I went to the YMCA today with the kids. I've avoided getting into the pool for months because the only bathing suit I own is a black Speedo that accentuates all the wrong parts of my body. Additionally, the last time I wore it it was horribly tight and a little girl accused me of being pregnant. Wow! To say I hate that suit is an understatement. Today however, I chose to overcome myself in order to play with Koen in the pool and have some "us" time. I was excited to share those moments with him.
Having gone through bootcamp, I was able to get over being naked in front other others since we regularly changed and showered with other girls. Living in Japan as well offered opportunities to spend time at various onsen, which are public bath houses where naked is the rule and not the exception. The onsen are segregated, so it can be likened unto a tropical, steamy spa full of women lounging in hot tubs, steam rooms, and stone beds in their birthday suits. Suffice it to say that I'm really over the naked thing, though I don't go out of my way to show off what my Mama gave me.
I changed in the bathroom stall since I had consumed a lot of water in the hour before hitting the pool and frankly I needed to be in there anyway. :) I was pleasantly surprised that my bathing suit is fitting much nicer after losing 20 pounds. It's amazing what those 20 little boogers can do for a person - or not do, depending on where you are. It was great to feel that difference. My weight loss efforts are paying dividends.
After spending time in both the pool and the hot tub, I headed back into the locker room to peel out of my suit. Where an hour before there had not been more than a few people in the room, suddenly there wasn't a private spot to be had. As I stood there contemplating changing my clothes, it occurred to me that I was feeling anxious. It made me pause. I'm not accustomed to feeling nervous in this type of scenario. I wondered what lay at the root of my sudden modesty. It didn't take long to realize that I was concerned about someone seeing my breasts.
My breasts look like road maps now with long scars that wrap around toward my back. They are slightly misshapen because of my recent surgery and I don't have any nipples. As I was pondering my own feelings about revealing my body in front of strangers, a little girl walked in. She looked squarely at me, as had several other people. I thought, "What if this little girl stares at me with question marks in her eyes?" What if others notice as well. Will the obviously missing nipples create a discomfort in them that would be awkward? Would they stare? If so, would I want to say something to set them (or myself) at ease? I came to the conclusion that I wasn't ready to tackle that possibility. It's not that I'm uncomfortable to talk about it or even to show another woman who wants to see the scars. In that moment though I couldn't tell how much of me was hiding, versus simply wanting to spare others the awkwardness and questions.
I don't ever want to avoid the discussion. I guess I just want to do it with the right timing so that the impact on others is positive, not confusing. I would never want to be the scary woman with no nipples.
Monday, November 15, 2010
Sunday, November 14, 2010
Dripping Joyous Sweat
Yesterday I ran. I wasn't the fastest one on the treadmills at the gym, but I might have been the happiest. Who knew that dripping sweat could be such a joyous occasion? Stepping off that treadmill I felt triumphant. I felt like I crossed a milestone and left an old part of me behind. The more I move forward and look at my life and old attitudes in the rear view mirror, the more I can see the old me disappearing out of sight. The choices I make today are healthier than they've ever been. Daily I'm overcoming myself and pushing on to a future that's bright!
Saturday, November 13, 2010
How Can I Call Myself These Things?
When I was a little girl I used to dance around the room holding a hairbrush, pretending it was a microphone. Music spoke to every part of my soul. If it was an emotion or experience of any kind, I could choose a song to relate it to. It was my outlet, my comfort, my connection to life.
I recall the first time I told someone, "I'm a singer." Part of me felt like a fake because they looked at me as if to size up whether or not I was lying to them. At that moment I felt a need to explain that I wasn't a recording artist, but a singer none-the-less. Why did I have to explain myself? Why did I feel like I was absconding with a title I hadn't earned? Actually, the real question was, "Am I really a singer?"
The same applies to my writing. Now that I tell people I am a writer I get the same type of look as before with my singing. People want to know if I'm published. Well, no I'm not, but does that make me any less a writer?
I've come full circle on these questions and here is the conclusion I've come to. When I wake up in the morning, I have a song on my lips. I sing: in the car, in the shower, to wake the babies and to put them to sleep, when I'm happy, when I'm sad, when I'm inspired, walking through Wal-Mart, or any other time as the urge hits me. In essence, I'm a singer because I sing.
Why then am I also a writer? Throughout the day I make notes about topics to write about. It's an ongoing joke with my family when I say, "You know I'm gonna have to write about that," and they know I'm serious. I regularly e-mail myself writing ideas. I ponder book ideas. By the end of the day, all I can think about is stealing time to write. In fact, I often fall asleep in my recliner, laptop open on my legs, fingers still on the keys banging out the most recent inspiration. Essentially, I'm a writer because I write.
