Posts Tagged ‘pain’
Missed
I don’t write anymore.
This isn’t writing, at least not for me. I used to really write. It was effortless, my pen would touch my notebook and the words would pour out of me. I would read it over and almost not believe that the perfectly intertwined thoughts had actually made their way out of my head.
I miss it. I think a lot about what has changed, why I can’t ever seem to make anything sound right to me. Sometimes I think it is because I rarely sit down with pen and paper. Sometimes I think it is because I don’t get any time to really sit and think.
Mostly I think it is because I am happy.
The writing that I am most proud of came during some of my darkest times. It was born of heartbreak and misery. It was written with tears in my eyes and a shaking hand. It was written in fierce anger, my teeth tearing at my bottom lip. It was written faster than I even knew I was thinking, my mind almost numb while tying to protect itself.
I don’t live with those feelings that inspired some of my best anymore. I have put them behind me, not forgotten but closed in a room I have no reason to visit. I am not on a ship in a rocky sea, trying so hard to hang on. I am stable and I have both my feet planted on solid ground. I am happy. I am loved.
It’s a fair trade, but I still miss it.
Go
Get out of my head
You don’t belong there
I don’t want you
I think of you often
Random times throughout my day
Makes me pause
Wonder why
You have invaded my thoughts
I can’t let go
But your already gone
Feels like yesterday
Still
Burns
Still
The hole in my heart is there
Still
Get out of my head
You don’t belong there
I shouldn’t want you
Aware
The past few days have held very hard milestones in the lives of two bloggers that I really admire for their strength and their dignity.
Heather‘s sweet Maddie has been gone for five months. It seems even to me, who never got the honor of meeting her, that it was yesterday that she passed. It also seems like it was a lifetime ago. My heart breaks for Heather and Mike every day…but especially on Tuesdays, and most definitely on the 7th of each month.
Loralee has also faced a day she has been dreading and hoping for. Her baby boy Aaron is now older than his big brother Matthew will ever be. He was taken at 108days old from SIDS. Loralee’s blog is heart wrenching and so honest. You can feel her grief dripping from every word. She is so strong, and such an amazing woman.
I wish with all my heart that I could take some of the pain from these women, and all parents faced with losing a child. Even if for a minute. one minute that they could feel the weight of grief lift off their shoulders. One minute that they could smile with their eyes. Just one minute of time, back to when they were complete.
I can’t. No matter what, I can’t. I am, however, much more aware and sensitive of parents who grieve. I can hold my babies a bit closer. I can keep my temper a bit longer. I can let C splash in a mud puddle, because no matter how big the mess…it’s not a big deal in the scheme of things. I take more pictures. I journal for them more, here and on my private blog. I give more kisses, just because.
There are other ways to help. Support Friends of Maddie. Support the March of Dimes. Support Ronald McDonald House. Put a quarter in the little cardboard stands for the children with Leukemia and think of Peyton. SHE WON, because of the leaps and bounds made in research in the last years.
I am very blessed to have two healthy boys, but I am grateful to the two amazing mother’s above and all the others who share their stories with me. I am grateful they have the courage to struggle through their darkest time and put their feelings out there for anyone to see. I am grateful that because of them, I am aware.
Posted in Uncategorized | 
Tags: Faith., family, Loralee, Love, Maddie, momin' it up, mothers, pain, People | 
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It’s My Right
I was born on March 20, 1983 in a tourist trap of a town in southern New Jersey. I don’t know if I was born during the night or day, I don’t know if my mother had an epidural, I don’t know if she was alone.
I don’t know if she ever held me, or even looked at me.
I do know that I went to the NICU for a week, and then “home” to my foster parents. They cared for me for the first six months of my life. I was not the healthiest of babies, it seems my mother made some not so great choices during her pregnancy and I paid for them early in my life. Luckily, nothing was long lasting, and by the time I was one I had caught up to other little ones my age.
My adoptive parents knew from the time I was a newborn that I was to become part of their family. The paperwork was complete by the time I was three months old, but due to some health concerns the state was not willing to release me into their care as I would be moving 3 hours away from the Doctors who had been treating me since birth. So I stayed.
My Mom kept in contact with my foster parents during my childhood, I would periodically go visit them and always LOVED it there. My foster sister is only a year or so older than me and we always had a ton of fun. I always knew I was adopted. I don’t recall a conversation that involved me being told…it just was.
