Sometimes a cough is just a cough and not the end of days

Flu hysteria is solidly upon us, and by "us" I mean the country. I'm still only mildly concerned, but as the season progresses and more kids get sick (Hello, my town's high school was closed for five days due to an outbreak of what might have been H1N1. Freaking out? Me? Nooo.... Um.), mildly is slowly making its way toward moderately. If I watch another 60 Minutes expose on this flu I may be purchasing child-sized hamster balls dipped in Purell, but for now I'm still walking on the mild side.

In my house, we can't even get the flu shots, whether seasonal or H1N1. I did manage to get the seasonal flu shot for CC last week but as of today there are no boosters. Who knows when they'll get more. We're on the list. I'm starting to resent "the list". I have no faith in it. "Lists" can not be trusted.

As for Chicky, I have had no luck in getting her any flu vaccine. The kids' pediatrician simply does not have any for the 3 year and older group. According to the medical group's website, as of last week they had ordered 40,000 doses of the seasonal flu vaccine but so far have only received 1,400. I check their website regularly hoping for an update and we're on another notify list when the shots become available [*grumble*], but it all comes down to who gets an appointment the quickest. And don't get me started on flu clinics in the area dolling out the H1N1 vaccine. I can't, and won't, stand in line for 4 hours for the slight possibility of getting my kids vaccinated only to be turned away because they ran out.

Normally I don't fall for sickness hype. I'm not the type to watch the news and get freaked out because of the latest flu scare because I am simply too laid back about things like that, and if you got a good look at my carpets you would agree. Germs don't scare me, (some) germs are good. They build up immunity. That's why I let my kids lick the dogs, they're working on their antibodies. Also, I know that despite my best efforts to keep everyone's hands cleaned (which I do now, obsessively) and surfaces properly Lysol'd, we'll probably end up with at least one if not all of us sick this year. I have one child in school and the other who has a strong need to taste the world, no matter how gross and germ infested. I also have a husband who travels extensively, and as everyone knows an airplane is just a flying petri dish rapidly growing new and interesting viruses. Will we get sick this year? Oh, you betcha. At this point I'm hoping we won't get as sick as we possibly could.

But what about other sicknesses not related to any sort of flu virus? Like, say, the common cold?

Mr. C told me about a satirical cartoon he saw in a magazine, where a sign was posted outside of an eating establishment that read, "No shoes, no shirts, no service, no children under 16 with a cough." Or something to that effect. Satire, yes, but this seems to be the prevalent mood in most public spaces since news of the H1N1 virus caught fire. Every major news outlet is running stories on the so called Swine Flu and the devastating effect it can have on a person's body. Vaccinate your kids! Vaccinate yourself! Stay away from sick people! Every time I turn on the TV I see the same thing - Chicken Little in a conservative suit and heavily sprayed hair clucking about the flu.

Maybe I'm exaggerating a little but honestly, I'm surprised there hasn't been a color coded alert created for flu outbreaks posted on the front doors of public spaces.

As parents, where do we draw the line between keeping our kids safe and healthy and making little Timmy cry because he has a runny nose and can't go to playgroup?

Back in late September Chicky had a low grade fever, a cough and was sneezing so I kept her home from school for a couple of days, as I was supposed to do. You just don't mess around with a fever, especially when combined with other symptoms. She was fever free for a couple of days but still had the cough so I continued to keep her home.

After five days of being quarantined I thought it would be safe to send her to her weekly gymnastics class. I waffled since she still had the cough but I had something to do that morning and after discussing it with my mother in law, who was taking Chicky that day, we decided she was definitely well enough to go. When she was brought home later that evening she was very quiet and not herself and it seemed like it had nothing to do with her getting over a cold. It took me awhile but I finally found out that the source of her sour mood was the lecture the entire gymnastics class got about not coming to the gym while sick.

I asked her if any of the other girls were coughing and she said, No. I asked her if her coaches talked to grandma and grandpa and she said, No (My in-laws later confirmed that). I asked her how she felt about what her coaches said to her class and she shrugged without looking at me and said she wanted to go to bed. She clearly knew they were referring to her.

I was livid.

Not then and not since has any of the gymnastics coaches, and there's three of them, talked to the parents directly about when to send the kids to class and when to keep them home due to sickness (or anything else for that matter, but I won't get into that right now). There are printed guidelines that were given out at the beginning of class and I followed them to the letter, and yet my child was made to feel like she was doing something wrong because she had a cough. A cough, I might add, that she still has more than a month later. A cough, I will also add, that her doctor doesn't seem to be all that concerned with because it's just a damn cough. She didn't have any sort of flu, she wasn't even going to pass a banal head cold off to anyone else. And if she did, so what? It's a cold. The sky is not falling. A little bit of clear mucous, yes, but the sky? No.

I don't think we'll be returning to that gymnastics center when this session is over.

So where does the hysteria end? Are we going to start ostracizing kids with a history of sniffles? Hand out masks at play centers and schools and any other place kids might gather? Maybe a velvet rope and a check at the door, a la Studio 54, and turn away those who seem sick and allow only the seemingly well in? Internment camps maybe?


Obviously, I'm a little sore about the whole subject. In my mind, it's a case of common sense versus hysteria. But how do you feel about it? Would you take your kid out of a public space because another child he or she was interacting with was coughing or sneezing? Would you feel resentful of the parent for bringing their child out in public, even if you didn't know for sure how sick the kid was? Or would you just take out the sani-wipes and start spot cleaning everything around you in a twenty foot radius?

The gall!

So, my husband had to have emergency surgery this weekend to have his, and I quote his surgeon here, "Very Angry" gallbladder removed. That sucked.

What also sucked was sitting at home all day after hearing he was being driven to the emergency room (he was over an hour away at his grandfather's funeral. yeah), waiting for more updates while I played nursemaid to my children and unable to go be with him because of said nursemaiding.

Then, after waiting for six or seven hours, finally being able to go sit with him in the ER - where he was lying on a bed IN THE HALLWAY ALL FREAKING DAY - I then had to run back home to nurse my baby to sleep because she still won't take a bottle. (That just kinda sucked. I'd say a suck-factor of 3)

Oh, but then after going back to the hospital and waiting until after midnight to hear how his surgery went (Doctor vs. Angry Gallbladder. Doctor was victorious. Also, slightly full of himself because gallbladder was very, very angry. Grrrr.) I returned home, sent an email canceling our Super Bowl party for that Sunday, and then wearily climbed into bed only to have CC wake me up two hours later and then keep me up for two more hours because she was ready to PAH-TAY! Wheee! (Suck, suck, suckage. Suck-factor = 7)

And the suck went on - two overtired children who won't sleep, trying to visit husband in hospital but children were cranky due to overtiredness so that didn't work, begging children to sleep so mommy could just get a little rest before daddy came home and failing hard, husband not receiving all the care he needed because I wasn't there to remind nurses and doctors that, hello - you promised him more antibiotics and didn't give him any, and did I mention that my children wouldn't sleep which means I didn't sleep, which also means I've been working off of negative sleep? (suck-factor = reaching critical mass)

Also? We were told he can't lift anything more than 10 pounds for at least two weeks. That means no lifting the baby. *banging head on table* SUUUU-UUUUCK. (this suck-factor goes to 11)

But all that doesn't matter (much) because he's home and he's well and also more than slightly hopped up on Percocet. He lost one (very angry) gallbladder and gained a few more scars. He's alternately resting a lot and spending too much time working remotely. This weekend is slowly becoming just one more bad dream.

