Be Not Small

 

 

As 2014 points its fireworks at us, I can't help but shield myself from any New Year's Resolutions.  How about you?  I just don't like them because I will never remember that I've made them.  I can barely remember I have tea steeping to the point of asphalt most of the time. 

In lieu of New Year's Resolutions, I made a list of self truths to pass on to my kids in case I perish in a freak kennel accident.  How's that for fresh-faced optimism?

Dear My Kids:

• Know your worth.  You mean more than any self-doubt, craving, ego, depression, or apathy.  You're no accident, sweetheart.  Many things conspired to see you got here safely.  Honor your life by appreciating your worth.
• Be not small.  Feel pride, not shame, of your skills, desires, and passions.  Move forward with them enthusiastically.  You may be humble but not small.  Only you can give the world your piece of its puzzle.  Walk tall knowing you have nothing to quiet along the way.  Your friends will support you and your doubters will be your guidepost that you've almost arrived. 

 

• Believe in the power of restorative sleep.
• Trust your instinct, I believe it's God talking.
• Look for miracles.  They are playful and divine.

• Study the things you don't understand.

• Try hard not to get hooked on caffeine, it does weird things to your body that will cause undue concern.  Chocolate's ok in moderation.  Peppermint patties are medicinal.
• Fight fairly, not passive aggressively, and clear the air quickly.  You are not a doormat for explosions, nor are you an explosion for a doormat.   
• Listen, really listen, to your friends.  This will mean the world to you both for years to come.

 

 

• Hike whenever you can with friends or family.  Bring your dog. 
• Nap in the sun

 

 

 

 

• Screw around often throughout the day, no matter what your dad says.  He's a Marine, they revolt against silly but need it even more than you.  It's those moments that will mold you, not your well-made bed.  But don't make the man crazy, please still make your bed.   
• Be kind and patient with your parents as they age.  They still love you more than they love themselves.  Way more. 

 

 

• You both already have a lot of friends and that's good.  Remember to say no to more things than you say yes to. 
• Know you do not need to give a reason as to why you can't make an event.  Even if the reason is that you'd rather stay in your pjs all day and watch Rodeo Girls.  It was an invitation, not a test of friendship.
• Skip empty carbs when you grow up.  Believe me when I say it bogs down your brain. 
• Feed your body the things earth gives you, not science.
• Try healing yourselves with the things earth gives you first, then science.  However, Grayson you will probably still need to travel with ibuprofen for your migraines and Abby when she's about...oh...twelve on up.



Sensory Bliss - Know how to heal yourself when the world overwhelms you.
 

Hormones are no joke in this family.





• Drink more water than you think is necessary. Throw lemon in there when you feel a cold coming on.
• Risk and opportunity are vastly different.  Learn the difference early on.
• Treasure homemade gifts.  Someone was thinking of you from start to finish.

 

 

 

• Never take anyone's affection for granted.  Even if it's coming from unexpected places.  Yes, even that funny boy sending you personalized comic strips during Philosophy to keep you awake.  Especially him.
• Try not to confuse attention with affection.  People show their affection in many ways other than the one way you want it.
• Help your fellowman and fellow animals.  We have no reason to feel more important than other creatures that feel.  If you do feel more important, that's your ego talking, not your heart.

 

 

• When you're not sure about something, make a quick decision.  If it feels wrong right away, you have your answer.
• Floss.  Please honor thy mother and floss.
• Recycle, repurpose, and restore whenever possible. 
• Be the first to help anything or anyone suffering.  Both of your souls need it.
• Practice teamwork.

• Charge up, not with time at work but time with your family, friends, and hobbies.  Work doesn't miss you when you're gone.  Projects and deadlines aren't going to your funeral some day.
• Vacation without guilt. 
• Sing loudly, dance wildly, play as often as possible.  Invite others to do the same with just your energy.
• Please hold on to each other. 

 

• Try your hardest not to mistake firmness with harshness.  Your mother is still working on this.
• Snuggle

 

• Hang with your parents, no matter how weird they get.

• Publish your stories, frame your pictures, record your concerts, hang your artwork.  Surround yourself with inspiration and celebrate your life and the lives of those you adore. 
• Own your quirk.

 

• Throw impromptu campfires, dinner parties and fancy social gatherings and only clean the kitchen and bathroom.  

 

 

• Try not to save your passions for "later."  They are cumulative, not exhaustive.  Go ahead and delve into them daily, they only get better!
• Always open your mind and your heart when talking with children.  They have so very much to teach you. 