When I wake up in the morning or go to sleep at night, when all I can think of is singing or writing, that IS who I am. It is who God created me to be. So whether I am recorded or published or not is irrelevant. I am these things because of my passion for them and their movement within me. This is in part, my definition of me. These are two of the parts I most wish to share with the world.
I recall the first time I told someone, "I'm a singer." Part of me felt like a fake because they looked at me as if to size up whether or not I was lying to them. At that moment I felt a need to explain that I wasn't a recording artist, but a singer none-the-less. Why did I have to explain myself? Why did I feel like I was absconding with a title I hadn't earned? Actually, the real question was, "Am I really a singer?"
The same applies to my writing. Now that I tell people I am a writer I get the same type of look as before with my singing. People want to know if I'm published. Well, no I'm not, but does that make me any less a writer?
I've come full circle on these questions and here is the conclusion I've come to. When I wake up in the morning, I have a song on my lips. I sing: in the car, in the shower, to wake the babies and to put them to sleep, when I'm happy, when I'm sad, when I'm inspired, walking through Wal-Mart, or any other time as the urge hits me. In essence, I'm a singer because I sing.
Why then am I also a writer? Throughout the day I make notes about topics to write about. It's an ongoing joke with my family when I say, "You know I'm gonna have to write about that," and they know I'm serious. I regularly e-mail myself writing ideas. I ponder book ideas. By the end of the day, all I can think about is stealing time to write. In fact, I often fall asleep in my recliner, laptop open on my legs, fingers still on the keys banging out the most recent inspiration. Essentially, I'm a writer because I write.
When I wake up in the morning or go to sleep at night, when all I can think of is singing or writing, that IS who I am. It is who God created me to be. So whether I am recorded or published or not is irrelevant. I am these things because of my passion for them and their movement within me. This is in part, my definition of me. These are two of the parts I most wish to share with the world.
Butterfly Needles & Anxiety Attacks
I've been giving myself shots of Lupron for the surrogacy for exactly two weeks now. Giving myself shots is something I never thought I'd be able to do. It was surprising to me how easy it was to do the very first one. All was going beautifully until a few days ago when I must have hit a nerve going in. Ouch! That one stung.
The next day I prepared my syringe and wiped my belly with an alcohol pad before pinching up the skin to administer the shot. As I held the syringe with the needle hovering over my skin, I suddenly had a hot flash and began to sweat. I began to see white spots and felt slightly light-headed. What was happening to me? Was I really on the verge of a panic attack over this little butterfly needle? After about five minutes of hesitation and telling my husband I wasn't sure if I could do it, I finally popped the needle in and called it done. I was relieved - and then came this morning . . .
I didn't start off feeling anxious about the shot this morning. I simply grabbed my supplies and headed to the kitchen to retrieve the Lupron from the fridge. After preparing the syringe, I once again stood frozen in fear with the needle taunting my skin. Again I was struck with mild symptoms of an anxiety attack. For nearly ten minutes I would put the needle down and walk away, come back and try again, then walk away again. Numerous times I tried to fake myself out by counting, 1 - 2 - 3. It didn't work. I tried to say, "I have to do it before the water boils for the oatmeal." Then I tried to say, "I have to do it before the timer goes off and the oatmeal is finished cooking." The oatmeal finished cooking and I was still holding that evil little syringe with one hand and pulling the pot off the burner with the other. "@&(*$^, sigh." Okay, I thought, I'll call my sister. Crud, she's not home. Well I'll try my mom instead. Thank God! She answered!
"Mom, I am standing here holding this needle and just can't do it! This is ridiculous! It's been two weeks. Why am I having such a hard time with this?" She encouraged me, though mostly I don't remember what she said except, "Wow, there's still some weenie left in you." Had I not been in such psychological distress, I might have pondered that comment more and even found it humorous. I'd already been crying on the phone with her for several minutes as the twins toddled around my legs, intermittently reaching up pointing to my belly and grabbing for the syringe. They were probably thinking some baby version of "Mama is losing her mind." They kept staring at me like they did when Koen fell on the floor writhing in pain after stubbing his toe. Clearly they were concerned. I kept telling myself to pull it together and just get it done. Dragging it out was only making it worse. Then, Mom asked if it would help if she counted to three. "Yes, I think so," I said. 1 - 2 - 3 - I hesitated perhaps a nano second after 3 and thrust the needle into my belly. Imagine my relief when I literally didn't feel a thing! Whew, it was over!
So what lessons have I learned from all of this?
