Last Monday I told Eric I was feeling intermittent dizziness.
Tuesday I told my business partner, Kirsty, my vision was blurring, and dizziness increasing.
Wednesday afternoon I was flat out on the couch, unable to sit, stand or walk without feeling like I was on the Tilt a Whirl at the fair. Or suffering from a wicked ass hangover without a drink passing my lips. The world spun. I was nauseous when my eyes were open, and crashed into walls when walking. I could not even think about picking up Lucy or Alice, or driving the car. Eric had to come home early.
A visit to a walk-in clinic revealed a viral inner ear infection. “Wait it out,” Dr. S said after tapping my joints and listening to my organs to make sure I wasn’t dying from some rare neurological disease (or a stroke, as I was honestly worried about, what with three of the five early warning signs).
On the couch or in bed I remained for the next two days, while Eric, and then my parents, looked after the girls. It took until Saturday afternoon to feel any semblance of normal.
Do you ever feel guilty when you’re sick? Even though I was completely justified in being prostrate for three days, popping Gravol and Advil like candy, I felt…bad watching Eric do everything. Helpless. Lucy was very frustrated that I wasn’t involved in bedtime or couldn’t even sit to watch a movie with her. Alice didn’t care as much, or couldn’t articulate it in the same way, although she did keep toddling over to me and laying her head down on my pillow for smooches.
Both Eric and I have single parents in our families, and I think last week gave us a whole new respect for them. Sure, we’ve had days before when one of us has been away or working late, but having one of us completely unable to function was a new and harsh experience. I can’t even imagine having to do baths or cook feeling the way I felt.
To all the single parents out there: You rock.
(And special extra thanks to my hubby and parents for helping when our family needed it most.)
We, guiltily, have not yet. No excuse except we keep forgetting (OK, and maybe another reason, but I put it below in a lame attempt to hide it).
But.
Last week Alice had the flu. Albeit it was short — 24 hours — she still had it. To feel her shaking in my arms with the chills and watch her face turn red as she choked while vomitting in her crib at 2 a.m. was enough of a reminder that we must get the damn shot. I’ve been on second child flu watch ever since, too, just waiting for Lucy to get something.
(Tangent: Why do kids always throw up in the middle of the night? Why not at 9 a.m. when I’m completely awake and not half nekkid clutching my bathrobe? And why always in bed? Why not on the hardwood floors that are at least easier to clean? They’re born programmed this way, aren’t they?)
Flu clinics are now open to everyone, and the Region of Durham has a full list of local clinics here (many doctor’s offices are administering it, too)
No matter where you live in Ontario, the Ministry of Health and Long-Term Care has links to every health unit in the province here.
They also have a really neat self-assessment tool for parents to determine if your child under five or youth/adult over 5 actually has the flu. Check it out here.
Pregnant? Here’s info on the unadjuvanted vaccine and why it’s so important to get the shot
We have a doctor’s appointment Thursday and will finally get this done and over with. I feel terrible admitting this, but I’ve also been subconsciously avoiding going because I’ll have both girls on my own. How have those of you with two done this? I figure I’ll have to get Lucy done first, ’cause I know Lucy will bolt once she sees Alice freak out. But then do I leave Lucy upset while Alice gets done? Do them both at once?
Help!
The Moms Fight the Flu blog tour is organized by Mom Central Canadato spread the word among Moms about the H1N1 virus & vaccine and what you should do if you think your child has the flu. By making sure Moms have access to reliable information we can help everyone stay healthier this season!
My friend Jodi had a beautiful baby boy this weekend named Gavin.
Jodi and I both studied journalism and were floormates at Ryerson, and have stayed close since. We don’t see each other much, but usually email once a month, and she is a regular reader of this site. For as long as I’ve known her, she was never sure she wanted children. So when she announced she was was pregnant, most of us were shocked and incredibly tickled. It’s been such a pleasure to watch her grow these past months.
Jodi’s husband Brad shared this photo on Facebook over the weekend, and it hasn’t strayed far from my mind since I saw it Sunday.
You all probably know that look as well as I do. That’s the first look of love when you hold your minutes-old baby in your arms. There is no duplicating it. There is no faking it. That is pure, raw love.
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This morning as I tidied the house, I started absentmindedly sorting toys. Alice has started growing out of those soft, small stuffies and plastic rings, gravitating more towards larger, louder, more interactive toys. I’ve started a pile to sell/donate, and a pile to keep for family and friends’ babies.
The last time I packed toys away, I knew they would be played with again in our house. We knew we were not finished having kids, that there was one more wee McDougall-Foster to bring into this world.
But this time. Today. Today it slammed into me that we are done. Really, truly done. I will never be pregnant again. I will never breastfeed again. I will never carry a teeny being inside a pouch slung across my chest again. Those newborn coos and wails will never reverberate off our walls.
