Flat-Out Friday: Baby Shaming

Stop me if you've done this before: You've just dressed to go out, and you turn and look in the mirror. "Well, I guess it won't ever look like it did on the mannequin," you think with a sigh before heading out the door. With me so far? We all know that's body shaming, and we ALL know that it's wrong, that we shouldn't do it to ourselves, and that it isn't healthy.

I have a confession to make: since I got pregnant, I've reverted back to doing it. Except now, it's more like "baby shaming".

It started innocently enough. I was trying on clothes in a maternity store in November when the sales lady asked me how far along I was. "15 weeks", I declared with a smile. And for that, I got an "Oh." Oh? Who says OH? People who are judging you based on how you look, that's who. And with that seed planted in my mind, it has been a daily battle ever since. I even made a face and excuses when my own mother asked me for belly photos so she can see the baby's progress from three provinces away.

Does it matter that I'm not 5'9" and skinny to begin with so that my perfectly round belly can be seen above the waistline of my designer lowcut jeans that still fit me? According to the lady who works in an industry where she sees pregnant women every single day, it does. Does it matter that my belly isn't actually perfectly round at all, but kinda slopes out from underneath my heart until it gets all wibbly down around my belly button? Oh, you bet it does because it isn't shaped like the little pillow they give you for trying clothes on.

All right then. Find me the pillow that's been run over by an armoured car. Find me the pants that will take away the swelling that just gets bigger as I grow, and will even out the places where my abdominal tissue has been eaten away by lumps of injured and calcified flesh. Find my the shirt that, at 6 months pregnant, will make me look like the classically pregnant lady and not just like someone trying to cram themselves into whatever they have in the closet. Betcha you can't, because it doesn't exist.

At my check-up two weeks ago I finally hit the weight I was when I first got pregnant. That's GAINING IT BACK, folks. I lost weight consistently until I hit the 4 month mark. Constant sickness and an sudden aversion to many foods will do that to you. So you would think that in my head I would know that I'm gaining weight safely, naturally, and that if anything, my baby might be a bit on the small side.

You would think that. But no.

I have to go in for the Glucose Tolerance Test on Monday - the stage 2 one with the waiting and the fasting and all that jazz. Apparently my sister and my mother both had to do this test, so it's probably just genetic that we were all a little elevated in our blood sugars during pregnancy. The way I broke down and cried when I found out, though - well, I thought I was a monster, that I couldn't even grow a baby properly, that I was a general waste of humanity. None of my logic - my previous injuries, my healthy weight gain, my genetics - helped at all. I was baby shaming in the highest degree.

THIS IS NOT OKAY.

Inside me right now is growing a beautiful baby boy, and he will be loved and cherished. So his mum should feel the same way while she helps him grow, social norms and expectations be damned.

Yep, that's Christmas Daleks and the TARDIS on my shirt

To the lady at the maternity store: I am creating life and I am magnificent. 
To all the pictures on the internet: I have strength and courage beyond imagination.
To all pregnant ladies and mothers: My beauty will shine through every time my child smiles.
To myself I will add: I will remember this every single day.

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From One Survivor to Another

This week I was asked by a dear friend to send along a note of encouragement and support to one of his family members who was unlucky enough to experience something similar to what I did two years ago. This request was very humbling but I agreed right away. Today, I would like to share what I sent with all of you. 

(PS: the recipient is a giant Doctor Who fan - I couldn't help myself.)

... two years ago I ended up being as incredibly unlucky as you. I was crossing a street in Medicine Hat on the green light when an armoured car went through it. I ended up with three broken vertebrae, three complete breaks in my pelvis, a broken leg, broken ankles and feet, and a lot of messed up stuff in my head. It took me a long time to get better, but I wanted to write to you to let you know a few things:  

