The Duchess

Hide n' Watch

One of the best people I have never met in person said it best.

You better hide n' watch.

 

this blog is coming back full force and password protected. Want in? Email me. Don't want to? Your loss.

 

“In a chronically leaking boat, energy devoted to changing vessels is more productive than energy devoted to patching leaks.” -Warren Buffett

Interesting

So what's new Internet? Not much here, no one is dead, I'm not knocked up or down for that matter, just business as usual. I went to Blogher awhile back and I realized something

Wait for it

I am way (like WAY) more fun in person. I'm super funny, intelligent and awesome but it just doesn't translate on this here blog. Also my name is Jenn. Not Duchess. That nickname was all cute and funny at 25 when this shit started but at almost 31 it's time to give it up. Sure I'm still narcissistic enough to think I rule my own world but truth is I don't even rule my car most days (special shout-out to the tiny humans who have in fact taken over and demand shit like food and the song Slippery Fish to be sung over and over and over).

So yeah, that's it. I wish there was more, I wish I was doing something super exciting or you know badass but I'm not. I get up I drink stupid amounts of coffee, I rarely shower or tweet, I try not to step on the babies and remember to feed them, I sometimes forget to drink water - like at all, I go to work at night come home watch TV and sometimes poke the tiny humans to make sure they are breathing, I get up when they squall in the middle of the night and then the day starts over - except Thursday's then I shower and go to marriage counseling and then mortgage my kidney to pay for the babysitter. It is an underwhelming existence but somebody has got to do it (did I mention my new nickname is somebody).

Anywho, I hope your worlds are rotating at a more exciting speed (it's like watching frickin' paint dry around here) maybe some day I will change this blog up and make it true to my badass form but that seems like a lot of work (volunteers?)

Oh snap, I almost forgot, here is a picture of the tiny humans...not so tiny anymore.

 image courtsey of http://www.daveeblu.com/

To clarify again:

I used the wrong terms in my last post, what I suffered from was really more of a postpartum anxiety than depression. I have had anxiety for many years and the characteristics I displayed after the birth of my first child fell more into that of anxiety. Postpartum anxiety is the lesser known cousin to PPD, I was so tired of trying to explain to my family and friends what was wrong with me (anxiety? huh? isn't it just depression women suffer from post birth? NO) that I just let them think it was mild PPD when really it was raging anxiety. I am sorry I was not clear about this in my first post or even in the update that followed. I have anxiety, not depression, I am not on medication, I did take medication when I was 18 after I was attacked for PTSD. I have a great team of doctors, friends and family who are here for me. I am not a doctor, please consult your physician.

Also please quit sending me mean email, this is exactly why I said nothing for over a year and why other women suffer in silence, if you want to disagree with me then fine but do so in the comments don't be a coward and hide behind email. I am not advocating or putting down medication I am simply telling the story of my life.

Silly Girl *Updated*

"This is the biggest thing you are going to do for awhile"

Famous last words spoken to me by my doctor at my six week post-partum appointment, I was sitting there crying telling him I must have made a huge mistake, I am so not cut out for this new "lifestyle" which by the way is crap at that point there was no life let alone one with style.

I wanted a baby so badly, more than I wanted anything it was a craving that ran so deep and it only increased with every passing negative cycle or loss. The more the universe seemed to resist the more I shoved right back demanding to have it my way. When I finally won and had my positive beta I thought to myself, ahhhh the hard part is over.

Silly girl.

I had a very long and rough pregnancy with S. filled with the highest of highs and lowest of lows I kept telling myself I just had to make it through one more week and then the next week I would tell myself one more, I could do it I had to do it because in my heart of hearts I knew all I had to do was cross the finish line, as soon as that placenta was out of me the pregnancy was over and I could relax, the hard part would be over.

Silly girl.

I hadn't worried to much about post-partum depression, which seems downright foolish to me given the fact that I have like six of the five (yes you are reading that correctly, I believe that neurotic should be on the list as well) warning signs. My second night in the hospital was so bad I had to be mildly sedated; I was beside myself with panic and fear. Every time my eyes would shut I would have these horrific dreams that they took my baby and my husband had left and I was all alone in the same place where I had been alone one year and fifty weeks earlier. I called my mother hysterical beginning her to come telling her I hated her for not being there, how could she choose C. over me (a side note: my sister was undergoing experimental chemo at the time my mother had used the last of her vacation to be with her during her treatment, something I had told everyone I was fine with because I had really thought I would be fine with it, also we discovered that I cannot take the drug perc*et as it cause these horrible nightmare hallucinations) she promised me she would get in the car first thing in the morning and drive here, she would be here. Even as she said it I knew it was a lie to calm me down I knew she wouldn't be able to be there but I didn't care it was what I needed to hear and so it was said.