Being adopted has always been a major part of what makes up me, even at a young age I was so acutely aware of it. In first grade I remember making family trees in class. All the other kids were furiously writing away on their construction paper, chatting with each other about siblings and grandparents. I sat, pencil in hand with my paper blank. Teacher came over “Allison, why aren’t you making your family tree?” I chewed on my bottom lip, a habit that I still have. “I can’t, it will be a lie and I’m not allowed to lie.”
As a six year old I had no real grasp of what being adopted was going to mean in my life. I just knew my family was different from others. I knew that no one else’s brother had dark skin. I knew that my parents weren’t my parents in the same way my friend’s parents were.
As I got older, I understood more. I understood that my biological mother was very young and unready to raise me. I understood that the decision she made was hard, probably the hardest she ever made. I understood that at some point it would be my choice if I wanted to seek my birth parents out. I’ve never held any anger for them, only sadness.
Now I’m angry. I’m angry because I’ve been on a waiting list for THREE years to get non-identifying information. I’m not asking for names, I’m not asking for addresses, I’m not asking for ways to contact them.
I’m asking for my medical records.
Every time I go to the doctor I fill out the little form. Age, birthday, height, weight….family history. I always just write “adopted” next to the box and move on, but my thoughts linger. What am I not getting checked for that I need to be? What kind of genes are in my blood that I have passed on to my boys? I feel like I can’t protect them without all the information.
The State of New Jersey disagrees with me, though if I had alot of money they could be made to agree alot faster. I was born just a couple years after all the records became sealed. It is unbelievable the hoops I have been made to jump through, only to end up back at the beginning…usually on hold. The last time the state contacted me, they told me I would have information within three months. Thats was over a year ago. I have not been able to talk to an actual person since then, and all my correspondance is unanswered.
There has been alot of talk lately of people’s rights. People have a right to health care. People have a right to breastfeed in public. People have the right to own guns. I have opinions on all of these, none of which I’m going to go into now. The thing that sticks out to me is that in most of these debates people usually take the side of the child.
Children have a right to health care.
Children have the right to be breastfed.
I am the child.
I have a right to my medical records.
It was as bad as I imagined
I went for my physical yesterday. Oh boy.
I signed in, took a seat in the waiting room and pulled out my book. I only got a few pages into it before I was called back. I got taken into a room that had one of those chairs that is only meant for one thing. Getting blood drawn.
Sigh
Oh well. I knew that was going to have to happen, since I don’t have hard copies of my immunization records. They will need to run my blood to see what I am immune to, and then vaccinate from there. I thought at that point maybe I was off the hook for shots, at least until I got they got my blood work done.
I was very very wrong. She very cheerfully informed me that along with the blood draw I would be getting a Tetanus shot(also with Pertussis), a TB test and a Hepatitis B vaccine. I would also need to come back in ten days for the second part of the TB test.
That’s FOUR needles right then, another needle in ten days, plus two flu shots this fall. Holy Shit. This was not going to end well.
I told the nurse, with panic in my voice that I don’t do well with needles. I can give shots, I can watch shots…I can’t get shots. She told me if I wanted the job, I was getting the shots.
Crap. Good point.
She was fast: one shot in each arm, a blood draw in the left and the TB in the right. As she was finishing up she was turning back to tell me what a great job I had done. I chose that moment to pass out.
Yep. I passed out. Fainted. Lost consciousness.
Ya’ll can point and laugh now, I’ll understand. I’m a pansy ass. I didn’t even get a lollipop. What the hell?
Letting Go
I’m no good at letting go or saying goodbye. I go around and around in circles, trying to find a way to avoid the pain that accompanies those final acts. This applies to pretty much anything, from giving away baby clothes to attending funerals. Last month my family and I said farewell to our little doggie-man, Tucker.
I have some guilt about not being in the room as he was being put down. I had the boys that morning, so my attendance wasn’t really possible, but I can’t say that I would have been able to be there anyway. I just couldn’t watch my 4 year old dog go from a lively, energetic pup to still and silent. I just couldn’t.
We chose to have Tucker individually cremated, and we recently received his ashes. Now I feel as though I am at square one, and have to find a way to say goodbye all over again. We are struggling to decide how we wish to lay his ashes, to scatter them or to bury the box that contains them. We moved three times in the four years we owned him, so I don’t feel as though he had a special place that I would want to scatter him. I am leaning towards a burial, since then I could put one of his special things with him, and that would make the spot more his.
