Workouts:
Wednesday - nothing.
Why? Had a breakfast meeting with my boss, came home to a breast-feeding frenzied baby, followed immediately up with a visit from my mom. By the time it was all said and done, it was late, my husband wasn't feeling well, and I was pretty much on baby patrol. It was one of those days that I know I will have a lot of in the future (the ones where the baby takes over and it's easy to make excuses), and I just need to plan better (like staying awake after the 5am feeding and going to the gym, instead of getting another hour of sleep. This continues to be my daily goal, but I have yet to acheive it).
Thursday
Total cardio - 55 minutes
44:45 min run for 4 miles (not sure why this one was a touch slower than previously).
10 min WU/CD
Today (Friday)
Nothing - had an early work meeting on the far south side of Chicago, a sick husband and a child that only slept 2 hours. ALL NIGHT. And because of sick husband and the need to get out of our germ infested house, I spent the rest of the day at my mom's house. Got home around 530pm, but (not surprisingly) with a creeping illness that I suspect has something to do with my husband's. And because of said sick husband, there was no one to take care of the wee one so that I could squeeze in a morning workout - even if I had the energy.
Tomorrow:
I am planning a 5 miler. Since I am going to be on my own for the next week (possibly four) and getting in my runs will require extreme strategizing, I am taking FULL advantage of some free time to get it done tomorrow.
Despite the two off days, I still feel okay about the fact that at least I didn't juts lay around the house on the couch - I managed to get out and do stuff. Moreover, my eating has been very much under control (slips are minor and infrequent). So not all was lost...
I know this post sucks - reflects my current energy level. Perhaps I'll have some more wit tomorrow...
Showing posts with label sick. Show all posts
Showing posts with label sick. Show all posts
Friday, January 27, 2012
Monday, August 1, 2011
Eating My Words (and everything else)
I swear I'll lay off the preggo posts soon, but right now, it's sort of all consuming. I mean, I don't think I am THAT girl that talks nonstop about the miracle of pregnancy, telling every cashier at the grocery/Target/Costco I'm knocked up and "validate me! validate me!" But yet it's still is a part of just about everything I do - considering I have this big round thing hanging off my body that prevents me from wearing anything resembling normal clothes and being able to put on socks.
But I felt I needed to say this - everything I always swore I would do/be as a pregnant broad is the exact opposite that I am.
Example #1:
"I don't understand how women just use pregnancy as a time to let themselves go and just eat themselves silly. I'll never do that - if I don't eat garbage now, I most certainly won't do it when I'm growing a baby."
Reality:
Example #2:
"I don't know why women freak out about gaining weight when they get pregnant - YOU'RE PREGNANT! Of course you're going to put on a few pounds - there's a human inside of you!"
Reality:
FUCK YOU, CLOSET. I hate you with all your stupid normal clothes. Go ahead, mock me. Mock me with your cute summer dresses, you sweet skirts, even your running shorts that I actually once needed to tie using the drawstrings. And don't EVEN LOOK AT ME, SCALE-AT-THE-DOCTOR'S-OFFICE. I see you and your smirking side eye, quietly judging as this nurse keeps moving that top marker higher..higher...I hate both of you. Leave me alone.
Example #3:
"Why are pregnant women always complaining? You're pregnant, did you not know you would be sick/fat/tired/uncomfortable?"
Reality:
Husband (any given day): Hey babe. How was (hesitant pause because he knows what's coming) your day?
Me: Oh, you mean aside from the fact that my back is killing and I couldn't sleep? Or the fact that the the insomnia had me up at 3:30am? Or that I'm still sick? Or that I'm fucking fat and I hate myself for eating an entire bag of Reeces Pieces? Or wait - did I tell you about the fact that these headaches are destroying my ability to get any sort of work done? Which one? Take your pick."
Husband: Nevermind.
Ah yes, I am sure there are more examples of why I am the world's biggest hypocrite, but that's enough for now. I think that's enough self-shame for one night. Oh, and look at that - just as I am ending this post, Baby D starts kicking up a storm. I guess that's a pretty good note to end on!
But I felt I needed to say this - everything I always swore I would do/be as a pregnant broad is the exact opposite that I am.
Example #1:
"I don't understand how women just use pregnancy as a time to let themselves go and just eat themselves silly. I'll never do that - if I don't eat garbage now, I most certainly won't do it when I'm growing a baby."
Reality:
Example #2:
"I don't know why women freak out about gaining weight when they get pregnant - YOU'RE PREGNANT! Of course you're going to put on a few pounds - there's a human inside of you!"
Reality:
FUCK YOU, CLOSET. I hate you with all your stupid normal clothes. Go ahead, mock me. Mock me with your cute summer dresses, you sweet skirts, even your running shorts that I actually once needed to tie using the drawstrings. And don't EVEN LOOK AT ME, SCALE-AT-THE-DOCTOR'S-OFFICE. I see you and your smirking side eye, quietly judging as this nurse keeps moving that top marker higher..higher...I hate both of you. Leave me alone.
Example #3:
"Why are pregnant women always complaining? You're pregnant, did you not know you would be sick/fat/tired/uncomfortable?"
Reality:
Husband (any given day): Hey babe. How was (hesitant pause because he knows what's coming) your day?
Me: Oh, you mean aside from the fact that my back is killing and I couldn't sleep? Or the fact that the the insomnia had me up at 3:30am? Or that I'm still sick? Or that I'm fucking fat and I hate myself for eating an entire bag of Reeces Pieces? Or wait - did I tell you about the fact that these headaches are destroying my ability to get any sort of work done? Which one? Take your pick."
Husband: Nevermind.
Ah yes, I am sure there are more examples of why I am the world's biggest hypocrite, but that's enough for now. I think that's enough self-shame for one night. Oh, and look at that - just as I am ending this post, Baby D starts kicking up a storm. I guess that's a pretty good note to end on!
Sunday, July 17, 2011
Growing
Just for the record, this current posting lapse actually wasn’t my fault. My POS computer ka-plut again four weeks ago (for the second time). Sadly, this also coincided with my husband’s 3-week business trip, so I have been sans computer for the last four weeks.
Nonetheless, I have managed to keep track of some thoughts, just haven’t been able to actually get around to posting.
Here goes:
1. Its always interesting to share the good new with someone, and then have them respond with a story about their wife’s stillbirth at 6 months. Not that I'm judging (because holy crap that would be devastating), it's just somewhat sobering when you are expecting a "congrats!"
2. Still sick, but been running though. By the end of week 13, I was like, “Eff you, Sick. You’re my bitch now.” So of course it only made sense to sign up for a 10k two days post-proclamation. And for those of you thinking, “Well 6 miles isn’t that far” – tell that to my non-running-for-three-months legs, my newly rounded-out hips, and a flappy (yes, flappy) ass. They would beg to differ.
(Me and my sweet face niece Ford, whose mommy pushed her in a stroller for the race. I'm fueled by prenatal vitamins, Ford is fueling on my phone protector. The protector probably tastes better.)
3. Turns out Fatigue was a fashionably late to the party. Showed up at week 14, and was like, “Where’s the keg, yo?” I was like, “It’s under the pillow and comforter, yo.”
4. Then it was Insomnia’s turn. Showed up at Week 16. At 330 am. Every night. It’s been awesome. But the sunny side is that I get a lot of work done at 4am (which is good given the Sick likes to stop in around dinner time and stay for the night, preventing ANY sort of anything getting done, except some serious couch surfing), and learned that some really interesting (read: smelly weirdos) go to the gym at this insanely stupid hour.
So as it stands, I am officially 18 weeks pregnant. The morning-noon-night sickness decided to hang around looking for a free meal, so I finally went back on prescription nausea meds this past week. I avoided this as long as possible – trying out every single other recommendation given to me (except acupuncture) with little overall success.
I am up more pounds than probably normal at this point, but the good news is that is seems mostly be in my obscenely large knockers (well, good news for the husband), and I have forced myself back to the gym at least four times weekly. No matter how sick I feel before hand, going for a treadmill incline walk or 5k run seems to make it slightly better.
I will be honest – the shallow part of me gets really self-conscious at the gym in my now-tight shorts and my minute-slower-per-mile pace that I hide under a towel, and I find myself resisting the urge to stand in the middle of the gym and scream, “This isn’t what I really look like! I swear I am fit! I’m just pregnant! I swear! I was an Ironman, for crying out loud!! Stop judging my cellulite!” But then reality kicks in and I try to remind myself that no matter how much my body is revolting against me (see also: leakage and a double chin), it’s all for a good cause.
As in – a baby.
(Trust me, it's under there - about four people have asked me to post "belly pics" to Facebook, but I'm sorry, I can't get past standing half-nekkid in a bra and taking awkward pictures of my large self. I have a "friend" on FB who does this every month, and it kinda weirds me out - no offense to anyone reading that has done this during their own pregnancy. Just a personal preference. If you're a lady with kids, you know what it looks like. If you're a man with kids, you've seen your wife's. Mine looks probably about the same.)
Oh, and one last thing – seeing as I have been super sick for so long and my husband is mostly gone all the time, I’ve taken to texting him photos of what our baby might look like:
You are what you eat, right?
Oh my poor poor husband - getting a text of a piece of toast is a far cry from the texts he got during the early dating days when he was on the road for weeks at a time and had a tan, lean, fit girlfriend (that would be me).
Then again, there’s high likelihood I will be birthing a wedge of cheddar cheese with a watermelon head. Or if my kid's a 12-pounder like my husband was at birth, maybe it will just FEEL like a watermelon.
And with enough TMI to make a horse vomit, I'm out.
Nonetheless, I have managed to keep track of some thoughts, just haven’t been able to actually get around to posting.
Here goes:
1. Its always interesting to share the good new with someone, and then have them respond with a story about their wife’s stillbirth at 6 months. Not that I'm judging (because holy crap that would be devastating), it's just somewhat sobering when you are expecting a "congrats!"
2. Still sick, but been running though. By the end of week 13, I was like, “Eff you, Sick. You’re my bitch now.” So of course it only made sense to sign up for a 10k two days post-proclamation. And for those of you thinking, “Well 6 miles isn’t that far” – tell that to my non-running-for-three-months legs, my newly rounded-out hips, and a flappy (yes, flappy) ass. They would beg to differ.
(Me and my sweet face niece Ford, whose mommy pushed her in a stroller for the race. I'm fueled by prenatal vitamins, Ford is fueling on my phone protector. The protector probably tastes better.)
3. Turns out Fatigue was a fashionably late to the party. Showed up at week 14, and was like, “Where’s the keg, yo?” I was like, “It’s under the pillow and comforter, yo.”
4. Then it was Insomnia’s turn. Showed up at Week 16. At 330 am. Every night. It’s been awesome. But the sunny side is that I get a lot of work done at 4am (which is good given the Sick likes to stop in around dinner time and stay for the night, preventing ANY sort of anything getting done, except some serious couch surfing), and learned that some really interesting (read: smelly weirdos) go to the gym at this insanely stupid hour.
So as it stands, I am officially 18 weeks pregnant. The morning-noon-night sickness decided to hang around looking for a free meal, so I finally went back on prescription nausea meds this past week. I avoided this as long as possible – trying out every single other recommendation given to me (except acupuncture) with little overall success.
I am up more pounds than probably normal at this point, but the good news is that is seems mostly be in my obscenely large knockers (well, good news for the husband), and I have forced myself back to the gym at least four times weekly. No matter how sick I feel before hand, going for a treadmill incline walk or 5k run seems to make it slightly better.
