If you stop by and grab a Starbucks with me (translation: you read my blog), please take a moment to leave a comment. Motivation is difficult for me to maintain, but knowing there are people reading my words may encourage me to keep going. Doesn't have to be anything profound or fancy...just let me know you're there. In return, I will do the same for you. And then we'll be one big, happy blog family.
Thursday, May 23, 2013
Wednesday, May 22, 2013
Operation Fabulous by 40
I turned 38 in November. Getting older never bothered me until this year. I was fine with 30 and even threw myself a big party. I wasn't married, didn't have a steady career path, rented a house with a friend...not exactly where I thought I would be at 30. But who cared? I was having fun. When I turned 35 I joked about getting old but it wasn't really an issue to me. At that point I was married, a mom, had a house, had a career. Life was good. And we were still planning on having Baby #2. I was in a great place. Birthdays #36 and #37 were a blur. Insignificant.
So why, at 38, did I suddenly have this weird anxiety about my age? Panic started to set in. Perhaps because I was now in my "late 30s"? Perhaps because the kids at school often gasp and say, "I didn't realize you were that old"? Maybe it's because I realize I will be 53 when my son graduates high school. Was the number 40 really that bad?
Or maybe, just maybe, I realize how quickly time is passing and I see doors closing - no, make that slamming shut - every day.
My entire life I have been a dreamer. There were always things I wanted to pursue -- not that I ever really DID any of them. I had a "Bucket List" of life goals. I always figured I had time. Some examples:
1. Journalist - Ok, I did that for a while but it didn't pay the bills too well. And I worked in Glen Burnie, Maryland...not exactly a news hotspot. It provided some interesting stories down the road but I knew I couldn't afford to work my way up to Katie Couric status. A $21,000 salary in the DC/Baltimore/Annapolis suburbs wasn't easy.
2. Travel - Heading to Savannah and Hilton Head Island were not exactly my ideas of "traveling". I was thinking more along the lines of London, Morocco, and New Zealand. As a kid, we were always going places but in the U.S. I wanted to do more. I wanted to see the world.
3. Marry Rich - Ha. Ha ha ha ha. Oh this one is so superficial. But honest. I envisioned marrying a handsome, affluent, preppy breadwinner. We would have an amazing house in someplace other than my homestate. He would be a professional, an athlete, a great dad, a romantic. I wouldn't have to work if I didn't want to. He would find me smart, sexy, and the perfect wife. (Oh God, I can't stop laughing...)
4. Write A Book - Isn't this on everyone's bucket list?
5. Perfect my Tennis Skills (aka Be in Amazing Physical Shape, as a result) - Back in high school, I was the tennis girl. I lived and breathed tennis. I was good, too. Not amazing, but good. I was offered a chance to walk-on at the University of Delaware with a good shot at making the team. I didn't do it. My knees were really messed up and required surgery (which I also never did). I didn't want to go to 6am practices. So I quit the sport I loved most. After college I came back to my hometown and started dating the local tennis pro. He was 16 years older, never been married, no kids. All we had in common was tennis. He got me to a playing level that was even better than I was in high school. I was one of the top women in the state. But just like everything else, I quit that too. I have since tried to get back to that level, but it hasn't happened. Maybe next year.
My life didn't turn out the way I expected. I am an English teacher, married to a history teacher. We travel to Maine every summer and take day trips to DC or Philly. The most "news" I ever cover is re-posting a status on Facebook from the Today Show. My tennis skills have dropped from a 4.5 rating to an embarrassing 3.5 level. I have written a few chapters of a few books....but they never get anywhere. And lastly, I am FAR from being rich.
I am not complaining at all. Trust me. Life is good. Very good. But as I get closer to the big 4-0, I see that my goals have to change. And it is a wake-up call to realize that half of your life has passed already. The goals you had when you were 24 are not the goals you can realistically have now. Even if I wanted to pursue a journalism career, it wouldn't happen the way I wanted. Oh sure, I could work for a newspaper making $25,000. Realistic? Nope. I could go back and get my Master's in journalism but who would hire a 40-year-old woman when they could hire a 22-year-old hot shot? Door #1: CLOSED.
Rich hubby? That door closed on February 24, 2007. And I am ok with that. Do I occasionally dream about winning the $600 million PowerBall? Absolutely. But my hubby is who I was meant to marry. He is smart and professional and handsome and preppy. He's a great dad and an athlete. We live a good life.
Tennis? The last time I picked up a racket was a month ago when I went out to hit with Sissy. Before that, it was when I was coaching the local high school team a year ago. Competitively speaking, I would not dare step onto a court now because it would be pure embarrassment. I'm 30 lbs heavier than I should be (I have no tennis skirts that even fit), my knees are likely to give out at any moment, and my body probably couldn't twist into the tennis positions it was used to oh so many years ago. And if I did make it through a match, I probably wouldn't be able to walk for a week afterwards.