 

 

Impermanence

I ask myself why I acted differently this time.  With patience instead of irritation.  It is still before the sun is up.  There were all kinds of annoying sleep interruptions during the night.  My feet are icicles because some one little stole my covers.

But I know why I'm feeling soft.  It's because I can see it.   The impermanence of our situation.  Sameness isn't anyone's luxury.

 

Abby, who slides in next to me as a 4yo with her cashmere skin, tousled hair, and morning breath will be married and exhausted with her own children tomorrow.  It all goes that fast because routines become weeks, everyday turns into years, and before you feel different nothing is the same anymore. 

For me, time is real but also partly a human construct - only we romanticize it and mourn for more before it's gone.  Unless all the fuss outdoors is nature's Shiva for summer, I'm inclined to think we are the only ones to feel remorseful about time passing.  Humans find it difficult being aware and present all at once.  We are just so busy.  Have you ever seen a multi-tasking pond or a preoccupied bird?  Consciousness functions better when it forgets.

It's 5a.m.  I'm on the couch because something woke up Grayson in his sleep.  He pushed me aside and is now snuggled next to Andy in our bed so I head to the couch for an hour or so of sleep.  But before I feel Sparrow's warmth curling at my heels, I hear the hushing of little feet on the carpet coming my way.  Abby stands before me.  Naked.

I love how right in this now she comes to me for warmth and safety and that I am here to provide. Her sleepy child magnet pulls her close to my protective parent magnet and we click like the last two pieces of a puzzle.  Finished and complete.  There's no ambling chaos here.

Few moments present themselves this confidently.  There's ample choice in everything else with a million possible outcomes.  Molecules spinning, reproducing, looking for a way to win at being human.  But right now she is cold and small and I am warm and large.  Symbiosis.

The simple task of warming her up soothes me and I don't worry about teaching her how to read, explaining the birds and the bees when she's 34 ready, or how the hell I will let her lay her head down in a college dorm one day.  All those things will happen.  Or they won't.  The math is exponential in between.  Right now I get to linger in the moment before me which is greater than the ones yet to happen.  She will be so many things, says Time.  She is just beginning, I think.  She needs me now, reminds Impermanence. 

 

So we snuggle down until Abby decides she is ready for morning.  It's her decision though.  I'm in no hurry at all. 

Repurposed Love

Yesterday was Abby's preschool Tea Time with Mom.

I took her mini hand in mine and we walked toward a room filled with moms, poster paint, and clinging children. 

Especially mine.  Abby is an entirely different unit out there in the world.  Her typical twirling dervish belly laughs were silenced and in their place left a pale small child who seemed agitated if not coming down with the flu.  I kept feeling her forehead to make sure she wasn't sick.  She climbed into my lap and held my fingers tightly, one-by-one. 

"Honey, are you ok?"

"My tummy hurts, Mommy."

So we sat together, biting into our pumpkin muffins and swallowing hard because cups of water were too far out of reach.

"Would you like to show me your centers?"  I attempted to distract and noticed another mom feeling her daughter's forehead too. 

"No, Mommy, just take me home with you." 

Her tears weren't loud but they broke my heart.  This sudden collision of home and school were overwhelming her loyalties and bringing her down.

"I'll take a nap when we get there, I'll do anything, just please take me home."  This sprite just wanted her jammies.

The other mom struggled to remove her daughter's reach from around her shoulders.  We traded glances from opposite sides of the world.  Where I was ready to cave, she stood firm and grounded with zero chance of compromise.  "Now, go play.  I will see you after school," she told her tiny person who wanted every part of her jammies too. 

I attempted to get both girls to comfort each other to no avail.  They pretended they had never met or chased each other's ponytails around the swing set for months.  Other Mom and I stood up in a unified front to do what was right.  She was my leader so I stole invisible strands of her strength and resoluteness by giving my weepy daughter a quick kiss and walking toward the door. 

Abby and her friend-not-friend stood next to each other yet mountains apart.

My feet went down the hallway in slow motion as I considered going back.  But alas, Other Mom was already out the door so I followed her glossy black heels and marveled over her black skirt and leggings that were not polluted with one sliver of dog hair.

She lost me and my thrifted plum pumps somewhere in the parking lot.  I had to squeeze my toes a certain way to keep them on since they were one size too big. 

