searching through the site and I can’t find more information on how to get this accomplished so I begin a new search for the phone number. I find the number to call immigration services and dial.
“This number is unavailable from your calling area.”
What? It’s an immigration number. Let’s try again.
“This number is unavailable from your calling area.”
Wow. Am I the only one who finds it ridiculous that an immigration hotline, for the purpose of asking immigration questions, ONLY WORKS FROM INSIDE THE USA? Do they really think that the majority of their customers are ALREADY IN THE US*?
Guess I’ll be going through the US Consulate to get all this sorted out. Ridiculous.
*And yes, I’m taking into consideration people trying to bring in family members and people there illegally. I still don’t think that those people make up the majority of the people with immigration questions.
January 15, 2009
I’m angry. I’m really angry.
I forgive and I forgive and I forgive and over and over and over again it’s proving to be a mistake. At what point does being forgiving equal being a doormat? In what situation is it time to tell someone to fuck off – that they’ve had enough chances?
I’m getting really sick of feeling like shit because other people can’t think about me when they make choices that affect my life. It’s not that hard. Am I going to be pissed if you do what you’re about to do? Are you ready to deal with the aftermath of it? No? Then don’t FUCKING do it.
I am so tired of being walked on. I am so tired of being thought of as just an option. I am so tired of being angry and hurt and abused.
But I’m also too scared to walk away.
October 6, 2008
You know what really sucks? It’s when you know that you’re going to be spending twelve hours split amongst driving, visiting with people who have never met the baby, and… more driving.
What sucks even more is when after the first lunch meet and greet, you come back out to your vehicle to not just one, but TWO flat tires.
Yup, that’s right. We drove the first three hours and went into the restaurant for lunch. About two hours later we came back out to drive off to destination number two and found one rim sitting on the ground and another just barely holding air.
Three hours and two tire places later (because seriously, tire places need to be open even on Sundays), it was determined that there was absolutely nothing wrong with the tires and we were back on our way.
Unfortunately, those three hours just pissed the baby right off and she was cranky for the remaining six hours of our day trip.
September 28, 2008
Do you ever have those times in your adult life when there’s a really important decision that has to be made, but it’s practically impossible to make the decision? Isn’t it even worse when all of your available options suck serious ass?
Here’s the thing. Derek and I have to move. We live in a tiny one bedroom apartment and while it’s do-able for now, it’s getting really cramped, really fast. I’d really like Ana to have her own room by the time she turns a year old.
I’m going to outline my options without saying where each one is (though if you know me really at all, you’ll know where the options are) and I want some opinions. Where do YOU think we should go?
Option A: Stay relatively close to where we are. We’ll be near Derek’s family. (This is a pro and a con.) Housing costs are through the roof. Ridiculously expensive. Traffic is a nightmare. Seriously overpopulated. Public healthcare is a very considerable pro. Especially with the wee one. Friends are an international border away which means nobody comes to visit me- it’s too much of a hassle. There’s no Target. Yes, that matters to me. Shut up. Derek has a good job already with a great company.
Option B: No jobs lined up. Economy is in the shitter and who knows if we can get a mortgage. Does credit even transfer across the border? We have to pay for healthcare now. We’ll be with our best friends. Better schools. No family nearby – which is also both a pro and a con. Housing is more affordable. In fact, we could even have some land and a real yard.
Option C: We’d be by my family – just a pro in my book. Derek has a job lined up if we go here. Lots of things to do. Housing is super cheap – like a 4400 sq foot house is $229,000. Brand new. Built to our specifications. I can’t stop thinking of this house. I dream about this house. Besides my parents, we’d know nobody. As with option B, who knows if we could even get a mortgage. Same as option B, we’d have no more free healthcare. Definitely not overpopulated- we’d have our space.
Rargh. I feel like we lose no matter which way we go. I know that we have to make the decision best for our family – the three of us – but I also know that people are going to be unhappy with us no matter what we pick. I hate this. And we have to decide soon so we can start planning the move. Hate. This.
August 9, 2008
I’ve been thinking a lot about attitude lately. My own, the attitudes of those close to me… just attitude. The thing is, it’s so easy to forget just how big a role it can play in how you live your life and in what you choose to let get to you.
I have never been a road rage kind of a girl. I don’t really care if I’m not going quite the speed limit because the guy in front of me has yet to make friends with his gas pedal. Whatever, I’ll get where I’m going eventually. Some people that I know, my husband and one of his friends in particular, let every other asshole on the road ruin their day. Someone cuts them off? They fly into a rage and honk and curse and talk about it for the next five blocks. Then everybody in the car is pissy and why? What the hell is the point? That asshole didn’t learn anything from the temper tantrum. That asshole didn’t even know there WAS a temper tantrum.
I have my weak attitude moments, too, don’t get me wrong. I’m not just posting here to rag on my poor husband. No no. Me? I’m an anxious ball of nerves. I let my need for approval and my fears of the unknown consume me until I want nothing more than to curl trembling in a corner where nobody can see me. I know that this does me no good whatsoever. I know it. I know that Joe Schmoe doesn’t realize that his sneer at me has left me feeling severely inadequate and that if he did know, he probably wouldn’t care. I know that my completely stupid fears are just that- completely stupid fears. And yet, I let them beat me down until I’m cranky, irritable and on edge.
I was talking to my husband today after he had a particularly rough day and I was getting frustrated because he does what a lot of people do. When something goes wrong, you let it shake you. Then, when something else goes wrong (and normally something that would barely attract your attention on any other day), it stacks up on the other wrong. Then another thing and another thing until you’re searching for bad things just so that you can prove that the world is against you and that your day is total shit. Well, yeah. If you’re looking that hard for trouble, you’re going to find it even if you have to invent it. You ruin your own day.
I need to work on my attitude.
If I go into the delivery room thinking that this labor and birth is going to be the most frightening and the most painful thing that I’ve endured, then it’s going to be and I will have only myself to blame for it. If I go into this thinking that it might hurt and that it might suck, but the end result is going to be this amazing little child and that she is going to be worth ten times the pain of every contraction, then THAT is going to be what I get out of this and that, my friends, is what I want.
April 30, 2008
Have you ever wanted, really desperately wanted, to be wrong about something?
March 25, 2008
I shouldn’t really be surprised that my test for gestational diabetes came back positive. A few years ago, right before I moved from Washington to Canada, I was told that I had Type 2 Diabetes. This was literally two weeks before I moved. When I moved, I lost all my health coverage. I saw a doctor in Canada and mentioned the diabetes, but they shrugged it off like it was nothing. Once I got coverage, when I saw a doctor, it was once again treated like no big thang. I went in for some routine bloodwork and it came back normal so I was told it was probably a misdiagnosis or that I simply had glucose intolerance and nobody really said much else to me.
I definitely take a large part of the blame because I was in complete and total denial. I didn’t want to deal with diabetes and pricking my finger a million times a day and eating a restrictive diet. I mean, c’mon, I’m the cupcake queen over here. No sugar?
When I found out that I was pregnant, my sugar levels were an immediate concern for me. I convinced my GP to add on a blood sugar test to the list of other test I had to do and sure enough, they came back a smidge high. He still didn’t seem concerned, but he decided to go ahead with the gestational diabetes test even though it was about 7 weeks earlier than it would normally be administered. Two days later I was called back in for a confirmation test. Two days later the diabetes clinic gave me a call and today I went in for a two hour class.
So yay for my new restrictive diet. Yay for pricking my finger four times a day. Yay for weekly appointments that I have to take time off of work for.
Forgive me for sounding bitter.