However.

Husband of mine? If you think for one minute that what would have been a relatively routine out patient procedure if you wouldn't have let the pain go on for so long is going to get you off the hook for taking care of the kids where you can or even picking up your damn dishes, you are sorely mistaken. They didn't remove your hands, bub. So if you are under the impression that I am going to follow along after you, picking up things in your wake... Let's just say your former gallbladder isn't the only thing that will be very, VERY angry. M'kay?

Now stop bogarting the Percs.

Laugh if you want but it totally worked

Scene: Trying to put a very sick CC down for a nap this morning. Neither one of us slept last night and she's screaming her little head off because she's overtired and can't breath - which made her even more pissed because she couldn't breath because she was overtired and screaming. And this went on until brain matter started leaking from my ears.

Then I dared try to swipe at her nose with a tissue which caused her to howl like someone possessed. I'm pretty sure her first word was said just then. "Bitch", I think it was.

Nursing is not working, neither is the pacifier (let's face it, it's hard to give a pacifier the love it deserves when your nose is plugged with all manners of ick) and I'm afraid a little demon is about to spring forth from my baby's head if I don't do something drastic. So I sing to her. Believe me, this is drastic.

The problem: I never remember the words to this damn lullabye. The solution: Make it up as I go along.

"Hush little baby, don't say a word.
Mama's gonna buy you a mockingbird.

If that mockingbird don't sing,
Mama's gonna buy you a diamond ring.

If that diamond ring don't shine,
Mama's gonna buy you a, uh, valentine.

If that valentine's not.... uh, red?
Mama's gonna buy you a... uh, puppy instead?

If that puppy's fur is not, uh, soft...

(Oh crap, what rhymes with soft? Soft, soft...)

If that puppy's fur is not soft,
Mama's gonna... buy herself some Zoloft."

On the bright side, my dry cleaner is thinking of making me part of the family

Warning: The following is a full blown MommyBlogger-type post. Proceed at your own risk.



C.C. has been a joy lately.

She's an extremely happy baby. When we take her out in public we can pass her from person to person and barely hear a peep out of her, even if she's missed her nap. Put her on the floor to practice her crawling...

(She's this close to crawling, which means I'll have to kiss the ass groove in my couch goodbye soon but since I've been told that hog-tying a baby is illegal in most states, what can I do?)

(Where was I?)

...and she'll play with her toys for long chunks of time. Sometimes I forget she's there. She's an efficient nurser (which is a good thing since she still refuses to take a damn bottle) and a lusty eater of solids. And her sleep... Well, we don't talk about sleep unless there's bitching involved and I think by my lack of bitching about sleep lately you can deduce how things are going.

Mmm, sleep.



Anyway, like I said - C.C. is a joy.

Except...

You knew there had to be an except.

Except for her crazy projectile vomiting.

The spitting up and the chunks and the smell of baby vomit that clings to the both of us constantly... It's enough to drive me to drink if I wasn't there already.

Her poor tummy is messed up. She wears a bib every single day and I change her into a new one at least three times a day because she's covered the things in nastiness as soon as I put a new one on. It doesn't matter if she ate five minutes before or two hours before, there is no rhyme or reason. Sometimes she gets sick if she gets excited, like Stan on South Park. Sometimes I find her in her crib after her nap happily playing with her spit up on her crib sheet. And the worst one - she pukes up on herself right after her bath. Nothing upsets me more than bathing her and then having her sweet, freshly washed baby smell obliterated by the smell of upchuck.

Except maybe getting covered with sick in the middle of Barnes and Noble. That really sucks. Too bad I couldn't aim her at certain parents and use her as a weapon.



Months ago, her pediatrician had given us a prescription for Prilosec. It helped a little but getting her to take it was a full blown battle of will and strength and that baby of mine? She is as willful as she is strong. I can understand not wanting to have some nasty goo squirted down my throat (Watch yourself, I'm talking about my baby daughter here so keep your nasty thoughts to yourself.) so I tried the medicine myself, just to see how gross it really was.

Sweet baby Jesus. That stuff was like drinking motor oil with a yak spit chaser. But worse.

So I stopped giving the medicine to her. At the time it didn't seem to make that much of a difference anyway.

I had just recently started giving her Mylicon drops (and no, we don't have the Mylicon Drops that were recalled) and that helped for a couple of days. But now? Not so much. Maybe I'm not giving her enough? I don't know. I get a little freaked out when I'm giving my baby medicine for an icky stomach and alternately giving her fairly large doses of teething tablets and liquid pain reliever for her teeth. It seems like a bit much for a child so small.

The sickness doesn't seem to bother her too much. She is a champion back-archer, but I don't think that necessarily happens because she's uncomfortable.

Who am I kidding? I have no idea if it's because of discomfort. I just have no idea.

*sigh*

I'm tired of smelling like vomit. I'm tired of spending a fortune on dry cleaning (she has great aim and an uncanny way of knowing if I'm wearing wool or a regular washable fabric). I'm tired of my delicious baby smelling like a frat house after a weekend kegger. But mostly I'm afraid she's in pain and I'm not seeing the signs.

Okay, and the smell. The smell is pretty bad.

*double sigh*

I'm pretty sure Mama never told me there'd be days like this

C.C. is passed out in front of me, all scrunched up in her car seat under a blanket that is slightly more fragrant than I'd like it to be, wearing a long sleeve shirt on this warm summer day and newborn pants that don't really fit.

This was not the outfit I put her in before we left the house today.

No, the other one matched. It fit. It was goddamn adorable, okay?

Then I took her to see the doctor.

Everything was going swell at her two month appointment. She was smiling and cooing at the doc. I was told developmentally she's doing spectacularly and she's growing like a weed. Yes, everything was going along swimmingly until...

Until she got her foot caught under the protective paper on the exam table and it scared the holy hell out of her and she began screaming at the top of her lungs for a good five minutes straight until I was able to finally calm her down. Five torturous minutes where the doctor looked at my baby and me like one of us had sprouted another head.

That was fun.

But wait! There's more.

Then they gave her the two month vaccines. Then she screamed bloody murder for a good fifteen minutes because they stuck needles in her tender thighs. Chubby baby thighs suitable for snacking on, not sticking sharp things into.

FOUR freaking needles. In my sweet baby's adorably chubby, very tasty, extremely sensitive, thighs.

As if the screaming and the crying and the gulping of air - because the hysteria, oh my Christ, the hysteria - wasn't enough, I had the brilliant idea to try to nurse her to calm her down.

Well, what would you have done?

