Well, it's a grey Sunday morning, and the Christmas spirit is winding down. So far I have avoided the post-Christmas depression as I've been occupying my mind with my new Ayurveda book and cute clothes. However, I know when my sister Kim gets on her flight back to Florida tomorrow, it will really be over, and then what will I do with myself? Well, I do have this baby still growing in my belly, and at this point it's fun to begin visualizing my birth and other decisions regarding his ultimate well-being. Only three more months!
I woke up to a quiet downstairs apartment around 10:30 and listened in to the noisy upstairs. I'm not allowed up there until this afternoon because today is my baby shower! Mom, Peter, and Kim are hard at work up there preparing for the festivities, All That Is bless 'em! Allison's just peeled herself out of bed and the bathroom to join them shortly. Mike's still sleeping (silly wabbit stays up much too late!), so I took to my crisp new cerulean blue yoga mat and did a few exercises I hadn't done in far too many days. The cat-cow yoga stretch is one of the best for a preggo, and indeed it does feel amazing. I feel it stretch and make room in my belly for the baby as well as strengthen my back and elongate my neck. Yummy tummy. I hear it's great during labor.
I moved on to my old Pilates leg routine, the usual thing: leg raises, bicycles, circles, as well as a little move I made up myself that reeeeally squeezes that saddlebag area. Want me to explain it to you? Great! So you're lying on your side, one hip raised and stacked over the other as with your other leg exercises, and you just pivot that hip up and down. Turn the knee up, knee to the side, squeeze the knee up, gently squeeze to the side, squeeze up, to the side. If my body were an artist's rendition of itself, that hard-to-work outer flank would be sweating, and there'd be some scientific-looking circles sketched around the leg, back and forth. I've experimented with the breathing a little bit with this move, and I usually just breathe normally because the movement is rather quick. Though feel free to play with it, slow it down, and correspond the breath to the movement if you like.
I continued my routine with a series of slow, relaxing breaths (did you read my last post?) and quickly became inspired to research the Lamaze breathing technique. I'd had this perception that Lamaze went hand-in-hand with a medicalized, hospital birth, a breath that wasn't particularly conscious but more so a hopeless attempt to simply ease the pain of labor. I've come to learn that that is not--or was not--the original design behind it. Dr. Ferdinand Lamaze outlined the labor breath specifically for the assistance in natural births, to avoid the need for pain medication. I never really connected with the "hee hee hoo" when I saw it being futilely performed in movies where sweating, writhing, laboring women only attempt it for mere seconds at the comic behest of their anxious (and completely terrified) male partners. The atmosphere is always chaotic, and the mother never gets a snowball's chance in Hell of relaxing and delivering her baby naturally. Well, I need to learn that the media does not ever show an accurate depiction of the pregnancy or birth process, and as a real pregnant woman, I must consciously set aside those misconceptions and take everything from the ground up (a routine hospital birth being the first I shunned!). The rapid "hee hee hoo" is really a conscious method of delivering more oxygen to the blood than your everyday involuntary breath, which reminds me of the Breath of Fire from the Kundalini Yoga practice. When partnered with three other types of relaxing breaths to be employed between contractions, the "hee hee hoo" is apparently quite effective in managing contraction pain. It is not to be mistaken as an attempt to eliminate the pain of childbirth, but rather a method of effectively withstanding the natural pain, which is an all-encompassing rite of passage, and focusing on the most important part of labor, which is relaxation. When you relax, the baby relaxes, and your body delivers him much more easily.
So I don't know if I'm going to seek out a Lamaze class or if I'll simply listen to my body as it happens. I'm not new to breathing exercises, and I understand the power of the breath, so either way I know I'll be just fine. I trust my body will tell me if it could use a "hee hee hoo" or something else.