I cried everyday for the first two weeks, I was moody and irrational and I wanted to send back this beautiful baby, this baby I would have sold my soul to have, I wanted my old life back. I told my doctor these things and before I had finished he stopped me and said it wasn't my fault this is chemistry not the baby or Duke or myself that I really had no control over it. He wrote me a scrip and told me that I would have to stay on the drugs until spring. I was relieved anything to stop this feeling I was having, anything so that I could look at my daughter and not feel guilt and remorse. I took the first pill and figured that was that it was up to the pills and my brain to sort out this battle and all I could do was sit back and wait. Apparently I am one of the lucky people in this world who become manic on a certain set of anti-depressants, these pills made me so high so fast it was frightening - for everyone. I immediately quit taking them (under the advice of my doctor) the other drug option for me would have impacted my ability to breastfeed (which is a whole other post/topic/beast) so I chose to wait another two weeks until my post-op appointment. I was very closely monitored during this time between Duke and my doctor and my family. By six weeks I still felt on edge all the time but I had begun to at least miss S. when I was away from her, I felt less resentment at my life being so obliterated; don't get me wrong I was still overwhelmed and distracted and quiet crazy but I at least felt like I was going to make it somehow. This went on for the next five months and it wasn't really until I quit nursing (another story another time) that I felt a tiny part of myself even out and come back to life. It wasn't until nine months after giving birth that I started to feel true joy at the tiny moments, I appreciated them but the joy wasn't there. I have embraced all of these moments but now I do so with such overwhelming joy and gratitude that I find I have tears for a different reason.

I was quiet for so many months on this blog space, how do you say that the one thing you wanted more than anything you wanted to send back. This wasn't a sweater this was a human, my tiny beautiful daughter that I would do anything for; then and now. I was embarrassed and could never find the right words, even now they don't feel adequate to fully described how it was. I am choosing now to write about this because having S. was supposed to be the biggest thing I would do for a long while and as we all know this isn't the case, I am doing another big thing in 14 weeks and I am scared this time.

I have hope that it will be different, not as scary as the first time, but I have real and true fear that it will be the same only worse because I will now have S and this new baby. The difference is that I won't be quiet about it this time; I won't sweep it under the rug and pretend all is well. I will take the time to heal and if nothing else I will lean on you, my Internet family, because whether you have crossed the bridge from infertile hell or you are still stuck on the island we all know what that fear feels like and we all know it becomes a little less when we have each other.

Goodbye Silly Girl.

*Updated*

I just want to clarify that I did not/am not taking drugs for the post partum troubles I suffered, this in no way shape or form to imply that pharmaceuticals are not helpful to some people, they were not an option for me in my case. I repeat drugs rock but only if they help you and in my case there was more harm then good. As always I am not a doctor I just play one for my family on google please consult your physician before making any decision about your health or medications you may be on. I am not advocating in any way that people should just "tough it out" when it comes to PPD or even the baby blues as stated on my about page this is my story and mine alone, I'm selfish that way.

 

A Clean Cave at Last

I made it! I checked into the hospital around 10 AM on Wednesday and I was home by five. The short stay unit had some of the worst nursing I have ever been subjected to. Apparently my new name is Honey, or Sugar and sometimes Darlin'. I had to request that my hospital bracelets be put on, after which she only put my main bracelet on I had to again request that she attach my bright orange allergy bracelet, you know so if they gave me drugs they wouldn't be the wrong ones and I Would Die

If you have been around this site for a long time you know my history, if you are new thanks to twitter and my big mouth you may want to go into the archives and look at the first few posts, I am not linking to them because, well for a lot of reasons and I don't have to. So thanks to said history, and resulting PTSD, I tend to freak out when there are things on my face or I can't move my arms. I am VERY clear about this when I do my pre-op screen w/ the hospital and with my doctor and with the nurse who sucked and again I have to tell the nurse who comes and puts in my IV and she promised she would tape a note to my file (which as a side note is kept in a 2" three ring binder) and of course she doesn't but I can hear the nurses talking about me because their station Is Right Outside My Door. I finally can't take it anymore and start to cry. I am advocating for myself and it feels like no one is listening. Why the hell do you tell us to "speak up" if you are still going to ignore me because I have a newsflash if you don't listen you are going to have one freaked out woman on your hands and that isn't good for anyone.