I will be honest – the shallow part of me gets really self-conscious at the gym in my now-tight shorts and my minute-slower-per-mile pace that I hide under a towel, and I find myself resisting the urge to stand in the middle of the gym and scream, “This isn’t what I really look like! I swear I am fit! I’m just pregnant! I swear! I was an Ironman, for crying out loud!! Stop judging my cellulite!” But then reality kicks in and I try to remind myself that no matter how much my body is revolting against me (see also: leakage and a double chin), it’s all for a good cause.
As in – a baby.
(Trust me, it's under there - about four people have asked me to post "belly pics" to Facebook, but I'm sorry, I can't get past standing half-nekkid in a bra and taking awkward pictures of my large self. I have a "friend" on FB who does this every month, and it kinda weirds me out - no offense to anyone reading that has done this during their own pregnancy. Just a personal preference. If you're a lady with kids, you know what it looks like. If you're a man with kids, you've seen your wife's. Mine looks probably about the same.)
Oh, and one last thing – seeing as I have been super sick for so long and my husband is mostly gone all the time, I’ve taken to texting him photos of what our baby might look like:
You are what you eat, right?
Oh my poor poor husband - getting a text of a piece of toast is a far cry from the texts he got during the early dating days when he was on the road for weeks at a time and had a tan, lean, fit girlfriend (that would be me).
Then again, there’s high likelihood I will be birthing a wedge of cheddar cheese with a watermelon head. Or if my kid's a 12-pounder like my husband was at birth, maybe it will just FEEL like a watermelon.
And with enough TMI to make a horse vomit, I'm out.
Monday, December 20, 2010
Already in Trouble
Still have 2 1/2 more days of work before I'm on Christmas vacation and I'm already giving my job the middle finger.
Oh, and could this be a sweet sore throat creeping its way into my body?
Would make sense, seeing as my entire body is achy and throwing in the towel.
Holy crabby pants - I have ZERO tolerance for anything at this point.
I wonder if there's a documented inverse relationship between the number of days until Christmas and one's level of anxiety/stress/frustration.
As in, one decreases as the other increases?
All I want to do is sleep.
And crap. I can't seem to stop crapping.
Gosh help me for the next 56 hours.
Oh, and could this be a sweet sore throat creeping its way into my body?
Would make sense, seeing as my entire body is achy and throwing in the towel.
Holy crabby pants - I have ZERO tolerance for anything at this point.
I wonder if there's a documented inverse relationship between the number of days until Christmas and one's level of anxiety/stress/frustration.
As in, one decreases as the other increases?
All I want to do is sleep.
And crap. I can't seem to stop crapping.
Gosh help me for the next 56 hours.
Monday, August 3, 2009
Steelhead Didn't Kill Me
Lemme preface this all by saying – there is some doody talk. Doody consumed my day – it must be referenced.
It demands to be referenced.
Soooooo... Steelhead 70.3.
I swam, rode and ran.
And let me say this – Ironman and his little brother, 70.3, are no dummies. They will BREAK.YOU. if you didn’t take the time to train properly. These are no races to go into without an appropriate level of fitness, or they will expose every last weakness you have.
Or at least with me they did.
In fact, all of my Missed Workouts called up all those other Times which I blew off training – like the Times when I chose to extend my sunbathing instead of get my butt in the pool and swim, or the Times I knew I should have run long, but I ran 5 miles – yeah, so all those Times got together this week, printed up a bunch of tee-shirts and posterboards that read, “Gotcha Sucka!” and then stood at the curb of every aid station mocking and jeering me, forcing me to pay attention to their Truths.
I am pretty sure I even heard one of the Times ask, “Now who’s the bitch?”
(Naw, but seriously – I went into the race knowing that my weakness would be my run fitness, because my training runs were almost always shortened due to my knee injury. And it was - the run exposed me. The run was physically the most difficulty for me, as I suspected going into it. I was at peace with that.)
But regardless of the necessary pain, it was actually fun. And most of all, I am SOOOO proud of myself for all my little victories over the course of the day.
My little victories:
1. Finishing (of course)
2. Not crapping my shorts (story shortly).
3. Running when I could, and walking when I couldn’t -Even with this disgusting blister (photo below), that made its appearance around the first FEW STEPS of the run.
4. Never getting down on myself – NOT EVER.
5. Discovering that little pretzel nuggets for the run were the best last-minute-packing decision I EVER made.
6. Ignoring my watch.
7. Tried to enjoy every single second – especially right before the swim, by taking in the unbelievable beautiful day and my fortune at being able to participate in this sport.
8. Saying positive things to myself over the day about what a badass I was
9. Never once letting myself get intimidated by the fancy bikes, the ripped muscles, the fancy tri-clothes – and instead telling myself – “Just run your own race.”
Pre-RACE:
I stayed with Clyde and his friend on the camp ground in a tiny cabin – like, one bed and a bunk bed type cozy. I had the top bunk. It was AWESOME!!!
(and to my surprise, there were actually plastic mattress, per my last post….)
I didn’t see Clyde before the race because his wave (done by age groups) was much later, but we did exchange some texts beforehand.
Me: (something about not being able to make doody).
Clyde: Yeah, we checked that off our checklist already.
Me: Dang! I am squatting in the vacant bike spot next to my bike hoping for a doody miracle. I feel the Poo Baby kicking, but he’s not ready for delivery.
Phantom doody aside, I knew it was going to be a good (dare I say GREAT) day when I walked into transition at 445am (345 am for us Chicagoans), and Bruce Springsteen’s “Thunder Road” was playing. Why is this significant? Because that was the song I sang to myself on repeat to get me through the last ½ of the Ironman. Out loud. So other people could hear. And it worked. I finished that race too!
That song was then followed up with the Jack Johnson song from my one of my nephew’s favorite movies – Curious George. It made me think of him, and smile at what he would look like if he could see his aunt out here, in the midst of all these bikes – or on the course, running past him. So yeah, I considered those good omens.
I was so positive at the Start I hummed my whole walk down the shore to the start.
My positive attitude surprised even my stone cold heart.
Was that – gasp! – excitement?!?!
You betcha!
The Swim:
Two things happened:
The water – my greatest fear after last year’s Racine DNF in the swim – was remarkably warm at 68 degrees. I even walked in it in the mile to get to the Start. At the Start, I centered myself, silently appreciated the day, and then ran my ass into the water.
But here is where it got dicey – that darn wetsuit suffocated me again, and I had that brief flash of “Shit, I can’t breathe, I can’t do this” (flash to Racine image of me swimming to shore, and then stomping across the transition mat with my Kill Face).
So I breast stroke a few strokes (thanks Spie!), and then proceeded with the swim. I had a few more of these episodes until I calmed down enough to actually start to swim steadily.
And then I got punched – literally punched in the face. So I popped out of the water, looked at the girl (who was paying no attention to me whatsoever) and said, “You know how I am going to punish you? I will beat you.”
And I did – swam right by her and finished before her.
(Okay, in all fairness, she is likely the ONLY girl in my age-group I passed, as I would later discover when I was picking the rest of them off by bike)
My swim time also included the long run to transition, so it actually looks worse then it was (though it’s still pretty bad). And it was definitely slower than what I am capable, but those early moments of “I am going to die out here” and some zigzagging added some time on.
The Bike:
The bike was amazing with a good, moderate course. Although the wind tunnel that started around mile 40ish knocked my confidence down a few pegs, I was still kicking some bike-ass. The bike is also my strength, so I was tearing it up out there, trying to gain some ground. Very uncharacteristically of me, I slowly and steadily picked off almost every female I saw (about three kept getting away from me), especially those that finished before me in the swim in my age group – and got passed by very few (if I read the results correctly, I rode down around 30 girls from my AG). But I wasn’t so much concerned about my overall stats as I was about…..
My Poo Baby was crowning.
The whole ride.
And he was ready to come out like a Holy Terror the size of a grown 16-year-old.
But then he would crawl back up and hang out for a while – like a Braxton Hicks bowel movement. It went on like this for 56 miles.
I tell you – it was an exercise in sheer will just to choke down my Clif Shots with this level of bubble gut.
So you can imagine what the run was like.
The Run:
In addition to the aforementioned blister and a nagging right knee that progressively become more and more painful, I spent and INORDINATE amount of time in the port-o-potty trying to deliver. But nada – nothing, zip, zero, zilch.
And guess what happens when you have a Poo Baby, and then get a Race Food Baby?
Twins!
It got so bad that there were moments I actually forced myself to walk because I was SURE I was going to be THAT girl who craps herself. You know - like those pictures you see of the guy running to the race finish with his “down” covered in brown?
Finally, at Mile 9, I had enough and took a stand. So I said, “Hey Butt, I’m sick of you playing this cat-and-mouse game with my poopies. So I am now going to ignore you, unless you have something to bring to the table besides farts and cramps.” And I did. Or tried too.
Tried reeeeeeaal hard.
At the 8-mile port-o-potty, I looked in the mirror and noticed a massive line of snot across my right cheek that no doubt happened at some point on the ride (because my face was COVERED in my own snot over the 56 miles). So…yeah. That was great. Eight miles of aid stations witnessing my snotty face.
Faaaaaan-tastic.
But for as distressful as my belly made the run, the run was also my best part of the day. I mean, physically, it was the worst, but mentally, it was the best. I was pretty much reduced to a shuffle most of the time, but so very oddly of me, I never cared. I never cursed myself, I never got snippy – I just ran.
I had less then half a mile to go when I felt the first rain drop. As I crossed the finish line, the rain started to pound, and the winds picked up. I remember thinking, “My first tri of the season, my redemption over last year’s failure, and now it’s raining. There should be some sort of symbolism or metaphor here.”
But then I saw a man with a box of peaches.
Mmmmmm....peaches.
I got my peaches, sat my ass on the wet ground, in the rain in transition, cried some happy tears, and called my sister. I told her I was okay, and asked to tell the family I was alive.
And that I finished.
*******************************************************************************
So, I didn't have a crew out there this year - just me - so the actual race pictures will have to come from the race photgrapher and will take a few days. So here is some my awesomeness I snapped when I got home.
Me.
What I made to eat because I was really too lazy to get anything else out of the fridge- Recovery shake, cold grilled chicken and bbq sauce, and cottage cheese. Bon appitite!
The brownies Devin made me for finishing - 24 hours later, they are just about GONE.
The blister I ran with from Mile 1 though the finishers chute. Yeah, it hurt.
My Twins. The top part of the photo is my regular belly - the bottom part by my hand is my Twim bloat. Now can you see why I was struggling?
It demands to be referenced.
Soooooo... Steelhead 70.3.
I swam, rode and ran.
And let me say this – Ironman and his little brother, 70.3, are no dummies. They will BREAK.YOU. if you didn’t take the time to train properly. These are no races to go into without an appropriate level of fitness, or they will expose every last weakness you have.
Or at least with me they did.
In fact, all of my Missed Workouts called up all those other Times which I blew off training – like the Times when I chose to extend my sunbathing instead of get my butt in the pool and swim, or the Times I knew I should have run long, but I ran 5 miles – yeah, so all those Times got together this week, printed up a bunch of tee-shirts and posterboards that read, “Gotcha Sucka!” and then stood at the curb of every aid station mocking and jeering me, forcing me to pay attention to their Truths.
I am pretty sure I even heard one of the Times ask, “Now who’s the bitch?”