1. IT CAN HAPPEN. It may not be 100% or occur exactly the way you expect it, and it may take a lot longer than you want it to, but with faith and courage you will suddenly reach a point where the measly 1% left won't matter anymore, and you'll be left with the raw strength and willpower that comes from doing something most people would find too painful to bear. I can walk, I can dance, I can bear children. No one believed I would be able to do this when my accident first happened. I did, and now I can.
2. Besides, you should congratulating yourself. YOU'RE A SURVIVOR! No one will ever be able to take that away from you. You experienced something awful and you are kicking its butt every single day just by being here and fighting to get better. 
3. Speaking of which, YOU ARE THE ONE FIGHTING THIS which means you have the freedom to do all kinds of things you wouldn't normally do: cry, scream, be sad, have a rough day. But it also means that somewhere deep inside you have the power to laugh, smile, dream about the future, and make plans for when "it's all over". Don't feel guilty about your feelings. They are yours and there is no one else in the room who can understand exactly why you are feeling them. 
4. So, the best thing for you and your loved ones is to LET EVERYTHING OUT. Don't bottle your feelings, and don't ask your family and friends to bottle theirs. Everyone right now is grieving, all in their own ways, and getting through that grief so you can get to the hope that lies underneath is a huge step in figuring all this stuff out.
5. KEEP YOUR BRAIN STRONG. Sure, that's easier said than done in a hospital where all the walls have dumb medical equipment on them that remind you of all the pain you've already been through, but try. Do crosswords, have someone read aloud to you, play games, solve puzzles: there are so many options, especially with the free wi-fi courtesy of the hospital, that there is no reason why you should ever be lying in bed confronting your memories if you don't want to. That being said...
6. LET THE PROFESSIONALS HELP. That is what they are there for. Don't think of them as strangers or be concerned that they might think your fears are silly. They are not the ones that survived the traumatic experience; you did. Tell them everything, no matter how ridiculous you think it is (including how scared you are of needles). You'd be surprised how healing having someone listen is. I guarantee it will drain you at first and you won't want to talk about your sessions, but understand that you don't have to until you are ready.
7. People will ask (if they haven't already) "So, are you better now?" My response was always a very simple and firm, "No". You don't need to apologize for your answer or qualify it in any way. If they don't know you well enough that they ask you insensitive questions like that, don't waste your time. LIFE IS TOO SHORT TO PUT UP WITH DUMB PEOPLE. (See also #3)
8. It's been two years since my accident. I have seen countless doctors, mental health professionals, physiotherapists, etc., and the one piece of advice I can safely offer about all of this is that NO ONE PERSON KNOWS ALL THE ANSWERS. 
9. I'm sure right now you're feeling more like a prop than a patient, as all the decision makers whisk in and out and spout random bits of your medical history at you. Don't let them make you feel like that. ASK QUESTIONS. If someone doesn't know the answer, ask the next person that comes in. Ask the same questions over and over until they either send someone in to talk to you directly or until you get a satisfactory reply. Everyone has opinions - it takes a keen patient to differentiate between those opinions and solid medical fact. The professionals I got the most useful info from were always my physiotherapists, so even if the question wasn't directly related, I'd still ask them. As a group they really like fixing things - it's why they became physiotherapists in the first place. If they don't know the answer or if there is a problem you need dealt with, they are the best people to help you "fix" it.
10. Once you get answers to your questions, you'll begin to feel like you're taking charge of your own healing. This is good because NO ONE CAN HEAL YOU BUT YOU. You have to be in charge of it. That means telling your physiotherapist that today hasn't been a good day, or letting your nurses know that you are uncomfortable and need help to move. But it also means that on good days you push yourself as far as you can. It means having achievable goals and believing you can do just a little more than yesterday. And then at some point out of the blue you will be able to turn the corner into your hospital room and walk up to your mom without any help, who will insist on taking pictures even though she's crying and can't really see the screen. And then, a little after that, you'll be sleeping in your own bed at home and nothing in the world feels better than that first night at home. Nothing.

My own recovery was full of setbacks. Yours will be too. But I hope that this advice helps you push through them. Each one will peel away a little more of who you think you are, and when you reach your 99% point, you will be shiny, you will be strong, and you will believe you are the person that your mother always saw inside you. Every one of the steps you take now you are taking for you. Make the most of them.

Feel free to email me back if you have any specific questions. Like I said, I've done all this stuff and I not only survived it, I beat it up, stood on top of it, and shouted "I HAVE THE POWER!"

One last piece of advice: If you have a really bad day, one that you can't possibly see the light in, remember the 9th Doctor staring down the Daleks. You are the Doctor and this is part of your reincarnation. Tell those Daleks exactly what will happen if they mess with you. Like I said, don't hold anything back.

I'm sure you will make a grand Time Lord. Welcome to the Survivor's Guild.

All the best,

Krista

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Flat-Out Friday: I'm WHAT?

 
Yep, the rumours are true. I am pregnant. I know that previously in this blog I have discussed how unlikely this would ever be, that I might never be able to conceive, and that I wasn't even sure if I wanted to. But here's the thing:

I have never seen my husband more excited than he was when we saw that little heartbeat on the monitor.

We'll assume Sonic is waving "hi" and not giving us the finger

And I couldn't help but think and feel that this blessing was just one more miracle in my already miraculous life. 