My sweet, chubby, tasty, high sensitive and now hysterical baby decided that screaming was easier without a tit in her mouth so she screamed whilst trying to gulp down a very strong gush of milk, until she finally tore her wee head away, letting fly a gusher-like stream of breast milk that would make the caretakers of the fountains at the Bellagio proud, and in her own way told me to GET THAT THING AWAY FROM ME, YOU CRAZY BITCH. LET ME SCREAM. Better yet, LET ME DIE.

And just when I was about to call to the doctor to get a sedative - for me - C.C. got eerily silent and...

Projectile vomited all over the exam room.

Think Linda Blair, but cuter.

Fortunately, I came prepared so I had a burp cloth and a bib in my free hand and was ready to catch any spit up. Unfortunately, this was not spit up and the flimsy material could do nothing to stop the gusher of spew.

Meanwhile, during the screaming and the thrashing and the choking and the crying and the hurling, Chicky was dancing around the room, standing on chairs, crawling on the sink, yelling for crackers and water and stickers and CAN WE GO HOME NOW?? I WANT TO GO HOME NOW. I WANT TO GO HOME. RIGHT. NOW!!!

Indeed, can we go home now?

Uh uh uhhh, not so fast.

First I had to clean up the floor, then I had to clean up the baby, then I had to hose down my hands and arms, and then I had to go rummaging around my humongous bag for a fresh set of baby clothes that apparently I packed when C.C. was four days old.

My apologies to the nurse who had to clean up the rest so I could get my children the hell out of there before someone mistakenly called the proper authorities because they thought they heard hara-kiri going on in the next room.

That was three hours ago and C.C. has been passed out ever since. She smells and her clothes don't fit and the blanket she's laying under is kind of gooey, but she's sleeping peacefully and she will wake with no memory of the torture her mother and doctor put her through.

I, however, am wondering if it's too early to submerge myself in a vat of gin.

And don't even get me started on what happened while Chicky was supposed to be sleeping in her room just now. It involves fecal matter and I just don't want to go there.

Make that an extra large vat of gin.

All he asks from me is the food to give him strength, All he ever needs is love and that he knows he'll get

*We have an update! It's below! Oh yes it is!*

Fisher, my dog, recently went through a rough couple of weeks but he's getting back to his old, frisky self. He's even daring to try to mount Lana, the real bitch of the house. And she promptly lays the smack down on his ass. Which he loves. The dumb little shit goes back for more. Apparently my boy dog loves him some rough lovin'.

Lana says: Watch as I open up this can of wup ass on the big dummy.

Anyway.

Tomorrow he'll be getting operated on. The vet will be going into his liver to take a sample to biopsy.

It's hard for me to go through with this now that he's acting so much like his old self. I feel a bit responsible for not speaking up for the poor pooch in the last month. The vet messed with the poor dog's system with too many medications on top of each other. I should have known better, and I did, but I was caught up with trying to get him well again.

I tell my students constantly that it's alright to question what your pet's doctor is prescribing. I believe in titers and not over-vaccinating. I think a proper diet is important to an animals well being and if you tell me your dog's food comes from the supermarket and it looks like little pork chops and fake carrots I'll tell you exactly how I feel about that vile crap you're feeding your four-legged friend.

And then it's my dog who ends up sick at an early age.

Fuck you, Irony. Crawl away and die.

But this post was not supposed to be about me beating myself up. Live and learn. Besides, I've been doing enough self-flaggelation lately.

What I need, what Fisher needs, is your good thoughts, prayers, juju, whatever. We need positivity and good vibes so that the doctor won't find any funny little cells in his biopsy.

And I, in return, will give you a cute dog and his girl picture:

Oh, the love. The looooove. Can you feel it?

It's an oldie but a goodie.

Tonight Mr. C gave Chicky, who was being hell on wheels, a choice between giving him a kiss or kissing Fisher on the nose. Guess which one she chose?

Yeah.

We need this dog to be around for a long time.


(The Cat Stevens song the title of this post came from can be found here. Dear lawd, it got me all choked up. And I DO NOT blame pregnancy hormones at all.)


*No biopsy after all! Hurrah!! The vet checked Fisher's values again and found they had gone way down so a biopsy is not necessary at this point. They're running another, much less invasive test right now as we speak but so far things look pretty good. There are some weird numbers but nothing to be too freaked out about.

Which makes me wonder one of two things: 1) You all have got some powerful juju and you might want to consider playing the lottery or 2) My vet is fucking with us and the battery of tests the poor dog has had in the past month are all bogus. I'm hoping for the juju thing. Good luck with those scratch tickets.

He still has bladder stones and will require a very expensive (oh my christ) operation and at that time they might take a piece of his liver to test. But until then we'll all go along our merry way and pretend there is nothing wrong with him and none of this happened. Which is the way I prefer to live anyway.

Lalalalala.*

The year nobody dies

My mother died four years ago today. Four years is not enough time to diffuse grief. I don't know if there is a set number of years that will do that but I know 1460 some odd days isn't enough time to make the pain go away.

It's been especially hard to get over her death because since she passed away in 2004 there has been a series of deaths in my family. In 2005 it was my paternal grandfather. In 2006 my maternal grandfather. And in 2007 my maternal grandmother. Not to mention assorted distant family members and friends of the family. There's been so much grieving I forget what it feels like to live without that constant cloud of hurt that lingers. There has been no time to heal.

---------------

They say bad news comes in threes. I don't know if that's entirely true but I do know that good news follows good news and bad news tends to follow bad.

I remember the day I found out my mom's cancer had come back. Or more to the point, it had never really left and now it was really bad. She was going to need another extremely invasive, time consuming surgery, which meant a long recovery time but no guarantees it would actually work.

A while later I got a call from the women's clinic I went to. They had found something in my last pap smear that was very concerning. I had level four dysplasia, one small step away from cervical cancer. It was very aggressive and if I didn't have the offending cells removed I would be in a heap of trouble.

I lost it. I started crying on the phone which is not like me at all. I can handle a lot but that much at one time... It did me in. I was inconsolable for the rest of the day though I told nobody about my problem. I needed to concentrate on one stress at a time.

In the end I was fine. Things were taken care of and I healed. My mom had her surgery and it was as awful as we feared, but she pulled through and lived another four years or so. But to this day even though I can absorb stresses in my life like a sponge and seem like I've got my shit together it just takes that one thing to tip the scale and have everything come tumbling out on top of me.

------------------

Fisher had a CAT scan today, today of all days. After a horrendous weekend where he did nothing but vomit and subsequently lost five pounds from his 75 pound frame, refused his food and generally looked nothing like the dog I knew just a few weeks before, it was decided he needed more tests STAT.

The vet is still not sure what's wrong with the poor dog. What she could tell me was though she didn't know what it was she did know what it wasn't. No masses, spleen looked good, blah blah blah. Then she mentioned lymphoma. There is a possibility of lymphoma.

And treatment options if it came to that.

And words like "aggressive chemotherapy" and "six to 18 months".

And I lost it, just a little, but this time I kept it all inside. I waited until we hung up before letting the tears fall.

He needs a biopsy but his platelets level is so low there is concern of him bleeding out. The bladder stones are still there but they are not a result of the existing liver problem, as she first thought. His white blood cell count is going crazy. He has elevated, very elevated, ALT levels and some other initials that I can't quite remember because I started to zone out.

