November 10, 2009
I have been doing really well physically lately. On the 23rd I have an appointment with Dr. G, my GI doc. I decided to keep track of my bowel movements (frequency and consistency) for a couple of days to get a more objective idea of how I'm doing in preparation for that appointment. They always ask me questions about that, "So how many bowel movements are you having a day now?" And, "What is the consistency?" It's always so hard for me to answer because it depends on so many things. Also, I might have an evening where I've gone once an hour, but the rest of the day I went every four hours, so it's been hard for me to gage because what I remember is that I had gone every hour one evening. Of course what I eat plays a big factor in all this too. I've also been keeping a food journal - writing down everything I've eaten. But I'll tell you, writing down my bowel movements is much, much harder for me mentally than the food journal.
People who were with me when I was in the hospital know why keeping track of my BMs is so difficult. My mom stayed with me overnight in the hospital when I was going to the bathroom sometimes every 20 to 40 minutes. She knew I couldn't bear to write it all down, it was so discouraging, so she would wake up with me (as if she ever fell asleep), and write down the time, all night long. And then it reached the point where my hands were too swollen for me to write, so Jeremy or my dad or whoever else was stuck there in the hospital room with us would write it down for me. We didn't just do this for a day either, mind you. It was basically the entire time I was hospitalized that we had to do this, and there was a lot riding on how frequently I was going. Like whether I was going to need surgery to have my colon removed or not, which also, at one point, meant whether we might have to risk Harper too. We scribbled little notes next to each time entry too: blood, watery, soupy, lots of blood, cramps, etc. Every single day we went over the entries with the GI docs.
So when I track my BMs now, some of those memories come drifting back. But as I was saying before, things are going well. I would say on average I have 8 bowel movements a day, at least one if not two of those is during the night. And what has been surprising to me is that many of my bowel movements are actually pretty solid in consistency. When I had my colon removed, my doctors and surgeons told me not to anticipate having solid bowel movements again. Granted, one serving of salsa or an apple and my next BM will not be solid, but the fact that I can have solid BMs is quite an accomplishment, I'd say! The more solid they are, the less I have to worry about dehydration too.
In addition to all that, for the most part, my body feels normal to me. There is no more pelvic pain (except when I ovulate, which never used to happen to me - so maybe there's some scar tissue there now, but that's okay). It does feel different when I have BMs. Not to go into too much detail (but we're already there now, aren't we?), but when I do have BMs, they are much smaller in shape and come out differently than they did before. I don't really know how to explain it to you, except that it feels different to go too. But even that I'm getting used to now.
I have a couple of concerns to address with Dr. G at my next appointment. I feel pain in the area of one of my surgery scars when I cough or sneeze, and there's a spot on my abdomen that pops out a little when I do those things - so I'm guessing I have a hernia, but it hasn't concerned me too much. I just want to talk with him about that. I haven't been doing my nightly enemas lately and there has been no blood in my stool, so I'm really happy about that. I'm wondering about going on oral medications for that now since it seems like I'm in remission with the remaining UC in my body. I also just want to talk to him about my long term prognosis as far as whether I'll need to have my remaining rectum removed or not. And then both Jeremy and I really want to go over my Cipro use and whether I in fact have chronic pouchitis or not. Finally, I do want to talk to him about what he thinks about my ability to carry a baby. I know, I know - we've started the adoption process, but I still want to have some questions answered. I've had my surgeon and my OB talk with me about it, but realized I had never really talked with Dr. G about it. We're still moving forward with the adoption though - it's just that I need to have some questions answered. Don't worry!
So that's the update on my physical being. I'm grateful that a year post-j-pouch creation I'm doing this well. I honestly did not think I would ever get to this place. And it hasn't even been a year yet since I had my takedown surgery! (Again, for more information on what a j-pouch is, go to www.jpouch.org and click on the "illustrated pouch" section - you'll learn a lot!)
Monday, November 9, 2009
Saturday, November 7, 2009
The dreams of you
November 7, 2009
I am becoming my mother. It's 1:10 a.m. and I am awake and so I write. My entire life I have memories of waking up in the night to find a light on in a room somewhere in the house and there is my mom curled up in her robe, writing in her journal. Like mother like daughter.
