Testing

"He gives strength to the weary, and increases the power of the weak." Isaiah 40:29

Glad about that. :)

You know you're a mom when an MRI appointment feels like a vacation.  Hours of quiet alone!  The bliss of waiting in a child-free office!  The prospect of lying down on a table for a full hour, with strict instructions not to move!!  :)  And I was happy right up to the point where I was told they were going to (very slowly, they assured me) inject me with a substance that was to "paralyze my intestines, just for a few minutes." 

Say what?  Swell, guys.  Way to ruin my mini vaca.  I inquired as to whether this substance would stop any other of my vital organs "just for a few minutes."  I was assured it would not, but that I may experience some nausea.  I sighed, moved my head back two inches to where I was strapped and nested onto the narrow table, ready to be slid back into the tube called an MRI. 

A tough looking male nurse was on standby on my left, adjusting the tubes for the infusion machine.  The 20 something girl on my right began the injection into my IV lead, glancing at me with a partially reassuring smile.

"If and when I puke, do I turn to port or starboard?"

The guy on the left grinned and brandished a large plastic bin at me. "Turn here! I've got three kids; I'm a pro."

Three kids.  I have six, right?  Or four?  Almost five?  It's hard to decide how to answer that simple question sometimes... I stopped my sinking thoughts, smiled, and asked for their ages.

The tiny girl with the needle keep asking "Are you doing okay?"  Every ten seconds or so, which tread the line of sweet and annoying.

Well... Yes and no.

Like when I went for the intake for the MRI... they read the order and asked, "Oh... boy or girl?"  Apparently updates had not been made...

Oh. A little wave of quiet sadness.  "It was a girl.  But I lost her."

Gosh that spoiled the mood... Her face dropped.  We had previously been engaged in witty sarcastic banter about how delightful it was to be on a basement on a gorgeous May morning. 

"I'm so sorry."

"Thank you."  I really try not to say "it's okay," because I mean, it's really not.  And it doesn't seem to make sense to just say "it was a girl," because then she might ask more questions and I may have to tell her anyway.  Seems best just to say it. But I haven't figured out a way to say it " gently" enough it seems... And then the reaction to the bad news reminds me, again, how much I lost.

The MRI is the first of a bucket list of "after the baby, I need to check out this or that random part of my body that is acting up."  At the risk of sounding like a hypochondriac... there's plenty wrong with me at the moment, being the queen of auto-immune issues that I am.  Fortunately, my swelling hands responded to prednisone, but with increased aches and pains I'm now I'm supposed to switch from Humira to Remicade... I'm going to try a more natural route first.  The sharp pains in my abdomen that pre-dated my pregnancy have now been "MRId" and then I have to have my fav: a colonoscopy. My fifth.  It's a special treat reserved for Crohn's patients: every two years instead of ten for that procedure.  Oh yes, not to mention the geneticist and my dear Napro-tech doctor, who spends so much time reading my charts, autopsy reports, genetic findings, interpreting them, encouraging me to take even more thing, but good things, like magnesium and Vitamin D... which I severely overdosed on, mistakenly taking a "once a week" tablet once a day... but I'm not glowing like the sun yet, so all's well that end's well, I guess?  But man, doctors, tests, meds: I'm exhausted just thinking about all this. 

It's worth it to me to discover and rule out causes though, making sure I'm healthy as possible in the future for... whatever.  I'm glad I didn't have the MRI during my pregnancy, like the doctors had wanted me to.  One less thing to wonder about.

I didn't puke.  My infusionist was pleased.  The machine slid me in, and I was left alone.  After the initial, "Eeeek!  I'm in a tube!" feeling, I don't mind my MRI's.  I bring my own ear plugs though... the first time I panicked and was sure the machine was malfunctioning but no, it's supposed to beep loudly and honk and groan. 

Through my headphones: "Take a breath. Hollld it."

I did.  I am.  Holding my breath. Waiting to "get better." To not break down in public. To not have the bad dreams. To not play Taboo and, even while having a blast, somehow wanting to guess "baby" or "pregnant" every few cards or so.  Even when I think I've really moved on, I'm learning that there are just going to be bad days.  And it will be okay. 