Oh gawwwd, then my mind wandered on over to circumcision. This is a topic neither Mike nor I had definitely said one way or another we had decided on. In my gut I knew it was not necessary and indeed quite traumatic for the infant. The foreskin does have a biological purpose, including protecting the sensitive head and keeping out infection. But I was also considering the idea that it is such a socially expected aesthetic procedure, and also I'd want him to look like his father (he's cut). But the aesthetic aspect of it was the only reason I could come up with in support of this (disgusting!) custom. I watched two videos of live circumcisions on infants, and I am totally horrified. It's not like on TV (once again, that misleading media) where the doctor (or rabbi) stands over him, snips real quick, and it's done. No, it's over five minutes of terror and screaming with no mollification from either parent. It involves clamps and scissors and scalpels, and at the end the little head of the penis is bloody and exposed in an unnatural way, like a layer of skin has literally been ripped off, and that just ain't right! There are multiple risks to the operation, including infection. Ummmm, no thanks. I hope our son thanks us too when we show him what could have been!
So that's my day so far. Now everybody is upstairs getting ready for the shower, so I'd better get ready and take a shower. I stink!
Much love, y'all
Sunday, December 27, 2009
Saturday, December 26, 2009
The Longer the Breath, the Longer the Life?
Could the Fountain of Youth really exist within ourselves and our control? Do you believe the longevity of one's natural lifespan correlates to the number and length of one's breaths?
Through various experiences and studies it's come to my attention that the number of breaths a being takes is inversely proportional to the length of one's life. Take, for example, the giant tortoise. These slow, still creatures are not just the moral subjects of storybooks and fables. An average tortoise takes about four breaths per minute, and its average lifespan is anywhere between 100-150 years. Wise old men (and women)! The oldest tortoise ever recorded was 188 years old at its death. I've been thinking of this tortoise example for a couple years and was reminded of it in Paramahansa Yogananda's Autobiography of a Yogi. He got me thinking about it again. Just today I was noticing my dog Jack's breathing, and it seems he may take 50-60 breaths per minute (all that happy panting!). And too well do most of us know how unfortunately short a dog's life may be. I'd love to see him reach 15! Humans, depending on the attention they pay to their breath, take between 7-20 breaths in a minute, with an average lifespan ranging somewhere in the 70s-80s. As you can imagine, small animals and rodents' rapid heart rates and momentary lifespans fit beautifully into this theory.
I've been pondering this concept for a while, and it makes perfect sense to me. Most of us have realized that the length of our breath (how slow or fast you take it) corresponds to the speed of our heartbeat. But have you gone so far as to conjecture that the slower the breath, the slower the beat, the lower the blood pressure? We've all been subject to America's obsession with blood pressure though, haven't we? We've been inundated with things like "Talk to your doctor about blood pressure medication," or "go low-sodium" or "cut out red meat." But in reality there is a cost-free, highly effective, rather enjoyable way to lower the blood pressure, reduce stress, and prolong your life. It's called taking a full breath.
Even the idea of taking calm, slow breaths has been removed from the zeitgeist and designated for the likes of healthy hippies, Indian sages and self-help seminars. I've found in my experience that no one believes me when I recommend that they start focusing on their breath in order to lessen their anxiety and reduce their stress. There are plenty of people in my life that could do with a little anti-anxiety treatment, but I never suggest medication. "When you're feeling overwhelmed and scared, just focus on taking slow, even breaths. Not only will it physiologically calm you, but you will only have room in your mind for one thing, your breath, and nothing else can penetrate." But for some reason it's like they think I'm asking them to get into Downward Dog and do the splits for me.
But if it's scientific proof they want, I'll give it to 'em. Let me start with your chromosomes (you know, the Xs or Y you get from your parents). At the ends of your chromosomes there are little bundles of DNA called telomeres, which not only act as little caps to the bottle of information contained within your chromosomes, they determine the aging and vitality of your cells. And it is after all essentially the destruction of cells that eventually kills us. As the telomeres shorten, the whole structure breaks down, and thus, the death of the cell. Well, let me tell ya, telomeres love this little enzyme called telomerase, which is like a sip of mojo juice for your cells. Telomerase repairs and lengthens the telomeres, thus extending the life of them. Thus, extending the life of you.