When the anesthesiologist showed up in my room to introduce him self (I was offered the same great lady from my C-section but she would have been switched from some cool heart surgery, how pissed would she have been....) I took a chance and repeated verbatim the same three sentence warning I had told 6 other people, he kind of nods and says it is time to go. Or at least I think he says it is time to go, he is a mumbler (new word) extraordinaire in fact he rivals Milton form the movie Office Space (stapler guy). I ask him if I should walk and he says okay and then he proceeds to push my empty bad out of the room and down the hall, everyone working in the wing finds this very funny and I feel stupid. I totally would have ridden in the bed, I have no problem with it at all and now I look like a jack ass. Now that I am typing this however I wonder if my 3-sentence warning didn't freak him out a little. He did listen hear me however because as I was telling the OR nurse (who was trying to put oxygen on me) the same thing and this time crying while saying it, he told her to stop and I was still sitting up and trying to cry quietly, she stopped and put her arms around me and said it would be fine and she was so sorry she wished I had told someone (WHAT THE FRACK). At this point I was so over it and embarrassed that I was crying that I just kind of hung my head. the last two things I remember were looking over my shoulder and seeing the versed in the syringe all milky white, I said thank you to the Doctor and he said no problem and within about thirty seconds I could no longer sit up I said I was going to go ahead and lay down (ever the control freak to the end) the nurse helped me lay down and the Doctor said that should help with the fear and then I was out. and naked for all nine people in the room to see (why so many people you ask, I agreed to students in the room and also the resident (?) working with the anesthesiologist had the brightest blue eyes I have ever seen he also looked mildly shocked to see me made me wonder if he recognized me from somewhere, thanks small town).

In the next minute I was awake and in some rocking pain. I felt like I had just screwed a Rhino with an attitude problem, as soon as I could get out of there I was gone cheeseburger (the nursing may suck but my god the cheeseburgers are to die for) in hand.

Pathology won't be back until next week my post-op is next Thursday. DocAwesome called me the day after to make sure the bleeding had slowed apparently I bled "more than he cared for" during the D&C portion of the day. This whole situation has left me really wondering about another baby; as in how the hell do I get my hands on one, and we all know what that means...

I thought I had won.

When I first moved to Typepad Lane and rolled out my welcome mat I was a young bright eyed infertile hoping to meet some other ladies in the same saddle er, stirrup.

Then I finally became pregnant with a viable pregnancy. I was going to have a baby (yes I was borderline smug and bitchy) I had won, I had kicked my stubborn, un-agreeable, downright mean reproductive (or unproductive) bits into submission and while they did not go quietly they did their job. I had a real live healthy baby and I was almost smitten with my lady garden. For the first time in 11 years we were on the same page. I figured we would go our separate ways, well as separate as you can when you are all wrapped up in the same annoying, pretty package.

I was so wrong.

It started about thirty days after the c-section, I had my first period. 30 days.On.The.Dot. Even though I was breastfeeding AROUND THE FREAKING CLOCK. I thought it was a fluke, it couldn't be real,  I had more carefree time coming my way after all I was breastfeeding (!) (I could write a book on that one) then thirty days later I had it again and again. It was weird and yet strangely familiar, unlike dealing with the squalling infant that left the hospital with me I knew how to deal with Red.

Red was different at first I thought maybe she was just working out the kinks after her long absence, stretching her legs and reacquainting me with the routine. The second and third months were also different, longer, odd, and more painful. I started to think maybe this was going to be the new normal and that is when month four hit me harder than a Mack truck without brakes.

The pain alone was enough to leave me laying on the bathroom floor head buried in a towel wondering if I had any pain killers left from the c-section, I had to change my clothes, sheets, SHOES but after NINE days it was gone leaving only it's memory and a cotton bill that rivals the national deficit.

When Red came to visit for month five she brought her friend Spot along. Spotting in the middle of the month has always meant my cervix is on fire, in need of attention. I don't mess with the spotting, weird bleeding when I am supposed to be bleeding is one thing, random "Oh jeez I guess white was a bad idea even though I should be golden for at least another 12-15 days" bleeding is reason to pick up the phone and make an appointment for the stirrups.

To say I was shocked when Doc (I can't remember his nickname at the moment) told me my cervix looked lovely (What the...) is synonymous with GM having a few extra cars sitting around. So I scheduled a sonohysterogram (SHG) for the following week. Dr. Google had already informed me that nothing was wrong; I was insane or possibly pregnant. For the record I am cool with insanity as pregnant without third party help isn't going to happen. So I showed up for my SHG and after taking a pregnancy (snicker with me won't you?) test we got down to brass tacks. All in all the SHG took a bit longer than the HSG but with less pressure...more leaking, less sticky. It only took about four seconds for me to know this was not going to go my way.