(Naw, but seriously – I went into the race knowing that my weakness would be my run fitness, because my training runs were almost always shortened due to my knee injury. And it was - the run exposed me. The run was physically the most difficulty for me, as I suspected going into it. I was at peace with that.)
But regardless of the necessary pain, it was actually fun. And most of all, I am SOOOO proud of myself for all my little victories over the course of the day.
My little victories:
1. Finishing (of course)
2. Not crapping my shorts (story shortly).
3. Running when I could, and walking when I couldn’t -Even with this disgusting blister (photo below), that made its appearance around the first FEW STEPS of the run.
4. Never getting down on myself – NOT EVER.
5. Discovering that little pretzel nuggets for the run were the best last-minute-packing decision I EVER made.
6. Ignoring my watch.
7. Tried to enjoy every single second – especially right before the swim, by taking in the unbelievable beautiful day and my fortune at being able to participate in this sport.
8. Saying positive things to myself over the day about what a badass I was
9. Never once letting myself get intimidated by the fancy bikes, the ripped muscles, the fancy tri-clothes – and instead telling myself – “Just run your own race.”
Pre-RACE:
I stayed with Clyde and his friend on the camp ground in a tiny cabin – like, one bed and a bunk bed type cozy. I had the top bunk. It was AWESOME!!!
(and to my surprise, there were actually plastic mattress, per my last post….)
I didn’t see Clyde before the race because his wave (done by age groups) was much later, but we did exchange some texts beforehand.
Me: (something about not being able to make doody).
Clyde: Yeah, we checked that off our checklist already.
Me: Dang! I am squatting in the vacant bike spot next to my bike hoping for a doody miracle. I feel the Poo Baby kicking, but he’s not ready for delivery.
Phantom doody aside, I knew it was going to be a good (dare I say GREAT) day when I walked into transition at 445am (345 am for us Chicagoans), and Bruce Springsteen’s “Thunder Road” was playing. Why is this significant? Because that was the song I sang to myself on repeat to get me through the last ½ of the Ironman. Out loud. So other people could hear. And it worked. I finished that race too!
That song was then followed up with the Jack Johnson song from my one of my nephew’s favorite movies – Curious George. It made me think of him, and smile at what he would look like if he could see his aunt out here, in the midst of all these bikes – or on the course, running past him. So yeah, I considered those good omens.
I was so positive at the Start I hummed my whole walk down the shore to the start.
My positive attitude surprised even my stone cold heart.
Was that – gasp! – excitement?!?!
You betcha!
The Swim:
Two things happened:
The water – my greatest fear after last year’s Racine DNF in the swim – was remarkably warm at 68 degrees. I even walked in it in the mile to get to the Start. At the Start, I centered myself, silently appreciated the day, and then ran my ass into the water.
But here is where it got dicey – that darn wetsuit suffocated me again, and I had that brief flash of “Shit, I can’t breathe, I can’t do this” (flash to Racine image of me swimming to shore, and then stomping across the transition mat with my Kill Face).
So I breast stroke a few strokes (thanks Spie!), and then proceeded with the swim. I had a few more of these episodes until I calmed down enough to actually start to swim steadily.
And then I got punched – literally punched in the face. So I popped out of the water, looked at the girl (who was paying no attention to me whatsoever) and said, “You know how I am going to punish you? I will beat you.”
And I did – swam right by her and finished before her.
(Okay, in all fairness, she is likely the ONLY girl in my age-group I passed, as I would later discover when I was picking the rest of them off by bike)
My swim time also included the long run to transition, so it actually looks worse then it was (though it’s still pretty bad). And it was definitely slower than what I am capable, but those early moments of “I am going to die out here” and some zigzagging added some time on.
The Bike:
The bike was amazing with a good, moderate course. Although the wind tunnel that started around mile 40ish knocked my confidence down a few pegs, I was still kicking some bike-ass. The bike is also my strength, so I was tearing it up out there, trying to gain some ground. Very uncharacteristically of me, I slowly and steadily picked off almost every female I saw (about three kept getting away from me), especially those that finished before me in the swim in my age group – and got passed by very few (if I read the results correctly, I rode down around 30 girls from my AG). But I wasn’t so much concerned about my overall stats as I was about…..
My Poo Baby was crowning.
The whole ride.
And he was ready to come out like a Holy Terror the size of a grown 16-year-old.
But then he would crawl back up and hang out for a while – like a Braxton Hicks bowel movement. It went on like this for 56 miles.
I tell you – it was an exercise in sheer will just to choke down my Clif Shots with this level of bubble gut.
So you can imagine what the run was like.
The Run:
In addition to the aforementioned blister and a nagging right knee that progressively become more and more painful, I spent and INORDINATE amount of time in the port-o-potty trying to deliver. But nada – nothing, zip, zero, zilch.
And guess what happens when you have a Poo Baby, and then get a Race Food Baby?
Twins!
It got so bad that there were moments I actually forced myself to walk because I was SURE I was going to be THAT girl who craps herself. You know - like those pictures you see of the guy running to the race finish with his “down” covered in brown?
Finally, at Mile 9, I had enough and took a stand. So I said, “Hey Butt, I’m sick of you playing this cat-and-mouse game with my poopies. So I am now going to ignore you, unless you have something to bring to the table besides farts and cramps.” And I did. Or tried too.
Tried reeeeeeaal hard.
At the 8-mile port-o-potty, I looked in the mirror and noticed a massive line of snot across my right cheek that no doubt happened at some point on the ride (because my face was COVERED in my own snot over the 56 miles). So…yeah. That was great. Eight miles of aid stations witnessing my snotty face.
Faaaaaan-tastic.
But for as distressful as my belly made the run, the run was also my best part of the day. I mean, physically, it was the worst, but mentally, it was the best. I was pretty much reduced to a shuffle most of the time, but so very oddly of me, I never cared. I never cursed myself, I never got snippy – I just ran.
I had less then half a mile to go when I felt the first rain drop. As I crossed the finish line, the rain started to pound, and the winds picked up. I remember thinking, “My first tri of the season, my redemption over last year’s failure, and now it’s raining. There should be some sort of symbolism or metaphor here.”
But then I saw a man with a box of peaches.
Mmmmmm....peaches.
I got my peaches, sat my ass on the wet ground, in the rain in transition, cried some happy tears, and called my sister. I told her I was okay, and asked to tell the family I was alive.
And that I finished.
*******************************************************************************
So, I didn't have a crew out there this year - just me - so the actual race pictures will have to come from the race photgrapher and will take a few days. So here is some my awesomeness I snapped when I got home.
Me. 
What I made to eat because I was really too lazy to get anything else out of the fridge- Recovery shake, cold grilled chicken and bbq sauce, and cottage cheese. Bon appitite!
The brownies Devin made me for finishing - 24 hours later, they are just about GONE.
The blister I ran with from Mile 1 though the finishers chute. Yeah, it hurt.
My Twins. The top part of the photo is my regular belly - the bottom part by my hand is my Twim bloat. Now can you see why I was struggling?
Thursday, January 8, 2009
Worst Idea EVA
Late last night, my friend Joe (The Fire) was reminiscing about his own colonoscopy, about which he stated, “The sedation they used is like the date rape drug…you’re pretty out of it.”
Well, I can tell ya this much – there was no dinner involved, but I sure as hell got violated.
In fact, the pain was so excruciating, that about 20 minutes in, I was sobbing and screaming for them to stop, clinging onto the guard rails of the gurney for dear life, as if trying to out-run the rod in my hinny.
Now, according to what you all have described, that wasn’t exactly what was supposed to happen.
Finally, after an ear-piercing sob, “STOP!” from me, brought about from the rod threatening to jam through my belly, I heard the doctor tell the resident, “Perhaps we need to stop this and try again with anesthesia.”
So yeah, after the awesome anal rape, I now have to relive it all over again in another few weeks.
When Cheese was finally able to come and get me, I was on my gurney, all dressed, and just crying from the pain.
He later said he was taken aback by this sight.
As was I taken aback by how hellacious this while experience was.
As an added surprise, I threw up in his car on the way home.
Thank goodness for the spare Target bag in the back seat.
Upon entering the apartment, I simply took my shoes off, crawled into bed, and slept for several hours. I woke up, still nauseous, with a blinding headache, raging flatulence, and liquid still pouring out of my backside.
Fuck.
I should’ve just gone to work.
Update - Dinner got thrown up. Seriously? I know this isn't right. And I talked to Joe again - he convinced me that I got nowhere near enough meds to numb me up. I am seriously considering not showing up for my next appointment, anesthesia or not.
Well, I can tell ya this much – there was no dinner involved, but I sure as hell got violated.
In fact, the pain was so excruciating, that about 20 minutes in, I was sobbing and screaming for them to stop, clinging onto the guard rails of the gurney for dear life, as if trying to out-run the rod in my hinny.
Now, according to what you all have described, that wasn’t exactly what was supposed to happen.
Finally, after an ear-piercing sob, “STOP!” from me, brought about from the rod threatening to jam through my belly, I heard the doctor tell the resident, “Perhaps we need to stop this and try again with anesthesia.”
So yeah, after the awesome anal rape, I now have to relive it all over again in another few weeks.
When Cheese was finally able to come and get me, I was on my gurney, all dressed, and just crying from the pain.
He later said he was taken aback by this sight.
As was I taken aback by how hellacious this while experience was.
As an added surprise, I threw up in his car on the way home.
Thank goodness for the spare Target bag in the back seat.
Upon entering the apartment, I simply took my shoes off, crawled into bed, and slept for several hours. I woke up, still nauseous, with a blinding headache, raging flatulence, and liquid still pouring out of my backside.
Fuck.
I should’ve just gone to work.
Update - Dinner got thrown up. Seriously? I know this isn't right. And I talked to Joe again - he convinced me that I got nowhere near enough meds to numb me up. I am seriously considering not showing up for my next appointment, anesthesia or not.
Wednesday, January 7, 2009
Turds
So the Biggest Loser started last night.
Mama pajama! Them is some big folk!
Cheese is convinced that BL is trying to get a person to have their first 200 pound weight loss. After last night, they’ll get it for sure this season. I mean, that one kid weighed in at like 450 pounds.
I gotta say though – after this first episode, I am sort of rooting for all of them to win.
Well, all of them except for Laura.
She’s a cry baby.
And I know I say it every time – but what the FUCK are these people crying about?
And I love how they say shit like, “When we pulled into the ranch, it was the first time I realized I needed help.” Or, “When that really old man almost died on the gym floor, it was the first time I realized we were all really sick.”
The first time, people?
Really?
‘Cause the years of multiple doctor’s warning, rampant diabetes and high blood pressure, inability to breath regularly when walking even a couple feet, and the size 48 pants weren’t clue enough?
The fact that your organs are so filled with fat they are actually growing so big and pushing your lungs up and closing them off – still no idea, huh?
Best line of the night?
“We’re a bunch of fat kids in a really fat gym class.”
Of course, I celebrated the new season with a dinner of Weight Watchers Smart Ones…and two ice cream sammys.
Yeah...yeah I did.
*lowers head in fake, insincere shame*
But hear me out – I allowed myself this slight binge because I will be forced to have nothing for two days.
Well, nothing but a GALLON of liquid laxative, followed by what I believe to be a large rod shove up my poop hole.
Yes folks – that’s right.
I am having a colonoscopy.
And endoscopy (but I don’t know what that is, I just do as I’m told at this point)
It’s a long story, but the Reader’s Digest version is that I was sent to the GI docs as a result of my most recent kidney check up. The GI doc took one look at my history and my family’s history, and was like, “Yeah, we need to take care of this.” So he sends me through a battery of tests, mostly “just in case” and to rule things out.