1. Mom is always there for you.
2. Counting to 3 and stabbing yourself doesn't work because you know it's coming.
3. Babies are very in tune with the emotions of their moms.
4. It takes 5 minutes to cook oatmeal, but sometimes 20 to give yourself a shot.
5. I'm capable of willingly inflicting pain on myself, both physically and mentally.
6. It's easy to make mountains out of molehills.
7. Most mountains ARE molehills.
8. I REALLY love my sister! :)
Tomorrow has to be a better day for Lupron shots. After talking with my sister, I understand she has also been having issues with her shots. Commiserating with her made me feel so much better. It's nice to feel like you're in the boat with someone else - and we are most definitely in this boat together!
The next day I prepared my syringe and wiped my belly with an alcohol pad before pinching up the skin to administer the shot. As I held the syringe with the needle hovering over my skin, I suddenly had a hot flash and began to sweat. I began to see white spots and felt slightly light-headed. What was happening to me? Was I really on the verge of a panic attack over this little butterfly needle? After about five minutes of hesitation and telling my husband I wasn't sure if I could do it, I finally popped the needle in and called it done. I was relieved - and then came this morning . . .
I didn't start off feeling anxious about the shot this morning. I simply grabbed my supplies and headed to the kitchen to retrieve the Lupron from the fridge. After preparing the syringe, I once again stood frozen in fear with the needle taunting my skin. Again I was struck with mild symptoms of an anxiety attack. For nearly ten minutes I would put the needle down and walk away, come back and try again, then walk away again. Numerous times I tried to fake myself out by counting, 1 - 2 - 3. It didn't work. I tried to say, "I have to do it before the water boils for the oatmeal." Then I tried to say, "I have to do it before the timer goes off and the oatmeal is finished cooking." The oatmeal finished cooking and I was still holding that evil little syringe with one hand and pulling the pot off the burner with the other. "@&(*$^, sigh." Okay, I thought, I'll call my sister. Crud, she's not home. Well I'll try my mom instead. Thank God! She answered!
"Mom, I am standing here holding this needle and just can't do it! This is ridiculous! It's been two weeks. Why am I having such a hard time with this?" She encouraged me, though mostly I don't remember what she said except, "Wow, there's still some weenie left in you." Had I not been in such psychological distress, I might have pondered that comment more and even found it humorous. I'd already been crying on the phone with her for several minutes as the twins toddled around my legs, intermittently reaching up pointing to my belly and grabbing for the syringe. They were probably thinking some baby version of "Mama is losing her mind." They kept staring at me like they did when Koen fell on the floor writhing in pain after stubbing his toe. Clearly they were concerned. I kept telling myself to pull it together and just get it done. Dragging it out was only making it worse. Then, Mom asked if it would help if she counted to three. "Yes, I think so," I said. 1 - 2 - 3 - I hesitated perhaps a nano second after 3 and thrust the needle into my belly. Imagine my relief when I literally didn't feel a thing! Whew, it was over!
So what lessons have I learned from all of this?
1. Mom is always there for you.
2. Counting to 3 and stabbing yourself doesn't work because you know it's coming.
3. Babies are very in tune with the emotions of their moms.
4. It takes 5 minutes to cook oatmeal, but sometimes 20 to give yourself a shot.
5. I'm capable of willingly inflicting pain on myself, both physically and mentally.
6. It's easy to make mountains out of molehills.
7. Most mountains ARE molehills.
8. I REALLY love my sister! :)
Tomorrow has to be a better day for Lupron shots. After talking with my sister, I understand she has also been having issues with her shots. Commiserating with her made me feel so much better. It's nice to feel like you're in the boat with someone else - and we are most definitely in this boat together!
Thursday, November 4, 2010
Scars: to Reveal or Not to Reveal
I went to the YMCA today with the kids. I've avoided getting into the pool for months because the only bathing suit I own is a black Speedo that accentuates all the wrong parts of my body. Additionally, the last time I wore it it was horribly tight and a little girl accused me of being pregnant. Wow! To say I hate that suit is an understatement. Today however, I chose to overcome myself in order to play with Koen in the pool and have some "us" time. I was excited to share those moments with him.
Having gone through boot camp, I was able to get over being naked in front other others since we regularly changed and showered as a group. Living in Japan as well offered opportunities to spend time at various onsen, which are public bath houses where naked is the rule and not the exception. Suffice it to say that I'm really over the whole naked thing, though I don't go out of my way to show off what my Mama gave me.
I changed in the bathroom stall since I had consumed a lot of water in the hour before hitting the pool and frankly, I needed to be in there anyway. :) I was pleasantly surprised that my bathing suit fit much nicer. I guess dropping those 20 pounds was helpful. It was great to feel that difference. My weight loss efforts are paying dividends.