So, got it so far? Well it all circles back to this study conducted by the Preventative Medicine Institute of Sausalito and the University of CA, San Francisco. They concluded that the practice of daily deep breathing, along with other positive lifestyle changes, increases the production of telomerase. In other studies where added breathing exercises was the only variable, the conclusions were the same in that the results had a positive effect on general health and longevity. Telomerase is essential in managing stress. Everyone's finally been hearing in the last few years that stress can kill you, and it is only too true. When the body is under stress it produces a hormone called Cortisol, which is a killer (literally) for telomeres. Cortisol shortens the telomeres at an alarming rate and kills the cell faster than nature intended. So what's the treatment for Cortisol? Telomerase. But oh goody, these fancy words do not come in a pill!
This makes me wonder about things like high vs. low impact exercise. Does a marathon runner live a shorter life because he must breathe faster? Does that mean a 500-lb. woman lives longer because she doesn't move? Then I am reminded that the fat woman probably takes more breaths because her blood pressure is already so high and her lungs are compressed by her excess fat, and the marathon runner makes it a point to practice and regulate his breathing. I, however, will probably maintain my Pilates and yoga routine--break a sweat but don't kill myself doing it.
So, now you know the facts (I wish I could demonstrate the sign language for 'fact', I just learned a lot of fun ones today. But back to the topic at hand--->). Love them and ponder them or hate them or forget them. Do what you will. At least you have some interesting information to share at your next book club meeting or angry protest.
Through various experiences and studies it's come to my attention that the number of breaths a being takes is inversely proportional to the length of one's life. Take, for example, the giant tortoise. These slow, still creatures are not just the moral subjects of storybooks and fables. An average tortoise takes about four breaths per minute, and its average lifespan is anywhere between 100-150 years. Wise old men (and women)! The oldest tortoise ever recorded was 188 years old at its death. I've been thinking of this tortoise example for a couple years and was reminded of it in Paramahansa Yogananda's Autobiography of a Yogi. He got me thinking about it again. Just today I was noticing my dog Jack's breathing, and it seems he may take 50-60 breaths per minute (all that happy panting!). And too well do most of us know how unfortunately short a dog's life may be. I'd love to see him reach 15! Humans, depending on the attention they pay to their breath, take between 7-20 breaths in a minute, with an average lifespan ranging somewhere in the 70s-80s. As you can imagine, small animals and rodents' rapid heart rates and momentary lifespans fit beautifully into this theory.
I've been pondering this concept for a while, and it makes perfect sense to me. Most of us have realized that the length of our breath (how slow or fast you take it) corresponds to the speed of our heartbeat. But have you gone so far as to conjecture that the slower the breath, the slower the beat, the lower the blood pressure? We've all been subject to America's obsession with blood pressure though, haven't we? We've been inundated with things like "Talk to your doctor about blood pressure medication," or "go low-sodium" or "cut out red meat." But in reality there is a cost-free, highly effective, rather enjoyable way to lower the blood pressure, reduce stress, and prolong your life. It's called taking a full breath.
Even the idea of taking calm, slow breaths has been removed from the zeitgeist and designated for the likes of healthy hippies, Indian sages and self-help seminars. I've found in my experience that no one believes me when I recommend that they start focusing on their breath in order to lessen their anxiety and reduce their stress. There are plenty of people in my life that could do with a little anti-anxiety treatment, but I never suggest medication. "When you're feeling overwhelmed and scared, just focus on taking slow, even breaths. Not only will it physiologically calm you, but you will only have room in your mind for one thing, your breath, and nothing else can penetrate." But for some reason it's like they think I'm asking them to get into Downward Dog and do the splits for me.
But if it's scientific proof they want, I'll give it to 'em. Let me start with your chromosomes (you know, the Xs or Y you get from your parents). At the ends of your chromosomes there are little bundles of DNA called telomeres, which not only act as little caps to the bottle of information contained within your chromosomes, they determine the aging and vitality of your cells. And it is after all essentially the destruction of cells that eventually kills us. As the telomeres shorten, the whole structure breaks down, and thus, the death of the cell. Well, let me tell ya, telomeres love this little enzyme called telomerase, which is like a sip of mojo juice for your cells. Telomerase repairs and lengthens the telomeres, thus extending the life of them. Thus, extending the life of you.