As I rummaged through my ridiculous (also previously used) Bongo purse, I noticed a pretty brunette sitting in her seat with the door still open.  Her glossy black pumps looked less sassy and way more uncomfortable in her car. 

"Ha, we broke free, didn't we?"  I said to my pretty leader.
"Yes, we did," she sniffled.  I could tell her eyes were wet underneath her sunglass frames.
"You did great!  I didn't think I'd get my latte after that session of sad,"  I joked nervously because that's my thing.
"Thanks," she sniffed again, "It is killing me to leave her like that."

My fearless leader was openly crying now.  She took off her sunglasses to unveil two of the most mournful brown eyes I've ever seen.  My heart sank to the bottom of the gap in my heels.

"Well then you should feel doubly proud," I rattled on, "You conveyed zero regret or sadness to your girl as I was there making it worse by clutching mine like an open book."

"I guess," she said.  "I just hate to leave her like that." 

Then I understood the difference between us wasn't our shoes or our ability to find the de-linting brush. 

This mom had no choice.  She had to go to work.  She couldn't afford negotiations or jumping back into her jammies to play hookie with her daughter.  This mama was just as emotional about leaving her girl in tears as I was but had no room to consider an alternative outcome.  We all weigh options of working long hours outside the home, working long inside the home, or being a parent that works their yoga panted butt off for no paycheck.  The decisions are specific to the needs of that particular family.

Sometimes I get a reminder that I'm right where I need to be for us.  For my family.

As we parted ways, I lifted my cute little Bongo bag into my lap.  I kicked off my sweet rounded nosed shoes to the passenger side.  I drove away not ashamed but grateful for my second-hand finds that allow me the freedom, at least right now, to always consider an alternative outcome.

 

For Real

Sometimes blog posts air only the clean laundry.  Most of mine do too.  This one, however, is different. 

Welcome to My Very Narcissistic Confessions:

1. Long nails feel horrid on me even though I know they are prettier.  I cut mine short despite the heartache this causes my husband.
2. My husband and I are much kinder to each other through texts.  We never have deep conversations in person.  Maybe that's a good thing but it has me wondering.
3. Snuggling with my dogs is often more appealing than snuggling with my children.  My dogs don't make me tickle them, smell their feet, or get their blanket/pillow/favorite lovey while we snuggle.  I do all those things for my dogs but they never ask.
4. Missing my mom really sucks from here.
5. Don't even get me started on Jimmy.
6. Every day I wake up and remind myself this could be the day I die.  Macabre perspective maybe but... I am kinder with my words in case they're the last ones my kids hear.  I feed the dogs in case Andy forgets.  I tell people what I really think in case they wonder and wonder after I'm gone.
7. Sometimes I think I will be counting the seconds before I expire and those will be the last thoughts my conscious mind will have.  1 - 2 - 3...how awful.  What a waste.  Let it be a movie reel of memories instead.  Or a peek into what's next.
8. I no longer worry about things that don't matter in the long run.
9. I've come to understand not many things matter in the long run.
10. Daily workouts are not a priority over walking my dogs.  I'm proud of this.
11. Friends of mine probably wonder why I never call them back.
12. It's because I seriously despise long telephone conversations where I have to remember things in chronological order about my week/day/year.
13. My brain doesn't put anything in order.  It's like a mosaic of dreams up there.  Lists help me pretend to be normal like you.
14. Life is really hard every day.
15. But it's also exponentially beautiful.
16. Few people step up to the plate of your expectations.  Lower your expectations.
17. I read maybe three blogs regularly and comment on one only sometimes.
18. That probably makes me a douche.
19. I'm ok with that (see #8).
20. My "empath-ness" picks friends for me.  If our chemistry is off, my senses know before my brain does.  Works online too.
21. Every day I naturally love my children like my mom loved my brother and me as little kids.  She spoiled us in kisses and physical affection.
22. I cannot cook worthash*t.
23. I do not stop trying.
24. PMS makes me hate myself and maybe others momentarily.
25. I have to try very hard to be "in the moment" with my children because my stay-at-home boredom levels have reached a new high.
26. My husband dreams of climbing mountains, living in Colorado, and running a marathon.  I dream of leaving home for three to seven days by myself with cute scarves, nice boots, and my Nikon.
27. Another dream of mine is to have a photography/art store one day where I sell my own photos, my friends' art, and refurbished furniture.
28. I can literally spend hours in consignment stores turning over everything in search of nothing at all.
29. I'm super talented at not running into people during the day.  It's like I've been accidentally honing my loner skills over the years and now I have to try to run into people during the day.  Most of the time that doesn't even work and I end up at the gym/supermarket/Taco Bell virtually alone.
30. I'd totally have another kid this week.  But probably not next week.
31. Moody is not more interesting.  I find it scary. 
32. I appreciate your point of view and respectfully decline your advice 90% of the time.
33. Jealousy is a useless emotion. Who gives a rat's bumbum what that other girl is up to?  Celebrate her because she's bravely living her life too.  There is no prize for the best anything at the end of anyone's song.
34. Snails fascinate me.
35. Sports bore me to tears.
36. I love tattoos even though I don't have one.
37. Sometimes I get to the register, pay, and walk out completely shocked that my bill was astronomically high because I am that bad at math.
38. Just because I like you doesn't mean I trust you.
39. I've been waffling in my faith lately.  Sometimes it's easier for me to believe this life is it, The End than it is to be a better human every single damn day.  Mostly, I can't get over the idea that God is exclusive whatsoever.  Not my God, he's good like that. 
40. Most days I refuse to care for myself properly (do not look directly at my eyebrows).
41. There is nothing worse in the world than tight clothes.  Not even fire ants.  I'd let fire ants sting me over wearing a tightly fitted dress for hours on end.
42. I expect Abby to get over this tactile sensitivity even when I can't.
43. Meditating and Praying finally feel different to me.  Losing Jimmy changed that.
44. Losing Jimmy changed everything.
45. The Bible has me quite curious but so does Tibet.
46. I believe I could have a meaningful conversation with Abraham Lincoln and Cat Stevens.
47. Automatically, I love people who call me Baby or Honey.  Even men. 
48. Popsicle sticks make me cringe.
49. Sometimes I want to wear scrubs at preschool pickup too.
50. Authentic doesn't always mean organic but the earth is a wise fruit.
51. See, I told you.  Mosaic of dreams. 