Tucker was a huge part of our life, and this final act means alot to Jim and I. I am really unsure of what to do, this is my first time as an adult having a pet pass and I really want to do something special for him. For now he is in our office on a bookshelf, waiting for his final resting place. This morning I took him out and took a final picture of what is tangibly my dog, with Maddie’s purple flowers in the background.
Purple Sky
The beach is one of my favorite places.
I grew up in South Jersey, and while it’s not exactly the blue green water of the Caribbean, I loved living near the ocean. 10 minutes and I could be on a beach, or in the bay crabbing. When I was 15 I moved to Pennsylvania, and being landlocked really didn’t sit well with me and still doesn’t. I am now one of those people who makes the trek to the shore every year, one of the very people that I used to make complain about all year long. Damn Shoobies. My beach of choice is in Maryland now, but I still get the feeling of coming home as soon as I can hear the waves crash, the gulls cry and smell the dune grass.
My thoughts wander quickly and effortlessly in the evenings when I am sitting out in a rocker with nothing between me and the ocean. Last night there was the most beautiful sunset. A vivid purple sky streaked with pink stretching as far as the horizon. Any day that would have sent my mind to sweet Maddie and her parents Heather and Mike, but especially last night. Especially on the eve of her her being gone 3 months.
It really amazes me everyday how much this baby girl has impacted my life. How she has impacted the lives of so many. How the grief filled words of her mother show a strength and resolve that I have never seen before. How every Tuesday, Twitter fills with love to her and her parents. How a majority of the blogs I read have either a Maddie button, or some reference to her. How most of my twitter feed is purple. It is amazing.
At the same time, there has also been an uprising of “trolls”. Hateful, insensitive people who lurk in comments, usually under an annonymus name. Some of them are intentionally there to cause hurt, and pour salt in a open, aching wound. Some of them just don’t think before they hit the “publish comment” button. Either way, I have been proud to see that many of the people who I consider “friends”, come to the defense of those who shouldn’t have to defend themselves. I have found myself becoming fiercely protective of people I have never met before, just because there is just no way that they should have anything more on their plate.
Today I will be wearing a purple bathing suit while playing on the beach with my sons. I’m sure I will have a great day with them, and we will have alot of fun as a family. However, deep within my mind I am sure that Maddie won’t be far, and tonight when I am back in my rocker with a glass of wine, I will grieve for a little girl I never met… right along side with a wonderful group of caring people that I hope to.
GoodBye Buddy-man
Today I made the decision to do one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. I put my beloved Boston Terrier to sleep.
We got Tucker when he was 8 weeks old. I brought him home from Maryland in the front pocket of my hoodie. He fit in the palm of my hand. I told Jim he was an early birthday gift to him, but he was really for me.
I had been having panic attacks at this point for almost 6 months and had been reading online about the calming influence of animals on people with anxiety. Add this to the fact that Boston puppies are among the cutest creatures on God’s green earth, and you have a recipe for a new pet. Tucker and I were always together, he slept under the blankets on my bed, and would nose his way into my sweatshirts with me so he could be as close as possible.
I was worried when Chase was born, but my fears were quickly put at ease. Tucker was so gentle with Chase, so willing to be a pillow or punching bag…whichever made his baby happier.
Last fall, during my pregnancy with Jimmy, Tucker began having seizures. He would seize and seize, his 17lb body wracked by convulsions. When the violent part was over he would attempt to stand, only to fall over. It was heartbreaking to watch and the medicine just wasn’t helping him. The Vet suggested that he most likely had a brain tumor, in which case there just wasn’t anything to do.
We continued the medication, trying so hard to control the thunderstorms that were invading our small black and white friend’s brain. Over time we noticed his personality changing. He was distant, I can’t remember the last time he came and jumped up in my lap. He lost the ability to hold his bladder, and was very excitable. He became aggressive with the babies.
We put Tucker down this morning with heavy hearts and tortured souls. He was only 4 years old, and should have had a long life ahead of him. I know we made the right choice for our pup, but I want my dog back. I want the dog that would sit at my feet while I sat on the bathroom floor, completely taken over by panic. I want the dog that had to sleep every night entirely covered by a blanket. I want the dog that always had a stuffed animal to sleep with. I want the dog that would lick my babies feet to get them to laugh. I want the dog that just wanted to be with his people. I want the dog that he used to be.