There's still time to travel, yes, but realistically who has the money or time? Two college tuitions loom in the future, mortgage payments to make, and work tends to get in the way. Those exotic locales may not be visited until I hit 65. And even then it is doubtful.
All of these thoughts have been going through my head for the past few months. I can hear doors closing all around me. Don't get me wrong: I am extremely grateful and blessed. My life is good. But different.
If I were to talk to a shrink, they would probably tell me that the reason I am depressed about 40 is because we have decided that we are done having kids. Hubby is adamant that we are good with two. I am 99% ok with it. I can't get to 100% because that means another chapter has officially ended. But it has. And that realization is smacking me in the face.
So now I am trying to embrace my fourth decade and focus on ME. I decided that I have two years and, instead of falling into a pit of despair, I am going to make myself fabulous. The goal is to be more fabulous at 40 than I was at 25. (I was going to say 20, but at 20 I was still in college. Life wasn't real then.)
As I get older, I feel myself changing into a woman who is letting herself go. I've gained weight, but who cares? I am not on the market anymore. Hubby loves me. But I'm falling into the "mommy jeans" category. Not that I actually wear Mommy Jeans, but my mentality is there. Yoga pants on the weekends, very little make-up, no fun dates or nights out. I am all MOM. I am conservative, careful, dull, lifeless.
I see all of these amazing women in their 40s, 50s, and 60s. I envy them but I never really thought I could be one of them.
Until Operation Fabulous by 40 took hold.
I think I see myself going downhill and it scares me. I want to grab myself by the ankles and pull myself back to the summit. And when I get to that summit, I want to be able to stand up there and shout, "I AM FABULOUS!"
The basic premise of this mantra is: to look and feel better/healthier/stronger/more confident than I ever have in my life. I want to be a HOT 40-year-old. A healthy 40-year-old. I want to be noticed, not dismissed as a "middle-aged woman".
Major Hurdle #1 is happening on June 25. Stay tuned....
So why, at 38, did I suddenly have this weird anxiety about my age? Panic started to set in. Perhaps because I was now in my "late 30s"? Perhaps because the kids at school often gasp and say, "I didn't realize you were that old"? Maybe it's because I realize I will be 53 when my son graduates high school. Was the number 40 really that bad?
Or maybe, just maybe, I realize how quickly time is passing and I see doors closing - no, make that slamming shut - every day.
My entire life I have been a dreamer. There were always things I wanted to pursue -- not that I ever really DID any of them. I had a "Bucket List" of life goals. I always figured I had time. Some examples:
1. Journalist - Ok, I did that for a while but it didn't pay the bills too well. And I worked in Glen Burnie, Maryland...not exactly a news hotspot. It provided some interesting stories down the road but I knew I couldn't afford to work my way up to Katie Couric status. A $21,000 salary in the DC/Baltimore/Annapolis suburbs wasn't easy.
2. Travel - Heading to Savannah and Hilton Head Island were not exactly my ideas of "traveling". I was thinking more along the lines of London, Morocco, and New Zealand. As a kid, we were always going places but in the U.S. I wanted to do more. I wanted to see the world.
3. Marry Rich - Ha. Ha ha ha ha. Oh this one is so superficial. But honest. I envisioned marrying a handsome, affluent, preppy breadwinner. We would have an amazing house in someplace other than my homestate. He would be a professional, an athlete, a great dad, a romantic. I wouldn't have to work if I didn't want to. He would find me smart, sexy, and the perfect wife. (Oh God, I can't stop laughing...)
4. Write A Book - Isn't this on everyone's bucket list?
5. Perfect my Tennis Skills (aka Be in Amazing Physical Shape, as a result) - Back in high school, I was the tennis girl. I lived and breathed tennis. I was good, too. Not amazing, but good. I was offered a chance to walk-on at the University of Delaware with a good shot at making the team. I didn't do it. My knees were really messed up and required surgery (which I also never did). I didn't want to go to 6am practices. So I quit the sport I loved most. After college I came back to my hometown and started dating the local tennis pro. He was 16 years older, never been married, no kids. All we had in common was tennis. He got me to a playing level that was even better than I was in high school. I was one of the top women in the state. But just like everything else, I quit that too. I have since tried to get back to that level, but it hasn't happened. Maybe next year.
My life didn't turn out the way I expected. I am an English teacher, married to a history teacher. We travel to Maine every summer and take day trips to DC or Philly. The most "news" I ever cover is re-posting a status on Facebook from the Today Show. My tennis skills have dropped from a 4.5 rating to an embarrassing 3.5 level. I have written a few chapters of a few books....but they never get anywhere. And lastly, I am FAR from being rich.