So, got it so far? Well it all circles back to this study conducted by the Preventative Medicine Institute of Sausalito and the University of CA, San Francisco. They concluded that the practice of daily deep breathing, along with other positive lifestyle changes, increases the production of telomerase. In other studies where added breathing exercises was the only variable, the conclusions were the same in that the results had a positive effect on general health and longevity. Telomerase is essential in managing stress. Everyone's finally been hearing in the last few years that stress can kill you, and it is only too true. When the body is under stress it produces a hormone called Cortisol, which is a killer (literally) for telomeres. Cortisol shortens the telomeres at an alarming rate and kills the cell faster than nature intended. So what's the treatment for Cortisol? Telomerase. But oh goody, these fancy words do not come in a pill!
This makes me wonder about things like high vs. low impact exercise. Does a marathon runner live a shorter life because he must breathe faster? Does that mean a 500-lb. woman lives longer because she doesn't move? Then I am reminded that the fat woman probably takes more breaths because her blood pressure is already so high and her lungs are compressed by her excess fat, and the marathon runner makes it a point to practice and regulate his breathing. I, however, will probably maintain my Pilates and yoga routine--break a sweat but don't kill myself doing it.
So, now you know the facts (I wish I could demonstrate the sign language for 'fact', I just learned a lot of fun ones today. But back to the topic at hand--->). Love them and ponder them or hate them or forget them. Do what you will. At least you have some interesting information to share at your next book club meeting or angry protest.
Thursday, December 24, 2009
I Love Coconut Oil!
I have for quite some time, but it's only occurred to me now to write about it. I just love coconut oil. I really do. It is by far the choicest oil out there. Its multi-purpose demeanor and sweet, subtle scent make it irresistible for anyone approaching the bandwagon.
Science may falter a whole helluva lot, but not when it comes to this oil. Coconut oil is a saturated fat, which is not a bad thing like its name connotes! It was only in the 20th century when the whole "anti-saturated fat" movement began that coconut and other tropical oils became feared as "unhealthy," when indeed they were replaced with scientifically less healthy polyunsaturated fats, such as canola, soybean, safflower and corn oils. I guess western culture just loves their "un", "anti", "low," "zero," and "de" products, if for no other reason than psychologically. As a result of the pro-unsaturated fat diet, Americans have largely abandoned the intake of these healthy oils and butter, opting for margarine and grain oils. The chemical compounds of these replacement products are not broken down so easily and actually tend to become rancid in the body. This in turn creates congestion all over the body, i.e. heart disease, colon malfunction, high cholesterol, cancer, etc.
Coconut oil is making a comeback, however! The recognizable health benefits abound: it has antioxidant properties (reducing rancidity and the need for vitamin E), directly stimulates the thyroid (which keeps you lean and active, yum!), is antiviral, antimicrobial and antibacterial. And in this terrible cancer study I read about, conducted in 1987, a group of scientists chemically induced cancer in "the subjects"/aka animals. One group was fed corn oils and the other coconut oil. 32% of the corn group got the cancer whereas only 3% of the coconut group got it. What large protective qualities you have, Coconut Oil!
But besides all that science stuff, it just feels good. It is technically a "superfood," which according to superfood expert David Wolfe, contains several proverbial "tricks up its sleeve," instead of just one or two. I outlined several of them above, so don't you forget em! No but really, in the practical sense, I use coconut oil for all of my moisturizing needs. I leave it in the kitchen and the bathroom (or bedroom, depending on where I'm slathering myself). With a high smoking point it is perfect for cooking and baking. Every day my eggs have a slightly sweet tinge. And on the skin and hair? Divine! It is extremely good for them--not only is it a far better moisturizer than any cream you can buy in a bottle, you get all of that goodness without the harmful product chemicals! You don't have to smell like a vat of tangy shit! I use it every day and my skin is like buttah. Buttah! Pluuuuuus, ladiezzzz, if and when you are pregnant, I couldn't imagine a better stretch mark preventative. The fatty acids elasticize the skin. Ooh baby. P.S. just don't put it in a squirt bottle; it turns to a butter-like solid at 76 degrees.