So I like to look at the next few days as my own personal version of Gwyneth Paltrow’s colon cleanse.
At least it’ll kick any remnants of my Christmas cookie indiscretions out of the system, yeah?
Mama pajama! Them is some big folk!
Cheese is convinced that BL is trying to get a person to have their first 200 pound weight loss. After last night, they’ll get it for sure this season. I mean, that one kid weighed in at like 450 pounds.
I gotta say though – after this first episode, I am sort of rooting for all of them to win.
Well, all of them except for Laura.
She’s a cry baby.
And I know I say it every time – but what the FUCK are these people crying about?
And I love how they say shit like, “When we pulled into the ranch, it was the first time I realized I needed help.” Or, “When that really old man almost died on the gym floor, it was the first time I realized we were all really sick.”
The first time, people?
Really?
‘Cause the years of multiple doctor’s warning, rampant diabetes and high blood pressure, inability to breath regularly when walking even a couple feet, and the size 48 pants weren’t clue enough?
The fact that your organs are so filled with fat they are actually growing so big and pushing your lungs up and closing them off – still no idea, huh?
Best line of the night?
“We’re a bunch of fat kids in a really fat gym class.”
Of course, I celebrated the new season with a dinner of Weight Watchers Smart Ones…and two ice cream sammys.
Yeah...yeah I did.
*lowers head in fake, insincere shame*
But hear me out – I allowed myself this slight binge because I will be forced to have nothing for two days.
Well, nothing but a GALLON of liquid laxative, followed by what I believe to be a large rod shove up my poop hole.
Yes folks – that’s right.
I am having a colonoscopy.
And endoscopy (but I don’t know what that is, I just do as I’m told at this point)
It’s a long story, but the Reader’s Digest version is that I was sent to the GI docs as a result of my most recent kidney check up. The GI doc took one look at my history and my family’s history, and was like, “Yeah, we need to take care of this.” So he sends me through a battery of tests, mostly “just in case” and to rule things out.
So I like to look at the next few days as my own personal version of Gwyneth Paltrow’s colon cleanse.
At least it’ll kick any remnants of my Christmas cookie indiscretions out of the system, yeah?
Wednesday, December 3, 2008
Good and Bad
First off, I missed BL last night because I went out and stuffed myself silly with Mexican food with my family. Who got kicked off?
Also if you do nothing at all for the next day, do this : SIGN UP FOR NETFLIX.
Holy 21st century, I have arrived.
Not only have we had a movie or series to watch everyday for the last two weeks, you barely have to do anything expect for click your mouse to get it.
And most of the thie movies you can stream right through your computer!
I mean - it's like when we first got DVR - I'm watching shit I would have never dreamed of before!
Genius.
And dropping the disk off at the mailbox so we can get another ASAP is great incentive to get Cheese out of the house for four minutes every other day.
So we all win.
Okay, so now for the nitty gritty.
The BAD:
So right before I headed out to go to my 6-month follow-up kidney appointment this morning(which is coming at a good time, as I haven’t been feeling so hot for the last two months, and I'm not preggers but something certainly is taking over my body, it’s a good time to check things out, you know?), I was going through my Facebook pictures and tagging some photos I have had in my photo app.
And you know what I discovered?
My Kidney Brother de-friended me.
Ain’t that some shit?
Lemme tell ya what I think happened.
See, Cheese invited my whole family to the surprise engagement two months ago. Kidney Brother never showed.
He was then invited to the Marathon CarboLoad Dinner/Impromptu Engagement Party the following night. He never showed.
Finally, he was invited to a pizza night when my other brother came to town about a week later.
No show again.
Now, mind you, this is the same brother who, before getting my kidney, had a really sketchy history with my family, was a pretty unhappy, angry, distant and psychologically impaired person. But yet he always talked about wanting to get closer to my family.
So he gets my organ, then doesn’t bother to show up for any family event since.
And he has still never met Cheese, the man I am going to marry.
So after the no-shows in October, I sent him an email and was basically like, “Whatever, I’m pissed.” He sent an email back, blamed my mom for everything – something about missed text messages or voicemail or something – just like he always does.
Everything is always someone else’s fault - the whole world is conspiring against him. What a fucking surprise.
And then at some point, that asshole de-friended me.
Because I called him out on being a meanie.
I don’t know what I ever expected would change, and I am a little pissed at myself that this even bothers me. I mean, I sort of always knew he would put up this “Look at me, I’m a new man with a new perspective” face on for a while, but in the absence of any real therapy or internal self-improvement, of course nothing was going to change in the heart of his personality.
Whatever. Fuck him.
Moving on to The Good:
On the upshot, I found out that I got taken off the waiting list for the Hustle Up the Hancock, and am now going to do the full climb!
That’s 94 floors, bitches!
Oh glorious Hustle!
And Need Some More Good?
Comm recently posted about it being the Chritmas season, and giving more of ourselves. Then I read on Mommymeepa's blog that she is taking it step further and made a list of things she intends to do every day for someone else.
And since I love a good challenge, I am going to challenge myself to do something outside of myelf each day, starting with this month, and then hopefully beyond this month.
'Cause let's be honest, I really can get pretty consumed with my own BS sometimes.
So check out their blogs and see what they are doing.
I'll let you know what I decide for myself.
Also if you do nothing at all for the next day, do this : SIGN UP FOR NETFLIX.
Holy 21st century, I have arrived.
Not only have we had a movie or series to watch everyday for the last two weeks, you barely have to do anything expect for click your mouse to get it.
And most of the thie movies you can stream right through your computer!
I mean - it's like when we first got DVR - I'm watching shit I would have never dreamed of before!
Genius.
And dropping the disk off at the mailbox so we can get another ASAP is great incentive to get Cheese out of the house for four minutes every other day.
So we all win.
Okay, so now for the nitty gritty.
The BAD:
So right before I headed out to go to my 6-month follow-up kidney appointment this morning(which is coming at a good time, as I haven’t been feeling so hot for the last two months, and I'm not preggers but something certainly is taking over my body, it’s a good time to check things out, you know?), I was going through my Facebook pictures and tagging some photos I have had in my photo app.
And you know what I discovered?
My Kidney Brother de-friended me.
Ain’t that some shit?
Lemme tell ya what I think happened.
See, Cheese invited my whole family to the surprise engagement two months ago. Kidney Brother never showed.
He was then invited to the Marathon CarboLoad Dinner/Impromptu Engagement Party the following night. He never showed.
Finally, he was invited to a pizza night when my other brother came to town about a week later.
No show again.
Now, mind you, this is the same brother who, before getting my kidney, had a really sketchy history with my family, was a pretty unhappy, angry, distant and psychologically impaired person. But yet he always talked about wanting to get closer to my family.
So he gets my organ, then doesn’t bother to show up for any family event since.
And he has still never met Cheese, the man I am going to marry.
So after the no-shows in October, I sent him an email and was basically like, “Whatever, I’m pissed.” He sent an email back, blamed my mom for everything – something about missed text messages or voicemail or something – just like he always does.
Everything is always someone else’s fault - the whole world is conspiring against him. What a fucking surprise.
And then at some point, that asshole de-friended me.
Because I called him out on being a meanie.
I don’t know what I ever expected would change, and I am a little pissed at myself that this even bothers me. I mean, I sort of always knew he would put up this “Look at me, I’m a new man with a new perspective” face on for a while, but in the absence of any real therapy or internal self-improvement, of course nothing was going to change in the heart of his personality.
Whatever. Fuck him.
Moving on to The Good:
On the upshot, I found out that I got taken off the waiting list for the Hustle Up the Hancock, and am now going to do the full climb!
That’s 94 floors, bitches!
Oh glorious Hustle!
And Need Some More Good?
Comm recently posted about it being the Chritmas season, and giving more of ourselves. Then I read on Mommymeepa's blog that she is taking it step further and made a list of things she intends to do every day for someone else.
And since I love a good challenge, I am going to challenge myself to do something outside of myelf each day, starting with this month, and then hopefully beyond this month.
'Cause let's be honest, I really can get pretty consumed with my own BS sometimes.
So check out their blogs and see what they are doing.
I'll let you know what I decide for myself.
Sunday, October 5, 2008
Hanging
Still blusey.
Thanks to all those that have checked in - I had some less-bluey moments in the last three days, but overall I just find myself to be in this funk that has no actual meaning/trigger/reason.
I haven't posted because, gosh - I barely muster the energy to climb my ass out bed each morning, much less try to put together a coherent or interesting thought.
I mostly cry. And move slowly.
And I am a pretty solitary person to begin with, but now I am almost a total shut-in - a life position usually reserved for the eldery, of which I am not.
Yet.
Although based on my 16-miler today, my body beleives itself to be in its golden years already.
And I think that makes it all the more difficult - I had planned to basically sweat my bad mood out of me this weekend with huge workouts, and it didn't happen.
My should-have-been three hour ride yesterday turned into a 90 minute ordeal.
My 20-miler today was cut short to 16 due to my general weezing and lack of breath.
And despite my recent return to the pool (I know, I am stunned to) I didn't make it there this weekend.
And I am sick again.
Okay, yeah, so.....
I think that is far and away enough bitching for one day.
I keep trying to remind myself of a saying I have written on a card that sits in front of the tv and bike trainer: "There will be a day when you can no longer do this - Today is not that day."
And its true. Pissy mood, shortened workouts, whatever - despite it all, I can still hold an appreciation for the fact that my body can even carry itself 16 miles.
Onto another week...
Thanks to all those that have checked in - I had some less-bluey moments in the last three days, but overall I just find myself to be in this funk that has no actual meaning/trigger/reason.
I haven't posted because, gosh - I barely muster the energy to climb my ass out bed each morning, much less try to put together a coherent or interesting thought.
I mostly cry. And move slowly.
And I am a pretty solitary person to begin with, but now I am almost a total shut-in - a life position usually reserved for the eldery, of which I am not.
Yet.
Although based on my 16-miler today, my body beleives itself to be in its golden years already.
And I think that makes it all the more difficult - I had planned to basically sweat my bad mood out of me this weekend with huge workouts, and it didn't happen.
My should-have-been three hour ride yesterday turned into a 90 minute ordeal.
My 20-miler today was cut short to 16 due to my general weezing and lack of breath.
And despite my recent return to the pool (I know, I am stunned to) I didn't make it there this weekend.
And I am sick again.
Okay, yeah, so.....
I think that is far and away enough bitching for one day.
I keep trying to remind myself of a saying I have written on a card that sits in front of the tv and bike trainer: "There will be a day when you can no longer do this - Today is not that day."
And its true. Pissy mood, shortened workouts, whatever - despite it all, I can still hold an appreciation for the fact that my body can even carry itself 16 miles.
Onto another week...
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
Lemons but No Lemonade
I am bluesy.
I am just sick of everything and everyone right now.
I am sick of politics mostly- of people being asses to each other, of the state of this country, of the media, or the hypocrisy.
I am sick of reading how people that I once respected personally attack others while blatenly ignoring the full truth of things.
I am sick of politician's half-truths, and of a populace that collectively and consciously ignores the truth that is actually in front of them.
I am sick of worrying about what all this means for my future - maybe everything, maybe nothing.
I am sick of worrying about the potential of living in a country in which I can't build a private practice (as a SECOND job, nonetheless) because working THAT hard might mean I would owe the government almost HALF my money. Where's the motivation to improve my lot in life? To benefit frmo the degree I busted my ass to get?
