More Sadness...but I answer your questions too!
Well, today is another bad day. I’m tired of bad days. Can I order a new life, please?
I’m sure everyone by now has heard that Julie has birthed the Bat, albeit a tad early and under the evil umbrella of HELPP syndrome. I’m glad she and baby are doing well, but I am suffering just a bit from the sadness—not quite jealousy—that she went through that and is coming home with a baby, and I did not.
Congrats also go out to Monica; let’s hope she gets to take Harrison Cole home soon.
We saw Dr. Mama for a follow up to my D&E today. I didn’t expect it to be so hard to be back in that office although the last time I was there I was still pregnant, of course. Today, as usual, it was so full of pregnant women and partners (I think the lobby was built back when husbands didn’t come to these appointments, hence the lack of chairs) today that Charlie had to stand the whole time we were waiting. I would have burst into tears but there was a young woman there in a wheelchair with a shaved (chemo?) head, and it was fairly easy for me to imagine that her life is probably worse than mine. Plus I brought a book, a nice dense engaging one, so I didn’t have to look at anyone for too long.
My cervix is healing nicely (although the speculum made it bleed). Dr. Mama wants me to come back in a few more weeks to do some weird blood screens, mostly checking for rare clotting disorders. We talked a lot about the preeclampsia, how at risk I am for it happening again. I am, of course, but chances are that I’ll be able to get further along in a pregnancy before the symptoms arrive, and be past the point of viability. Meaning eventually I’d get to go home with a baby.
One of the things Charlie and I asked about was what would happen if I got pregnant with twins again. Would I have to selectively reduce to a singleton in order to decrease my preeclampsia risk? I’ve spent an inordinate amount of time worrying about this; this is something I just can’t, right now, get my mind around. Thankfully, Dr. Mama very firmly believed it wouldn’t be necessary. Of course, he thinks having only one baby at a time would be better for my body—less stressful, etc. He does recommend that we try just transferring single embryos at first, before moving on to multiples.
He also said I was still pretty young, at 36, so I have time to waste doing single embryo transfers (so why do I feel like time is running out?).
He also asked me about my weight, if I’ve ever been able to lose weight successfully. I have, of course. I lost about 80lbs on the intravenous cocaine diet (not recommended), about 70lbs once by following a food plan with no sugar/no white flour, and about 40lbs last year on Weight Watchers. Keeping it off? Not so much. He asked me if I’d ever considered gastric bypass surgery—which I have, in my darkest hours--but that surgery kills a lot of people, and I know too many that have had it and gained the weight back three or four years later (it’s often thought of as a permanent cure, but the body is a wonderful thing and can adapt to anything, as can the ever-powerful food addiction). So no, I won’t have the surgery. He doesn’t recommend it, thank god. He would just like to see me lose weight before I get pregnant again so I won’t be so wiped out from gaining pregnancy weight next time. He was very sweet, and apologized if he offended me.
He didn’t offend me, but god, how any talk about my weight increases that horrible feeling of being defective. Being fat—one of the biggest crimes an American woman can commit—is not only a physical defect, but also a mental one. I do believe that it is an addiction, just as powerful as any other, but I still find myself feeling like a failure, a loser, a big fat ugly pathetic excuse for a woman. There. I said it. That’s how I feel today. A big, fat, ugly, pathetic excuse for a woman who killed her babies by being fat.
And yesterday I went to the gym for the first time since last February, and felt so good about it. God damn it.
I’m going to stop all the whining right now and get to the fun. Your questions!
First off, the story about how Charlie and I got together can be found here. The story of my pets can be found here. Photos of Hammer the dog and his best friend Cisco are here. And here we go with the other questions.
Are you named after anyone?
In fact, I am. My mother’s best friend was named Cecily. They grew up together in the tiny town of St. Joseph’s, Illinois. Cec is fond of calling me a dwarf, since she’s six feet tall and I stopped growing when I was ten and am only 5’2” tall. Luckily, no one ever realizes I’m that short. I’ve been accused of having a tall personality, which I’m sure I inherited from Cec.
Do you own a shower cap?
Yes. I actually own three (they all came together in one package). They are pink, white, and yellow. I rarely use them, although sometimes I like to shower and not wash my hair.
Do you own an electric can opener?
No. I have five cats. I can’t open a can of soup as it is.
What color is your hair?
At the moment, it’s dark brown with intense red stripes. I had this done a week or two after losing the boys. Naturally, it’s a standard medium reddish-brown. It’s not quite curly (sorry about your dream Mary), although it is wavy, and had more wave to it before I got pregnant. It has been red much of my adult life, with periods of black, and moments nearing blondishness. I have been coloring my hair with great regularity since I discovered “Sun In” when I was 13. It’s a wonder there is a strand left on my head.
How about we talk about tattoos?
I got my first tattoo in 1993 on my left arm. It is a ‘zia’ the Navajo symbol of the sun. It’s also on the New Mexico state flag (I was born in Albuquerque) and my father has the same tattoo on his right arm (or did in the photo I had of him growing up). It’s about 2.5” inches square. I got my next tattoo about a year later, on my left ankle (the one that hurt the most!). It’s a drawing by Charlie of a cat sitting near a flower. The rest came after sobriety (hey, I suddenly had all this money!). I now have solid ink from elbow to shoulder on both arms—a mix of tribal and Asian styles. I also have a flying super-woman with large thighs, tits, and ass on my left shoulder and back (she’s about 14” from hand to foot and vaguely looks like me). I plan to get this tattooed on the right side of my back because she also kind of looks like me (especially when I wear my corset, and yes, I have permission from the artist). No, I don’t know when I’ll stop collecting. Maybe when I’m dead. I’ll get Charlie to take photos for you guys and post them.
Describe your job and how you got into it.
Before I got sober, I was a veterinary technician (the job I loved the most, and paid the least). Once I got sober (losing my vet tech job was one of many things that drove me toward sobriety), I bounced around until the author-I’m-proud-to-call-a-friend Rachel Simon called me and told me about a position as an events coordinator at Barnes & Noble. She knew that I’d hosted poetry readings/musical performances for several years and thought I’d be perfect for the job. With her help, I managed--at five months sober--to get the job although I was barely qualified (but I learn fast and had a great teacher—thanks Rachel!). For the next three years I organized and hosted the events at a B&N outside of the city, and through that position got to know people at a local community art center. When I was ready to leave B&N, the art center hired me to be their marketing person and event planner. This suburban art center was full of big dreams—they had an exhibition gallery, and a craft store, as well as art classes. I worked hard to help them be better known, and ran their craft store and rental program as well, among other things. They kept adding to my job description until I was so overloaded I couldn’t think anymore, and I began to run into problems with my executive director (a workaholic who always felt like you could do more, more, more). I began job hunting and landed at my current position, running a retail art gallery connected to a local art college that sells student and alum artwork. I enjoy the job very much, and have never felt so supported by bosses anywhere else I've worked.
What is your favorite curse word? And had scenario one at Thanksgiving occurred, what would Charlie's favorite word have been?
Mine is, sadly, CUNT, followed quickly by all variations of
FUCK. Charlie’s would have been COCKSUCKERS. Ah, the google hits I’ll get now.
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That was fun, and I feel cheered up now! Keep the questions coming!