I recommend picking up a jar of virgin coconut oil (raw, unprocessed) today. Or tomorrow. Well, tomorrow's Christmas, so maybe Saturday. It's slightly more expensive than those gross polyunsaturated fats (online is cheaper--only $20.99 for a 54-oz jar on Amazon!), but it is more than worth it. I wish I myself were selling coconut oil so I could profit from it, but I'm not, I just want to spread the joy coconut oil has brought to my life (and unknowingly to those around me bwahaha). Love!
Science may falter a whole helluva lot, but not when it comes to this oil. Coconut oil is a saturated fat, which is not a bad thing like its name connotes! It was only in the 20th century when the whole "anti-saturated fat" movement began that coconut and other tropical oils became feared as "unhealthy," when indeed they were replaced with scientifically less healthy polyunsaturated fats, such as canola, soybean, safflower and corn oils. I guess western culture just loves their "un", "anti", "low," "zero," and "de" products, if for no other reason than psychologically. As a result of the pro-unsaturated fat diet, Americans have largely abandoned the intake of these healthy oils and butter, opting for margarine and grain oils. The chemical compounds of these replacement products are not broken down so easily and actually tend to become rancid in the body. This in turn creates congestion all over the body, i.e. heart disease, colon malfunction, high cholesterol, cancer, etc.
Coconut oil is making a comeback, however! The recognizable health benefits abound: it has antioxidant properties (reducing rancidity and the need for vitamin E), directly stimulates the thyroid (which keeps you lean and active, yum!), is antiviral, antimicrobial and antibacterial. And in this terrible cancer study I read about, conducted in 1987, a group of scientists chemically induced cancer in "the subjects"/aka animals. One group was fed corn oils and the other coconut oil. 32% of the corn group got the cancer whereas only 3% of the coconut group got it. What large protective qualities you have, Coconut Oil!
But besides all that science stuff, it just feels good. It is technically a "superfood," which according to superfood expert David Wolfe, contains several proverbial "tricks up its sleeve," instead of just one or two. I outlined several of them above, so don't you forget em! No but really, in the practical sense, I use coconut oil for all of my moisturizing needs. I leave it in the kitchen and the bathroom (or bedroom, depending on where I'm slathering myself). With a high smoking point it is perfect for cooking and baking. Every day my eggs have a slightly sweet tinge. And on the skin and hair? Divine! It is extremely good for them--not only is it a far better moisturizer than any cream you can buy in a bottle, you get all of that goodness without the harmful product chemicals! You don't have to smell like a vat of tangy shit! I use it every day and my skin is like buttah. Buttah! Pluuuuuus, ladiezzzz, if and when you are pregnant, I couldn't imagine a better stretch mark preventative. The fatty acids elasticize the skin. Ooh baby. P.S. just don't put it in a squirt bottle; it turns to a butter-like solid at 76 degrees.
I recommend picking up a jar of virgin coconut oil (raw, unprocessed) today. Or tomorrow. Well, tomorrow's Christmas, so maybe Saturday. It's slightly more expensive than those gross polyunsaturated fats (online is cheaper--only $20.99 for a 54-oz jar on Amazon!), but it is more than worth it. I wish I myself were selling coconut oil so I could profit from it, but I'm not, I just want to spread the joy coconut oil has brought to my life (and unknowingly to those around me bwahaha). Love!
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
Wasted Effort
(Okay, this blog was written on Saturday, so let's pretend it's still Saturday.)
It's 12:30 on this blustery, blizzardy Saturday, and where am I on this fateful night? The fate of the night being that after thirteen sometimes flawless sometimes miraculous victories, the New Orleans Saints have just lost their first game of the season. So, ahem, where am I, you ask? Not crying into a cold beer like I'd like (well, like Mike and Allison would like--I'm pregnant and agonizingly sober). And why are these young patriots being robbed of their birthright to do anything they want anytime they want? Because the suburbs of Boston apparently do not sell any alcohol past 11pm on Saturdays, much less any day of the week! No Bud, no Beast! And it calls itself an Irish community!