I have been coming home from work, keeping the tv off, turning the computer off, and just reading - anything to shut it all out.
And it's not just the actual election- rather (and I said this before), it's what it has all come to reveal about our world, about us as Americans.
All a bunch of finger-pointers, blame-passers, hate-breeders, liars.
And how can we expect politicans to behave any differently if we ourselves encourage this environment?
Ironic, but they really do end up being our "representitives."
Being "passionate" about this election has turned into an excuse for people to be nasty, ugly, and hypocritical. I get that people are really dedicated to their "side," but at what cost to your integrity? How does one pride oneself on being "well informed" when the only information they seek out and promote is one-sided?
I am starting to remember why I just stayed out of all this to begin with.
What else?
My job is extremely stressful right now - I seem to have found myself supervising people who have no desire to improve themselves as clinicians, but instead are satisfied with being told what to do, what to write, how to think.
And when they are not trying to claim disability for made-up injuries, they are ditching work and lying about it.
And I miss my BF.
I really, really miss him.
And there are times when he hurts and I can't help.
This is the stuff that eat at me, that keeps me up at night.
That is why I am blusey.
I am just sick of everything and everyone right now.
I am sick of politics mostly- of people being asses to each other, of the state of this country, of the media, or the hypocrisy.
I am sick of reading how people that I once respected personally attack others while blatenly ignoring the full truth of things.
I am sick of politician's half-truths, and of a populace that collectively and consciously ignores the truth that is actually in front of them.
I am sick of worrying about what all this means for my future - maybe everything, maybe nothing.
I am sick of worrying about the potential of living in a country in which I can't build a private practice (as a SECOND job, nonetheless) because working THAT hard might mean I would owe the government almost HALF my money. Where's the motivation to improve my lot in life? To benefit frmo the degree I busted my ass to get?
I have been coming home from work, keeping the tv off, turning the computer off, and just reading - anything to shut it all out.
And it's not just the actual election- rather (and I said this before), it's what it has all come to reveal about our world, about us as Americans.
All a bunch of finger-pointers, blame-passers, hate-breeders, liars.
And how can we expect politicans to behave any differently if we ourselves encourage this environment?
Ironic, but they really do end up being our "representitives."
Being "passionate" about this election has turned into an excuse for people to be nasty, ugly, and hypocritical. I get that people are really dedicated to their "side," but at what cost to your integrity? How does one pride oneself on being "well informed" when the only information they seek out and promote is one-sided?
I am starting to remember why I just stayed out of all this to begin with.
What else?
My job is extremely stressful right now - I seem to have found myself supervising people who have no desire to improve themselves as clinicians, but instead are satisfied with being told what to do, what to write, how to think.
And when they are not trying to claim disability for made-up injuries, they are ditching work and lying about it.
And I miss my BF.
I really, really miss him.
And there are times when he hurts and I can't help.
This is the stuff that eat at me, that keeps me up at night.
That is why I am blusey.
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
Loser
1. Still sick.
Wiping nose on shirt 'cause too achy to get toilet paper from the bathroom.
Moving on.
2. While watching the Biggest Loser and being auditorily assaulted by the nonstop trumpet playing from the apartment across the courtyard (of course, not to be mistaken for the alarm clock that suddenly went off at 10PM the other night and wasn’t slapped off until after midnight – yeah, that was an AWESOME night), I had this thought:
Why do these contestants yell at Jillian and Bob?
I mean, really.
You are in the midst of a once-in-a-lifetime experience to erase years of bad habits, laziness, and inactivity.
You are being given full time access to personal trainers, fitness programs, gyms, chefs, cooking training, eating training – I mean, the list goes on.
So when Jillian tells you to squat your ass until it touches the ground, you best squat your ass until your quads snap right off your body.
How much of a spoiled brat are you that you yell at the people that are trying to improve, if not save in some cases, your life?
I wanted to choke a bitch with a sweat rag.
And the quote of the night goes to LT, who had a less-then-favorable weigh in, and was ultimately eliminated:
“I came to a fat loss show and I gained three pounds! Yeah I’m mad! Wouldn’t you be mad if you went to a make over show and you got uglier?”
Well, LT, when you put it that way….yes, yes I would.
3. If this were the Rebublicans, this shit would headline CNN. At the end of the day, it's probably not a huge story (meaning - it has nothing to do with how this person will fix this nation, just like the whole "how many cars does McCain have" issue but for some reason this is the shit that gets reported - whatever). But if the McCain-Palin ticket was having this problem, you can bet this would broadcasted from the top of the Empire State building.
I mean fuck - Palin farts against the wind and it make headlines. Biden doesn't know basic history, has strep throat from having his foot down there for the last month, and no one says "boo."
Fucking Whoopi Goldberg ask McCain if he is going to turn her into a slave again, and no one says shit.
Not even a blip.
I know I have been beating this bias-media thing like a dead horse, but come on - CNN doesn't even try to hide it at this point. My own local news station doesn't even hide it (of course, Illinois is Obama country, so what a surprise). While reading a recent pro-Obama article (from an actual news source) that a fellow blogger posted, I happened to skim most of the comments (there were like 150, and I finally had to stop after 75). That comment section sounded just like the recess playground in elementary school - it was nothing but horrible name-calling (name-calling! by adults!) and personal insults and attacks against Palin (and McCain, who is obviously associated).
Now, before you jump down my throat, I will also point out that I also read a shit load of conservative articles/blogs. But to be honest, I don't see these types of comments against the Obama camp. Questions/concerns/factual finger pointing? Yes, yes, and yes.
But name calling?
Like children?
Uneducated children?
And I mean that serisouly - like, there were no actual counterpoints, or actual feedback - it was like, "Palin's a bitch." Literally.
And yes, there are certainly exceptions to this rule - there are Democrats who do not do this and there are Rebublicans that do - I am not saying this is exclusive, or that one side is innocent in this.
But why is it that, if you are not voting for Obama or (gasp!) considered conservative, you are the definition of "evil?"
Or, even worse (as I heard today) a racist?
A fucking racist.
I wasn't voting for Hillary either, so does that make me a lady-hater?
Why can't it just be as simple as, "I don't agree with his politics?"
And if it were McCain spouting Obama's politics, I wouldn't vote for his ass either.
Why can't it just be as simple as a disagreement of politics? Why can't we agree to disagree, instead of Democrats launching insults of being "Bush" lovers (p.s. I am not - I never voted for the guy)? Why does it have to get ugly to point of insulting?
I used to say that I can't wait for this election to be over, but the truth is that, even after the votes are cast, this election has revealed far uglier and deeper problems with us as a people and nation. Politics aside - it literally brings me to tears when I think about the direction the US is headed - the economy, the media, the anger, the divide - just how people treat each other, how intolerate people are showing themselves to be.
I am just so horribly sick of it all.
Wiping nose on shirt 'cause too achy to get toilet paper from the bathroom.
Moving on.
2. While watching the Biggest Loser and being auditorily assaulted by the nonstop trumpet playing from the apartment across the courtyard (of course, not to be mistaken for the alarm clock that suddenly went off at 10PM the other night and wasn’t slapped off until after midnight – yeah, that was an AWESOME night), I had this thought:
Why do these contestants yell at Jillian and Bob?
I mean, really.
You are in the midst of a once-in-a-lifetime experience to erase years of bad habits, laziness, and inactivity.
You are being given full time access to personal trainers, fitness programs, gyms, chefs, cooking training, eating training – I mean, the list goes on.
So when Jillian tells you to squat your ass until it touches the ground, you best squat your ass until your quads snap right off your body.
How much of a spoiled brat are you that you yell at the people that are trying to improve, if not save in some cases, your life?
I wanted to choke a bitch with a sweat rag.
And the quote of the night goes to LT, who had a less-then-favorable weigh in, and was ultimately eliminated:
“I came to a fat loss show and I gained three pounds! Yeah I’m mad! Wouldn’t you be mad if you went to a make over show and you got uglier?”
Well, LT, when you put it that way….yes, yes I would.
3. If this were the Rebublicans, this shit would headline CNN. At the end of the day, it's probably not a huge story (meaning - it has nothing to do with how this person will fix this nation, just like the whole "how many cars does McCain have" issue but for some reason this is the shit that gets reported - whatever). But if the McCain-Palin ticket was having this problem, you can bet this would broadcasted from the top of the Empire State building.
I mean fuck - Palin farts against the wind and it make headlines. Biden doesn't know basic history, has strep throat from having his foot down there for the last month, and no one says "boo."
Fucking Whoopi Goldberg ask McCain if he is going to turn her into a slave again, and no one says shit.
Not even a blip.
I know I have been beating this bias-media thing like a dead horse, but come on - CNN doesn't even try to hide it at this point. My own local news station doesn't even hide it (of course, Illinois is Obama country, so what a surprise). While reading a recent pro-Obama article (from an actual news source) that a fellow blogger posted, I happened to skim most of the comments (there were like 150, and I finally had to stop after 75). That comment section sounded just like the recess playground in elementary school - it was nothing but horrible name-calling (name-calling! by adults!) and personal insults and attacks against Palin (and McCain, who is obviously associated).
Now, before you jump down my throat, I will also point out that I also read a shit load of conservative articles/blogs. But to be honest, I don't see these types of comments against the Obama camp. Questions/concerns/factual finger pointing? Yes, yes, and yes.
But name calling?
Like children?
Uneducated children?
And I mean that serisouly - like, there were no actual counterpoints, or actual feedback - it was like, "Palin's a bitch." Literally.
And yes, there are certainly exceptions to this rule - there are Democrats who do not do this and there are Rebublicans that do - I am not saying this is exclusive, or that one side is innocent in this.
But why is it that, if you are not voting for Obama or (gasp!) considered conservative, you are the definition of "evil?"
Or, even worse (as I heard today) a racist?
A fucking racist.
I wasn't voting for Hillary either, so does that make me a lady-hater?
Why can't it just be as simple as, "I don't agree with his politics?"
And if it were McCain spouting Obama's politics, I wouldn't vote for his ass either.
Why can't it just be as simple as a disagreement of politics? Why can't we agree to disagree, instead of Democrats launching insults of being "Bush" lovers (p.s. I am not - I never voted for the guy)? Why does it have to get ugly to point of insulting?
I used to say that I can't wait for this election to be over, but the truth is that, even after the votes are cast, this election has revealed far uglier and deeper problems with us as a people and nation. Politics aside - it literally brings me to tears when I think about the direction the US is headed - the economy, the media, the anger, the divide - just how people treat each other, how intolerate people are showing themselves to be.
I am just so horribly sick of it all.
Monday, September 22, 2008
Short and Sweet
Too hard to type and wipe the snot from my nose at the same time.
Makes for a sticky keyboard.
It's 430.
PM.
Im going to bed.
Praying to wake up healthy.
Later bitches.
Makes for a sticky keyboard.
It's 430.
PM.
Im going to bed.
Praying to wake up healthy.
Later bitches.
Sunday, June 22, 2008
To My Sister, With Love
Dear Devin:
With any endurance sport, there will always be variables which we cannot control.
Sometimes, our months of training can be flawless, perfect in every way, and bring us to race day with high hopes and a focused mind.
But these variables can sneak up – they can take a hold of our bodies when we least expect it, and they can quickly dash all those months of hard work.
Yesterday, you toed the line in Minnesota, hundreds of miles away from the comfort of our Chicago lakefront, with one goal in mind: Qualify for Boston.