Got any narcissistic confessions of your own?

The floor is open.

Studio

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Before we move to Louisiana, my friend (who lived in LA for years when she was younger), squeezes my shoulder, lets me cry on hers, then snaps me out of it. "You're going to -bleeping- love it there.  You know that, right?"

She is right. I -bleeping- love it here.

Just yesterday the kids and I drive off to visit a funky little nearby town to see some folk art. Folk art, in my opinion, is an understatement.  This museum is a collection of brilliant minds and darkest hours smashed together with patience, nostalgia, and loads of patina.  It takes my kids and I a solid hour to get through the gift shop alone, things are that mesmerizing. Not everyday do you find bacon lip balm, hand-painted wooden spinning tops, and customized black and white prints for sale inside the same four walls. 

The man behind the register welcomes our tribe, then ducks his head low to continue typing on his keyboard. 

He must be a writer.

When I check in with him to see if we should be moving along, only the very tops of his salt and pepper curls are visible.  Those friendly tufts let us know we can putter around as long as we like.  They have all day just like us.

A few more minutes of lingering, then we decide to pay admission and graduate toward the museum.

What we see is unconventional, bizarre and delicious.  Broken plate pieces beautifully alternate with old house keys to line a monster truck tire.  The tire holds in a snapping turtle who pierces the surface of her algae water long enough to let us know she is there.  "Look Mom, it's a snapper, isn't it?!  Isn't it a snapper, Mom!?"  Abby and Grayson climb the wooden fence to prop their bodies high.  Our turtle friend pushes her clawed feet out of the water to make it worth their climb.

When we can tear ourselves from finding her eyes (they are unexpectedly quite close to her nose), we walk through the next archway.  Each building has single rows of colorful tribal spots, polka-dotting their way up the trim of the doorway and back down in lieu of a welcome mat. 

Doors seem redundant here.

The next building we enter pays homage to the great soul artists and jazz musicians of New Orleans.  Rusty saxophones, a lone accordion on its side, and glassed-in miniature exhibits of the city's night life give Abby the heeby-jeebies; a black magic feel.  She wants "up" as she trembles and asks to see more. 

Grayson is touching everything in sight.  There are push buttons, on the outside of each exhibit, that make one thing come to life in every tiny world.  Sometimes a spot-light for a jazz singer, sometimes a little boy jumping on the bed in a swanky hotel.  One button Grayson pushes starts an empty swing to sway back and forth and for a few seconds, we all hold our breath. 