After spending time in both the pool and the hot tub, I headed back into the locker room to peel out of my suit. Where an hour before there had not been more than a few people in the room, suddenly there wasn't a private spot to be had. As I stood there contemplating changing my clothes, it occurred to me that I was feeling anxious. It made me pause. I'm not accustomed to feeling nervous in this type of scenario. I wondered what lay at the root of my sudden modesty. It didn't take long to realize that I was concerned about someone seeing my breasts.
My breasts look like road maps now with long scars that wrap around my back. They are slightly misshapen because of my recent surgery and I don't have any nipples. As I was pondering my own feelings about revealing my body in front of strangers, a little girl walked in. She looked squarely at me, as had several other people. I thought, "What if this little girl stares at me with question marks in her eyes?" What if others notice as well? Will the obviously missing nipples create a discomfort in them that would be awkward? Would they stare? If so, would I want to say something to set them (or myself) at ease? I came to the conclusion that I wasn't ready to tackle that possibility. It's not that I'm uncomfortable talking about it or even showing another woman who wants to see the scars. In that moment though I couldn't tell how much of me was hiding, versus simply wanting to spare others the awkwardness and questions. I think I would have felt the need to explain myself had anyone noticed.
It reminds me of a man we met a couple years ago. We had seen him around the military base but hadn't spoken with him until one day when Koen stared long at the man's facial scars and loudly asked what was wrong with his face. I asked him if he would like to ask the man what happened to his skin, and Koen did want to speak with him. The man's name was John. He had been severely burned as a kid by an auto accident that killed both his mother and little brother. We enjoyed knowing him during our time in Japan. He was a lovely person and I'm glad we took the time to get to know him, scars and all.
I don't ever want to avoid the discussion about my breasts if it comes up. I guess I just want to do it with the right timing so that the impact at that moment is positive. Making others comfortable has always been important to me. Truth be told though, down deep inside I think there was a part of me that was afraid to be that person. You know, the one everyone is staring at and afraid to talk to because they are obviously different and no one knows how to ask the question.
Having gone through boot camp, I was able to get over being naked in front other others since we regularly changed and showered as a group. Living in Japan as well offered opportunities to spend time at various onsen, which are public bath houses where naked is the rule and not the exception. Suffice it to say that I'm really over the whole naked thing, though I don't go out of my way to show off what my Mama gave me.
I changed in the bathroom stall since I had consumed a lot of water in the hour before hitting the pool and frankly, I needed to be in there anyway. :) I was pleasantly surprised that my bathing suit fit much nicer. I guess dropping those 20 pounds was helpful. It was great to feel that difference. My weight loss efforts are paying dividends.
After spending time in both the pool and the hot tub, I headed back into the locker room to peel out of my suit. Where an hour before there had not been more than a few people in the room, suddenly there wasn't a private spot to be had. As I stood there contemplating changing my clothes, it occurred to me that I was feeling anxious. It made me pause. I'm not accustomed to feeling nervous in this type of scenario. I wondered what lay at the root of my sudden modesty. It didn't take long to realize that I was concerned about someone seeing my breasts.
My breasts look like road maps now with long scars that wrap around my back. They are slightly misshapen because of my recent surgery and I don't have any nipples. As I was pondering my own feelings about revealing my body in front of strangers, a little girl walked in. She looked squarely at me, as had several other people. I thought, "What if this little girl stares at me with question marks in her eyes?" What if others notice as well? Will the obviously missing nipples create a discomfort in them that would be awkward? Would they stare? If so, would I want to say something to set them (or myself) at ease? I came to the conclusion that I wasn't ready to tackle that possibility. It's not that I'm uncomfortable talking about it or even showing another woman who wants to see the scars. In that moment though I couldn't tell how much of me was hiding, versus simply wanting to spare others the awkwardness and questions. I think I would have felt the need to explain myself had anyone noticed.
It reminds me of a man we met a couple years ago. We had seen him around the military base but hadn't spoken with him until one day when Koen stared long at the man's facial scars and loudly asked what was wrong with his face. I asked him if he would like to ask the man what happened to his skin, and Koen did want to speak with him. The man's name was John. He had been severely burned as a kid by an auto accident that killed both his mother and little brother. We enjoyed knowing him during our time in Japan. He was a lovely person and I'm glad we took the time to get to know him, scars and all.
I don't ever want to avoid the discussion about my breasts if it comes up. I guess I just want to do it with the right timing so that the impact at that moment is positive. Making others comfortable has always been important to me. Truth be told though, down deep inside I think there was a part of me that was afraid to be that person. You know, the one everyone is staring at and afraid to talk to because they are obviously different and no one knows how to ask the question.
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