I am not complaining at all. Trust me. Life is good. Very good. But as I get closer to the big 4-0, I see that my goals have to change. And it is a wake-up call to realize that half of your life has passed already. The goals you had when you were 24 are not the goals you can realistically have now. Even if I wanted to pursue a journalism career, it wouldn't happen the way I wanted. Oh sure, I could work for a newspaper making $25,000. Realistic? Nope. I could go back and get my Master's in journalism but who would hire a 40-year-old woman when they could hire a 22-year-old hot shot? Door #1: CLOSED.
Rich hubby? That door closed on February 24, 2007. And I am ok with that. Do I occasionally dream about winning the $600 million PowerBall? Absolutely. But my hubby is who I was meant to marry. He is smart and professional and handsome and preppy. He's a great dad and an athlete. We live a good life.
Tennis? The last time I picked up a racket was a month ago when I went out to hit with Sissy. Before that, it was when I was coaching the local high school team a year ago. Competitively speaking, I would not dare step onto a court now because it would be pure embarrassment. I'm 30 lbs heavier than I should be (I have no tennis skirts that even fit), my knees are likely to give out at any moment, and my body probably couldn't twist into the tennis positions it was used to oh so many years ago. And if I did make it through a match, I probably wouldn't be able to walk for a week afterwards.
There's still time to travel, yes, but realistically who has the money or time? Two college tuitions loom in the future, mortgage payments to make, and work tends to get in the way. Those exotic locales may not be visited until I hit 65. And even then it is doubtful.
All of these thoughts have been going through my head for the past few months. I can hear doors closing all around me. Don't get me wrong: I am extremely grateful and blessed. My life is good. But different.
If I were to talk to a shrink, they would probably tell me that the reason I am depressed about 40 is because we have decided that we are done having kids. Hubby is adamant that we are good with two. I am 99% ok with it. I can't get to 100% because that means another chapter has officially ended. But it has. And that realization is smacking me in the face.
So now I am trying to embrace my fourth decade and focus on ME. I decided that I have two years and, instead of falling into a pit of despair, I am going to make myself fabulous. The goal is to be more fabulous at 40 than I was at 25. (I was going to say 20, but at 20 I was still in college. Life wasn't real then.)
As I get older, I feel myself changing into a woman who is letting herself go. I've gained weight, but who cares? I am not on the market anymore. Hubby loves me. But I'm falling into the "mommy jeans" category. Not that I actually wear Mommy Jeans, but my mentality is there. Yoga pants on the weekends, very little make-up, no fun dates or nights out. I am all MOM. I am conservative, careful, dull, lifeless.
I see all of these amazing women in their 40s, 50s, and 60s. I envy them but I never really thought I could be one of them.
Until Operation Fabulous by 40 took hold.
I think I see myself going downhill and it scares me. I want to grab myself by the ankles and pull myself back to the summit. And when I get to that summit, I want to be able to stand up there and shout, "I AM FABULOUS!"
The basic premise of this mantra is: to look and feel better/healthier/stronger/more confident than I ever have in my life. I want to be a HOT 40-year-old. A healthy 40-year-old. I want to be noticed, not dismissed as a "middle-aged woman".
Major Hurdle #1 is happening on June 25. Stay tuned....
What Does Your Playlist Say About You?
I think you can learn a lot about a person by looking at their iTunes playlist.
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| Today's Soundtrack |
I Can Cry if I Want To
Now that I am a mom, I find myself extremely emotional when it comes to news reports about kids. And by emotional I mean sobbing uncontrollably as I look at pictures of the Oklahoma tornado aftermath. You can only imagine how I was when I heard about Sandy Hook Elementary. (Let's just say, I had to pull over during rush hour traffic because I thought I was going to puke.)
I have always been an emotional person, especially when I feel like I did something wrong. One sour word or unkind look from someone and I was done. The tears would form, the panic would set in. What did I do? What can I do to make it better? Why are they mad at me?
I was, for lack of a better term, thin-skinned.
Nowadays there is a lot less drama in my life (thank God). This allows me to focus on other things. And the things that make me cry now are usually news reports about children. Kids being killed, molested, kidnapped. I can't handle it. I cry.
As my mother likes to say, a shrink would probably blame my emotional instability on my parents because they "blame everything on the parents". In this case, I think it is true.