The next room has old pinball machines, video games, and other games of yore the kids cluck around with for less time than I thought they would.  Before long, I find them both staring silently at yet another alligator gar skeleton.

"Is it real, Mommy?"

"I'm not sure if any of this is real, Grayson," I admit.  It seems to all of us, more like a dream.  A cool-funky-retro-world kind of dream.

The end of our tour is my favorite.  My black magic.  The man behind the register allows us into another building lined with the inside lids of paint cans;  frozen in time with their bleached out drips of salmon, orchid, and celery green.  Right away I can see it's his studio.  He explains this is where he writes music, records musicians, and works at building his museum exhibits with wire and small working puppets someone donates from a defunct playhouse.

The three of us step in to a familiar sight:  rugs stretching across uneven floors, lamps leaning against each other, and an old battered up piano standing its ground right there in the middle.  Somewhere must be an old Billie Holiday mic stand.  I can't see it but I know it's there.

I love this room.  This room still hums warm with creativity, ideas and hopes colliding, hard work - the sweaty kind where you lose track of time and drink Sprites to keep your eyes from closing before the light must come back in through the door you wish was not there. 

As the kind register man sits with black-rimmed glasses half-buried under his thick friendly locks, my jaw moves but the words don't come out.  So much living yet to do. 

The kids stay near the door, spinning their free wooden tops where the light comes in.  They don't mind the door. 

We chat a bit more about musicians, pop shields, artists, parenting and I know it's time to go.  

Even though from here?  I'm nowhere near ready to leave.

Rainbow

"Can you tell us another one, Mommy?"

"Ok, but this is the last one..."

I choose my very first memory.  I am walking down a sidewalk, making letters of the splits in the hot concrete.  Every other square brings a surprise dried-up curl that was once an earthworm.  I can smell lawns being mowed.  Something is glistening near the grass.  A gold rock, a gray rock, and one in between.  Making a cradle for them inside my shirt, I get these finds home to pour over.  Seeing how highly they are revered, Mom brings over a small white jewelry box with protective stuffing inside.  With curator's hands, I nestle my treasures in that box, close the lid, and open it every few minutes to stare.

"I bet they are beautiful," Abby whispers.

"Rocks." Grayson's eyebrows are low and flat.  "Um.  Can you tell us the one when Uncle Eric almost killed you because you forgot to change his turtle cage and the turtle ate all the fish?  You know, the one where Boompa was like, "There's been a masssaaaccccrrrreeee!"

"Was one of the rocks sparkly, Mommy?" Abby isn't ready to move on.  Her eyes are looking past mine and she's smiling for the first time today.


"Yes, as I recall.  And even a little bit gold." 

"You mean, rainbow?  Was it sparkly and rainbow?"

Even though my girl defies parental wishes in thirty minute increments, uses only her most operatic bellows 98% of the time, and charges through the house like a tiny pirate, at this second I see her through the eyes of an admirer, not only a responsible mom.  I recognize a fellow artist.  The way her mind sees without trying.  The way her heart accepts without questioning.  The way her imagination adds color automatically inspires me to remember.  Something in me stirs after a long hibernation...

"Yes, Honey.  Now that you mention it.  One was definitely rainbow."

 

 

 

Sensitive

I wasn't going to write about it.

I was so worried this little blog was starting to reveal too many intimate details of my children's lives.  Details maybe they did not want the world to read, see, or know.

Now I feel it can only help (us, others, you?) if I talk about it.  It is not hurting my children to illuminate this journey we've been on for months. Years if we really trace it all back.  We have been walking this unknown path together, sometimes getting pricked by sticker bushes, other times tickled with dandelion puffs.  All the while moving closer to things making more sense.

Things are starting to make a lot more sense now.

Grayson has been diagnosed with Sensory Processing Disorder.  His sister is on her way to being diagnosed as well.

As I've mentioned before, Grayson has always been a little too much like me with his awareness.  "Hyper-sensitive," I called it.  "Connected to the universe" I say.  He was a baby like no other: acutely aware and reactive to his surroundings, sounding off with cries wails when the light, temperature, temperament of people near him changed.

I heard all the parenting advice for both of my kids.  Some meaning well.  Some just meaning mean:

"You're spoiling him by holding him all the time."
"He just needs Day Care." 
"Boy, you sure have your hands full with this one!"
"You have very high maintenance children."
"She is a spirited one."
"You are not disciplining them well enough."
"He reminds me of this kid with autism I babysit."
"Nothing wrong with spanking sometimes."
"Maybe they need less sugar in their diet."