The three of us spent a difficult three hours retching and writhing in front of the big screen upstairs, at first carefree and happy to finally catch a Saints game on a TV screen in this part of the country (thanks for your pretty pictures, NFL Network), but the cares quickly crept up as the Dallas Cowboys charged down the field, over and over and over again, plowing over the defense, offense, poor wittle Drew Brees, and the indefatigable New Orleanian spirit over and over and over again. It was painful--but in the 4th quarter, the Saints at an unlikely but not unconquerable point disadvantage, they started to come back. Things were looking up in an almost religiously miraculous way, as they always had this season, and then, with 12 seconds on the clock, they fumble, turn over the ball, and choke and lose it and die. Goodbye, perfect season.
Meanwhile Mike and Allison are throwing back the martinis nervously, oblivious to the absentminded sipping. For some reason I am designated the--wouldn't ya know it--"Designated Bartender," and every time I return from the kitchen with another round, Allison is in a more profound state of droopiness. It's funny until the commercial break ends and another butterfingers on the Saints side drops the ball. Anywho, once the reality kicks in that the game is over, that the hopes of a perfect season are dashed, all anyone wants is a cold one. These two are getting vodka sloppy and I pray for a less concentrated nightcap.
When I finish sobbing violently into Mike's shoulder, they convince me we must go out and get beer. Who cares that the blizzard is moving through and I for one haven't seen snow in over two years and really just want to sit rigidly by myself and cry and wonder why I am really so bothered by this emotional letdown? No, we must get beer! Okay. I'm not gonna stand around in my scarf and boots forever. Let's go.
And it is quite the bitch outside! There's already over an inch of snow, albeit fluffy, wet, and not yet icy. We maneuver through the blankets of falling snow like three grandmas in an Oldsmobile, just up to the gas station two blocks away. And can you believe it, they don't sell beer! We continue on grudgingly, finally fishtailing into the Stop n Shop parking lot which contains a liquor store. And it's closed! Just past midnight! Foiled again! We try once more, doe-and-bleary-eyed. And that shit is locked up like a warehouse during the off-season in Bogota.
So these two, not to mention my tired and bloated ass, are peeved that this so-called modern city is antagonistic toward the responsible sale and consumption of alcohol well before bar-closing time. What, if we want to drink alcohol we should go to a bar? You want we should drink and drive and get in a brawl? What if after a heartbreaking Saturday night special presentation of Thursday Night Football I want to drown my sorrows (or watch my loved ones do as such) in the privacy and comfort and safety of my own home? You don't want to see any of us right now, I tell you that! Well, maybe Allison, she's a card and isn't emotionally attached to tonight's turn of events. But she is pretty loud. It's a give and take.
So really, WHAT is up, Weymouth? Or, as Mike says, "Way out of the Wey-mouth!" Way out of the way of making any sort of sense! Now I have to endure these kids playing grab ass with the liquor cabinet while debating the legitimacy of the destruction of the Death Star at an annoyingly aggressive tone while I wallow in the Saints' loss and the reality of three sets of taper candles I hand-dipped earlier that look like uncircumcised penises! Harmph!
It's 12:30 on this blustery, blizzardy Saturday, and where am I on this fateful night? The fate of the night being that after thirteen sometimes flawless sometimes miraculous victories, the New Orleans Saints have just lost their first game of the season. So, ahem, where am I, you ask? Not crying into a cold beer like I'd like (well, like Mike and Allison would like--I'm pregnant and agonizingly sober). And why are these young patriots being robbed of their birthright to do anything they want anytime they want? Because the suburbs of Boston apparently do not sell any alcohol past 11pm on Saturdays, much less any day of the week! No Bud, no Beast! And it calls itself an Irish community!