I grew up in a very non-affectionate, non-emotional household. I have never seen my parents cry. Ever. In 38 years, I have never seen a tear from either one. Not when their parents passed away, not when my cousin was almost killed in a car accident, not when my brother was shipped off to Iraq three times, not when my kids were born. Never. Needless to say, the words "I love you" were not common in our home. My parents will say "love you" to my kids (only because my kids say it first)...and when they do, part of me recoils in awkwardness. It is so odd to hear those words come out of their mouths. Now, as a mom, I want to make sure I don't do the same thing. I tell my kids I love them every day. I will even stop what we are doing and make them look at me so I can say, "Hey. Guess what? I love you."
My daughter is a tough nut. She does not show her feelings. Try getting a hug or a kiss out of her. Impossible. She will fall down and then stand up with blood on her knees - no tears. I can yell at her until I am blue in the face...no tears. My son, on the other hand, will come up to me while he is playing Power Rangers and kiss me for no reason. If I look at him disapprovingly, he falls apart. I hear that is a girl/boy thing, especially with their mamas. But I am hoping I can get Sissy to show a little more emotion than just her PMS-like anger. I do not want her to be as cold as her grandparents.
Hubby and I got pregnant unexpectedly after a month of dating. Oops. But it happens. Seven years later we are still together and have built a happy little family. When my parents found out that I was going to have their first grandchild, they cut me off for 6 months. No phone calls, no emails, no contact at all. I was essentially disowned for 6 months. It made me angry. And much more thick-skinned. And determined to never be like that with my own children. I can understand being shocked, being upset, being disappointed. However, to walk out of your daughter's life during a time like that is unacceptable. They almost missed out on seeing their granddaughter grow up. Even after all was said and done, we have never discussed what happened. That would involve emotions.
Those 6 months changed me forever. No longer did I feel obligated to make sure I never disappointed anyone, especially my parents. I choose who to show my emotions to...my kids. They've seen me cry. They've seen me laugh hysterically. They've seen me angry. True, I am tougher than I used to be (I would cry, on average, 4-5 times a week) but I am also not afraid to let my kids see tears stream down my face as I watch the news. And when they ask, I tell them why I am sad.
It is true that we learn a lot from our parents, including how not to act.
I have always been an emotional person, especially when I feel like I did something wrong. One sour word or unkind look from someone and I was done. The tears would form, the panic would set in. What did I do? What can I do to make it better? Why are they mad at me?
I was, for lack of a better term, thin-skinned.
Nowadays there is a lot less drama in my life (thank God). This allows me to focus on other things. And the things that make me cry now are usually news reports about children. Kids being killed, molested, kidnapped. I can't handle it. I cry.
As my mother likes to say, a shrink would probably blame my emotional instability on my parents because they "blame everything on the parents". In this case, I think it is true.
I grew up in a very non-affectionate, non-emotional household. I have never seen my parents cry. Ever. In 38 years, I have never seen a tear from either one. Not when their parents passed away, not when my cousin was almost killed in a car accident, not when my brother was shipped off to Iraq three times, not when my kids were born. Never. Needless to say, the words "I love you" were not common in our home. My parents will say "love you" to my kids (only because my kids say it first)...and when they do, part of me recoils in awkwardness. It is so odd to hear those words come out of their mouths. Now, as a mom, I want to make sure I don't do the same thing. I tell my kids I love them every day. I will even stop what we are doing and make them look at me so I can say, "Hey. Guess what? I love you."
My daughter is a tough nut. She does not show her feelings. Try getting a hug or a kiss out of her. Impossible. She will fall down and then stand up with blood on her knees - no tears. I can yell at her until I am blue in the face...no tears. My son, on the other hand, will come up to me while he is playing Power Rangers and kiss me for no reason. If I look at him disapprovingly, he falls apart. I hear that is a girl/boy thing, especially with their mamas. But I am hoping I can get Sissy to show a little more emotion than just her PMS-like anger. I do not want her to be as cold as her grandparents.
Hubby and I got pregnant unexpectedly after a month of dating. Oops. But it happens. Seven years later we are still together and have built a happy little family. When my parents found out that I was going to have their first grandchild, they cut me off for 6 months. No phone calls, no emails, no contact at all. I was essentially disowned for 6 months. It made me angry. And much more thick-skinned. And determined to never be like that with my own children. I can understand being shocked, being upset, being disappointed. However, to walk out of your daughter's life during a time like that is unacceptable. They almost missed out on seeing their granddaughter grow up. Even after all was said and done, we have never discussed what happened. That would involve emotions.
Those 6 months changed me forever. No longer did I feel obligated to make sure I never disappointed anyone, especially my parents. I choose who to show my emotions to...my kids. They've seen me cry. They've seen me laugh hysterically. They've seen me angry. True, I am tougher than I used to be (I would cry, on average, 4-5 times a week) but I am also not afraid to let my kids see tears stream down my face as I watch the news. And when they ask, I tell them why I am sad.
It is true that we learn a lot from our parents, including how not to act.
