Those are the brakes you feel

I love the Internet. If you want to avoid something at all costs, the worst thing you can do is post about it for all your friends and family to see. In my last post, I was so confident that I would lose the weight. Downright cocky when I said, "I don't know. Do you think 120lb is too skinny? What about 140?" Blah, blah, blah..I'm going to be a skinny bitch...blah, blah, blah. I'm a freaking idiot and I should know better than to tempt Internet fate.

While I was being so Polly Anna, I neglected to report some of the more negative parts of having a lap band. I was filled on February 10th and almost immediately I knew something was different. I went from puking every other day or so to regularly puking twice a day. Then there was the heart burn and upset stomach. Last time I felt like that, I was in my third trimester with Zac. I felt awful, every single night. In the morning though, I'd feel better and get up and go to work. Unfortunately, with all the stomach pain and reflux, I stopped drinking liquids. God that sounds stupid. Let's see? I was puking regularly and restricting fluids.

Want to guess where I went on Tuesday?

If you guessed the ER, you would be correct. I woke up Tuesday morning with a massive, intense headache, cramps in my calves, and a very upset stomach. I tried eating. I puked. I laid on the couch and called my surgeon. Then I waited....and waited...no one called me back. My friend, Mr. Grinch, told me that I could go to University General (yes, that is the real name of the hospital, even if it sounds like a soap opera) instead of Methodist. I didn't know what to do. My surgeon is at Methodist, but I wasn't sure if their ER could help me. So I went to University General, which has the smallest ER in Houston, hands down.

I only waited 5 minutes to go back to a room. I was moderately-severely dehydrated. A doctor came in and removed 7.8 cc's from my band (which is all but .2cc's of what was in there). I asked if they could only take out part of the fluid, but they took out almost everything. Then they gave me a full IV bag of saline with a side car of anti-nausea medication. I felt so much better.

The next day, it was like I was on vacation from my stomach. I had Mexican food for lunch and Chinese food (Chinese food! Do you know how long it's been since I've had that without puking? I couldn't even Chinese food in CHINA without puking). I can't even publicly admit what I had for lunch today. I texted Mr. Grinch and asked him how jealous he was. I told him it was like food porn. If you can't eat it yourself, you might as well listen to someone else eat it. That was my theory at least. I don't think the Grinch appreciated it very much.

I went to my surgeon's office today and the doc was furious, both at UGH for taking what a year of fluid in my band ("They were covering their own asses. They didn't have your best interest in mind") and his own staff for not calling me back. He put in 6cc's of fluid, which for your reference, is about six times as much as he's ever put in at once. I could feel the band inflate. Literally. I could feel an object bisect my stomach. My stomach hurts so much now that my back is hurting. In other good news, my bp was so low that I was deemed still dehydrated. Awesome.

This would be the not-so-pleasant side of bariatric surgery.

50/50

This Sunday was supposed to be my Red Dress photo shoot, but my photographer asked to reschedule because of the rain and flooding the night before and a death in her family. I had been consciously dieting to make sure I hit the 50lb mark with my weight loss. Right now, I'm 8lbs away from my pre-baby weight, which is spectacular in my opinion. I'm starting to see definition in my legs and calves and really just now starting to feel differently about my body. I was so tuned out of it that it's taken me losing 50lbs to even feel like myself again.

 I asked my gastric surgeon what my ideal weight should be. He asked how tall I was and I dutifully told him I'm 5'4 (and a half, don't forget the half, it's important). He thought for a nanosecond and then said authoritatively: 120lbs. I would have laughed out loud, but he was digging around for the port under my skin with needle, so I tried not to move too much. Let me just put this into perspective. The last time I was that weight I'm pretty sure I was in the 8th grade. When I graduated high school, after dancing and doing gymnastics almost year-round, I was 160lbs. Even after bicycling for nine months all throughout Oxford and only eating food that I could carry home from the grocery store on my back and my handlebars, I weighed 155lbs. I wish I could find the photo of myself from that time. I looked skinny.