I want my dog.
Panic! at home
I was asked to write my story as part of an open forum. Check it out.
All was well as I sat at my computer desk playing Snood. I had had a long day at work and was looking forward to some time to relax. My roommate had just left and my boyfriend was at work, giving me the house to myself. I had no plans except to watch some TV and eat my takeout I had picked up on my way home. Little did I know, my life was literally about to change forever.
“Man, my chest feels funny.” I thought as I sat there playing. There was an odd sensation in my chest, almost a tightening, and my throat felt a bit thick. I got up from the computer and walked into the bathroom to splash some water on my face. I stood there for a moment with my hand braced on the edge of the sink and my head down. My stomach was a bit queasy at this point and I didn’t want to leave the bathroom if I was going to get sick. After staring at myself in the mirror for a minute and reassured I wasn’t going to get sick, I walked back into my room and resumed my game.
That didn’t last long. Within minutes I was terrified. My heart was racing so fast, I felt like I had just participated in a track meet, rather than sitting in a chair playing a game. My chest was tight, I felt like I wasn’t going to be able to breathe and I was getting waves of chills and pins and needles that began behind my ears and worked their way down my entire body to my feet. “What is wrong with me?” I was screaming to myself. The only thing going through my mind was that I was having a heart attack. This must be what that feels like…what else could it be? I picked up my phone and called my roommate. “Come home! I’m having a panic attack!”
The words were out of my mouth before I even realized I was thinking them. Was that what this was? Why was this happening to me? I am not a stressed out person: I have a good job, great friends and a boyfriend who I love dearly, what did I have to panic about? My roommate came home and took one look at me and told me that we were going to the hospital.
God, I didn’t think I was going to make it. I felt like the 7 minute trip to the hospital took an hour. I rushed up the steps to the emergency room and told the triage nurse that my chest hurt and I couldn’t breathe. She took me into a room and strapped some monitors on me. My heart rate was elevated my blood pressure was high. Not normal for a healthy 22 year old girl. They ordered an EKG and did some blood work; now all I could do was play a waiting game. I lay in that hospital bed, my brain racing. I was sure I was going to die. People didn’t feel like this unless they were dying. It just wasn’t possible.
My test results were all normal. My heart was healthy and there were no blood clots. I was told I had a severe panic attack and given some Xanax to calm myself down. The ER doctor told me to follow up with my family doctor on Monday. I did that and everything they told me to but 4 years later I am still plagued by panic attacks. I have been to the emergency room more times than I can count, and tried every medication they could think of. Yet I am a victim of the attacks. I plan my life around what I would do in any situation if I had one at any given time.
But I am stronger than they are.
I am slowly learning to cope, and control my body without medication. I make myself go on trips, do things I wouldn’t have been able to do 3 years ago because of the crippling fear of the attacks. I deal daily with chest pain and discomfort, but know that my mind is tricking my body into thinking it is in danger when it is not. Hopefully my progress will continue and one day I will be panic attack free. Right now…I just take what I can get.
Seriously?
Hi. My name is Ali, I’m 26 years old and I’m…teething?
Yep.Pretty.Much.
My wisdom teeth are coming in full force and MAN do they hurt! I totally understand why the boys are cranky, non-sleeping, non-eating miserable messes when they are getting teeth!
Why do I still have my wisdom teeth, you ask?
Apparently I had a REALLY good orthodontist. He did such a GOOD job expanding my palate, that there is room for all four to come in fine. Isn’t that just GREAT?
So instead of having about 4 days of misery and pain meds to get them pulled, I get to deal with months of this crap. My mouth is swollen and almost itchy feeling where the teeth are coming through. Chewing sucks, and it’s super temperature sensitive back there. I’m in hell.
While I am not focusing on the misery in my mouth however, I have been almost put to tears over the fact that my babies have to go through this. Jimmy is starting the teething process, but isn’t to the super fun part yet,thank goodness. Chase has pretty much all his teeth, he is currently cutting his two year molars and once those are in we are done!
I will never bitch about them being grumpy jerks again when teeth are to blame. I’m sure Jim can attest to the fact that I am currently not a peach to live with!
Anyone have any good drugs?