Monday, May 20, 2013
Faking It Like I'm Making It
It's Monday. I'm at work. Hubby is at work. Little Man is at my parents' (like every Monday) and Sissy is at school.
It was a hell of a time getting out the door this morning. Hubby takes Little Man to my mom and dad's house, which is on the other side of town. He then has to come back past our house to go to work. Doesn't make sense, but Little Man enjoys the one-on-one time with Grandmom and Grampy. So we do it.
That leaves me with the Drama Princess. At 6 years old, she has become quite the pain in the ass. She doesn't want to get up in the mornings, then she doesn't like what we picked out for her to wear. Combing her rat's nest is torture for both of us.
The final meltdown right before we walk out the door? Footwear. The socks feel funny. I don't like the knots in the toes. My shoes are too tight/big/small/ugly. This usually turns into a full-out tantrum complete with tears, screaming, and name-calling. And she isn't all that nice, either.
Tuesdays through Fridays I can walk away and leave the drama to my hubby. After all, I work 35 minutes from home and he is the one to drop the kids off. I have to go, right? Not on Mondays.
Luckily, Sissy was somewhat ok today with only a minimal meltdown. I think she was excited because she is Student of the Week and gets to be treated like the princess she thinks she is for a whole 5 days. I counted my lucky stars and we headed to the car. I checked off my list of items that I normally forget: cell phone? Check. Quarters for tolls? Check. Sunglasses? Check. Laptop and cord? Check and check. Feeling pretty damn proud of myself, I pulled out of the driveway and headed to the highway.
That's when I heard the DING.
Almost empty gas tank....the gas tank that Hubby SAID he would fill up last night.
I have no cash with me and no debit or credit cards.
And we're already 15 minutes behind schedule.
Thus is my life. Totally unorganized, chaotic, crazy, and ill-prepared. I don't know how we make it sometimes. Sadly, this is a normal Monday. And Mondays are usually the days when the depression and anger set in. Why am forced to be a working mom? Why can't I stay home like all of the other mothers who I see casually dropping kids off at school before heading to the gym? Why couldn't I have a more flexible job? Why do I spend 8 hours a day taking care of OTHER people's children?
How did my life get so out of control? This is NOT what I envisioned.
So I fake it.
I guess I am doing a pretty good job because when I mention that my life is nuts I've had people say, "Really? You always look so calm and put-together." Ha. Ha, ha, and more ha. Thank you Mr. Paxil and Ms. Xanax.
About 7 years ago, I would've been in the fetal position 6 days a week. I would blow off work. I would cry. I would rage. I would drink. I would sleep non-stop. Obviously, I can't do that anymore. On the rare days that I have time to really think about Life, I feel that bitterness seeping back in. I allow it to consume me.
So I keep on faking it. And every morning I fear that I can't fake it anymore. Will today be the day? Will today be the day that I can't handle my life anymore?Will today be the day that I lose my mind and drive to Maine without a word to anyone? Will today be the day that I can't get out of bed?
Going through the motions is a great way to keep moving, to not let Life grab ahold and drown you. But the days that are the scariest are the days when I can let down the facade and just "be". You would think that I would revere those sacred nothing days...weekends, summers, minor holidays...but no.
As much as I resent working and dislike my job, the most dangerous days are the ones when I don't have to "fake it". As long as people are watching, I can make it. Or at least pretend to.
It was a hell of a time getting out the door this morning. Hubby takes Little Man to my mom and dad's house, which is on the other side of town. He then has to come back past our house to go to work. Doesn't make sense, but Little Man enjoys the one-on-one time with Grandmom and Grampy. So we do it.
That leaves me with the Drama Princess. At 6 years old, she has become quite the pain in the ass. She doesn't want to get up in the mornings, then she doesn't like what we picked out for her to wear. Combing her rat's nest is torture for both of us.
The final meltdown right before we walk out the door? Footwear. The socks feel funny. I don't like the knots in the toes. My shoes are too tight/big/small/ugly. This usually turns into a full-out tantrum complete with tears, screaming, and name-calling. And she isn't all that nice, either.
Tuesdays through Fridays I can walk away and leave the drama to my hubby. After all, I work 35 minutes from home and he is the one to drop the kids off. I have to go, right? Not on Mondays.
Luckily, Sissy was somewhat ok today with only a minimal meltdown. I think she was excited because she is Student of the Week and gets to be treated like the princess she thinks she is for a whole 5 days. I counted my lucky stars and we headed to the car. I checked off my list of items that I normally forget: cell phone? Check. Quarters for tolls? Check. Sunglasses? Check. Laptop and cord? Check and check. Feeling pretty damn proud of myself, I pulled out of the driveway and headed to the highway.