It was 6:00 p.m. The sky had just turned dark, but streaks of hot pink floated in the darkness leftover from the sunset. I took the back roads home through the reservation, past the San Xavier Mission. The sight of the white mission softly lit against the dark sky caused my chest to tighten. The coolness of the night air washed over me with the windows down and moon roof open. Emmylou was whispering in melodies to me, words that caught my ears. She sang of a lover, but I think of you, my daughter:
"In my imagination, you are my dear companion, and I'm the one you cling to, and your voice still calls my name . . ."
"In my dreams you are the swallow, coming back to Capistrano, and I'm the sound of the bells you follow, but in this world dreams don't come true."
"Still when you're lost out in the desert, when your fire's a dying ember, the last light you'll remember will be the light I shed for you."
"Mine's an ordinary star love, I see exactly where you are love, and no one else could shine that far love, to bring you safely through."
"And though you say you do not want me, and made no promises to haunt me, I will dream my dream of you."
"The sorrow's low down like a fountain, over the miles beyond our counting, more than the flowers of the mountain or the raindrops in the sea, but if heaven's just a dreaming, surely my love will be redeeming, and you will dream your dream of me."
Only I was your mother. You were so much more than the tissues growing inside me. After all, aren't we all more than the tissues so tentatively strung together? Am I not a compilation of thoughts and dreams and feelings and memories to the people who love me? We shared a battle, didn't we? We fought together. I survived. You didn't. As your mother sometimes I wonder, though you had no language or memory, what did you know? Did you know I was your mother? I think we were probably more alike during that time than we could have ever been at any other time. The battle had me whittled down to my core, down to that instinct written in my DNA to survive. That was all my energy allowed. You were like that too, weren't you? Sweet little girl, did you go softly? It's all I can bear sometimes to think about a life dying inside me. It breaks my heart that I couldn't do more. And I miss the dreams of you.
I am becoming my mother. It's 1:10 a.m. and I am awake and so I write. My entire life I have memories of waking up in the night to find a light on in a room somewhere in the house and there is my mom curled up in her robe, writing in her journal. Like mother like daughter.
It was 6:00 p.m. The sky had just turned dark, but streaks of hot pink floated in the darkness leftover from the sunset. I took the back roads home through the reservation, past the San Xavier Mission. The sight of the white mission softly lit against the dark sky caused my chest to tighten. The coolness of the night air washed over me with the windows down and moon roof open. Emmylou was whispering in melodies to me, words that caught my ears. She sang of a lover, but I think of you, my daughter:
"In my imagination, you are my dear companion, and I'm the one you cling to, and your voice still calls my name . . ."
"In my dreams you are the swallow, coming back to Capistrano, and I'm the sound of the bells you follow, but in this world dreams don't come true."
"Still when you're lost out in the desert, when your fire's a dying ember, the last light you'll remember will be the light I shed for you."
"Mine's an ordinary star love, I see exactly where you are love, and no one else could shine that far love, to bring you safely through."
"And though you say you do not want me, and made no promises to haunt me, I will dream my dream of you."
"The sorrow's low down like a fountain, over the miles beyond our counting, more than the flowers of the mountain or the raindrops in the sea, but if heaven's just a dreaming, surely my love will be redeeming, and you will dream your dream of me."
Only I was your mother. You were so much more than the tissues growing inside me. After all, aren't we all more than the tissues so tentatively strung together? Am I not a compilation of thoughts and dreams and feelings and memories to the people who love me? We shared a battle, didn't we? We fought together. I survived. You didn't. As your mother sometimes I wonder, though you had no language or memory, what did you know? Did you know I was your mother? I think we were probably more alike during that time than we could have ever been at any other time. The battle had me whittled down to my core, down to that instinct written in my DNA to survive. That was all my energy allowed. You were like that too, weren't you? Sweet little girl, did you go softly? It's all I can bear sometimes to think about a life dying inside me. It breaks my heart that I couldn't do more. And I miss the dreams of you.