How did we get here, planning for an April baby, from accepting that we would be a childless household? It's a long story. I hope you've gone pee. 

See, way back when my negative family doctor put me on my diet and told me to lose weight, I thought that a good motivator would be that I was getting myself into better shape so I could try for a baby again. I figured it would take a year or so, and I knew Matt was expecting to know where the military would be sending him by March 2014. So I set my sights on next year. Then, after seeing the specialist who informed me that I may not ever be able to conceive, I had to reconsider my strategy. Did it make sense to still try for a family? I went to my trusted sources back in Ontario for advice - three long-time OB/GYN family friends - and the response was unanimous. "Don't let one opinion change your life. Start trying now."

So I went out and bought a Basal thermometer and diligently starting taking my temperature every morning. The literature said I should have a base temperature that I would hover around every day until ovulation, when it peaks. I carefully charted everything, and when I realized that my chart looked like a profile of the Himalayas and I hadn't actually gotten my period like I should have, I called my mum and asked her to pass on my concerns to our friends again. Her response? "Maybe you're already pregnant."

Yeah sure, Mum, I said. 

Famous last words. I waited another week before I broke down and bought the most sophisticated piece of technology I will ever pee on, and peed on it. And when I told Matt later that day not to freak out and presented him with the Sonic Screwdriver that said I was "Pregnant", I was still in disbelief. 

Then I started throwing up. A lot. And yet I still didn't want to believe. I had my first prenatal appointment, and then my second. And even though I had been sick so much that I had lost weight between them, I still wasn't quite believing it. Nothing seemed real until I looked at my tiny miracle on the screen yesterday and saw its little heart beating like a hummingbird. 

Now it seems all too real. I'm going to be a mommy. I am carrying a life inside me and it's alive and healthy and craving Kraft Dinner. I am starting to use it as an excuse now. "I'm sorry, but I'm pregnant and I'm starving" has become a popular one, followed closely by "I just have to set my alarm a bit early so I can be sick".

And I would like to apologize to all of you for disappearing off the radar for the last little while. It's hard to not to write about something that consumes your every breathing moment. And truthfully, between the pregnancy and the therapy and the settlement, these past few months have been so overwhelming that most days I was lucky if I was awake for more than a couple hours at a time. 

However, my therapy is over. My settlement is settled. And my pregnancy is confirmed and going very well. So I will be back with all the details from all of those exciting things that have happened lately. Even though the accident and that "flat-out" period has drawn to a close, Flat-Out Whimsy is here to stay. 

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Flat-Out Friday: The Great Motorcycle Debate

About the only thing that Matt and I have disagreed on since we've been together has been motorcycles. And really, it's only been since my accident that our opposing opinions have actually come up against one another. It's not that I am against anything that goes fast on two wheels, or other people owning them - in fact, my family has a long, wonderful relationship with cycles.

My grandfather started his working life at the locomotive construction yard in Kingston, tinkering away on huge steam engines. When the yard closed, he went to work at Queens University, and in his spare time he opened a small shop that repaired and rebuilt motorcycles. He owned all kinds of them - the last one I remember is a Triumph that he posed with for his retirement picture. My mum grew up driving them. My father owned one. I drove on the back of a moped in Bermuda with my dad when I was just a little girl. By all rights I should be completely comfortable with two-wheeled transportation.

But something about watching helplessly as a 10-ton vehicle drives over you and smashes your pelvis makes you reconsider your opinions about everything.

Lately his friends have been goading him about not owning a bike. They have been trying to convince him that he is less of a "real man" because we don't have one. And while I understand the practicalities of owning one - less gas, frees up the car for me, etc. - I have been balking at every turn.

I think it's because it's something I can control. No, I can't control what other drivers do on the road, or what happens every time he crosses a street, or the dangers of his chosen profession. But the one thing I do have some control over is our owning a motorcycle. And the very last thing I ever want anyone I love to experience is what I did one August morning. But when I think of motorcycles, my mind inevitably goes to that unfortunate few rides that end with the rider skidding across the pavement and under the tires of a much larger vehicle.

Will this reaction fade with time? Or will I always be hesitant of bikes? Am I being completely irrational? Is this something I should just accept? Honestly, I don't know if I can just swallow my fears and watch Matt drive off on one. But am I just being stubborn by not letting him explore this desire? All this is enough to make me sick. Blech.

What do you all think? I'm asking for some advice from you, my readers. What are your thoughts?

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Flat-Out Friday: Cough, Sneeze, Snickt!

I'm sick. Ugh. I have a head cold. My nose is running and my throat is sore. It's gross.