That's when I heard the DING.
Almost empty gas tank....the gas tank that Hubby SAID he would fill up last night.
I have no cash with me and no debit or credit cards.
And we're already 15 minutes behind schedule.
Thus is my life. Totally unorganized, chaotic, crazy, and ill-prepared. I don't know how we make it sometimes. Sadly, this is a normal Monday. And Mondays are usually the days when the depression and anger set in. Why am forced to be a working mom? Why can't I stay home like all of the other mothers who I see casually dropping kids off at school before heading to the gym? Why couldn't I have a more flexible job? Why do I spend 8 hours a day taking care of OTHER people's children?
How did my life get so out of control? This is NOT what I envisioned.
So I fake it.
I guess I am doing a pretty good job because when I mention that my life is nuts I've had people say, "Really? You always look so calm and put-together." Ha. Ha, ha, and more ha. Thank you Mr. Paxil and Ms. Xanax.
About 7 years ago, I would've been in the fetal position 6 days a week. I would blow off work. I would cry. I would rage. I would drink. I would sleep non-stop. Obviously, I can't do that anymore. On the rare days that I have time to really think about Life, I feel that bitterness seeping back in. I allow it to consume me.
So I keep on faking it. And every morning I fear that I can't fake it anymore. Will today be the day? Will today be the day that I can't handle my life anymore?Will today be the day that I lose my mind and drive to Maine without a word to anyone? Will today be the day that I can't get out of bed?
Going through the motions is a great way to keep moving, to not let Life grab ahold and drown you. But the days that are the scariest are the days when I can let down the facade and just "be". You would think that I would revere those sacred nothing days...weekends, summers, minor holidays...but no.
As much as I resent working and dislike my job, the most dangerous days are the ones when I don't have to "fake it". As long as people are watching, I can make it. Or at least pretend to.
Friday, July 20, 2012
Attack of the Gallbladder
Well, I am a few ounces lighter this morning. Yesterday I had my gallbladder removed, as well as a hernia repaired. I am stuck here in my bed, watching the second hour of the Today Show, trying to convince my 2-year-old that Mommy can't hold him because of her boo-boo. I figured it was best to lock the door and write. I am also on a good deal of Vicodin...hopefully I can blog coherently. And if not, it could turn out to be a good piece of humor.
If you have ever had a gallbladder attack, I'm sorry. It is horribly, horribly painful. My story started a few months ago when I had terrible pains in my abdomen. I thought I had food poisoning. It was about 7:30am and I was getting ready to start my teaching day. After 20 minutes, it still wasn't going away. I called the secretary and asked for a sub -- something I would NEVER do. Thankfully, they found someone to cover for me and I drove the 35 minutes home, sweating and cramping. As soon as I walked in the door, I threw up twice. I took off my clothes, which were drenched in sweat, and got into bed. The only way I could sit without excruciating pain was on my knees, hunched over. I fell asleep and woke up 2 hours later, in the same position. The majority of the pain was gone, but I still had that ache...just enough to remind me that something painful had happened.I went to school the next day, convinced that it was food poisoning.
Two days later was Good Friday. We had off and were packing our bags to head to the Outer Banks for a week with my parents. I was feeling good...the "food poisoning" was a distant memory -- until about 7pm. It happened again. Gut-wrenching pain for several hours. It went away and I fell asleep.
The next morning I made sure not to eat. We had a 6-hour drive down to Nags Head and I was afraid of another episode. At this point, I thought I had a really bad case of gas. However, I knew in the back of my mind that it had to be more than that. We were about 2 hours into the trip (in the middle of nowhere) when my abdomen seized up. I was doubled over in pain. We stopped at a disgusting Royal Farms where I went to the bathroom, bought some Gas-X and some yogurt, and got back in the car to ride out the latest episode. I think I said every curse word in the book, yelled at my husband for hitting every bump he could find, and cried. NOT a pleasant way to start Spring Break.
We finally made it down to the condo at Nags Head. It was a beautiful townhouse on the beach...but I couldn't enjoy it because -- you guessed it -- another attack. The hubby was getting frustrated and said, "Fine. If it's that bad, let's go to the hospital." Before he even finished the sentence, I had my flip flops on and was on my way to the car.
The OBX Hospital was two streets over. When we walked in there were only 2 people in the waiting room (I have never been in an ER that wasn't jam-packed). It seemed so out of place to be sitting in a hospital in a resort town. The ocean was just blocks away, people were driving by with beach chairs and boogie boards strapped to their cars...and I was hunched over in pain.