It was all too much to take on a day that already was too hard.

Just too much.

--------------------

I was speaking with my aunt the other day, my mom's closest sister in both age and relationship. She's the one who always keeps in touch and makes sure we don't lose contact with each other when the rest of the family could care less.

She mentioned that she really needed 2008 to be an easier year. The last four have been so hard and she needs to rest. We all need to rest and heal.

She said she really needed 2008 to be the year that nobody dies. I couldn't agree more.

The Fisher King and his wonky liver

Blogs are supposed to be for chronicling every day life, right? I mean, that's the point of them, whether that's the approach you take or not. I'm not always so good about doing that because every day life? Let's face it, it's reeeeally boring sometimes.

Okay, most times. Sigh.

And when it's not boring there's not that much time to blog about it. What's a woman to do?

I vote for cry and then eat loads of chocolate and other fatty foods. It doesn't necessarily make me feel better but it makes my tummy feel happy. And, yes, I just referred to my stomach as my "tummy". I'm not ashamed of that.

Things just got a little more, uh, interesting around here and not in the good way unfortunately. And though I have time to blog about it I don't have the mental capacity to write about it as eloquently as I would like, because I'm kinda losing my mind over here.

I brought my dog Fisher in for a routine tooth cleaning yesterday. The dog, I'm afraid to say, has the breath of death. Really. It smells like something crawled in there and died. I know lots and lots of dogs and I can safely say that no other dog has breath like Fisher's. We thought a tooth cleaning was in order so that he may continue to be allowed to live inside with the rest of us slightly less stinky beings.


Fisher has a stomach issue, you see. I won't bore you with the details, but ever since he was one year old and swallowed a half bottle of Immodium that was left on a low window sill by some dumb punk at the kennel I was working at - ahem - and then was brought to the local emergency vet clinic for a lovely and expensive overnight stay, he's had these issues. That was almost five years ago and we suspect during the course of his throwing up the offending drugs (did you know Immodium in large quantities is an opiate? Now you do) he may have aspirated. Since then he has this problem with retching and bile, which has caused his teeth to get really nasty.

Hey, baby. I ain't nothin' but a hound dog. Thank you. Thank you very much.

Um, scratch what I said about boring you with the details. That's it in a nutshell.

Anyway.

Yesterday I was supposed to pick him up at the end of the day with pearly whites that even Paris Hilton would be envious of, but soon after I dropped him off I got a call from the vet. Never a good thing. Apparently they found in his routine screening before he was anesthetized (again with the anesthesia!) a problem with his liver.

A problem. With his liver. A PROBLEM. With his LIVER.

(I'm losing my freaking mind here. Losing. It. Now. Aaaand... It's gone.)

Take it from me, life is easier when you don't have much of a mind to begin with.

The routine procedure was scrapped, more tests were scheduled and I spent the next hour in my own doctor's office alternately fielding questions about how I was feeling (Quite shitty, thanks for asking) and freaking out about Fisher. I was so stressed out that I noticed later I had a fingernail sized cut in my palm because my fingers were pressed so tightly into balls all day.

I know that not every person feels the same about their pets but my dogs, Fisher especially, are very dear to me. Fisher goes to work with me. He was my first baby, so to speak, and he's my buddy. Even if he is stinky.

You might want to check and see just which of us is the stinky one right now.

I'm not ashamed to admit that he's my favorite. It's hard not to favor a dog who sticks by you when you cry your eyes out because your mom is dying or guards you more protectively when you're pregnant. Fisher has done all those things and more. I never have to worry about him around Chicky, except maybe to be concerned that they're licking yogurt off the same spoon. They play fetch every evening, he let's her take the ball out of his mouth and slowly runs after her when she plays keep-away. He let's her sit on him or use him as a foot stool. I don't even mind that he walks around with dirty socks in his mouth because I know he won't chew them. He just likes the taste of dirty socks. I love that damn dog.

I got news this morning that parts of his tests came back abnormal, as was suspected after the quick blood tests he had first thing yesterday. His blood was sent out and came back with an elevated white blood cell count and other initials I can't remember right now. He has an appointment for x-rays and other tests on Monday. Hopefully it's just a parasite but I can't help but freak out, thinking it could be something else. I'm little miss happiness that way.

I'm wishing for hum drum and boring right now. I'm hoping the vet will send us home with worming medication and antibiotics on Monday and that will be that. I'm praying it's absolutely nothing but a routine parasite. I'd really like for my life to be dull and not full of medical problems for my pup. My Fisher. My Squisher McFisher Fishy Fish.



I couldn't stand life without that face.

More proof that God hates me

I've been feeling a lot better ("a lot" being relative in the grand scheme of things) for two weeks. I've been able to eat many of my favorite naughty foods, like Taco Bell, for instance. And it doesn't get more naughty than than Taco Bell.

Or is it, it doesn't get more nasty than that? Either way it's damn tasty.

Anyway, the bottom line is I've started to feel human again. Until yesterday. Yesterday I got some weird stomach flu thing and spent a majority of the day between my toilet and moaning on the couch. Whatever few precious pounds I had begun to put on thanks to my beef burrito supreme/mint chocolate chip ice cream/Italian grinder diet has gone right down the drain. If you catch my drift.

Chicky had it earlier this week but hers was tame in comparison. Mine was way worse because God loves toddlers who slap and bite their mothers when they are at their weakest, most vulnerable point and hates mothers who are just trying to catch a break. I think it's in the Gospel of Luke.

At any rate I'm only writing because 1) the house cleaner is here and I'm stuck in the house while Mr. C brings Chicky to his parents house because if I try to get dressed I'll probably pass out and 2) the ROFL (roll on floor laughing) Awards are next Friday so get in your nominations to me or Metro Mama really soon and 3) I needed to mention that the new and improved New England Mamas blog is having our grand blog-opening on Monday with lots of giveaways and from what I hear some spicy R-rated posts. Personally, I was hoping for X-rated but anything over a G-rating these days is okay by me. "Good grief" is about as racy as we get around my house these days. And that's what's heard under my covers after Chicky goes to bed.

So, yeah. New England Mamas. Lots of free stuff to win. Interesting posts by interesting women sometimes, but not always, with a New England slant to their writing. Just the other day I wrote something about the Boppy cover recall. But there's a lot of great writing over there so if you haven't gotten a chance to check it out for yourself - and really, if you haven't you should be ashamed of yourself - go now. Yes, right now. Put down the bagel and go. It's impolite to eat something like that in front of a woman in my condition anyway.


*And what's worse, I wrote this post so quickly and with only a fraction of my brain cells working that I wrote "God hats me" in the title instead of "God hates me". I'm waiting for the locusts and the frogs next.

Freedom!

Don't get too excited - I'm not free from nausea. Nope still have that.

My father-in-law just picked Chicky up for a two and a half day grandparent-fest, leaving me alone (Mr. C is shmoozing techie mucky mucks in L.A. until Friday), with no one else to care for but myself and my dogs until he drops her back off on Friday afternoon.

WAHOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!

(*cough* *cough* *retch* *cough*)

Note to self: excitement makes you puke.