I don't get sick very often, which bodes well for how my immune system is coping with all this accident stuff. And since I was battling three very different infections in the hospital (thanks in no small part to all those people out there that don't wash their hands), it seems my body is getting what it needs from my diet habits now to fight off most of what comes my way. I'm sure I picked this up at the YMCA, or on the bus, or at the hospital - any of the myriad of public places I visit on a weekly basis. But since I can't very well avoid any of these, I'm taking this as a reminder to improve my fresh fruit intake.

Unfortunately, on the rare occasion that I do get sick now, I immediately turn into the world's biggest baby. Of all the worst possible things that could happen, me getting sick is the WORST. POSSIBLE. THING. I turn into a full-on Rarity, wallowing in... whatever it is that ponies are supposed to wallow in. I can't possibly do anything for myself, and end up eating cake for dinner because it's made and I just need to find a fork. I call my mum and tell her I need her to make it better, which doesn't go over well because she's in Ontario and can't really do anything about it anyways. But I still tell her she has to.

This is my mum. She's magic, I tell you. MAGIC.

Because she has magical healing powers. Seriously.

See, when I was in the hospital generally getting my butt kicked by my broke ass and these persistent infections, I would get up in the morning, have breakfast, and go to physio. When I got back, my mum would always be there, waiting for me. I'd put my crippled butt in my wheelchair and we'd go out to the Tim Hortons in the hospital lobby for an iced coffee, half sweet. Usually, Mum would also get some breakfast, because she has this condition where she doesn't eat until someone pointedly mentions it. Thank god it's not contagious.

If it was a nice day, we'd take our drinks and do battle with the wasps outside so I could get some sunshine. We would talk as if I wasn't in a yellow Infection Control jacket with two air casts on my legs and some seriously broken body parts. She'd make me forget I had nearly died and instead we plotted all the kinds of revenge I'd take with my insurance settlement, most of which had to do with going to Disney World and having a kick-ass wedding. She'd take me to the shower and help me bathe, brush my hair and braid it back from my face. And while she did all of this, I healed myself, not unlike Wolverine.

So, if she could do all that then, imagine what she could do when I just have a cold. The germs would fly out of my pores to get away from all the awesome. I could crush this thing like I had adamantium sinuses. Cold germs would be afraid to come near me for fear of being wiped from this earth. I'm telling you, if I am a superhero, then my mum is too.

Now all I need is for her to win the lottery so she can retire and make me chicken soup when I need it. I can't possibly see how this plan could fail.

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Happy Second Anniversary!

Two years today. It's been two years, and I'm still standing. Thank you to all of you for your love, faith, and understanding. It's been struggle after struggle and fight after fight, but with all the support it's been tolerable, and with a safe place to express myself, it's been healing.

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Flat-Out Friday: Blaze of Sorry

  

I'm going down in a blaaaaaaaze of sorry...

Oh Bon Jovi. Thank you for being so incredibly corruptible to meet my needs. Because this is how I feel - like I'm getting shot down in some sick, apologetic hailstorm of crap. I have had a bouquet of GPs since the accident, and aside from the one that had a stroke and can't be blamed, only one of them has had any real idea of how to treat me. The others - well, I've been called a junkie, had a whole team of doctors refuse to assign me one person to oversee my case, and now I have one so fixated on my weight that she disregards my perfectly logical requests.

I went to see my family doctor on Monday morning, armed with the information from the occupational medicine doctor from Calgary. I was anxious to see her as she is going on medical leave for 4 months to have a hip replaced, and I wanted to make sure I had some things sorted out while she was away. The first thing she always does is ask how many times a week I swim, to which I respond "twice" because it is currently the upper echelon of my physical ability. Shaking her head as though I've done something wrong, she then asks me how much I weigh. When I stand on the scale and it hasn't changed since the last time, she tsks me. TSKS ME. As though swimming and gaining muscle is going to somehow make me lighter. She doesn't mention the inches I've lost around my stomach, even though I can now fit into clothes I last wore over a year ago. Still not daunted, I launch into my story about the specialist visit in Calgary.

The first thing I bring up is the issue with pelvic fractures affecting fertility. I ask for a referral to a fertility clinic to explore it further. She shakes her head again, with the response that any referral to a clinic of that kind is such a huge investigation that unless we have been actively trying to 2 years to get pregnant and haven't, she won't even consider referring me. I indicate that it's been two years since the accident (two years exactly on Monday), and that we haven't been using any contraceptives since. She then suggests that maybe the fault is with Matt. Deadpan, I inform her of his four children with his ex-wife. When she sits and stares at me blankly, I counter with asking for imaging of the area - MRI, ultrasound, xrays, all of it - since I'd like to know what it all looks like now, 2 years down the line. Again, a shake of the head and she tells me that there is no imaging that will show the amount of scar tissue build-up (a complete lie) and that it won't prove anything. Her last parting shot on the subject? "You don't even know if you want to have children, so you need to make up your mind first."