Now the doc wants me to weigh 120lbs?!? I asked him if we could think about the 140-145lb range and he said that might work. That would mean that I'm only halfway through my weight loss journey. It's taken me a year to get here, but I feel like my weight loss is accelerating. While the doc was poking around under my skin, he put another cc of saline into my band. That puts me up to 8cc's of fill. According to the all-knowing Wikipedia, bands can hold up to 12cc's of fluid. I think at that point, your upper stomach is either so stretched out that you can eat whatever you want or you are putting all your food into a blender and drinking it through a straw. A very small straw.

I know that I'll adjust to my current restriction, but wow, it's intense. I'm actually afraid to eat in front of anyone in a social situation because of how little I can actually eat. The best surprise came when I sat down when my new friend (I'll call him Mr. Grinch, which I mean as a compliment). I told him that I had lap band surgery and he said he did as well. Then we proceeded to take two hours to finish lunch! It was fantastic. I had never shared a meal with someone that had the same level of restriction that I had. I can't say enough how great it was! I knew exactly what was going on when he stopped talking, stopped eating, and just sat there. I was like, "Oh yeah. You're trying not to puke! Wait...do you need me to slide out of the booth? Are you sure? For real, I'll move."

So...the question is, for anyone that knows me or maybe jumps on a scale themselves from time to time, does 140 seem like a good goal for me? Too skinny or not skinny enough?

Even More About the Red Dress

I realized after re-reading my original post that it made it seem like I would be wearing Jenny's original dress. That is not so. You see, so many women have been inspired by the story of the traveling red dress that women from all over the world started sending them to other women who needed to feel beautiful and powerful. They started a facebook page and women began meeting each other through the power of social media. I don't know how much information my dress owner wants me to share here, but I can tell you that she and I have never met, she seems like an amazing human being, and there are too many states for me to remember between Texas and Virginia.

And the dress! It's like nothing I would have ever purchased for myself, but I think that's the point of the project. It's red and glittery, almost like a red disco ball without mirrors. Here is a picture of the back:

 I'm pretty sure that scoop is too low for a bra, but I fixed the problem by buying a small, balero-type black cardigan. I'm also hoping that will help camouflage my giant arms. I can't tell you the last time a thin, strappy dress was on my body for just this reason.

Here is the front:

See? It's glittering and fabulous. The dress owner was also kind enough to send me a card, that somehow perfectly fit exactly what I was feeling when I opened the package:

Just in case you can't read it, it says, "Life is full of pain, misery,

Just in case you can't read it, it says, "Life is full of pain, misery, disaster, disease, sadness, tragedy, malevolent rabbits (I think that's what it says, I'll have to find the card again to double check), anger, violence, death....But this little owlie's awesomeness negates all that."

And so it did. I'm to the point in my life, my career, and my volunteerism, where it feels like everyone wants to take something from me or use something that I foolishly offer. I'm fostering a puppy (a puppy!) for Seven and, sure, the dog is cute, but wow, I had no idea how hard it would be to house train a 3 month-old puppy. She pees in her crate, she pees in my bedroom, she poops either two feet in front of the door or two feet outside the door, and she fights with Sam constantly. Dinner time for all three animals in the house makes me feel like I'm running an animal shelter. Everyone is crying and whining about me not getting them their food fast enough.

Then there is a problem with my meds. I have some medication that I don't take every day (mostly because I would be in a perpetual state of semi-consciousness haze that I don't enjoy on a regular basis). Sometimes my friends ask me for my extra meds. I never sell them because that's clearly illegal and giving them away is only, what? Partially illegal. I don't know. It's a grey area for me. The problem is when my friends start requesting meds that I take every day because I need them. One of them is a controlled substance that requires me to get a written prescription every month. Someone came over to my house and left the next morning. About twenty minutes after she had left, I got a text saying, "Oh, I forgot to get one of your XXXX. I guess you forgot to give it to me". I was floored. I don't give out that med and I in no way forgot to give one to her. I'm not a pharmacist. I'm not even a physician's assistant. I have what I have because I need it.