Anyhow, what the hell am I going to do with myself for two and a half days? Oh, the possibilities.

Normally if I had this much time to myself (and by "normally" I mean years and years ago before I had a kid) without work obligations or a husband around to dictate how much of our precious free time should be spent at Home Depot I would schlep my tuckus to the mall and shop myself silly while over-caffeinated from too many Starbucks ice vanilla coffees. Or I'd go visit my sister on the Cape and mooch free liquor and food from her restaurant. Or maybe I'd just run around the house, naked and covered with whipped cream and jam, yelling "Bite me! I'm a donut!"

But now that I'm still pretty sick and woozy from weight loss and dehydration I think my days will look more like this:

- Sleep until 10am until whining dogs force me from my warm bed.
- Feed dogs and physically kick them out the door when they realize how cold it is outside and, eh, maybe going outside to take a piss really wasn't worth the whining after all.
- Puke
- Eat some toast and force down a few sips of ice water (the water acting more as a vehicle for my morning Zofran pill than actually being any help in the hydration department).
- Try not to puke.
- Laugh at the dogs from the warmth of my kitchen.
- Puke. (Karma's a bitch)
- Let the dogs in when they begin barking ferociously at the neighbor and make more toast.
- Lay on the couch. Who knew toast could make one so exhausted?
- Sleep, even though just woke up about an hour ago.
- Wake up and consider reading some blogs.
- Puke. (Nothing personal. The puking has nothing to do with your blogs)
- Debate between more toast and tater tots. Tater tots usually win.
- Lay on the couch and eat tater tots. Leave dirty dish on table and threaten dogs to stay away from the leftover ketchup. Then let them lick it clean anyway. It will save a step on the way to the dishwasher.
- Doze off again.
- Wake up, realize there's nothing on television mid-day, try to watch movies on On-Demand and find out that's a fruitless idea since our On-Demand NEVER WORKS ANYWAY. Curse Charter Cable and their shitty cable service. God damn them.
- Consider running to Blockbuster in pajamas.
- Give up that idea and zone out to Shot of Love with Tila Tequila.
- Consider showering because that show makes me feel dirty. Decide to sleep more instead.
- Wake up when the sun goes down. Try to eat more toast.
- Contemplate dog hair tumbleweeds on the floor. Consider getting up to vacuum.
- Puke.

Later, rinse, repeat.

Sounds like fun, doesn't it? I'll tell you, though, being able to do that and not have to worry about getting up to fetch raisins or Gorilla Munch, prepare lunches, change diapers, and fight over who is going to watch whose shows for more than 48 hours sounds like a little bit of heaven to me.

Besides, I never win when it comes to what shows we'll be watching. The only reality show Chicky likes is John and Kate plus Eight.

Keeping my eyes on the prize

You might have already been able to tell from one of my last posts but I've been having a tough time lately. It went beyond feeling sick and straight to my own personal depression-like hell. Being cooped up in the house for weeks on end will do that to even the toughest nut. And let me tell you on a good day I am as tough as I am nutty. On a bad day I'm just pathetic.

I had to cancel the last class I was teaching last Monday so I can officially no longer work. It was a class I was already three weeks into. I felt like I was letting all my students down but I just could not give them my all. Hell, I could barely make it to class and once I was there I couldn't finish the whole hour. My weight loss to date is around 15 pounds and that's left me incredibly weak and light-headed. Not to mention, with my tiny bump, looking like one of those kids that Sally Struthers was always trying to feed.

However, I've had a string of fairly decent moments over the past few days and I'm feeling a bit stronger than I did when I told the world that I really needed my mommy. And for the record, I'm not ashamed of that.

I don't know if it's because I've been less pukey, or because I've gotten out of the house at least once...

(To buy this book that features a short story by my close and personal friend - and my latest stalking target - Bossy. Da shit made me laugh, y'all. That's got to tell you something)

...or because I was able to eat a hot dog yesterday without needing to purge it. At any rate, I'm feeling more hopeful that I will get through these dark days to see the light at the end of this vomitous tunnel.

(Stretch marks! Heartburn! Maternity yoga pants! Unfortunate and unexpected flatulence in public!)

I know one thing for certain, however. I got a kick in the ass by way of a comment by the perceptive Jenifer and it was just what I needed.

Jenifer pretty much told me to suck it up and stop feeling sorry for myself because there are so many other women out there who would kill to be in my slightly rancid smelling shoes. But she told me this in the nicest way possible.

I was wondering when someone was going to finally call me out for being such an insensitive, whiny little shit.

I know, of course, that so many women who desperately want children of their own can't. I have close friends who have jumped through every medical hoop possible to have a baby of their own. I have spoken or emailed with other bloggers who I know for a fact would willingly change places with me, vomiting be damned. Women who have considered putting their own lives in jeopardy again just to have another child. I know all of this, but it's easy to forget when you're so wrapped up with worrying if your lack of eating will force a miscarriage or in some way irreparably harm your unborn child.

And by "you" I mean me.

Yes, I get pregnant easily and yes, unfortunately, I have an incredibly hard time throughout my pregnancies. I will not feel bad for bemoaning my own situation but it's time to acknowledge that others have it pretty hard off too. So, to you ladies out there who have occasionally felt like thrusting my head deeply into that toilet I spend so much time over, my heart goes out to you. If I could give you my uterus, I would.

I know one blogger who is going to hate that last line but I say it with in all seriousness. If it were possible to do a uterus transplant, my friend, you could have mine. So don't hate me too much.

I may have finally gone off the deep end

I'm sure this is on par with kicking puppies and stuffing kitties into sock drawers* but I'm a bit resentful of happy, pregnant women as a rule. Since the early days of my first pregnancy the thought of a satisfied, oh I never had morning sickness and all my pregnancies were great and oh how I LOVE to be pregnant I think I'll do it again SEVEN MORE TIMES because pregnancy is just so SUPER FUN-type of woman makes me want to put a baby bunny in a bag and leave it on the edge of a rapid river.

Okay, not really. But you get my point.

I was watching TV last night - because that's the one thing that doesn't usually induce vomiting, unless I'm watching the View - and a WebMD commercial came on. There on the screen flashed a smiling, pink cheeked actor playing a pregnant woman. I know she was just an actor, but for that 2.7 seconds she and her actor/husband/life partner were on the screen I hated her. She seemed so thrilled to be pregnant. My only response was "fuck you and die". I don't consider myself to be Christian but I can say with certainty my attitude was not Christian-like. It wasn't even un-Atheist-I-don't-believe-in-anything-like.

I didn't really want her to die, especially since she was just an actor and all, and I don't wish any harm to any of you who have these types of pregnancies. It just makes me so frustrated because I'd like to have just a smidgen of that happy glow during mine. I want to know why some of you do this four or five times. On purpose. And you don't need a date with Jose Cuervo when you hear the news.

I had intended to moan and whine about my crappy pregnancies and boohoo over all the hard times I've endured and will have to go through again but then I stopped in the middle of writing this to kiss my daughter goodnight. It's incredibly difficult to be Debbie Downer when your toddler just gave you fish kisses.