Excuse me? 

How is it even possible that the health care system is so broken that, instead of trying to figure out if it is even possible for me to have kids, I have to decide if I want to try and then try and fail before they'll do anything. It seems backwards to me. Don't see if it's even possible - just put yourself through all kinds of mental anguish trying to decide and then not getting pregnant anyway.

The second issue I bring up - the nerve damage and possible effected reflexes - is met with complete ignorance. She has no response for me, even when I ask for a neurologist's opinion, as if we've reached the point of no return and she can't be bothered with me any more. Indicating that she'll wait until the specialist's report is in her hand, she berates me for my weight again, a parting shot before she opens the door signalling the end of the appointment, and tells me to make an appointment for December when she's back from her surgery.

So what now? What am I supposed to do for 4 months without a GP and no direction? Apparently losing weight should be on the top of my agenda, but the way I feel about my doctor right now, she can go rub salt. I'll weigh what I want, I'll swim as much as I want, and I'll feel good about doing it. If my weight goes down, then fine, but if not, then fine. 

I don't care.

I'm waiting for the specialist's report, just to see what my lawyer has to say, and my psychiatrist, and my physiotherapist: professionals that actually give a crap and care about my care. I'll go from there. And if my doctor doesn't happen to be involved for the next four months, whatever.

It'll all be in the reports anyway.

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Flat-Out Friday: Roadside Attractions

So amongst other things that occurred this week, one of the biggest events was a trip to Calgary to see another specialist. Matt has had this past week off for summer leave so he was able to drive me, which was good because I was nervous. How nervous was I? Every time I saw some poor animal dead on the side of the road I started panicking because its family would never see it again, and how would they know it wasn't coming back, and how would they grieve if they never knew, and...

Yeah. You get the idea: I was a real wreck. Luckily, I have drugs for just such an occasion.

This specialist visit was important, both for my health in the near and distant future, and for my pending legal action. The doctor I saw was very nice, very straight-forward, and gave me some of the most honest opinions I have encountered in the Alberta Health system since I was flattened by a bank truck. I could almost go through the clinical details of the event without tears, which arrived when he asked me how I was now. They always seem to show up when someone asks me how I'm doing currently which is both annoying and frustrating.

He did a physical exam, looked at all the sites of soft tissue damage, made me walk and bend for him, and then he whacked my knees with a little hammer. Then he did it again. And again. He spent five whole minutes whacking me on the knees to activate my reflexes. But here's the thing: my right leg barely moved the whole time. Somehow, through two years of therapy and treatment, people have neglected to note that my right leg is pretty much riding on the short bus. Holy cow, people. All it took was a little hammer and a whack for this guy to figure out something NO ONE ELSE had.

But it gets better! Act now and you can have two life-changing discoveries for the price of one!

As I'm describing my injuries and re-telling my tale, he pauses in taking notes and looks at me. "Did anyone ever tell you," he says as if he's not about to change my life, "that severe pelvic injuries like yours are very likely to make you infertile?"

Luckily I was sitting down at the time.

"Okay, so I'm telling you now: women who have pelvic trauma are very likely to be infertile afterwards."

Thank you, nice doctor, for one again imparting information that would have been useful TWO YEARS AGO. I made sure he was going to put that in his report, along with the fact that no one had bothered to tell me this. I just don't get it. I've been seeing so many doctors and specialists for the last two years and not a single one of them had even brought up the idea that this might be the case. Every medical professional was all, "oh, you will just have to have some extra care during pregnancy" and "well, one miscarriage doesn't mean anything - the rate is at about 50% of all pregnancies self-terminating". Yeah. Thanks for nothing.

I have an appointment with my GP on Tuesday. I will be asking to be referred to both a neurologist and an obstetrician. Because shit just got real, and I'm tired of not having all the information. I know that your family doctor is supposed to be the seer of the "big picture" in terms of a person's health, but I just can't carry on that way any more. If I'm not seeing the big picture, then no one is. I'm not taking this lying down. I will be my own advocate if I have to be.

It's not fair or right, but it's the only way anything ever seems to get ahead in my very complicated case.