So I was feeling used in every way and then I got this wonderful package that was sent specifically for me, to make me feel better. I almost started crying. Someone, a stranger, was thinking about me when it felt like no one else in my life was. It was beautiful.

My Red Dress

Let me put this into context: I came home after the kind of day that made me want to crawl into bed, pull the covers up, and hide from the world. When I came into my bedroom, I found a box. Clicker must have picked it up from my front porch and brought it inside. As soon as I saw it, I knew. I knew that my traveling red dress had come. I almost cried.

If you haven't been following the Traveling Red Dress Project on the web, start with the link to The Bloggess. Then check out the follow-up to her original post. With the first red dress, Jenny (The Bloggess) wrote, "I want, just once, to wear a bright red, strapless ball gown with no apologies. I want to be shocking, and vivid and wear a dress as intensely amazing as the person I so want to be."

Then she got the strapless red ball gown and her friend photographed her in it. Then she sent the dress on a journey, from city to city, so other women could experience the unadulterated joy that she experienced. She asked women to tell her if they needed to celebrate, to feel beautiful, to mark a struggle through depression, cancer, or a divorce. I sent a note saying that I would like to celebrate losing 50 lbs after lap band surgery and a wonderful woman from Fairfax, Virginia said she would happily ship me out a dress.

My photography shoot is scheduled for Sunday, February 18th and I can't wait. More details to come...

No, I Didn't Use Cocaine

and I should probably that specify that I don't currently, nor have I ever, used cocaine. But, man, the questionnaire I completed tonight made me feel like maybe I did and just didn't remember it. You see, if you hang out with Zac for any length of time, you notice some...how do I put this...oddities in his speech. He stutters over words that start with "s" and he sometimes takes giant pauses and rolls his eyes so far up into his head like he's trying to forcibly eject a word from his brain.

To put in polite terms, Zac has speech dysflucenices that have persisted longer than they should. It's all cute when a three year-old says the Earth is the "Earf", but it's a little more troubling when a six year-old says "the" a lot like "fuh".

Zac's therapist was actually the one that brought it to my attention that maybe I would want to look into Zac's speech problems with his school. He said a speech problem wasn't going to help him keep and make friends anytime soon and I actually agreed with him for the first time. So, I set the Special Education wheel a'rollin and I feel a little like I've just been run over by a train. Zac was diagnosed as in need of testing. He was sent home with a packet of materials tonight for me to fill out. Here are a list of incredibly detailed questions they asked (just a small sample, really. The questionnaire was over five pages long, 10 point font):

• My highest educational status
• Who has legal custody of Zac
• Place of residence of parent that lives in the home (hahahaha....oh wait, that one isn't supposed to be a joke. Can I say the general VT/NH area with a smattering of "I don't know. He evades the law"? Wait, no, I can't. The box isn't big enough. Sigh)
• Problems during pregnancy with child? Weight gain? Medications (dosage and frequency), Persistent emotional stress and/or anxiety (wait, is this one another joke? Of course, I checked the box! Why do you even have to ask?)
• How long labor was? Was it natural, induced, were forceps used? Was their a C-section? (and then I started wondering..how long was my labor? Was it 30 or 36 hours? Yes, I was induced and yes, I had a c-section.)
• What age did the child complete bowel training? Bladder training?
• Did your child show any delays in gross motor development, such as sitting, crawling, walking, and dressing? (oh jeez, I think this deserves its own post)
• List of serious accidents, operations, and hospitalizations?
• Frequent ear infections? Persistent sore throat? Headaches? Tubes in ears? (God, those were a rough three years. Yes, yes, yes, and yes)
• Has disciplining the child been strict? lenient? (how do I answer that? I wrote in "kind of")
• How does the child spend leisure time?
• Is there any unusual family circumstance, crises, or trauma that may be affecting your child? (What's the sad part is Zac's family circumstance isn't particularly unusual anymore. He just doesn't have a father).