Looking back, Grayson and Abby were teaching me from the very beginning.

Watch this video that shows a little boy schooling us all about Sensory Processing Disorder

Watch this excellent video about what it really feels like to have Sensory Processing Disorder

They were showing me who they were and what they needed from the world before they could walk.  Grayson expressed himself in poems:  Mommy, dat horse sings for hims food.  Abby, our ballerina, has never remained seated in a restaurant that has piped in music.  She has done interpretive dances for audiences all over: Ruby Tuesday, Outback, and Silver Diner.

But both of my babies suffered when I wasn't getting it.  (For Grayson) Why won't you sleep?  Why do you hate play dates?  Why can't you just sit in the swing for a few minutes while I cook dinner? Why won't you wear anything with seams? (For Abby) Why do you scream when Daddy washes your hair?  Why are you always naked?! Why do you talk SO LOUD all the time, child?  Why am I cleaning up yet another mess?  Did you seriously just hit your head again?

 

Thank God I have enough experience in special education to know about sensory integration issues.  Both kids have them.  Both kids are struggling in their day-to-day lives because of the sensory issues.  Both kids needed evaluating and soon.

Grayson has been in Occupational Therapy for four weeks and it has produced absolute magic.  Not kidding when I say magic.  His behaviors have gone from crippling worry (stomachaches, sobbing before school, headaches, migraines resulting in hours of projectile vomiting, meltdowns, tantrums, debilitating irrational fears, obsessing and perseverating over time and numbers, roller coaster mood swings, you name it Dude had it) to becoming a well balanced, happy, (according to his teachers) animated jokester of a child! 

Had I not witnessed the change myself, I would not believe it.

I'm here to tell you Occupational Therapy works. (For Grayson, Therapeutic Listening has worked the most, he had SEVERE auditory discrimination stuff going on.)

 

Don't you just want to live here?

If your child is like mine or sounds a bit "difficult, sensitive, hyper aware, touchy, fragile," send me an email and I will be happy to talk with you more in detail about the steps it took us to get our Pediatrician/Occupation Therapist diagnosis.  It's not easy and sometimes insurance makes it feel like juggling chainsaws but it's possible.  And holy love of nutmeg, it is SO worth it!

From now on, I intend to write about Sensory Processing Disorder often.  I am reading everything.  All of it.  The entire internet full of it.  I am obsessed with helping my children live the best life they can.  And along the way guess what?  I'm beginning to understand myself.  Yeah, shocker.  I'm the one who gave it to them.  Damn you, genetic pool of wonder.

Don't worry, we will still have loads of marital, canine, children faux pas to show off around here but no more hiding away the good stuff.

 

Sensory Processing Disorder.  Don't let the Disorder part scare you.  It's just "Order" with a crappy prefix.  Oh, and if you're worried that Sensory Processing Disorder is not real (maybe your doctor doesn't recognize it because it's not yet listed in the DSM-V), remind yourself that labels are only as important as the treatment.  I could not care less if they called it Spatula Prostate Dysmorphia.  It would probably get put in that DSM-V book if that were the case.  Ha.

Let's rejoice in the journey.  Our seamlsess, 100% cotton, sound-proof, balance beam walking, yoga ball bouncing uphill journey.

Not Morning Sickness

I write all of my posts with the knowledge that I'm writing more for me than for anyone else.  That's on purpose.  It keeps me focused and is comfortable for me to live small that way. 

This post, however, is entirely different.  I want people to read this one.  I need people to read this one.  Share it, Retweet it, copy and paste it, whatever you want, but please give it to someone you know might need it because you might be that person's salvation.  If what we do here helps one person realize they are not crazy, weak, or a medical mystery, then we have done a freaking stellar job.  Everybody wins.   
 
This post is long because it's important I get the details right.  Lives depend on it.   A mother's, a baby's, or both.

Since the news of Kate Middleton's difficult pregnancy broke, I can't stop thinking about her.  Not just because this lovely woman is sick but because I know how she is suffering.  I know because I had Hyperemesis Gravidarum and it was absolute torture.    

        
~ Not until 6 weeks in with my second pregnancy did I think something was really wrong.  I remembered feeling this awful with Grayson but now, so early on, I could not keep anything down. I was averaging 15 upchucks per morning while my friends talked of throwing up 15 times per pregnancy.  