I will never have that look of new love again.
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The Gentle Vasectomy Clinic called today. It’s been almost two weeks, and they have yet to receive Eric’s results. Receptionist Brian — who 11 weeks ago candidly demonstrated how to put a numbing patch on my husband’s testicles — is now on their trail.
We are anxious and excited.
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My friend Carolyn once said when you are done having children, you must mourn for the babies you will never have. That always rang true, and I understood it from a practical level. But today the process has started.
I honestly do not want more kids. My capacity — emotionally, physically, financially — has been reached, good and bad. Our family feels right and complete.
And I’m OK with that.
But it doesn’t mean it can’t ache once in a while.
There is something magical not only from a mother hen perspective (do you see my preening feathers?), but also from a biological perspective to watch a human learn to walk. It is pure, raw evolution in the making. I am so humbled to have seen this twice in my life, and it is breathtaking each time.
I love the look of pure glee on Alice’s face. She is determined and stubborn and proud. It amazes me, at just 10.5-months-old, that she can feel and so clearly articulate such emotions without saying a word.
In the past 30 hours I have changed more poopy diapers that I thought one human ass could ever produce: 9.
N.I.N.E.
How can a being so tiny possible produce so much poop? Seriously. She has crapped out more in volume than she weighs.
And she’s completely fine. It’s not a virus. She has no fever. She happy as a pig in, well, you know.
Except, of course, when I’m changing her. Because after poop #5 yesterday, she was getting right pissed at being swept away from her toys to be changed yet again. You know those diaper changes, when babies arch their backs and try to turn on their bellies and kick their ankles you have in a Vulcan Death Grip because if even one foot goes flying you just know the entire wall will be splattered in soft, stinky, well, you know?
That is the definition of an angry hornet.
The only reason the entire family has not come down with E.coli poisoning is because of the entire box of wipes I’ve gone through, and enough hand washing to form dry cracks on the tops of my hands.
And not that I want her tender behind to be exposed to any more wiping, but I tell you: I’d be obscenely happy if Alice shared some of this poop glory with her father while I’m out tonight and tomorrow morning. I’d paid my poop dues for the next, oh, ever.
I’ve only once ever gotten one flu shot, the year a close family member was very ill and in the hospital over the holidays and we wanted to visit her. We have never given Lucy one.
I’m certainly not against vaccinations. Both girls are up-to-date on everything covered by the province. I don’t like that the shot is just a best guess at what strain will inflict everyone, so don’t see the point of a shot in the dark. Plus, I have known too many people and children who have had the shot and get sick anyways.
But the H1N1 flu is different. This one can kill (albeit in few cases). And with two small kids in the house, I’m a little nervous not to vaccinate them. And us, for that matter, because of how easily the flu can spread indoors in the winter.
I’m nervous, so I’m sweaty, and that’s making the annoying and loud paper covering the exam table stick to my skin.
I’m in every woman’s least favourite but most necessary position in the world: Flat on my back, legs in stirrups, dreaded speculum down there.
Dr. M peers over the top of my knee.
“Well,” she says, clearing her throat, and I think Shit, this can’t be good, “I think everything is fine. But I’m not an expert on female anatomy, you understand. I’m a GP. I know generally where everything is supposed to be.”
She points a latex gloved hand to the spot that’s troubling me.
“And I’m not sure what that is.”
She hands me a referral to the obstetrician who delivered Lucy in 2006 (the woman who delivered Alice is a regular doctor who delivers babies).
“I want you to see someone with surgical capabilities,” Dr. M says. The appointment is not until June.
I go hot and cold all at once. My hands are shaking as I strap a screaming Alice into her carseat, and I’m fighting back tears. This is not what I wanted to hear. This is the second medical professional that has mentioned surgery to me in the past three months.
How can this be happening? I am healthy. I had two normal deliveries, neither of which had prolonged pushing (Lucy for just over an hour, Alice 12 MINUTES) or major trauma. I was pretty active during both pregnancies. I hadn’t, however, really done kegels at all in the past four years of pregnancy and post-partum living. Was I ever kicking myself for that now.
Who knew I had such a weak pelvic floor? Sure, I’d have the odd pee leak if my bladder was full and I sneezed. And jumping on a trampoline? Forget it.
But there was no indication that anything like this would happen. I remember reading about the importance of a strong pelvic floor during and after pregnancy, but it was never hammered into me the way I now believe it should for every woman — having babies or not.
There is nothing wrong with the way things are functioning, as can be a big problem when you have a suspected prolapse. I’m going to the washroom fine. I’m not in pain. I just feel like something is there. All up up (down?) in my space. In the morning, it’s not so bad. But at the end of long days lifting my girls, chasing my girls, walking and cooking and standing, I feel like something is going to fall out of me.