Friday, November 6, 2009
And still I yearn
November 6, 2009
I've been in a funk lately, emotionally speaking. I'm noticing a pattern to this funk too. Every month when I ovulate it happens to me. The other night I came across a journal that I bought when I was pregnant with Harper. Such a pretty journal. It has flowers along the edges. At the top in small print is the word "BEGIN." There's a butterfly at the bottom outlined in hints of gold. I sat looking at the journal and traced the gold with my fingers. I remember picking it out. I was so excited that this journal was going to be my pregnancy journal. Now the word "BEGIN" just mocks me.
I opened the journal and started reading, only to slam it shut a few moments later. Nope. Couldn't do it. I wish I didn't know what I was missing out on. I wish I had never been pregnant. Ignorance is bliss. Instead, I know. Before I was pregnant there wasn't the deep, deep desire that I have now to carry a baby. My whole world changed when I was pregnant. A deep contentment came over me. The world was full of such vibrant colors. I marveled at everything. Everything was beautiful. I know, it sounds sappy, doesn't it? But that's what happened to me. And that was how I felt even when I was getting sick!! Oh, not to mention what feeling Harper move inside me was like.
It doesn't just go away, the desire. I feel like an addict sometimes the way I think about it, the way I want it. I think about how my body was denied the completion of the process it had started. My body was cheated, I was cheated. Drops of milk escaped from my breasts for a while after I delivered Harper. Oh that was hard. The fibers of my being knew it was not fair or right what happened.
And still I yearn . . .
I've been in a funk lately, emotionally speaking. I'm noticing a pattern to this funk too. Every month when I ovulate it happens to me. The other night I came across a journal that I bought when I was pregnant with Harper. Such a pretty journal. It has flowers along the edges. At the top in small print is the word "BEGIN." There's a butterfly at the bottom outlined in hints of gold. I sat looking at the journal and traced the gold with my fingers. I remember picking it out. I was so excited that this journal was going to be my pregnancy journal. Now the word "BEGIN" just mocks me.
I opened the journal and started reading, only to slam it shut a few moments later. Nope. Couldn't do it. I wish I didn't know what I was missing out on. I wish I had never been pregnant. Ignorance is bliss. Instead, I know. Before I was pregnant there wasn't the deep, deep desire that I have now to carry a baby. My whole world changed when I was pregnant. A deep contentment came over me. The world was full of such vibrant colors. I marveled at everything. Everything was beautiful. I know, it sounds sappy, doesn't it? But that's what happened to me. And that was how I felt even when I was getting sick!! Oh, not to mention what feeling Harper move inside me was like.
It doesn't just go away, the desire. I feel like an addict sometimes the way I think about it, the way I want it. I think about how my body was denied the completion of the process it had started. My body was cheated, I was cheated. Drops of milk escaped from my breasts for a while after I delivered Harper. Oh that was hard. The fibers of my being knew it was not fair or right what happened.
And still I yearn . . .
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
Nice and easy
November 3,00 2009
I don't quite understand why when I wake up in the night, memories of being in the hospital are the images that are there with me. It's like they've moved from the forefront of my mind to the edge of my subconscious and they just hang out there waiting for my reality to be unclear to pounce. This morning at 3-something I struggled with memories of the 100 pounds of fluid weight I carried while I was in the hospital. All these frustrations came to mind that made going back to sleep difficult for me.
There are still unanswered questions. There are unanswered questions that I have to let go of. For the most part I have, but at 3-something in the morning, they find their way back to me. I could list for you what the questions are, but I know that won't be helpful for me. Why do I want answers? Why do any of us want answers? Because with answers comes responsibility: someone or something to blame. It gives us a sense of control over tragedy and the randomness of it all. With answers comes protection: we can keep horrors from happening to us again if we know why they happened to begin with. But things just don't happen that way. So I'll keep on learning to let go of my desire to control everything around me so bad things don't happen again. I'll let go of the questions, as hard as that may be, and trust that if (or should I say when) bad things happen, I will have the strength and support to deal with them.
Oh Abby, it all sounds so nice and easy, but you know it's not. No it's not easy, not when your heart has broken. Blah, blah, blah - just words.
If I keep telling myself that's what I want to believe, maybe it will make it easier to believe it.