I asked my OB if she thought this was Hyperemesis Gravidarum, what my mother had while pregnant with my little brother.  I knew about it because of what my mom endured (without proper diagnoses or treatment) and because I researched words like "hyper hormonal," and “more than morning sickness," like it was my job.  It was all I could think about while the nausea amped up and the vomiting responded to nothing, not even the Zofran.

Meanwhile, the numbers on the scale kept ticking down.

Any bite of food or sip of liquid triggered a fight response in my body.  My stomach had its own personal bouncer who ejected all contents out if its club at whatever cost. 

By 8 weeks, the cost was jaundice, debilitating nausea, extreme weakness, fainting spells, and hypersalivation.  I had a spit cup.  A disgusting addition during American Idol night with my friend.  She pretended it didn't gross her out.  I pretended I was able to concentrate on the singing.
 

 

"Yep, this is pretty standard extreme morning sickness," my doctor would say, making me feel like a huge crybaby even though I knew that was the last descriptor my friends or family would use to describe me.

I maintained something was wrong for weeks, but doctors advised “Preggo Pops” and seasick wristbands in lieu of further evaluation.   My nurses recommended nail salons.   

I did not demand more.  


Despite growing sicker by the hour, I tried it all:  pedicures, ginger candy, chewing gum, Saltines, seasick wristbands.  Standing in line at CVS to pick up the Zofran that didn't work became a nightmare. I could smell everything's toxic insides.  One whiff of L'Oreal and I was hurling into my purse like I hadn't been home from Mardi Gras yet.  Most days I could hardly stand the scent of my own skin.  My world was on fire and every surrounding thing burned like hell.  

When nothing alleviated my illness, I tried the unorthodox route:  pressure points, meditation, hypnotherapy, crystals, and praying to a God I wasn't sure existed.  

It was no use, I was a Failed Pregnant Superhero able to spot exit signs in the blink of an eye.  The Caped Uterus, Iron Womb-an, The Incredible Hurlk


My poor husband spent more time outside in the cold cooking his own dinners on the grill. I would watch him eat.  I would study my husband enjoying his dinner trying to figure out how he kept his down, like we were both pregnant.

My sweet friends looked at me sideways, wondering what to say.  I'm sure it appeared I'd morphed into Scarlett O'Hara overnight.  Oh my, how my poor tendah feet need a rest.  I didn't return calls, could not finish books for Book Club, and wouldn't host Silpada parties.  I felt as though I lived under a death cloud of nausea and vomiting at all times.  I was shackled to my bathroom, under house arrest.
 
At the 12 week mark, when doctors promised my "morning sickness" would magically disappear, things only got worse.  There was no more sleeping through the nausea.  I lost 25 lbs, and had become a disturbing shade of scallion.   Twizzlers and ice cubes were the only two things on the menu.

   

This didn't feel like a pregnancy.  This felt like a parasitic invasion.  Not sure how much longer I or the baby could make it in starvation mode, I made one last trip to my doctor. 

“Your bladder's completely empty,” she said pressing her magic wand hard onto my organs. “Your stomach is too.  How long have you been like this?” Her eyebrows as high as they could go. 

“Since the beginning,” I answered. "Like I've been telling you all along," I thought.  Within minutes I was hospitalized, hooked up to IVs and feeling like I landed in a Sandal's resort.  

 A new doctor diagnosed it:  It was exactly what I had suspected all along.

 Hyperemesis Gravidarum. 

"Is it serious?"  I asked from my imaginary hammock.  

"Yes, it is," said the no-shit new OB. "Hyperemesis Gravidarum is making you very sick.  It is intractable nausea, vomiting, and dehydration which gets you here because of malnutrition or other complications.   

"Other complications?  Is my baby ok?"

"Yes, but I'm glad you're here because if left without treatment, well...HG can result in maternal and fetal death.."

Whoa...I'm glad I'm here too, brother.  This mess is no joke.  
 
Validating news for me came when I read the pamphlet.  Hyperemesis Gravidarum is a condition so rare it affects 0.5-2.0% of the pregnant population.  It is hormonal poisoning that acts like a 24-hour stomach bug lasting 6,048 hours instead.  A nine month long siege of poisoning.

HA.  I wasn't a crybaby afterall.  And my poor mom hadn’t been a delicate one either.  Quite the opposite, really.  We could both rest on our laurels that we fought this beast off until salvation arrived.  Lactated ringers for Mom, and a PICC line surgically implanted into my arm for me. 