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Flat-Out Friday: Don't Ever Stop Writing That F**king Blog

So yeah, the last month or so has been harder than normal. And yeah, I've been sporadic about posting on the blog. But I was told by someone dear to me, "seriously, don't ever stop writing that f**king blog", so I'm hacking away at today's post with the determination of a termite in a wooden house. Gnaw, gnaw, gnaw, etc.

I've been seeing my new psychologist for a few weeks now, and she's good. Really good. But it seems like every time I see her I spend the whole hour crying uncontrollably, and then I've effectively drained myself of any energy I had to begin with, walking around like a puffy-eyed zombie for the remainder of the day. Which would be okay if the appointments weren't on Fridays, which really puts a dent in your summer evening plans. I am hoping today's appointment will be less so, but I doubt it. We are going to try to see a concert tonight at K-Days, so I hope to be less... bleary.

What we've been going over (and through) is my grief surrounding the accident itself. I did mention before that I hadn't really grieved for what I lost, and it's true: I lost that innocence and spontaneity that comes with being young, head over heels in love, and having very few limitations. I was 30, newly moved to Alberta, working two great jobs. My then-boyfriend was thrilled to have someone to experience life with. We had plans to visit the US, weekend in Calgary, tour vineyards and historical sites; we were living every day to its fullest.

And then everything changed.

I am far from innocent now. As for being spontaneous, we can't do anything without thinking four steps ahead. We bought K-Days passes for the entire duration of the Expo. We wanted to see concerts and play games on a whim, but quickly realized that I can't stand in a field to watch three hours of music and had to find lawn chairs for sale. Suddenly it's not that pick-up-and-go experience that a young couple with no children should have. We have to plan to pack the chairs, take a bag with supplies in case I need painkillers or extra sun protection (the pills I'm on make me super sun sensitive), and plan to go a different day to walk around and play games because I can't sit for hours and then walk around for a few more.

It's like being a parent, except most new parents get nine months to plan and organize their lives to adjust to the new addition. My life changed in the span of sixty seconds on a sunny Friday morning. I then got two months to re-learn how to tolerate the pain, sit, stand, walk, climb stairs, use the bathroom, wash myself. I was sent home with some mobility aids and a "good luck". I had no time to adjust to my new limitations before I realized I was saddled with them forever.

FOREVER.

That's what I'm grieving about. Now you can understand why it's taken two years for me to realize this. I certainly wouldn't want to confront it if I didn't have to. And now you can understand why these last weeks have been hard. I'm in mourning and yet still trying to celebrate the life I'm here to live. It's a struggle on a good day. On a bad one, it's hard to wake up. But I do because I must.

And I must because there is so much life waiting for me to live it. I just have to remember to pack a bag to take along for the ride.

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Week in Review: Flat and Out

Before you ask: No, I did not forget to post on Friday. I just didn't, or couldn't to be more precise. I spent an hour with my therapist dealing with a break through and the subsequent non-stop crying, and afterward I was too tired to sit down and go through it all again here.

The weekend was fabulous. We went to a baseball game for free, courtesy of the Edmonton Prospects ball club's Military and Service Appreciation Day. The weather was gorgeous (a little too nice according to our sunburns) and we enjoyed some quality ballpark hot dogs. We watched the Prospects lose in a 10th inning overturn by the Melville Millionaires, but had a great time. We also went for a BBQ at a friend's house and enjoyed some giant steaks and corn on the cob.

So in regards to Friday. I realized that, in my sessions I had in Medicine Hat, I was grieving but I wasn't grieving for me. I was grieving for the miscarriage and my grandfather, but not for me. I lost a piece of myself I'll never be able to regain and I didn't even stop to acknowledge it. Needless to say, grieving 2 years after the fact sucks, and probably hurts more than it should. But I have to do it. So I have some upcoming Flat-Out Friday posts that will delve deeper into all this.

Thanks all for your patience and understanding, and enjoy the new blog layout.

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Flat-Out Friday: Your Depression is Special

To be clear, the following rant is not applicable to those of you/us that have an on-going working relationship with our mental disabilities. This is for those people who aren't actually depressed at all but think their online self-diagnosis means they are most likely suffering from the most rare and deadly brain tumour possible, or that their depression is so fathomless and unique, when they actually grieving/pissed off/misanthropic.

You know the people. The ones that you want to pat on the head and say, "Yes, your depression is special, just like everyone elses". The ones that, in most cases, walk into the office and say "I'm feeling sad today" while it's pouring rain outside. (Duh. Weather affects your mood. Happens to all of us.) The ones that claim to everyone who will listen, "I'm so depressed", and then spend hours telling you about how depressed they are.

THOSE people.