A few weeks later, I am in a local walk-in clinic with Alice, who has a gooey, crusty green eye, when a bright yellow brochure catches my attention.
It’s targeted to older women with incontinence issues, but also talks about pelvic floor strengthening, learning proper kegels, lifestyle changes. “You don’t have to live this way” it says, and my hands tighten on the paper in hope.
Vicki is a registered physiotherapist specializing in this area. I never even knew such a person existed.
I make an appointment right away.
We spent the better part of an hour together, discussing my symptoms, my babies, my daily routine. Had anyone mentioned a less invasive approach? Taught you how to exercise? All I’d been told so far was to do kegels (no, no one explained how — I looked it up online), wait a year or until I was done breastfeeding, hope for the best, and maybe have surgery if I couldn’t live with “the best.”
“It is shameful in our country the lack of understand and support the medical community gives,” she says shaking her head in frustration. “I see women all ages, and many your age.”
Relief washes over me. I don’t feel so alone or afraid now.
Vicki says she can’t guarantee everything will go back to normal (“Nothing is ‘normal’ after childbirth,” she says with a smile, and we snicker) but she promises it will get better.
“On a scale of 1-10, how much would it bother you if everything stayed exactly how it is right now?” she asks, pen poised over a chart.
For a long while, I can’t answer. The number is stuck in the back of my throat, and the tears slip silently down my cheeks. I watch as they form dark circles on my jeans, and feel Vicki watching me.
“Eleven,” I whisper. “I feel broken. I hate this. I don’t want to be afraid of sex. I want to run and skip after my girls. I want to live without thinking about this with every step I take.”
Vicki’s hand is on my arm, and she hands me a tissue box.
Yet I need to write it. For myself and you and every woman out there dealing with this and its related issues, in my continuing quest to give voice to the personal, embarrassing, challenging and emotional side of pregnancy and parenting that we as women don’t talk enough about.
I wish I had access to another mom’s personal story while going through…this, so in turn, I write it for us.
It’s also written for my girls, so a) one day they’ll know they’re not alone, and b) one day they’ll know what their growing little in utero selves did to me, adding another guilt trip I can whip out in an argument when they want to borrow the car.
Babies and children may not fully understand the concepts of gratitude and sacrifice so woven into parenthood, but today has shown me they have their own way of saying thank you.
And I love you.
_____
I went into Lucy’s room this morning, and she greeted me with her usual big smile, and cheerful “Mumma! I missed you when I was sleeping!” But then she turned her head and I had to stifle a scream: The whole half of her face, from the top of her forehead to the bottom of her nose, was completely swollen. Her eye was almost closed up.
Something bit her in the middle of the night, and her body overreacted (thanks Bob the pharmacist @ Shopper’s Drug Mart in the Boonies). She’s on puffy face infection watch, Benadryl and hydrocortisone for 24 hours, after which we have to take her to a doctor if the swelling isn’t down.
She’s acting almost like her normal self, except pretty clingy and extra affectionate.
“Mummy, take care of me. Mumma, I love you. Please take care of me.”
Oh, my Baby Goose. I try. Every single day.
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Both girls are also battling colds, and we had an absolutely draining, exhausting and often angry weekend dealing with two drained, exhausted and often angry sick kidlets.
We’ve dubbed them Quasimodo and the Snot Sister.
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Alice’s symptoms are a few days behind Lucy’s, so today the snot is just pouring out and she’s swallowing excessively with what must be a sore throat. She woke up this morning with mucus, crusted green and yellow, on her hair and eyes and cheeks and chubby chin. And that sickly-sweet illness smell. She is whiny and sad and mostly miserable.
Yet each time I pick her up, she takes my face in her hands with a shining-eyed grin, leans in, and gives me an unprompted, snot-slobbery open-mouthed kiss on the cheek.
I’m sure she is echoing her sister’s plea, in her own way.
_____
As Eric drove to work today — late, as Lucy and I scrambled to the pharmacy — I’m sure it was with slumped shoulders: Aching physical and emotional tiredness from home, the place that normally gives such rest and relaxation from a very stressful job.
And me. I am touched out and covered in smears, some crunchy, some still soft: Tears and snot and spit and love-infused goobers from my tiny beings.
Yes, we are weary. Yes, we joked about posting an ad on eBay — For Sale: Two Small Children. Slightly Damaged. — when walking home from the farmer’s market yesterday morning, both girls screeching in the stroller.
But there is something so powerful and soul-lifting about them wanting you, and only you. Who knew one day we would wield such unflinching and unwavering comfort?
That is gratitude and love. Unspoken, but ever present.