I don't quite understand why when I wake up in the night, memories of being in the hospital are the images that are there with me. It's like they've moved from the forefront of my mind to the edge of my subconscious and they just hang out there waiting for my reality to be unclear to pounce. This morning at 3-something I struggled with memories of the 100 pounds of fluid weight I carried while I was in the hospital. All these frustrations came to mind that made going back to sleep difficult for me.
There are still unanswered questions. There are unanswered questions that I have to let go of. For the most part I have, but at 3-something in the morning, they find their way back to me. I could list for you what the questions are, but I know that won't be helpful for me. Why do I want answers? Why do any of us want answers? Because with answers comes responsibility: someone or something to blame. It gives us a sense of control over tragedy and the randomness of it all. With answers comes protection: we can keep horrors from happening to us again if we know why they happened to begin with. But things just don't happen that way. So I'll keep on learning to let go of my desire to control everything around me so bad things don't happen again. I'll let go of the questions, as hard as that may be, and trust that if (or should I say when) bad things happen, I will have the strength and support to deal with them.
Oh Abby, it all sounds so nice and easy, but you know it's not. No it's not easy, not when your heart has broken. Blah, blah, blah - just words.
If I keep telling myself that's what I want to believe, maybe it will make it easier to believe it.
Saturday, October 31, 2009
Pecan pie (not another H&S moment - I promise)
October 31, 2009
"Oh, this is what I love," I said to Jeremy, clapping me hands with a big smile on my face. "I know you do Abby. I've got the manual on you," he said. There are moments in my life that are so fulfilling, I can hardly stand it. Last night produced quite a few of those for me. Might I share with you?
My former supervisor at work, Ford, and his wife Marie came over for dinner last night. Ford retired in August, and I hadn't seen him since his last day of work. Ford is one of the most gentle souls I know, and he and Marie together, well let's just say I hope that Jeremy and I are as simpatico as they are when we've been married forty years.
So hostessing and entertaining is a huge pleasure for me. And quite honestly, since my illness, it has become much less stressful. It used to be that if we were having people over for dinner I would more likely than not end up with a tension headache during the dinner. I worried about the cleanliness of my home, the timing of all the food being ready, etc., etc. But something happened to me when, during my hospitalization, people were in and out of my house all the time without me being there. I realized on a very deep level that what people care about is me. It's not my house or my food or anything else. That realization has really affected me in a positive way.
So it was with a relaxed effort that I prepared for the dinner last night. On Wednesday evening I buttered and brown-sugared the butternut squash and baked it till it was tender. I scooped the flesh out and saved it in the fridge until Friday night. Thursday morning during my morning off from work I mixed and rested my pie crust dough, then gently battled with it as I formed it into a very homemade looking crust. I beat together the eggs and sugar and Karo and pecans and then filled the house with the scent of warm pecan pie as I set the table. Little tiger pumpkins, green apples and candles ran in a row down the center of the table as my centerpiece. It was all coming together in my mind and I could hardly wait!
Jeremy is always in charge of the music rotation when we have company, and I love it! He and I are in sink about the mood we want to set. Sam Cooke, Neil Halstad, Tom Waits, The Cheyenne Mize and Bonnie Prince Billy, and Dean Martin took turns crooning out tunes as I began chopping the Granny Smiths for the apple salad and Jeremy lit the fire and the candles throughout the house. A quick phone call to mom: "I thought you were having company tonight," she said as she answered the phone. "I am. I don't have much time to talk, but I wanted to know what's your ratio of mayonnaise to sugar in the dressing you make for your salad?" She laughed and told me. I whipped together the dressing and added a touch of cinnamon. The walnuts were toasting in the oven. I could smell them. Oops! They were burning just a touch - time to pull them out! I tossed together the apples, walnuts, and dressing and then added a little feta cheese and set the dish in the fridge.
Ford and Marie arrived just as I was slicing the bread for the bruschetta. Jeremy opened a bottle of Shiraz and a bottle of Pinot Grigio and we all sipped our wine as we chatted while I brushed the bread with olive oil and a little garlic salt while simultaneously browning onions in olive oil and adding the ginger and chicken stock. "I think we should toast adoption," Marie said as she raised her glass. "Oh I think that's a great idea!" We all clicked glasses and began excitedly talking about the adventure Jeremy and I were embarking on. I interrupted the talk with the noise of the food processor as I put the final components of the butternut squash soup together. A dollop of sour cream in the middle and a dusting of ground up flax seed and we were ready to sit down to dinner.