You knew that, even though your hip problem continued to nag, and you woke up with a spasmed and knotted back, there was nothing that was going to stop you from crossing that finish line.
And while the first several miles went as planned, somewhere along the way, things stopped working. At some point in the race, your body stopped working for you, and instead started working against.
You vomited. You ached. You knotted. You twisted in pain.
But the thing is, Dev, you never quit. You could have – you could have pulled up to the curb, stretched your back, hit the medical tent, and gave a big middle finger to Grandma.
But you didn’t. You stayed in the race.
You stayed in even when you had to walk more than run.
You stayed in even when you knew that you would not qualify.
You stayed in even when the disappointment you felt choked you with sobs.
You stayed in even when you had miles and miles stretched ahead of you, and you simply couldn’t get your body to move any faster.
When I think about what you went through on that course yesterday, my heart and my eyes swell with pride.
The fortitude you have in your heart is indescribable – it is something that, in my darkest hours, I hope I can recall and emulate.
It doesn’t matter what time you crossed that line yesterday – you were already my inspiration, my pride, my hero, and my sister.
While almost ever runner at some point dreams of qualifying for Boston, few ever actually try. And for those that try, few succeed.
Not only did you have the courage to try, but you had the courage to try twice, and to stay in a race despite all odds.
Boston will be there for you one day, Dev.
And if I know you, you won’t stop trying until you get it.
Keep your chin up, Kid. You are tough as nails, and an inspiration to all of us.
Love,
Me
With any endurance sport, there will always be variables which we cannot control.
Sometimes, our months of training can be flawless, perfect in every way, and bring us to race day with high hopes and a focused mind.
But these variables can sneak up – they can take a hold of our bodies when we least expect it, and they can quickly dash all those months of hard work.
Yesterday, you toed the line in Minnesota, hundreds of miles away from the comfort of our Chicago lakefront, with one goal in mind: Qualify for Boston.
You knew that, even though your hip problem continued to nag, and you woke up with a spasmed and knotted back, there was nothing that was going to stop you from crossing that finish line.
And while the first several miles went as planned, somewhere along the way, things stopped working. At some point in the race, your body stopped working for you, and instead started working against.
You vomited. You ached. You knotted. You twisted in pain.
But the thing is, Dev, you never quit. You could have – you could have pulled up to the curb, stretched your back, hit the medical tent, and gave a big middle finger to Grandma.
But you didn’t. You stayed in the race.
You stayed in even when you had to walk more than run.
You stayed in even when you knew that you would not qualify.
You stayed in even when the disappointment you felt choked you with sobs.
You stayed in even when you had miles and miles stretched ahead of you, and you simply couldn’t get your body to move any faster.
When I think about what you went through on that course yesterday, my heart and my eyes swell with pride.
The fortitude you have in your heart is indescribable – it is something that, in my darkest hours, I hope I can recall and emulate.
It doesn’t matter what time you crossed that line yesterday – you were already my inspiration, my pride, my hero, and my sister.
While almost ever runner at some point dreams of qualifying for Boston, few ever actually try. And for those that try, few succeed.
Not only did you have the courage to try, but you had the courage to try twice, and to stay in a race despite all odds.
Boston will be there for you one day, Dev.
And if I know you, you won’t stop trying until you get it.
Keep your chin up, Kid. You are tough as nails, and an inspiration to all of us.
Love,
Me
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
Don't Call It a Comeback (exactly....)
Ever have that experience where the left hand doesn’t know what the right hand is doing?
If so, you probably work for our state’s government.
Either that, or you, too, are part of the same transplant program as I.
So today, after waiting TWO HOURS (yes, that breaks my own old personal record of 75 minutes) for an appointment, I finally met with a doctor who, oddly enough, I had never seen before.
After unleashing my hysterical tears of frustration on her (complicated by the fact that I was now one hour late for work, and 15 minutes away from a staffing I was supposed to attend), she had me hop on the table and lift my shirt. The conversation went like this:
Her: Oh, your scabs look really good!
Me: Oh yeah? (hopping off table and pulling down my pants) How about this grapefruit? Does that look good to you, too?
Her: Well, actually, yes, it does look pretty good.
Me: So when do you think it should look….GONE?
Her: Well, it should look like that, you know. It will take some time…..
Me: Well, my other doctor said it would take two weeks, and it’s been three weeks post-surgery. Her: (quizzical look on face) Two weeks? Huh. No, it should actually take up to six weeks for all that to be healed (goes on to explain why it looks as it does).
Me: SIX WEEKS?!?!?! Are you kidding me with that?
Her: Uh no.
Me: I don’t have time for that.
Her: What else do you have to do?
Me: Uh, nothing…Stuff…I don’t know.
Her: (pause).
If so, you probably work for our state’s government.
Either that, or you, too, are part of the same transplant program as I.
So today, after waiting TWO HOURS (yes, that breaks my own old personal record of 75 minutes) for an appointment, I finally met with a doctor who, oddly enough, I had never seen before.
After unleashing my hysterical tears of frustration on her (complicated by the fact that I was now one hour late for work, and 15 minutes away from a staffing I was supposed to attend), she had me hop on the table and lift my shirt. The conversation went like this:
Her: Oh, your scabs look really good!
Me: Oh yeah? (hopping off table and pulling down my pants) How about this grapefruit? Does that look good to you, too?
Her: Well, actually, yes, it does look pretty good.
Me: So when do you think it should look….GONE?
Her: Well, it should look like that, you know. It will take some time…..
Me: Well, my other doctor said it would take two weeks, and it’s been three weeks post-surgery. Her: (quizzical look on face) Two weeks? Huh. No, it should actually take up to six weeks for all that to be healed (goes on to explain why it looks as it does).
Me: SIX WEEKS?!?!?! Are you kidding me with that?
Her: Uh no.
Me: I don’t have time for that.
Her: What else do you have to do?
Me: Uh, nothing…Stuff…I don’t know.
Her: (pause).
Me: You know, I did Ironman four weeks ago.
Her: (Blank stare)
Me: (Stare back......long silent pause)
Me: So how about this running thing? The doctor told me last week that I would be ready to go.
Her (same quizzical look, now with a raised eyebrow) Uh, three weeks post-surgery? Well....like how far do you want to run?
Me: How far can I run?
Her: How far do you want to run?
Me: 20 miles, but I don’t think that’s what you’re going to tell me.
Her: Nope. No I won’t.
So we negotiated, and came up with a reasonable amount of running. She also gave me some tips on how to “juice” Ruby Red.
Including patience.
Yeah, ‘cause I am sooo good with that.
Me: So how about this running thing? The doctor told me last week that I would be ready to go.
Her (same quizzical look, now with a raised eyebrow) Uh, three weeks post-surgery? Well....like how far do you want to run?
Me: How far can I run?
Her: How far do you want to run?
Me: 20 miles, but I don’t think that’s what you’re going to tell me.
Her: Nope. No I won’t.
So we negotiated, and came up with a reasonable amount of running. She also gave me some tips on how to “juice” Ruby Red.
Including patience.
Yeah, ‘cause I am sooo good with that.
Then she tried to bond with me, and told me that she had the exact same scar and citrus issue on her stomach post-baby birth. She then says, with a sympathetic smile and nod, "And now two years later, my stomach looks almost healed."
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
My insides were screaming, "Bitch what?!?!" but my outsides were smiling knowlingly, letting her feel as if she made some connection, politely accepted my lab work papers, and got the EFF out of there and into my little car, where I proceed to INHALE a bag (grocery store size) of potato chips.
Hey - my blood pressue was a 104/64, so I felt I deserved to knock back an ocean's worth of salt after that fiasco.
I was reluctant to post a picture of this monster, but finally I was like "Whatever." I figured you have all seen some really ugly parts of me over the last two years - what's a little skin? Just so you can all see that I am not joking. If your not on a diet now, your loss of appitite will jump start it. 
Just to put this in perspective (because the picture doesn't do the best job of it), the first bump is "The Pucker" which, as noted before, is the result of a stitch under the skin. The second bump is my little friend. So, off to the far left side you can sort of see a scar where my hip bone should be, and usually is. The grapefruit doesn't just stick out, but it has swelled the entire lower ab area so that, from hip to hip, it's swelled out like on of those "Save the Babies" kids, with a grapefruit plopped on the end of it.
Just to put this in perspective (because the picture doesn't do the best job of it), the first bump is "The Pucker" which, as noted before, is the result of a stitch under the skin. The second bump is my little friend. So, off to the far left side you can sort of see a scar where my hip bone should be, and usually is. The grapefruit doesn't just stick out, but it has swelled the entire lower ab area so that, from hip to hip, it's swelled out like on of those "Save the Babies" kids, with a grapefruit plopped on the end of it. Pretty delicious. I know.
And the comeback?
Right before Ironman, I was asked to participate on a relay team for a run from Madison to Chicago in June. I said yes at the time, with the caveat that the whole kidney thing might make me retract my commitment.
Since I have been steadily biking, and can return (slowly) to running, it looks like I will be able to do the relay. However, I will need to talk to Danielle (organizer and fellow blogger) about how much they will need me to run, but I think it should be flexible and do-able. I really just want to do it because it sounds like fun, even if I can’t do 20-mile stretches.
I also know my limits. My fitness is slowly returning and will continue to do so as the race approaches. I know there are enough members on the team to cover if for some horrible reason I have a setback or am simply not ready. But I don’t think that would be the case. I can do this if I play it smart.
I think I was just hoping for some different (better?) news at the office. I think I was expecting them to say, “Oh, don’t worry about that melon hanging off your abdomen – should be gone by morning and your boyfriend (whose coming into town in one more day) won’t even throw up in his mouth when he sees it….Oh, and running? Feel free to sign up for that marathon next week.”
But as I said in a previous post – victor, not victim. I am happy that I can run even a little bit, and at least have an expectation of when my citrus friend says “Adios.” So I guess I can be satisfied with that.
Right before Ironman, I was asked to participate on a relay team for a run from Madison to Chicago in June. I said yes at the time, with the caveat that the whole kidney thing might make me retract my commitment.
Since I have been steadily biking, and can return (slowly) to running, it looks like I will be able to do the relay. However, I will need to talk to Danielle (organizer and fellow blogger) about how much they will need me to run, but I think it should be flexible and do-able. I really just want to do it because it sounds like fun, even if I can’t do 20-mile stretches.
I also know my limits. My fitness is slowly returning and will continue to do so as the race approaches. I know there are enough members on the team to cover if for some horrible reason I have a setback or am simply not ready. But I don’t think that would be the case. I can do this if I play it smart.
I think I was just hoping for some different (better?) news at the office. I think I was expecting them to say, “Oh, don’t worry about that melon hanging off your abdomen – should be gone by morning and your boyfriend (whose coming into town in one more day) won’t even throw up in his mouth when he sees it….Oh, and running? Feel free to sign up for that marathon next week.”
But as I said in a previous post – victor, not victim. I am happy that I can run even a little bit, and at least have an expectation of when my citrus friend says “Adios.” So I guess I can be satisfied with that.
Sunday, May 11, 2008
Victorious
(From today's "Dedication" for Baby Nolan)Two years ago, on Mother’s Day, my sister Ellen found out she was pregnant.
The structure of my family at that time was, to put it mildly, chaotic.
My father had died about a year and a half before, but we were all still trying to deal with it. Prior to his death, my parents were embroiled in a pretty ugly divorce, and my family was fragmented. My mother was the one to leave, and the family was reeling from it. As a result, she became Public Enemy #1.