We had only been waiting about 30 minutes when we were taken back to get checked out. I sat on the bed and answered all of the questions, still writhing in pain. The nurse said, "I'm about to make you very comfortable." She put an IV in (that wasn't the comfortable part) and within 30 seconds of hooking up the IV bag, I was pain-free. It was the most glorious, amazing, unbelievable relief I have ever felt. I swear I heard the song "Hallelujah" playing in my head (I probably did...that Percocet is good stuff).
A very young doctor came in and we chatted. I was quite enjoyable to be around, at that point. He said he suspected it was my gallbladder. He sent me back for x-rays, which confirmed that I had many, many stones. The reason that I was in so much pain was because some of the stones were stuck in pathway. He wanted to get my gallbladder out THAT night. However, because of the runaway stones, that had to do a procedure first called an ERCP. Being a small-town hospital, they were not capable of performing that procedure. He said I could either go up to Virginia to have it done, or we could go home. They discharged me with Percocet and an antibiotic.
For those of you who know me, you know I can be very stubborn. I don't often heed others' advice. In my mind, turning around and driving right BACK to Delaware with a 5-year-old and a 2-year-old -- not an option. The Percocet made me think I was "ok". I convinced the hubby that we would call my doctor on Monday and then we would at least have a few days of vacation. I was so excited to spend spring break with my parents. I was going to salvage whatever time I could.
The next few days were uneventful. I had my new BFF (Percocet) and we actually got to enjoy some time in OBX. We had Easter dinner, went on a plane ride, sat on the beach. I got an appointment with a GI doctor for Thursday. I was going to ride it out until then. I did have to go to the walk-in medical center for more Percocet, but other than that...life was good.
Fast forward to the following week. My GI doctor scheduled me for an ERCP on a Wednesday. In dummy terms, an ERCP is when they stick a tube down your throat and suck out the stones...at least, that's what I understand it to be. I was going to have to go to Temple University Hospital in Philly because my doctor wasn't sure he could get all of the stones. Fortunately, we ended up doing it in Dover. It all went well...except they cracked my molar in the process. Nothing is ever easy!
I was supposed to meet with a surgeon the next week to schedule removal of the gallbladder. Because I was out of sick days at work, I couldn't get in to meet with him until June. When I finally met him, we scheduled my operation for July 13 (yes, it was a Friday). I couldn't quite get my head around the fact that a doctor would be cutting inside of MY body and pulling out MY gallbladder!
The surgery went well. I had about 20-30 more stones that had already collected in my gallbladder since April. I woke up with a terrible headache and my hubby at my side. The nurses were awesome. I know that our local hospital gets a bad rap, but I have never had a bad experience there. They were sweet and helpful...I am afraid I wasn't as sweet to them. Oops.
Now I have 4 incisions in my belly that mark the end of a long and painful journey. Goodbye potato chips, french fries, and hello to having one less organ to carry around. Can't wait to go weigh myself.
If you have ever had a gallbladder attack, I'm sorry. It is horribly, horribly painful. My story started a few months ago when I had terrible pains in my abdomen. I thought I had food poisoning. It was about 7:30am and I was getting ready to start my teaching day. After 20 minutes, it still wasn't going away. I called the secretary and asked for a sub -- something I would NEVER do. Thankfully, they found someone to cover for me and I drove the 35 minutes home, sweating and cramping. As soon as I walked in the door, I threw up twice. I took off my clothes, which were drenched in sweat, and got into bed. The only way I could sit without excruciating pain was on my knees, hunched over. I fell asleep and woke up 2 hours later, in the same position. The majority of the pain was gone, but I still had that ache...just enough to remind me that something painful had happened.I went to school the next day, convinced that it was food poisoning.
Two days later was Good Friday. We had off and were packing our bags to head to the Outer Banks for a week with my parents. I was feeling good...the "food poisoning" was a distant memory -- until about 7pm. It happened again. Gut-wrenching pain for several hours. It went away and I fell asleep.
The next morning I made sure not to eat. We had a 6-hour drive down to Nags Head and I was afraid of another episode. At this point, I thought I had a really bad case of gas. However, I knew in the back of my mind that it had to be more than that. We were about 2 hours into the trip (in the middle of nowhere) when my abdomen seized up. I was doubled over in pain. We stopped at a disgusting Royal Farms where I went to the bathroom, bought some Gas-X and some yogurt, and got back in the car to ride out the latest episode. I think I said every curse word in the book, yelled at my husband for hitting every bump he could find, and cried. NOT a pleasant way to start Spring Break.
We finally made it down to the condo at Nags Head. It was a beautiful townhouse on the beach...but I couldn't enjoy it because -- you guessed it -- another attack. The hubby was getting frustrated and said, "Fine. If it's that bad, let's go to the hospital." Before he even finished the sentence, I had my flip flops on and was on my way to the car.