We sat and ate and talked and drank. After our meal we moved to the other half of the room and sat in front of the warmth of the fireplace and talked some more. I plated the pecan pie and brewed a pot of fresh coffee. We laughed and ate and shared some more. Oh it was just all so relaxing and good. These are the moments . . . the very fulfilling moments. And I just wanted to share because most of the time I use this blog to sort through all the tough stuff, but it isn't always tough. There is richness and pleasure and pecan pie!!
"Oh, this is what I love," I said to Jeremy, clapping me hands with a big smile on my face. "I know you do Abby. I've got the manual on you," he said. There are moments in my life that are so fulfilling, I can hardly stand it. Last night produced quite a few of those for me. Might I share with you?
My former supervisor at work, Ford, and his wife Marie came over for dinner last night. Ford retired in August, and I hadn't seen him since his last day of work. Ford is one of the most gentle souls I know, and he and Marie together, well let's just say I hope that Jeremy and I are as simpatico as they are when we've been married forty years.
So hostessing and entertaining is a huge pleasure for me. And quite honestly, since my illness, it has become much less stressful. It used to be that if we were having people over for dinner I would more likely than not end up with a tension headache during the dinner. I worried about the cleanliness of my home, the timing of all the food being ready, etc., etc. But something happened to me when, during my hospitalization, people were in and out of my house all the time without me being there. I realized on a very deep level that what people care about is me. It's not my house or my food or anything else. That realization has really affected me in a positive way.
So it was with a relaxed effort that I prepared for the dinner last night. On Wednesday evening I buttered and brown-sugared the butternut squash and baked it till it was tender. I scooped the flesh out and saved it in the fridge until Friday night. Thursday morning during my morning off from work I mixed and rested my pie crust dough, then gently battled with it as I formed it into a very homemade looking crust. I beat together the eggs and sugar and Karo and pecans and then filled the house with the scent of warm pecan pie as I set the table. Little tiger pumpkins, green apples and candles ran in a row down the center of the table as my centerpiece. It was all coming together in my mind and I could hardly wait!
Jeremy is always in charge of the music rotation when we have company, and I love it! He and I are in sink about the mood we want to set. Sam Cooke, Neil Halstad, Tom Waits, The Cheyenne Mize and Bonnie Prince Billy, and Dean Martin took turns crooning out tunes as I began chopping the Granny Smiths for the apple salad and Jeremy lit the fire and the candles throughout the house. A quick phone call to mom: "I thought you were having company tonight," she said as she answered the phone. "I am. I don't have much time to talk, but I wanted to know what's your ratio of mayonnaise to sugar in the dressing you make for your salad?" She laughed and told me. I whipped together the dressing and added a touch of cinnamon. The walnuts were toasting in the oven. I could smell them. Oops! They were burning just a touch - time to pull them out! I tossed together the apples, walnuts, and dressing and then added a little feta cheese and set the dish in the fridge.
Ford and Marie arrived just as I was slicing the bread for the bruschetta. Jeremy opened a bottle of Shiraz and a bottle of Pinot Grigio and we all sipped our wine as we chatted while I brushed the bread with olive oil and a little garlic salt while simultaneously browning onions in olive oil and adding the ginger and chicken stock. "I think we should toast adoption," Marie said as she raised her glass. "Oh I think that's a great idea!" We all clicked glasses and began excitedly talking about the adventure Jeremy and I were embarking on. I interrupted the talk with the noise of the food processor as I put the final components of the butternut squash soup together. A dollop of sour cream in the middle and a dusting of ground up flax seed and we were ready to sit down to dinner.
We sat and ate and talked and drank. After our meal we moved to the other half of the room and sat in front of the warmth of the fireplace and talked some more. I plated the pecan pie and brewed a pot of fresh coffee. We laughed and ate and shared some more. Oh it was just all so relaxing and good. These are the moments . . . the very fulfilling moments. And I just wanted to share because most of the time I use this blog to sort through all the tough stuff, but it isn't always tough. There is richness and pleasure and pecan pie!!
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