Hanging off of every available surface were these stalactite things, knobby and long and ugly. My lining was measuring 18 instead of 7-9. Double? How did this happen? The last time I saw my Ute this close without a baby inside, it was so pretty and calm, the one part of my reproductive posse to always behave, the shiny Breck girl among us. Now I felt betrayed and surprised and sad. Oh so very sad, one more thing to add to my gynecological resume.

Uterine Polyps

Altogether not a big deal, ya know if they don't end up being cancerous because that is one of the few things not on my resume yet. To be clear I have no reason to believe that the polyps are or will be cancerous. I am just PISSED that my body is failing me AGAIN. Doc (can't remember his nickname) told me to go home a talk to Duke and decide if I want more children because a hysterectomy may be the best route.

Hold the fucking phone. I am twenty-nine, a hysterectomy?!?!? Do I want another child? I don't even know what I want to be when I grow all the way up or what I want for breakfast or if I even want breakfast, maybe I will just have coffee.

I did the only thing possible I left the office and cried. Hard. Then I called Doc (super amazing and can't remember his nickname either, delivered S.) for a second opinion. After he talked me off the ledge we decided that the best course would be Surgical Hysteroscopy and D&C.

Joy.

As long as everything goes well I get to keep my body parts, and I get a guaranteed nap. Surgery is set for the 24Th, AM style.

You tell me and then I will tell you.

Twitter is down for an hour so I might as well write up a little post here. Yes I have an addiction to twitter, what can I say I love instant gratification.

I have been pretty quiet on this blog since giving birth mostly because I don't have time to write (between work, baby, sitting on my arse, drinking, sitting a the gas station) and also because I am unsure of how much people really want to hear about my life post-infertility. After asking, begging, pleading, paying for something I really wanted and then getting it and then having a really hard time with it, well let me just say that if I clicked onto a blog two years ago to read a new mom complain about being a new mom my eyes would probably be permanently damaged from rolling them so hard.

I don't feel as though I fully fit in with the ALI crowd, although I still fit two of the three criteria and once an infertile always an infertile in my case. I have a child now, I have crossed over the great divide, I junk punched infertility in the squid and shouted "You know why!!!" in its face. I don't feel like I fit in with other mommy bloggers because I still feel like a fake and that at some point someone will wake me up and say the last six months was a dream. I definitely don't fit in with the writers, just check out the grammar it's almost painful.

I do know this, I have missed being able to blow off steam here. I have missed connecting with other people who are clever and keep me on my toes. So tell me (in the comments) how much you want to know? Can handle? Do you want to hear about the new adventures in this kingdom or should I close up shop and just stick with the twitter?

I miss you

I want to write. I want to tell you everything, I want to find a routine...how did you all do it? There doesn't seem to be enough hours in the day. How in the world was I a nanny for 6 kids (four under the age of two when I started, two sets of twins 23 months apart)? Am I doing this right? Am I normal?

Two months already, man this goes fast.

It is Official...

The Duke and Duchess have welcomed a Lady

Sasha Grace

was born on Tuesday at 7:45 am she is 7 pounds, 7 ounces and 19.25 inches long.

She is the most amazing creature I have ever met.

 

 

 

It's getting hot in here

Good morning everyone! It's hotter than shit over here in my neck of the woods. "Duchess how hot is shit?" Please allow me to tell you....105 as in One hundred and freaking five degrees. Of course that was yesterday, right now at 9:30am it is only about 78!!! Lord love a duck. The VERY best part about being pregnant when it is stupid hot out are the comments people make to me, my favorite being, "Wow guess you didn't time this pregnancy very well"

In other news I am 23 weeks today and the stinking Turkey sent me running to Doc Bowtie yesterday. Everything is fine the baby was just being a stinker and wouldn't move around. Of course as soon as Doc Bowtie put the doppler on my stomach McCubbin started to kick and was totally fine. Major Turkey. Clearly belongs to Duke and me.

That is all from here. I am participating in the Roundup Extravaganza so I am very busy reading Kathy's blog. Plus I am actually working on a very big post but it feels like the jinxing sort of thing so I am still holding off on actually putting fingers to keys but trust me the day is coming, probably next week. Double plus is that I have my repeat level II ultrasound next Tuesday, complete with fetal echocardiogram - Awesome!

Stay cool Internet Friends as you know I am over here sweating my ass off.