My father’s death made matters worse, because there was the estate to deal with, and the battle over it broke the family even further. My mother, for most of my life, was my best friend. I tried to support her when she left during the divorce, but things got messy, things got angry.
But when my sister found out she was to become a mother, it marked a beginning of the turnaround in bringing the family back together.
Over the last year, Ellen and my mother, who have never been close and, in fact, bitterly at odds, reunited. Today, they are closer than anyone else in my family. Moreover, my mother’s return to the family unit seems to have made us whole again.
I don’t know if any of us kids ever fully appreciated the impact of our mother on our lives. At one point, she was working full-time, and raising five kids all under the age of eight. She was out mother and out father in many ways – she was the one who held all our secrets, who protected us, who fed us and hugged us, and rubbed our backs when we had fevers.
My mother was the one who forgave our shortcomings, no questions asked. She cried for us, and for our rebellion against her, but she never questioned her love or stopped loving us, no matter how much we messed up.
And we messed up good.
Today, two years after my sister found out she was pregnant on Mother’s Day, I sat next to my mother as we watched Ellen and her family baptize (“dedicate” they call it) her son to God. I was surrounded by my family, on the day which we come together to celebrate and appreciate the women who raise us and shape us into the people we are today.
I love my mom – I don’t tell her nearly enough. I missed her during those years. A lot. She was there almost every minute of every day the entire time I was in the hospital, and she may never know how much that meant to me.
When my mom hugged me “hello” this morning, she called me “my angel.” I know she meant it. And she that to us, as well - never judging, always supporting, always guiding.
In addition to this, I thought this was interesting and wanted to mention it. The congregation leader spoke about pain and suffering today. He spoke about how we have a choice in our suffering – to be victims or be victors.
My ears perked up – see, when Cheese and I fight, and he says something that hurts my feelings and I call him on it, he tells me I am playing the victim. And I absolutely hate that - I have never seen myself as a victim, or at least I didn’t think so.
But as I sat there today, it hit me that, in the last few weeks, I have made myself a victim – I have moaned about how I hurt, or what I lost, or what I can’t do or whatever else I found on that day to bitch about.
But what I haven’t done is celebrate all the things that I have – I have health, I have family, I have a body that was able to produce the healthiest possible organ for my brother, and I have a accomplishment of an Ironman and will that allow me to comeback soon and stronger than before. I have incredible friends that have given me words, hugs, shoulders and calls of support. I have a family that is very much healthy, and now whole.
I have more than I don’t, and I am not a victim. I would say that, looking at my life, I am very much a victor.
Friday, May 9, 2008
Post #2 for the Day - A Slight Change
Ever noticed how, in the midst of a life-changing event (i.e. a break up), girls always want to take their stress out on their hair?
Yeah, I'm no different.
So I went and got a fancy new haircut.
And bangs.
I had enough sense to not drastically chop it all off - at least today.
Can't decide if I am yet sold on this concept, but at least it's taking my mind off the pins and needles feeling in my abdomen.
Yeah, I'm no different.
So I went and got a fancy new haircut.
And bangs.
I had enough sense to not drastically chop it all off - at least today.
Can't decide if I am yet sold on this concept, but at least it's taking my mind off the pins and needles feeling in my abdomen.
Me Today
So here’s what’s happening.
Last Friday, I noticed that, between my belly button and the “cesarean” scar, my abdomen was expanding. It initially looked like a golf ball, then a lemon, and then an orange. I freaked out because I though my intestines were pushing through my skin, but turns out that, because of how they cut me for the surgery, a little cavity was left under my skin.
Over the course of the week, fluid started to fill this cavity, thus giving me the appearance of having a now-grapefruit hidden under my skin.
Not only does it hurt like hell, but it is mortifyingly disgusting to look at.
In fact, I showed my sister Ellen the other day, and she responded by making a gag face like she was throwing up.
I don’t blame her – I do the same thing every time I am forced to looked down.
Now, I know, rationally, that this will go away. I know this. Just like I know I will be able to run and swim and bike again. Soon. But it hurts, and it’s ugly. And when taken together with the lack of physical activity, I have never in my life felt so ugly. I don’t feel good physically or about myself.
The crazy part of this is that I know this was a good thing – I don’t regret and I am not mad or would ever complain about the donation itself. It was, in fact, the best decision I ever made. I have nothing but positive thoughts about the decision I made to do this. But part of me just wants my old life back, wants my energy, wants to not hurt anymore, wants to just feel good again.
I want to be IronMeg again.
I know that might sounds selfish, but I can’t help it.
And I know I just need to be patient. But when the pain claws at you for days on end, you start to just want to scream.
Las night, I had to go to the store to get another sundress (I can only wear dresses right now because it hurts too much to have anything touch the grapefruit belly). As I was standing in the aisle, the grapefruit belly delivered a stunning cramp – so bad it shot up my back, and I almost wanted to fall on the ground. I stood there, one hand on my sweaty forehead, the other on my belly, willing the tears not to fall and wondering if I needed to call my sister to come get me.
I waited, the pain passed, and I just gave up and went home – no dress.
And this is how it is. Everyday. All day.
Ironman was one thing– but this is the hardest thing I have ever done. Many times, I just cry to myself in my apartment, where I spend most of my time alone, laying in my bed. I cry for the pain, for the grapefruit, for the enormity of the whole donor thing. It has felt really lonely, mostly because I am physically alone.
I had no idea it would be this hard. All of it.
My brother has tried to reach out to me, but I have had limited contact this week. He is doing incredible, so happy and eager to live now, and I can’t let him see me like this – it scared him the other day to see me in so much pain, and I want him to feel all the happiness right now of being healthy. He doesn’t need any negative vibes around his new life.
That is why I tend to withdraw from this blog or emails – it’s just too hard to be that downer – even though I know you all say that it doesn’t matter, it does to me. Contrary to what I was recently accused of, I do not like to be sad, and it bothers me when I can’t shake it. Does it happen? Yes, to all of us. But does it feel good to be sad? No, so why spread that to others? I know I got a lot of shit in the recent post when I apologized for not feeling myself, so this isn’t an apology – more like an explanation of how I operate.
I am not doing a good job at explaining this. I sound like a selfish ass, like I am complaining, and that’s not what I am trying to get across. I think this is all compounded by other stress going on and weighing on me. It’s like when they took my kidney, they stuck an extra ovary in there to make me all weepy – like PMS only it doesn’t end after seven days.
On that note, I can’t say thank you enough for all the calls, instant messages, emails and comments. They do make me feel incredibly better, and like I will be okay – in fact, I kind of depend on them. The funny stuff makes me laugh in the moment, and talking about things other than kidney pain takes my mind off of the things here. I know I haven’t been great these last few days with returning some emails, but I will try to catch up this weekend.
So that’s me. Today.
Last Friday, I noticed that, between my belly button and the “cesarean” scar, my abdomen was expanding. It initially looked like a golf ball, then a lemon, and then an orange. I freaked out because I though my intestines were pushing through my skin, but turns out that, because of how they cut me for the surgery, a little cavity was left under my skin.
Over the course of the week, fluid started to fill this cavity, thus giving me the appearance of having a now-grapefruit hidden under my skin.
Not only does it hurt like hell, but it is mortifyingly disgusting to look at.
In fact, I showed my sister Ellen the other day, and she responded by making a gag face like she was throwing up.
I don’t blame her – I do the same thing every time I am forced to looked down.
Now, I know, rationally, that this will go away. I know this. Just like I know I will be able to run and swim and bike again. Soon. But it hurts, and it’s ugly. And when taken together with the lack of physical activity, I have never in my life felt so ugly. I don’t feel good physically or about myself.
The crazy part of this is that I know this was a good thing – I don’t regret and I am not mad or would ever complain about the donation itself. It was, in fact, the best decision I ever made. I have nothing but positive thoughts about the decision I made to do this. But part of me just wants my old life back, wants my energy, wants to not hurt anymore, wants to just feel good again.
I want to be IronMeg again.
I know that might sounds selfish, but I can’t help it.
And I know I just need to be patient. But when the pain claws at you for days on end, you start to just want to scream.
Las night, I had to go to the store to get another sundress (I can only wear dresses right now because it hurts too much to have anything touch the grapefruit belly). As I was standing in the aisle, the grapefruit belly delivered a stunning cramp – so bad it shot up my back, and I almost wanted to fall on the ground. I stood there, one hand on my sweaty forehead, the other on my belly, willing the tears not to fall and wondering if I needed to call my sister to come get me.
I waited, the pain passed, and I just gave up and went home – no dress.
And this is how it is. Everyday. All day.
Ironman was one thing– but this is the hardest thing I have ever done. Many times, I just cry to myself in my apartment, where I spend most of my time alone, laying in my bed. I cry for the pain, for the grapefruit, for the enormity of the whole donor thing. It has felt really lonely, mostly because I am physically alone.
I had no idea it would be this hard. All of it.
My brother has tried to reach out to me, but I have had limited contact this week. He is doing incredible, so happy and eager to live now, and I can’t let him see me like this – it scared him the other day to see me in so much pain, and I want him to feel all the happiness right now of being healthy. He doesn’t need any negative vibes around his new life.
That is why I tend to withdraw from this blog or emails – it’s just too hard to be that downer – even though I know you all say that it doesn’t matter, it does to me. Contrary to what I was recently accused of, I do not like to be sad, and it bothers me when I can’t shake it. Does it happen? Yes, to all of us. But does it feel good to be sad? No, so why spread that to others? I know I got a lot of shit in the recent post when I apologized for not feeling myself, so this isn’t an apology – more like an explanation of how I operate.
I am not doing a good job at explaining this. I sound like a selfish ass, like I am complaining, and that’s not what I am trying to get across. I think this is all compounded by other stress going on and weighing on me. It’s like when they took my kidney, they stuck an extra ovary in there to make me all weepy – like PMS only it doesn’t end after seven days.
On that note, I can’t say thank you enough for all the calls, instant messages, emails and comments. They do make me feel incredibly better, and like I will be okay – in fact, I kind of depend on them. The funny stuff makes me laugh in the moment, and talking about things other than kidney pain takes my mind off of the things here. I know I haven’t been great these last few days with returning some emails, but I will try to catch up this weekend.
So that’s me. Today.
Thursday, May 8, 2008
Here
Please hang in there with me, guys.
I am on a rollar coaster of emotions right now, and while I am usually one to vomit it all up on this blog, I simply can't seem to pull it together this week. Two days "up" apparently leads to two or three days "down."
I will try this again tomorrow.
I am on a rollar coaster of emotions right now, and while I am usually one to vomit it all up on this blog, I simply can't seem to pull it together this week. Two days "up" apparently leads to two or three days "down."
I will try this again tomorrow.
Tuesday, May 6, 2008
Exercise in Humility
(Warning: Large ego-check in progress. Watch for falling self-opinions.)
So I rode last night.
I decided that I would do an hour. That’s easy enough, right? I mean, come on, that’s like a warm-up for me right?
Wrong. So very, very, wrong.
I called it quits at about 45 minutes. I was gasping for air, sweat pouring off me, even though I stayed in a easy, cruising gear the whole time.
And Megan being Megan, I got frustrated with myself, and the conversation went a little bit like this:
Me: 45 minutes?!?!?!!? Are you kidding me?!?! I hate you, you stupid body.