So instead of concentrating on the negative (pretty much the entire pregnancy) I'm going to focus on the positive. Or, the good things that happen as a result of my craptacular gestation periods.

Ready?

- Ingesting less than 500 calories a day due to constant retching means - hey! - my skinny jeans fit again!

- So what if I can't stand up without almost falling down and I have no muscle tone from lying on the couch day in a day out? My saddle bags have almost completely melted away!

- Yes, my eyes are sunken and the pallor of my skin resembles something that was left in the refrigerator for too long... but my waddle is almost completely gone and I almost have cheekbones again! I never had cheekbones before but I don't think that's anything to be alarmed by.

- I now know every word of every song from every show played every weekday morning on PBS. My kid thinks I'm really cool.

- I've re-learned the fine art of the 3 hour nap. Those 15 minute "power naps" are for pussies.

- I've had absolutely no trouble at all giving up wine or coffee. Or pretty much any liquid except Newman's Own Lemonade (slightly watered down and with a shit load of ice cubes). Nope, don't miss those vices AT ALL.

- I haven't ingested so many Totino's Pizza Rolls, Tater Tots, or Ramen Noodles since college. Okay, they're the only thing I can eat (on a good day), but I feel like a kid again!

- Due to hardly ever leaving a prone position, except to bow to the porcelain god, my house is a mess, the floors are covered in pet hair and the whole house smells like dog. But with the exception of the smell, I'm so weak I can hardly care less!

- Going back to my first few points, if I ever start eating again I'll be able to pig out and still be a sexy and skinny pregnant lady.

- Sometimes I'll go days without showering (mostly because I never leave the house, so why bother?) so I'm saving a fortune in hair care products and makeup.

- Sure, Zofran has left me constipated and I'm dehydrated most of the time, but I don't have to worry about which way to approach the toilet first! You know, backward or forward? Face first or ass first? I'll stop now.

I'll have to make sure to print this out and post it on my refrigerator to remind me that things aren't so bad. I'll print it really big since I can't usually get within ten feet of my fridge... On second thought maybe I'll just tack it to the wall behind the couch.

--------------------

If I can find something to laugh about in all this absurdity you can certainly find some funny posts from around the blogosphere. The October ROFL Awards are this Friday so go and find some funny posts to nominate. Email your nominations to Chicky Chicky Baby 2 [at] Yahoo [dot] com by Thursday night and make sure to include a link to your own blog. Last month was a little light on the nominations, let's make this month our funniest one yet. Please don't make me grovel. I spend enough time on my knees as it is.

What? In front of the toilet, you sickos. I can barely get a Tater Tot between these lips these days.





*Sorry, MB, I couldn't resist.

I didn't even have to use my A-K ( but check with me tomorrow)

I'd have to say today was a pretty good day. Which is in sharp contrast to yesterday. Wow, yesterday. Wow.

Oh, what was yesterday? Yesterday was Spend Half the Day and the Whole Evening in the ER Because I Got Stupidly Dehydrated Day!

I'll have 10ccs of IV fluid, bartender, with a Reglan chaser. Sorry, can't tip you, what with this IV stuck in my arm and all. I'll catch you next time.

Oh please, don't be a next time. ER doctors are really bad at providing updates of important baseball games.

All joking aside there is a silver lining to spending more than seven hours in the ER, half of that spent hooked up to an IV drip while lounging on a gurney in the hallway of said ER. I did mention that I'm having a good day and that is due to being chock full o' fluids. I haven't puked once today! I've been able to keep down some fluids and my Nana and my dad's lady friend came over to bring me chicken soup and they cleaned my kitchen and I just ate two Mint Oreo cookies. AND they tasted good.

(I blame thank Julie and her Oreo fixation.)

But wait! There's more! I switched doctors. Thank you for all the kind words, and the unkind words for my doctor, on my last post. They were just the kick in the ass I needed to get a doctor that would show some concern for my condition. But how much do you want to bet my new doctor will be off-duty when I go to have this baby and my old doctor is on call? Should we start taking bets now?

There is a dark cloud behind my silver-lined cloud, however. Because it wouldn't be my life without a little ray of suck-assness to make things interesting.

My prescription for Zofran is done today. I have a new one, plus three refills from the old doc, but our prescription drug insurance company is fighting it. They only want to give me ten days worth of pills in a 30-day period, so I've been jumping through hoops all day making sure they send authorization papers to my soon-to-be-ex doctor and then making sure the doctor sends them back. Now I'm waiting for the insurance company to give it the ol' stamp of approval and then send authorization back over to my pharmacy. If I don't get the pills before the weekend is over I'm afraid I will end up back in the ER and I'd really rather not go there. The johnnies are pretty drafty.

So today is turning out to be a good day but tomorrow I may go postal on a certain insurance company that rhymes with Nedco. Because no one screws with a hormonal pregnant woman with morning sickness and gets out alive. You may as well try to come between me and my Mint Oreos.


Oh, and I apologize for being such a bad blog citizen lately. I've been at your blogs, trust me. I'll start commenting again, possibly from jail after my killing spree.

Apparently an apple a day will keep the doctor away

Today is not a good day, dear friends in the computer.

I'm beyond frustrated. This sickness has practically disabled me. I can hardly leave the house and my poor kid has clocked more TV time in the past few weeks than any child should in a year.

I've just gotten off the phone with my doctor's office (can't get the actual doctor on the phone. God forbid) and there's nothing my doctor can or will do for me. 8 milligrams of Zofran, twice a day. The end.

She won't try switching me to non-generic Zofran. She won't try switching my tablets to pills you swallow to pills that dissolve under the tongue (my sister-in-law, the doctor, advised I try to get the dissolving kind. She said they're more effective). She won't up my dosage. She won't try a combination of medications. Nothing. Zip. Zilch. Suck it up, Buttercup.

I should have been concerned when I told my doctor last week that I was living on a half a package of Ramen noodles a day and she nodded her head like "Yeah, that sounds reasonable."

Today, when the receptionist (our go-between) asked what I had been eating I told her, "Yesterday I ate two pieces of toast. The day before I ate an apple. That's it. An apple." She called back later after speaking with my OB and relayed this message, "The doctor said as long as you're keeping something down, and you're drinking fluids, you should be fine."

Fine. I can hardly stand up without falling down, but I'm fine. I can't make it through a full one-hour class without puking, but I'm fine. I can hardly leave the house, but I'm fine. I can't pick up my daughter, but I'm fine.

I canceled one of my classes, so I only have one a week to worry about. I'm supposed to speak on the topic of dogs and kids next week for an hour and a half next week to a room full of parents and that scares the hell out of me.

My father-in-law came and took Chicky today to give me a break, and that helps a lot. She'll be spending the night with my in-laws tonight and I won't get her back until late tomorrow afternoon. Mr. C is out of town again and he arranged this before he left. It's a huge relief knowing she's with someone who can take her to the park and make sure she eats a good meal.

I've cried more in the past few days than I have in the past few years. Hormones + not eating = very unhappy pregnant woman. It's a simple equation. I'm not a happy camper.