The OBX Hospital was two streets over. When we walked in there were only 2 people in the waiting room (I have never been in an ER that wasn't jam-packed). It seemed so out of place to be sitting in a hospital in a resort town. The ocean was just blocks away, people were driving by with beach chairs and boogie boards strapped to their cars...and I was hunched over in pain.
We had only been waiting about 30 minutes when we were taken back to get checked out. I sat on the bed and answered all of the questions, still writhing in pain. The nurse said, "I'm about to make you very comfortable." She put an IV in (that wasn't the comfortable part) and within 30 seconds of hooking up the IV bag, I was pain-free. It was the most glorious, amazing, unbelievable relief I have ever felt. I swear I heard the song "Hallelujah" playing in my head (I probably did...that Percocet is good stuff).
A very young doctor came in and we chatted. I was quite enjoyable to be around, at that point. He said he suspected it was my gallbladder. He sent me back for x-rays, which confirmed that I had many, many stones. The reason that I was in so much pain was because some of the stones were stuck in pathway. He wanted to get my gallbladder out THAT night. However, because of the runaway stones, that had to do a procedure first called an ERCP. Being a small-town hospital, they were not capable of performing that procedure. He said I could either go up to Virginia to have it done, or we could go home. They discharged me with Percocet and an antibiotic.
For those of you who know me, you know I can be very stubborn. I don't often heed others' advice. In my mind, turning around and driving right BACK to Delaware with a 5-year-old and a 2-year-old -- not an option. The Percocet made me think I was "ok". I convinced the hubby that we would call my doctor on Monday and then we would at least have a few days of vacation. I was so excited to spend spring break with my parents. I was going to salvage whatever time I could.
The next few days were uneventful. I had my new BFF (Percocet) and we actually got to enjoy some time in OBX. We had Easter dinner, went on a plane ride, sat on the beach. I got an appointment with a GI doctor for Thursday. I was going to ride it out until then. I did have to go to the walk-in medical center for more Percocet, but other than that...life was good.
Fast forward to the following week. My GI doctor scheduled me for an ERCP on a Wednesday. In dummy terms, an ERCP is when they stick a tube down your throat and suck out the stones...at least, that's what I understand it to be. I was going to have to go to Temple University Hospital in Philly because my doctor wasn't sure he could get all of the stones. Fortunately, we ended up doing it in Dover. It all went well...except they cracked my molar in the process. Nothing is ever easy!
I was supposed to meet with a surgeon the next week to schedule removal of the gallbladder. Because I was out of sick days at work, I couldn't get in to meet with him until June. When I finally met him, we scheduled my operation for July 13 (yes, it was a Friday). I couldn't quite get my head around the fact that a doctor would be cutting inside of MY body and pulling out MY gallbladder!
The surgery went well. I had about 20-30 more stones that had already collected in my gallbladder since April. I woke up with a terrible headache and my hubby at my side. The nurses were awesome. I know that our local hospital gets a bad rap, but I have never had a bad experience there. They were sweet and helpful...I am afraid I wasn't as sweet to them. Oops.
Now I have 4 incisions in my belly that mark the end of a long and painful journey. Goodbye potato chips, french fries, and hello to having one less organ to carry around. Can't wait to go weigh myself.
I Am Such A Narcissist
Stolen from Philadelphia Magazine's Interview with Jennifer Weiner (Click here for her funnier answers).
My name is … spelled correctly.
I am a … mom, wife, teacher, and wannabe writer
I live in … my hometown of Dover. I tried to get out but got sucked back in.
Women need to understand that … men like us just as we are, not the way we think they want us to be.
Men need to understand that … most women are bitches.
People would be surprised to know that I … am very gross, almost as gross as most men.
When I’m writing, I usually drink … Starbucks (duh)
If you really want to get under my skin … act like the world is full of rainbows and unicorns at all times. I appreciate a positive outlook, but you have to be realistic sometimes.
On the Fourth of July … I will be covering my ears like I have since I was little.
The best book I’ve ever written … is the one that is still bouncing around in my brain.
When I retire, I want to live in … Maine in the summers and Savannah in the winters.
I’ve never told anyone this, but … I did some soft-core porn during my college days...KIDDING! Totally kidding.
The most famous person I’ve ever met was … Pete Sampras. I was studying journalism and he played a tourney in Philly. I was able to sit at the table with Pete and the reporters after his match. Soooo handsome. Sweaty, but handsome.
My shoe collection … is housed at DSW.
The thing people misunderstand about me is … that I am this very angry person. I am not. I swear. It's just my facial expressions. I have a natural angry-teacher face.
When I was 16 … I wanted to be 25.
The one thing that Philly really needs is … a better bullpen.
To celebrate my first best-seller … I will probably buy myself a new pair of very impractical shoes.
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