Then I felt lonely and sad. I want to talk to someone about Zac because right now, I'm convinced that my Zoloft use during my pregnancy, regular bouts of emotional stress inutero, and complete non-relationship with the FOB have caused my child to stutter. I'm really to blame here, right? I'm such a girl.
Zac's tucked away in bed and my cat is getting drunk from the heat that my cable box is putting off. Right now, I'm just holding tight to the knowledge that I've never used cocaine, whether before, during, or after my pregnancy. I have that, at least.

Zachary 6.5

I find myself not writing about the reason I started this blog: Zac. The days fly by in waves of "time to get up", "No, you can't watch another show," "have you fed the dog?" and "I told you NOT to put all your shampoo in the bath water. I don't care if you like the bubbles". You see, I'm the Sunday-Thursday parent. My parents watch him from Friday afternoon after school to Sunday at 3pm. I would like to blame this arrangement on my MBA, but I would be dishonest if I didn't admit that it started well before I spent two years getting my degree.

Being the Sunday through Thursday parent comes with a certain amount of responsibility. I'm the  "take-no-prisoners-you-will-get-in-bed-or-you-will-not-see-a-computer-for-three-days" parent. But Zac makes it easy to parent, even when I have to be a hardass. We went to one of his classmates' parties today and I realized raising Zac is a little like raising a male version of myself as a child. We went to Jumping Jungle, a local indoor fun house filled with bouncy air houses. After 45 minutes of ear piercing screams, balls, and running like a madman, Zac came down and sat in my lap. First, he did the classic kid thing of asking for money for the arcades (no) and if he could use my phone to play Angry Birds (no). Then he complained about how bored he was. "It's boring to just run around and scream," he complained. I told him the rest of his friends were having fun and maybe he should try it.

Then Zac looked under the air hockey table and found a beaten up game of Sorry. In the middle of the party, he pulled out the pieces and I looked over and saw this:

and I thought...he's just...me. I'm raising a nerd, and a gamer, and a book reader because I was once all those things. We both read every night before bed and my biggest threat to him is that I won't read another chapter in one of his books if he misbehaves.

He's just the best kid. He's funny, thoughtful, and smart as hell. When he asked me when kids would stop being mean to him for his lackluster social skills, I bluntly told him, "college" because I don't know how to raise a social kid because I'm not a social parent. So, he and are stuck together. Slowly making our way in the world. Learning and growing at each turn. I guess that's the benefit of both being nerds: if we can't figure something out, we can always google it.

Let me be very clear

It's not often that I repeat the title of my post in the first sentence of my post, but let me be very clear here: This is my blog. This is the most self-absorbed way that I have to communicate and express myself. Occasionally I think about making it private and just writing it for myself, but I love the online community that I've built through blogging and I wouldn't want them to make their blogs private, so I don't make mine.

I can't make it anymore crystal clear that this is MY blog. I solely control the content, design, and language. This is my space on the Internet and I suggest that if you don't like what you read, that you hit the back button on the top of your browser and never come back. In fact, I would say that if you know me offline and refuse to talk to me, that you are better off not reading what I have to say. I can actually guarantee that. Don't read what I have to say and then be too chicken shit to comment on it. This is my forum and I will defend it, fiercely.

You see? I've got a lot invested in this whole blogging thing. I have seven years invested in blog archives and I still enjoy what I do. I wouldn't write if I didn't enjoy it. But facebook has changed everything. Suddenly, when I post my blog link to facebook, everyone that I know in real life gets a window into a world that I normally keep very secret.

So, let me apologize. I will make you a deal: I won't write about you if you don't read what I write. Let's call it a truce. But let me be very clear, this is my blog. There is a reason they call blog readers "visitors".