Since long before all this accident hoopla, I have suffered from migraines, which are (from Wikipedia): typically [the headache is] unilateral (affecting one half of the head) and pulsating in nature, lasting from 2 to 72 hours. Associated symptoms may include nausea, vomiting, photophobia (increased sensitivity to light), phonophobia (increased sensitivity to sound) and the pain is generally aggravated by physical activity.^[3] Up to one-third of people with migraine headaches perceive an aura: a transient visual, sensory, language, or motor disturbance which signals that the headache will soon occur.^[3]

If you've ever had one, you know that the paragraph above doesn't do them justice. I have gotten them since I was a little girl. My teachers used to tell my mother that I couldn't possibly have a headache all the times I said I did and accused me of lying about it to get out of school. I have spent cumulative months of my life in bed with a cold cloth over my eyes trying desperately not to vomit again. You don't understand them until you've really actually had one. In my case, they're a familial inheritance. More than once I've suddenly lost half the vision in one eye - a real hassle while in the middle of a retail shift. But I deal. It's what we do.

And yet, I have met so many people who claim they have them as well but in reality have no blithering idea how to tell migraines from plain old headaches. I detest people who arbitrarily announce, "Oh my head! I'm having a migraine". Please. You might be able to fool the masses, but for people who know the stages you're not passing muster. If you actually had one and were into the third stage (the phase where it begins to cause pain), you'd be prone on the floor, blinded by the light, unable to move in case the world suddenly shifted its axis thereby making you terribly vomitous, NOT walking around, hand on forehead, proclaiming loudly that you were experiencing one.

To bring this back around to the original topic, I equate people who are all, "Woe is me, I'm so depressed" to migraine fakers. You know that The Princess Bride quote? "That word you are using. I do not think it means what you think it means."

That.

Again, those of us who have experienced real depression are not fooled. Real depression would never let you out in public to proclaim your suffering to the world. Real depression is what makes you hide in a corner behind the furniture because you can only deal with the small, tidy space under the bed right now. It makes you cry, uncontrolled and unstoppable, for hours on end, unable to explain why in words even if you knew why, and you never know why. It makes you barely able to open your eyes, and when you do everything is so chaotic and impossible that even if you're sleeping in your own bed all you can do is close those eyes again and fall back to sleep. You cannot:

• Log onto your favourite social media site and soliloquise about your sadness;
• Go back to said site every two minutes to read the comments people have made, proceeding to then make your own comments on those comments;
• Leave the house and attend a social function only to spend the whole time sighing, "I don't know why I bothered coming. I'm so depressed".

Depression goes beyond an uncontrollable sadness. It's something deep inside you that stops you from being you. It throws a huge stick into the gears of your being, causing you pain and suffering and hurt and sorrow. Sometimes when I'm feeling low, I end up spiralling further downward with the realisation that I cannot fix it nor can I stop it. It is a soul-sucking liche that wears a black hooded cloak and has no face, and unlike all those fantasy books, there is no magic sword that can drive it away.

The only weapon we have against it is time and release. Weathering that time might take some pharmaceuticals to get you through, and achieving that release might take hours of time talking about it, but those of us that struggle with real depression understand these are all tools to help ourselves. We don't stand around waiting for other people to sympathize. We take action.

So for all those posers out there: if you stand there in your hipster shoes and proclaim to me how depressed you are, take no offense when I take action and smack your face. It is simply a test of my strength against your apathy.

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Week in Review: We Interrupt This Program

“You say you're 'depressed' - all I see is resilience. You are allowed to feel messed up and inside out. It doesn't mean you're defective - it just means you're human.”
― David Mitchell, Cloud Atlas

We aren't talking about Saturday. Specifically, we aren't talking about Saturday between 3-8pm. It doesn't exist. It has been removed by the temporal police and placed in the Nth Dimension. I don't care if something important happened to you during that time, because it actually didn't - it took place before 2pm or after 8pm, you just didn't notice.

The rest of my week was pretty okay. We went to Date Night at the Devonian Botanic Gardens on Thursday night and had a lovely time. We walked around the Kurimoto Japanese Gardens and visited the Butterfly House. We had bison bratwursts and listened to a bluegrass band. Once the bugs started to come out in full force, we left and headed over to Trivia Night with some friends. We had a wicked awesome time, but I stand by my belief that we actually won and the quiz master was an idiot. See, we got 24/30 right, and the winners got 25/30. The contentious point was a grammar question. AND I WAS WRONG?! Yeah, I didn't think so. But apparently the wording wasn't what they were looking for, so it was incorrect. DESPITE THE FACT THAT IT IS THE CORRECT TERM FOR IT AND YOU'RE JUST UNSCHOOLED ENOUGH TO NOT REALIZE IT.