The three of us spent a difficult three hours retching and writhing in front of the big screen upstairs, at first carefree and happy to finally catch a Saints game on a TV screen in this part of the country (thanks for your pretty pictures, NFL Network), but the cares quickly crept up as the Dallas Cowboys charged down the field, over and over and over again, plowing over the defense, offense, poor wittle Drew Brees, and the indefatigable New Orleanian spirit over and over and over again. It was painful--but in the 4th quarter, the Saints at an unlikely but not unconquerable point disadvantage, they started to come back. Things were looking up in an almost religiously miraculous way, as they always had this season, and then, with 12 seconds on the clock, they fumble, turn over the ball, and choke and lose it and die. Goodbye, perfect season.
Meanwhile Mike and Allison are throwing back the martinis nervously, oblivious to the absentminded sipping. For some reason I am designated the--wouldn't ya know it--"Designated Bartender," and every time I return from the kitchen with another round, Allison is in a more profound state of droopiness. It's funny until the commercial break ends and another butterfingers on the Saints side drops the ball. Anywho, once the reality kicks in that the game is over, that the hopes of a perfect season are dashed, all anyone wants is a cold one. These two are getting vodka sloppy and I pray for a less concentrated nightcap.
When I finish sobbing violently into Mike's shoulder, they convince me we must go out and get beer. Who cares that the blizzard is moving through and I for one haven't seen snow in over two years and really just want to sit rigidly by myself and cry and wonder why I am really so bothered by this emotional letdown? No, we must get beer! Okay. I'm not gonna stand around in my scarf and boots forever. Let's go.
And it is quite the bitch outside! There's already over an inch of snow, albeit fluffy, wet, and not yet icy. We maneuver through the blankets of falling snow like three grandmas in an Oldsmobile, just up to the gas station two blocks away. And can you believe it, they don't sell beer! We continue on grudgingly, finally fishtailing into the Stop n Shop parking lot which contains a liquor store. And it's closed! Just past midnight! Foiled again! We try once more, doe-and-bleary-eyed. And that shit is locked up like a warehouse during the off-season in Bogota.
So these two, not to mention my tired and bloated ass, are peeved that this so-called modern city is antagonistic toward the responsible sale and consumption of alcohol well before bar-closing time. What, if we want to drink alcohol we should go to a bar? You want we should drink and drive and get in a brawl? What if after a heartbreaking Saturday night special presentation of Thursday Night Football I want to drown my sorrows (or watch my loved ones do as such) in the privacy and comfort and safety of my own home? You don't want to see any of us right now, I tell you that! Well, maybe Allison, she's a card and isn't emotionally attached to tonight's turn of events. But she is pretty loud. It's a give and take.
So really, WHAT is up, Weymouth? Or, as Mike says, "Way out of the Wey-mouth!" Way out of the way of making any sort of sense! Now I have to endure these kids playing grab ass with the liquor cabinet while debating the legitimacy of the destruction of the Death Star at an annoyingly aggressive tone while I wallow in the Saints' loss and the reality of three sets of taper candles I hand-dipped earlier that look like uncircumcised penises! Harmph!
Sunday, October 25, 2009
Just Say No to OBs!
I attended my first (and it's safe to say only) OB appointment on Friday, in my 16th week of pregnancy. I say only because it was an un--scratch that--believably unpleasant experience! Well, I can't necessarily say it was negative as far as hospitals go, as I did get in and out without contracting any staph infections or chronic pain, but it was definitely less positive than my alarming pregnancy test four months ago!
I show up ten minutes early, as ya do, though that makes no difference as I am the second one in the waiting room and the fifth one out. Whatever. Hospitals are like that. Moving on. Next, my weight and height are measured, and I am pleasantly surprised to find I've gained less weight so far than I thought, which is not a bad thing at this point.
I am then shuffled into the exam room to be asked the usual questions about any lingering filthy habits by the nurse. After I confirm that I have given up those habits (but replaced them with tastier vices like Dairy Queen and Oreos, though I don't tell her this because who cares about diet in a hospital?), she leaves me and says the nurse practitioner is going to talk to me before I get undressed and go through all the motions.