I'll probably be going to the ER to get fluids soon. Maybe twice a week IVs will help. That should be fun with a toddler.

Sorry for the rant. Getting angry helps me forget that I'm so sick.

I may have spoken too soon

Sick again.

The drugs don't seem to be working too well. Well, let me backtrack. I know they're working because I'm not writhing around on the couch all day from the constant nausea (only half of the day) but I still can't really eat (the Crispy Chicken Sandwich must have been a fluke) and I'm still intimately involved with my toilet. I'm down about 8 to 10 pounds and my energy is gone. And for chrissake, I'm really tired of being this way.

For the first time in my life, I have considered calling my boss to tell him I can't work. I don't do that. I work no matter what. I'm a tough broad.

Okay, usually I'm a tough broad. Today, not so much.

I've even resorted to watching the View. Send reinforcements.

What 50 Cent and I have in common

After I gave birth to Chicky, after all the bits were tidied and the craziness died down, I was offered the dinner menu showcasing the hospitals finest foods. And by "finest" I mean food of the institutional variety. Flavorless, cardboard meats, Jell-O, and crusty chocolate pudding. I was all over that menu like a starving dog.

I ordered a hamburger. The perfectly shaped patty, which in no way was formed by a human hand, was just like the ones I used to get in high school. I slathered it in ketchup from packets, and on the side was a small mound of almost colorless, thick-cut french fries. I slathered them in ketchup too.

While others held my new baby I took my first bite of that rubbery burger.

Then I took another bite, and another, stopping only to press a fry into my mouth. I finished that burger in no time, along with the french fries. I ate every last bite. It was the best thing I had ever tasted.

About halfway through my meal it occurred to me why I had enjoyed that meal so much. It had nothing to do with my misty water-colored memories of high school cafeteria lunches spent fiddling with my boyfriend's class ring on a chain around my neck while I nibbled on the same meal. It was because for the first time in 9 months I was able to eat something without fear of throwing it up. I could enjoy it, unlike all the other meals I had consumed since my OB-Gyn put me on Zofran five months before. I could savor every chewy bite and swallow without fear. It was pure heaven.

My prescription for generic Zofran was delivered to me Wednesday afternoon by one of my lovely girlfriends and it seems to be working. A little. I only have to run for the bathroom once or twice a day, but more importantly I have the desire to eat. Sometimes. The drug is not perfect.

I cannot even tell you how much I appreciate all your suggestions on combating morning sickness. Some of them helped a little bit, and that little bit meant a lot to this mama. But the problem with most of the remedies was that they relied heavily on eating. Eating is something I cannot do when I'm this sick. I can't force myself no matter how hard I try and if I do manage to choke something down it will immediately come right back up, every time. In a 48 hour period I consumed nothing more than half a package of Ramen noodles and a popsicle and nothing else. I almost passed out in the grocery store because I was so hungry and dehydrated.

I'm a strong believer in that life gives us what we need and what we do with it after is up to us to decide. At my most jittery, most desperate time I noticed a bottle of Vitamin Water in my refrigerator and a little voice in my head said, "Hey, I could drink that." And I did. And I really believe it kept me from going to the hospital. The funny thing is, the bottle had been in my fridge for a few days and for some reason I didn't notice it until then. My husband left it there before he left on his trip on Sunday.

Now, I know I'm all woozy and weird due to dehydration and little food for over a week and I'm not so crazy to say that Vitamin Water saved my life. But drinking that already watered down liquid was key to keeping me well. It could not have been any other sports drink or juice. It had to be Vitamin Water. Even now, with the drugs, it's the only thing I can drink. It's almost as satisfying as that hamburger.

Some of you have left me comments saying that you too went through this. Most of you told me that you also needed Zofran to maintain a somewhat normal life. The problem with this type of pregnancy-related sickness, whether or not you're officially diagnosed with hyperemesis gravidarum, is that most people don't believe you're really as sick as you are. They'll sympathize, especially if they experienced some tough bouts with morning sickness themselves at times, but they'll be skeptical of your stories. And that's okay. I don't want you to understand because that would mean you had gone through it yourself. I don't wish that on my worst enemy.

So I hope you'll excuse me for waxing poetic about something as ridiculous as a flavored water. Without it, I wouldn't be able to take my Zofran. And without my Zofran I wouldn't have been able to even take a bite of that crispy chicken sandwich from McDonald's that I just ate. It wasn't a religious experience like the hospital hamburger, but it made me happy.

I feel like Paul Revere, only with a better hat

The Zofran is coming! The Zofran is coming!

Glory to God and the large pharmaceutical conglomerates! The Zofran is coming!

It's being delivered by a friend soon. Very soon. Not now, but still... Soon.

ETA - 45 minutes.

I think I can last until then because the Zofran is coming.

This is the most excitement I've been able to muster in weeks. I may actually be able to leave this fetal position some time soon. And get my kid up from a nap without puking.

I'm giddy. I'm still horribly sick, but I'm giddy. Because...THE ZOFRAN IS COMING

That is all.

No one gets out of here alive

This pregnancy is now kicking my tuckus.

I've gone from fine, to bad, to worse, to semi-comatose.

What can I say? I'm one sick puppy. I can't even drink water. I'm done. Stick a fork in me.

As I write this, I'm trying desperately to keep down those three Doritos and one sip of ice water I just consumed.

I don't think it's going to work.

The sickness is constant. It's 24 hours, and yes, that means I'm nauseas even in my sleep. I can't consume a single thing without wanting to purge it.

(You're so glad you're reading this right now, aren't you?)

The hard part? I mean the really suckass part? Mr. C left this morning for a conference and won't be back until late this week. I'm solo parenting. From my couch. With a little help from my friends T and V.

Okay, a lot of help from the TV.

Bring on the guilt.

I don't know if this pregnancy is worse than the last one or if it's just the circumstance this time around. The last time I had a job and I was still grieving my mom, who had died just a few months prior. This time, I'm home with Chicky. My only obligation, job, chore, what have you, is taking care of Chicky. Making sure she is fed, bathed, put down for nap, picked up from nap, put down for bed, picked up from bed. Not to mention our two scheduled activities a week and my training classes a couple of evenings a week.

Oh, and love. I am loving that kid up. It's not making up for the fact that a majority of my parenting is being done from a prone position on the couch, usually with my eyes half closed, or from in front of a toilet, but I'm trying. I'm failing. But I'm still trying.

I apologize a lot. She doesn't really know what I mean but I do it anyway. But she loves it when Mama is sick. It cracks her up. Eh, at least she's amused.

I don't want to bitch and moan anymore - I do enough of that all day long, thankyouverymuch - but things are going to be sparse around here until I get some help, in whatever form that comes. Hopefully, it will come in the form of Zofran.

Ohpleaseohpleaseohpleaseohplease, let there be Zofran.

I need to save my strength because I've got things I need to take care of, between puking and sleeping, and I'm not quite sure how they'll all get done.

For instance, we'll be relaunching the New England Mamas blog on Monday the 15th in a new location. And as God as my witness I will finish that site! Even if I have to finish it from the floor of my bathroom!

That really tired me out. I think I'll go to sleep now. After I try to eat one more Dorito.