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Flat-Out Friday: ZOMG What?!

Whew. It's been a week. Appointments with both the physician and the psychiatrist have taken their toll on me mentally and physically. Because I could only find a doctor in a small town south of the city, I have to get up in the morning and drive Matt to work so I can have the car on the days I have appointments. Needless to say, it ends up being quite the round trip in the end. And then I went and put the appointment with my psychiatrist on the very next day, deciding that before I see him, I'd go swimming. I went and I did, extending my swim length to 300 metres, and then it was Date Night with Matt last night, and...

I slept all day today.

It's not like I wanted to. But I woke up, made some breakfast and did the dishes, and went back to bed, sleeping soundly until Matt called on his way home from work.

My doctor wants me to be swimming up to three times a week, and as much as I'd like to accommodate her, if I swim one day, I need a day of rest to make up for it. So I could swim Monday, rest Tuesday, swim Wednesday, rest Thursday, and swim Friday, but that would mean Saturday would be a day of rest and as much as I would love to get in shape quickly, spending time with my husband is far more important to me. Is that wrong?

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Flat-Out Friday: Fallout

I was trying to decide what to write this week and I realized that I have been so emotionally and physically invested in what has been happening in my province that I haven't really taken the time to figure out how I am.

In the car on the way to our tattoo parlour today, I was talking to Matt about it. I came to realize that this whole thing with the scar tissue and my pain increasing has really done a number on my body and my soul. In addition to being in pain constantly, I'm nervous - way more nervous than I should be.

So is the pain I'm in heightening my latent anxieties? Or are the uncontrolled acts of God weighing heavily on my soul?

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Flat-Out Friday: Scar Tissue

I can't rightly say if it's because of the swimming, or just because my body has reached that point in the healing process, but my physiotherapist thinks (and I agree) that the scar tissue is now pulling away from the break sites in my pelvis.

Say what? Basically, it's like this. When you break a bone, fluid and blood rush to the area to protect it; sort of like curling into the fetal position if you've been kicked in the stomach, it's a physical, involuntary action. In the case of many break sites like mine, there is only a finite amount of fluid and blood to do the rushing. This means some areas ended up with massive swelling around them that is still definite and present (like my lower back, upper thigh, and right calf and foot), and some areas ended up with visibly less tissue mass around them. My abdomen naturally swells outward but then unnaturally concaves at the front pelvic break site due to the lack of fluid and tissue in the area. This results in more scar tissue and less soft tissue to cushion the site as it rebuilds. What is causing me grief now is that, through the process of building muscle mass again, I seem to be causing the scar tissue to rip away from the break site it has spent all this time protecting.

Gross. I know.

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Flat-Out Friday: Home to Stay

It's been a long haul of exercises this spring, but finally, FINALLY, Matt is home to stay.

Yesterday felt a lot like the day I came home from the hospital after the accident. My physical therapist and occupational therapist escorted me to make sure I could manage getting up the stairs to our second floor condo, and then up the stairs again to the second floor. They checked to make sure my detachable handle on the bathtub was installed properly, that the bath seat was an appropriate height, and that I could get in and out of bed. After they approved my stay, they left and, for what felt like the first time in my whole life, I relaxed. I made it up to my bed and snuggled in for the longest nap ever. It was glorious. And when I woke up, Matt was lying beside me, grinning. I had finally made it home to sleep beside him.

Escaping!

I imagine that this feeling is similar to the one that Matt has when he arrives back from the field. Though I did not have to sleep in a tent or poop in the woods, I did have to put up with nurses and two courses of antibiotics for the diseases I caught while hospitalized. Though I wasn't living on rations, I was living on hospital food. And though I could see my husband and speak to him unlike his absense, we still did not get to hold one another until that homecoming.

Everything I worked towards while I was in recovery, every step I took and squat I did and wobbly moment I had was all work-up training to go home. Every single day I fought a thousand little fights and won, building my stength and courage up for the risky business of living away from immediate medical attention. I pushed myself until I couldn't push myself any farther. Despite all my setbacks, I persevered. And the reward, that glorious nap in my own bed, the waking up in my husband's arms: it was all worth it.

When I woke up this morning, I couldn't stop staring at Matt. I imagine that's how he felt too, like I would disappear if he blinked. You don't realize how incomplete you are until the one you love isn't there, even temporarily. Today, when I stretched and snuggled in closer, I was whole once again.

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