Body: Hate you right back! Why do you keep doing this to me? I give and I give and I give, and you just take and take and then make me do things I am not ready for. Give me a break for crying out loud!
Me: Oh stop complaining. You did IM three weeks ago, I know you can break through this pain. I know you are better then this.
Body: I am, Megan, but you need to give me some time. If you don’t, I am going to revolt against you in a way you never imagined. LAY.OFF.ME. If 45 minutes is all I give, then you need to be happy with it. Get over yourself, you ego-maniac. END.OF.STORY.
Megan: *grumble….grumble* Fine….Still hate you.
Body: Whatever. And while we're on the topic, maybe you should stop feeding me boxes of candy instead of meals. What - did we all of the sudden forget about protien? The doctor says specifcally, "Eat protien" and you give me Red Vines? For breakfast?!? Grow up.
So I am learning, among other things, how to re-think and re-talk to myself.
Oh boy - is this “Square One” approach a test of my patience. I told Cheese last night - I always consider myself to be the exception. We all do, right? I mean, the doctor says, "Most people will take about four to six weeks to feel recovered, go back to work...." and we think, "Well, maybe, but I'm not like most people."
I know I am not the only one who thinks like this, right?
Right?!?!?
I think it would not be so bad if I didn’t have the two utmost extremes of physical ability within two weeks of each other - going from feeling invincible to totally broken.
This was never more clear then my little attempts at walking on the treadmill at the gym.
See, I’ve posted before about how I get this secret satisfaction when I go to the gym to run the treadmill after riding the trainer for 3-4-5 hours. I like running and thinking, “Yeah, this is like my 4th or 5th or 6th hour of working out today.” I like knowing that.
But I never really thought that in a narcissistic or superiority way. I was never snide out it – just proud, and proud of myself for being able to do it.
In fact, throughout the training, I have always felt proud – and mostly because, at the beginning of each new and long workout, I was terrified of what that workout would bring – pain, tears, injury, etc. So in finishing a workout, the pride was about overcoming that fear, and pushing through.
The payoff was non-quantifiable. To finish Ironman, and race the way I wanted – I was at the extreme peak of what my body could do.
And then fast forward to two weeks later. Scene: Me, on the treadmill, surrounded by people running, singing along to their iPods while bouncing along. I found myself overwhelmed with the desire to scream, “But I just did Ironman!!! Three weeks ago! I am just walking because I had surgery! But I am better than this!”
Okay, how narcissistic is that?!?!
Like, who effing care that I am walking and why? No one cares. NO ONE. It’s only my own ego about what I think I SHOULD be doing. I am embarrassed about this and yes, I know I need to take myself down a notch.
It occurred to me that my mental strength was what ultimately got me through Ironman, and my mental strength is the thing that is going to make or break this recovery. If I keep getting in my own way, I am going to have setback after setback. But if I can just teach myself to accept life as it is in this moment, then I can comeback slowly but strong.
Sigh. Sounds so easy, but we are talking about a girl’s whose second most obvious “hole” is the place when my patience should be.
So 45 minutes on the bike will do for now. I will say this though – I woke up this morning feeling like I did a 7-hour brick.
But I guess I have never been one to turn down a challenge.
So I rode last night.
I decided that I would do an hour. That’s easy enough, right? I mean, come on, that’s like a warm-up for me right?
Wrong. So very, very, wrong.
I called it quits at about 45 minutes. I was gasping for air, sweat pouring off me, even though I stayed in a easy, cruising gear the whole time.
And Megan being Megan, I got frustrated with myself, and the conversation went a little bit like this:
Me: 45 minutes?!?!?!!? Are you kidding me?!?! I hate you, you stupid body.
Body: Hate you right back! Why do you keep doing this to me? I give and I give and I give, and you just take and take and then make me do things I am not ready for. Give me a break for crying out loud!
Me: Oh stop complaining. You did IM three weeks ago, I know you can break through this pain. I know you are better then this.
Body: I am, Megan, but you need to give me some time. If you don’t, I am going to revolt against you in a way you never imagined. LAY.OFF.ME. If 45 minutes is all I give, then you need to be happy with it. Get over yourself, you ego-maniac. END.OF.STORY.
Megan: *grumble….grumble* Fine….Still hate you.
Body: Whatever. And while we're on the topic, maybe you should stop feeding me boxes of candy instead of meals. What - did we all of the sudden forget about protien? The doctor says specifcally, "Eat protien" and you give me Red Vines? For breakfast?!? Grow up.
So I am learning, among other things, how to re-think and re-talk to myself.
Oh boy - is this “Square One” approach a test of my patience. I told Cheese last night - I always consider myself to be the exception. We all do, right? I mean, the doctor says, "Most people will take about four to six weeks to feel recovered, go back to work...." and we think, "Well, maybe, but I'm not like most people."
I know I am not the only one who thinks like this, right?
Right?!?!?
I think it would not be so bad if I didn’t have the two utmost extremes of physical ability within two weeks of each other - going from feeling invincible to totally broken.
This was never more clear then my little attempts at walking on the treadmill at the gym.
See, I’ve posted before about how I get this secret satisfaction when I go to the gym to run the treadmill after riding the trainer for 3-4-5 hours. I like running and thinking, “Yeah, this is like my 4th or 5th or 6th hour of working out today.” I like knowing that.
But I never really thought that in a narcissistic or superiority way. I was never snide out it – just proud, and proud of myself for being able to do it.
In fact, throughout the training, I have always felt proud – and mostly because, at the beginning of each new and long workout, I was terrified of what that workout would bring – pain, tears, injury, etc. So in finishing a workout, the pride was about overcoming that fear, and pushing through.
The payoff was non-quantifiable. To finish Ironman, and race the way I wanted – I was at the extreme peak of what my body could do.
And then fast forward to two weeks later. Scene: Me, on the treadmill, surrounded by people running, singing along to their iPods while bouncing along. I found myself overwhelmed with the desire to scream, “But I just did Ironman!!! Three weeks ago! I am just walking because I had surgery! But I am better than this!”
Okay, how narcissistic is that?!?!
Like, who effing care that I am walking and why? No one cares. NO ONE. It’s only my own ego about what I think I SHOULD be doing. I am embarrassed about this and yes, I know I need to take myself down a notch.
It occurred to me that my mental strength was what ultimately got me through Ironman, and my mental strength is the thing that is going to make or break this recovery. If I keep getting in my own way, I am going to have setback after setback. But if I can just teach myself to accept life as it is in this moment, then I can comeback slowly but strong.
Sigh. Sounds so easy, but we are talking about a girl’s whose second most obvious “hole” is the place when my patience should be.
So 45 minutes on the bike will do for now. I will say this though – I woke up this morning feeling like I did a 7-hour brick.
But I guess I have never been one to turn down a challenge.
Monday, May 5, 2008
The Good and the Bad
Thanks for putting up with my crap these last few days. I hate not being able to be my normal, biting, sarcastic self. I hate disappearing and then putting up posts of me complaining about not feeling good.
So I will give some good news and bad news (mostly good).
The Good:
1. My swelling is due to fluid accumulating in a cavity that was left behind my belly skin when they cut me open. I guess this is sort of normal, but I have an appointment next week to check it, just in case it doesn't "drain on it's own." And I would totally put a picture up, but trust me when I say, it is nothing short of absurdly disgusting. Imagine if one were to have a fat water balloon attached to the abdominal area.
2. My back pain is due to the wound that was left when they took the kidney. Once out of the body, it left a large emptiness. So the pain is basically the body trying to sort itself out, and close up the wound that was left behind. It would have been a good thing to have known about these things BEFORE leaving the hospital, because apparently they are normal. But if I am not told to expect them, then I think I am dying when the pain increases and doesn't go away.
3. There's not a ton I can do about my pain, but it will hopefully start to minimize in about another week. At least there is an end in sight.
4. I saw my brother at the hospital - he looks like a completely different person, like 10 years younger then his actual age. I think I scared him a littel though, because I was a ton of pain and trying to explain what the cuts look like (I think I said something like my body is carved up, or it looks disgusting, or something) which triggered me to cry. He and his wife looked sort of startled, because I don't remember the last time my brother saw me cry. He sort of moved to hug me, but I don't usually hug (there are rare exceptions). He texted me later to tell me he felt "sad" when he saw that, which then made me feel bad, because he is feeling all good and new and fresh, and he shouldn't have to see me in pain and upset. It's like a buzz kill.
5. The doctor said that, when I feel like it, I can RIDE MY BIKE!!!!!! He said, "But not on the street - no street yet." As long as I keep it in the trainer, I can go for about 30 minutes. No running for at least another week, and I can start swimming by Friday (as long as my scars look healed).
The Bad:
1. PAIN!!!!!!!! Still there, still hard, still having trouble wearing pants. My back pain is almost worse then the stomach swelling and scar pain, 'cause I can't get comfortable for anything.
The End:
So the good outweighs the bad. I made sure to ask a TON of questions about what to expect (because I am not getting caught off-guard again with this) and made sure I was given the green light regarding training (because I am not going to catch shit about trying to get back too soon).
I hope this is my my last post about this nonsense. No more complaining, no more whining. Pain is pain, and at least I know I should have it. And if I know, then I can deal with it.
A "Normal Megan" post will return tomorrow.
So I will give some good news and bad news (mostly good).
The Good:
1. My swelling is due to fluid accumulating in a cavity that was left behind my belly skin when they cut me open. I guess this is sort of normal, but I have an appointment next week to check it, just in case it doesn't "drain on it's own." And I would totally put a picture up, but trust me when I say, it is nothing short of absurdly disgusting. Imagine if one were to have a fat water balloon attached to the abdominal area.
2. My back pain is due to the wound that was left when they took the kidney. Once out of the body, it left a large emptiness. So the pain is basically the body trying to sort itself out, and close up the wound that was left behind. It would have been a good thing to have known about these things BEFORE leaving the hospital, because apparently they are normal. But if I am not told to expect them, then I think I am dying when the pain increases and doesn't go away.
3. There's not a ton I can do about my pain, but it will hopefully start to minimize in about another week. At least there is an end in sight.
4. I saw my brother at the hospital - he looks like a completely different person, like 10 years younger then his actual age. I think I scared him a littel though, because I was a ton of pain and trying to explain what the cuts look like (I think I said something like my body is carved up, or it looks disgusting, or something) which triggered me to cry. He and his wife looked sort of startled, because I don't remember the last time my brother saw me cry. He sort of moved to hug me, but I don't usually hug (there are rare exceptions). He texted me later to tell me he felt "sad" when he saw that, which then made me feel bad, because he is feeling all good and new and fresh, and he shouldn't have to see me in pain and upset. It's like a buzz kill.
5. The doctor said that, when I feel like it, I can RIDE MY BIKE!!!!!! He said, "But not on the street - no street yet." As long as I keep it in the trainer, I can go for about 30 minutes. No running for at least another week, and I can start swimming by Friday (as long as my scars look healed).
The Bad:
1. PAIN!!!!!!!! Still there, still hard, still having trouble wearing pants. My back pain is almost worse then the stomach swelling and scar pain, 'cause I can't get comfortable for anything.
The End:
So the good outweighs the bad. I made sure to ask a TON of questions about what to expect (because I am not getting caught off-guard again with this) and made sure I was given the green light regarding training (because I am not going to catch shit about trying to get back too soon).
I hope this is my my last post about this nonsense. No more complaining, no more whining. Pain is pain, and at least I know I should have it. And if I know, then I can deal with it.
A "Normal Megan" post will return tomorrow.
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