Breathe.

The Medicating Catholic

Big secret leak for the nurses station...: we can hear you. Yeah those curtains aren't actually sound proof, sorry.  As we patients convalesce in triage, we silently critique your lunch choices.  We commiserate with you, a little, when you relate how "she said psst psst but then SHE said psst psst..."  But we don't like it when we hear you swearing about how you just want to go home, and then burst in to check on us with a fake cotton candy smile.  Please.  We don't feel good; let's get real here.
  
Yeah, so, I ended up getting hydrated by IV, behind one such curtain, since my last post.  And yes I really, really am getting better now.  Been a tough few weeks health-wise for me, a very penitential Advent so far.  I do feel God is upholding me through it all though.  And my husband and kids have been picking up my slack; they just rock.  And I've been getting a lot of prayers while exploring the terrain of physical misery, and I am reminded that I can meet God here.  That He is fully capable of using these times of... well, suffering... for good, that I'm kind of in boot camp to become the person He sees me being: me at my best.  And most of the time, I do fully believe He knows what He's doing.

I was getting to worry that this blog was a misnomer... should have been "The Medicating Catholic" maybe.  :)  But no, I chose "Lactating" and I just realized I haven't explained that choice fully yet... 

Well it's quite simple.  I chose this name for the blog because I think we often take the wrong things seriously. War is serious. Death and life are serious. Love is serious. Milk and its production is not serious. Or sacred. But somehow--in the case of lactation--some have jumped from truth to absurdity.  For instance: marriage is sacred (yes);  marital love is sacred and private and to be revered (absolutely); we love in our physical body (uh huh); particular body parts are considered attractive (okayyy); breasts are about sex so we really shouldn't talk about anything to do with them (hold the phone!) I have actually heard this argument in Catholic circles, and I find this conclusion absurd, when the primary and most necessary function of that part of female anatomy is to nourish young. I feel such thinking it is a symptom of an oversexualized culture that can attempt to make anything sexy. (Example: M&M's.) 

And okay, I chose the name for this blog because I want to tweak some noses.  I am all done with Catholic arrogance, which unfortunately seems prevalent in the Catholic blogosphere.  It's not a virtue.  I strongly dislike the implication that we, because we are on "the Catholic team", can look down on those who are not, or freely judge those who seem to not know the rules of the game as us.  We can be profoundly grateful for our Faith and "pro Catholic team" knowing it's the best without thinking less of others. Really we can.  There's a problem when people are more worried about being right than about being holy.  And there are many non-Catholics closer to God than some Catholics who are "right." 

So I like to use humor to right the balance.  For instance:

Okay, sometimes it's right on the edge of what may be deemed appropriate.  But in this case, there is nothing objectively wrong with the phrase "shades of grey."  Yes, someone wrote a skanky book with that title (which no, I haven't read nor plan to read.)  But that doesn't mean we need to shy away from the phrase.  Or from other books by that title.  :)  As my Alma Mater would say: Instaurare Omnia in Christo.  Let's restore all things in Christ.

There's an "Amazing" (snort) Superstore we have the misfortune of having to drive by on certain routes home.  For years, when I had observant kids in the car it would be glance, groan, and "Hey look kids, a truck!  A bird!  Roadkill!" or anything to draw their attention away from the objectified, scantily clad picture of a human being in the front windows.  But recently, for reasons unknown, things have changed there.  The monthly advertisements have gotten much tamer.  For Halloween this year, there was a vampy but actually well-clothed pic of a woman in vampire costume being pursued by a zombie entitled, "Be the life of the party."  But this month... oh it's awesome.  :)  There's a shocked looking gingerbread man--yep, a cookie--looking at another cookie, a gingerbread woman I guess who had "overtanned" judging from her icing lines, sporting some vanilla caption like "Have a warm holiday."  Now that is silly enough to be actually funny. 

But yes, they are trying to SEXUALIZE COOKIES!  So fellow Christians, let's take back our books, and our colors in every shade, and our chocolate and cookies.  And by all means, let's take back our milk. - TLC

"All things are pure to the pure; but to the defiled and unbelieving nothing is pure." Titus 1:15