Keep your fingers crossed.

Mama-to-be's little helper

Yesterday, per your suggestions, I went grocery shopping and stocked up on Saltine crackers, lemon candies, lollipops, crystallized ginger, ginger snaps, lemons and peppermints. I also bought a bunch of apples (I lived on them during my last pregnancy) and started drinking chocolate shakes (yet another staple of my pregnancy diet). And I'm happy to say so far, so good. But it's still early. There's still time for me to get really sick.

Oh yes, there's still time.

With Chicky, I was sicker than a dog. Mr. C said to me the other day that he doesn't know how I got up at 5:30am every day to work a 14 hour day when I was as sick as I was. Then he changed his mind. He knew how. I'm stubborn. By sheer force of stubborn will I hauled my exhausted behind out of bed to cater to other people's pooches. That stubborn will has served generations of my family well.

Did I mention my grandmother had 11 children? Did I also mention she had horrible morning sickness with almost all of them and yet she still continued on to have ELEVEN CHILDREN?

I was so sick that when I was not working I was usually in a huddled mass on my couch, more often than not crying from being so sick, unable to eat anything. I couldn't even keep down water. I lost about 10 to 12 pounds, and at that time, only a few months after my mom's death, I was already down to an unreasonable size due to the stress.

How unreasonable? I was a size 2. I'm 5'7 (and a half!) and I was a size 2, and then I lost an additional 10 pounds. I looked like a lollipop.

(Look at the size of that girl's head. It's like an orange on a toothpick. Har.)

The morning sickness went on well past my first trimester and I was at a complete loss as to what to do. I didn't have such wonderful people offering me advice through the magic of the internet. I'd tried almost everything I could think of but my job had me constantly moving so I wasn't able to eat constantly or keep ginger or lemons in my pockets.

Have you ever tried to scarf down a ham sandwich while a pack of 20 or so hungry dogs were nearby? I don't recommend it.

Let's just say, instead of a ham sandwich I was never very far away from a bucket.

The final straw was when Mr. C made me a dinner of steak and peas, which just the night before I had been able to eat with no problem so we tried it again, and I took one bite and couldn't get down the rest. I ended up crying into my plate of peas. And not just a little bit, I was a heaving, sobbing mess. How sad is that?

Apparently very sad, because when I told my OB-Gyn that story a few days later she said it was the saddest thing she had ever heard. And then she told me about Zofran. Or as I like to call it, Mama-to-be's little helper.

Zofran, for those of you with perfect pregnancies, is a drug most commonly prescribed to people with cancer who are undergoing chemotherapy treatments. It helps them get over the nausea caused by the chemo drugs. I was given it because I couldn't stop puking my guts up because the baby inside of me was wreaking havoc on my delicate internal parts.

Some of you already mentioned that you too took Zofran during your pregnancies and that made me feel a little bit better about taking it myself. It's strange, but I haven't met that many women who have admitted to taking Zofran. At least not many who have offered up that information when the subject of morning sickness comes up. I wonder if some women feel a sense of guilt or shame because they had to be prescribed a drug to help them get through their pregnancies?

I will admit that I'd like to be able to go through this pregnancy without needing drugs, but that's just because I'm a prescription-phobe. I don't like taking medications if I can avoid it. But if I get to the point where I'm crying salty tears into my uneaten dinner you bet your bippy I'll be calling the doctor. Funny enough, the possibility of taking Zofran was one of the deciding factors for me when I was considering getting pregnant again. My doctor told me, as long as my insurance covered it, I wouldn't have to wait until the end of my first trimester to get Zofran again. I wouldn't have to suffer all those months. Halle-freaking-lujah.

But the insurance. Now there's the rub. If you happened to stumble across this post because you were searching for information about Zofran and pregnancy, not all insurance providers will cover it and it's ridiculously expensive. Not just ridiculously, but obscenely expensive. I was lucky - my husband's insurance covered just enough pills to get me through. But there were times when I was rationing my supply of those precious, wee little tablets like I was a woman stranded on a deserted island with nothing more than a week's worth of tic tacs to keep her alive and no rescue in sight. There was one morning when I had a case of the dropsies (you know what I'm talking about) and one of my tablets went down the drain. That was not a happy day.

So here I sit today, sucking on a lemon drop and considering what I'm going to have for lunch that might stay in my tummy for the long haul. I'm fearing the next week or so when I believe the morning sickness will really kick in. From all the research I've done since being pregnant with Chicky I see I was a strong candidate for being diagnosed with Hyperemesis Gravidarum. Something that, apparently, only a very small percentage of women experience.

I always knew I was special.

Vacationitis

I'm all better now. I don't know if it was something I caught or something I ate but I'm leaning towards a case of vacationitis.

Wah? You don't know about vacationitis?

It affects everyone in different ways but in my case vacationitis is brought on by my natural predilection towards being a stress bag every other day of the year. I thrive on stress, I eat it for breakfast. Stress is what keeps my body moving. So those rare times when I let my defenses down and actually stop and enjoy myself for a change every germ and ailment that was beaten back by my stress force field now has a way in.

Stomach bug? Sure, c'mon in! Migraine? The more the merrier! Pinched nerve? The water's fine!

I have a history of chronic vacationitis. Take, for instance, the summer of 1997. My honeymoon with husband number 1. After working for a few years as an morning DJ at a local radio station, getting up at 4:00am five days a week and clocking 55 hour+ work weeks, I took a well deserved vacation in Jamaica. The first few days were fine because I was still de-stressing. But on the next to last day of our trip - Wham! - I got that inner ear thing that gives you vertigo when you try to stand up.

Have you ever been on a bus with no air conditioning in 90 degree temperatures and a Jamaican bus driver with a death wish at the wheel? With vertigo? The only thing I remember is getting on the bus, closing my eyes, and praying. And then I had to get on a plane. I just closed my eyes and cried. That was fun.

Then there was the time in 2002 when I was on my honeymoon with husband number 2 - Mr. C., for those of you scoring at home. We were both completely immersed in our jobs at the same large corporation and we had just finished planning and executing our at-home wedding, so the stress was palpable. Three days into our trip to the Napa Valley and I got the worst pinched nerve in my neck. Pinched nerves are no fun under the best of circumstances, but this one was so bad that I could hardly enjoy the romantical day my new husband had planned for us at a spa in Sonoma.

I know the casual observer might think that I should just give up on honeymoons, but this past vacation was no honeymoon. Believe me.

So maybe I should just give up on vacations in general. Just hide in my home with the shades drawn and the doors locked. Besides, who would watch my TV if I went away?

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Thankfully, I was well enough today to go visit with some of my fellow New England Mamas.

(I was even well enough to eat pizza! Organic pizza with barbecue chicken! Without having to run to the bathroom immediately after! Yippee!)

I don't know how I got to be lucky enough to be affiliated with these incredible women, but I am. I can't wait to see them all again. I wish we had more time to talk because I know from this short meeting that we could all be bestest friends forevah and evah.

I'd gush some more but I'm from New England. Gushing is not our thing. We do not gush.

Except maybe in private with other New Englanders. Then we gush with dignity.