A visiting nurse walked my husband and me through what to do with my PICC line once, then she drove away.  We sat across from each other, dazed, and unsure of how legal this operation really could be.  I was a teacher.  He, an Aviation Logistics Officer.  We fumbled at first - with gloves, sterile needles, syringes, and flushing my line with heparin but eventually we felt like two interns on Grey's Anatomy.  Only fewer visits to the broom closet.

 

 

My PICC line was three feet long, snaked through a good vein, and rested right above my heart. This tiny tube angel allowed nutrients to directly enter through my bloodstream.   

 

It kept me and my baby alive while correcting the chemical and metabolic damage that had already been done.  My tube angel would stay with me for the rest of the pregnancy so I could go back home to my family.

Many women with HG can't go home.  Once diagnosed, they remain in their hospital bed, attached to tubes, and illness for months on end.

 

 

We named my IV pole Ghostrider as it followed us everywhere.  Our two-year-old became an expert at lifting tubing over his head for story time.  Our kitchen looked like a hospital triage but felt like hope.  Once nutrients and fluids came through a bag, I became less frantic about the nausea.  Food was still largely a non-option but over the next five months, life began to pick up speed...and weight.

At 8 months pregnant, I finally discovered I could eat a burrito and keep it down.

So I ate them all.

25 pounds of them.

Just when I was really getting my feed bag strapped on for good, the big day arrived.  Our baby was ready to show up with gusto. 

Abigail Kate entered the scene a fast and furious three hours after my first contraction.  The nurse placed her in my arms and I was met with a penetrating gaze that drove chills to my heart.

Her little determined face and those serious eyes...how could I have not known?  All those months of nose holding, IV pole dragging, pregnancy hating, HG cursing...Abby Kate was working just as hard from the inside to stay as I was working on the outside to keep her.  We were anything but fragile.

“Thank you," I whisper to her,  "Thank you for being a warrior.  Just like your mama and your grandma.  I'm so proud of you, Baby Girl.  Now you go rest while Mommy gets a tubal."

Post Note:
Please refer anyone possibly suffering from the misnomer "extreme morning sickness" to this website:
Help HER - Hyperemesis Education Research

And if you think I might have been stretching the truth, please read this woman's account of her experience with HG.  or ask my husband. 

Hyperemesis Gravidarum:  Is NOT morning sickness.  It is intractable nausea, vomiting, and dehydration resulting in malnutrition and serious complications and imbalances.     Hyperemesis Gravidarum can result in maternal and fetal death..

The literature existing now is very clear.  Hyperemesis Gravidarum is very serious and often misdiagnosed as severe morning sickness.  If ignored, HG often results in depression or termination of fetus, as a life saving measure for the mother.  If left untreated, both mother and baby are at risk of losing their lives.

Hyperemesis Gravidarum is a condition so rare it affects 0.5-2.0% of the pregnant population.  But it does affect.  And 0.5-2.0%...still a person makes.    

Hyperemesis Gravidarum takes a toll on your mental state as well as your physical state.  For me, Hyperemesis Gravidarum was letting my two-year-old watch an endless loop of Winnie the Pooh while I quietly pounded my fists on my thighs so he wouldn't hear me sobbing.  (I still can't hear the Pooh theme song without dry heaving.)  HG was being scared, alone, and fighting for two lives.  It was feeling crazy because nobody seems to believe any pregnant woman can be that sick.  They can't understand.  You are their 0.5%.  Comparing HG to morning sickness is like comparing anorexia to a common cold.  One could kill you, the other one just needs Gatorade.

HG is nothing new; it has been around for hundreds of years.  Author, Charlotte Bronte died in 1855 at four months pregnant with complications from Hyperemesis Gravidarum.  Hyperemesis Gravidarum is still so obscure it doesn't even show up on Word’s spell check.

While the social media iron is hot on this topic, let's bring this horrendous beast out into the open.  Only then will it lose its power.  Hyperemesis Gravidarum is treatable, often manageable, and survivable if diagnosed in time.  There are tests doctors can do to determine unhealthy hormone levels.  DEMAND them, do NOT worry about looking impolite, sensitive, or weak.  None of that matters when you start to to rapidly deteriorate from dehydration and other imbalances, when it is too late to reverse the negative slide.

Help me educate our friends, sisters, brothers, aunts, uncles, and children about Hyperemesis Gravidarum before one more mother or one more baby unnecessarily loses their fight.