I shall call her Jane (or shall I?), and she walks in, sits down, introduces herself and asks how I'm doing in that usual 'how are you' sort of way. She never looks at me or offers her sanitary hand, which I find immediately disconcerting. We go through a similar list of questions the previous nurse asked, and then she leaves me to get undressed. I put the hospital gown on, laugh wholeheartedly in the mirror and putz around the office until she returns, by which time I am six months pregnant. I mean, you just cannot leave a pregnant woman waiting that long in a one-sided outfit with no access to a bathroom.
The PAP proceeds as usual, which I am grateful for because I haven't had one in over two years, and it goes rather quickly. We then prepare to listen to the heartbeat...oh weird! She procures the Doppler listener thing, which is handheld, squeezes the hot gel on my byelly, which is a lot warmer than I'd anticipated, and we take a listen. For the first fifteen seconds or so all I hear is outer space noise, and then (gasp)...there it is. Wroosh wroosh wroompsh wroompsh. Then we lost it and found it again on the other side of my melon-sized uterus. Wroosh wroosh wroosh wroosh. Gone again. I thought 'oh, an athlete! Oh no, not a softball chick...' but then I thought of what my potential midwife suggested to me about ultrasounds, that babies seem to move away from the heat, which is evidently fairly unpleasant to uber-sensitive fetuses (feti?). It seems that the Doppler device and ultrasounds are fairly similar instruments, though I pushed it out of my mind to enjoy the extremely new and eye-opening experience because it's early enough for me to maintain a bit of selfishness.
After that weird sort of instinctual joy Jane tops off the appointment with a delightful lecture on the risks of Down Syndrome, Spina Bifida, and my very specific time frame to get the not-always-accurate screening test for these and other chromosomal abnormalities. The lovely visit wouldn't be complete without filling this first time mom-to-be who's never even had a cavity with loaded warnings of sneaky and deforming genetic mutations. Ahhhhh yes.
I know this is all what she's required to tell me, medically, but not once during this visit does she ask me how I'm actually feeling, other than a single query into the caliber of my long-gone nausea. She never even asks if I have any questions or offers any positive insight into my extremely normal yet all-encompassing transformative experience of becoming a mother. The few questions I do ask seems to annoy her, as if the only things I need to know are what she tells me.
In recent years I have really moved away from considering the hospital or standard American medical caregiver as any sort of pillar of support (apologies to both my parents in the medical field) so I had no real expectations that my OB appointment would support any of the emotional or spiritual needs I have during this time, which is exactly why I am hiring a midwife. But for all the millions of women whose prenatal care is solely invested in appointments just like this, I'm surprised at how many babies and mothers make it past the first few months! I can't imagine how terrifying it would be to have any problems that would be considered "high-risk"!
I believe unless there is a legitimate medical or environmental reason to contain a birth or even most of the prenatal care to a hospital, then there really is no reason for that to be the standard for one of the most natural and common human processes. I could go on about my growing interest in midwifery and home birth, but it's 1am, and I will undoubtedly rattle on about this later when I am more eloquent and conscious.
The point here is that I left my first prenatal appointment feeling almost angry that I had been so powerless in that situation. This is my body, my baby, who is doing a lot more work than even I can comprehend, not a clinical procedure that can only be navigated by a stranger with a medical degree.
I admit there is a time and a place for the OB/GYN department, and I am grateful it is there when it is needed, but it is irresponsible to designate this treatment as The Way It's Supposed To Be. Not for me!
I show up ten minutes early, as ya do, though that makes no difference as I am the second one in the waiting room and the fifth one out. Whatever. Hospitals are like that. Moving on. Next, my weight and height are measured, and I am pleasantly surprised to find I've gained less weight so far than I thought, which is not a bad thing at this point.
I am then shuffled into the exam room to be asked the usual questions about any lingering filthy habits by the nurse. After I confirm that I have given up those habits (but replaced them with tastier vices like Dairy Queen and Oreos, though I don't tell her this because who cares about diet in a hospital?), she leaves me and says the nurse practitioner is going to talk to me before I get undressed and go through all the motions.
I shall call her Jane (or shall I?), and she walks in, sits down, introduces herself and asks how I'm doing in that usual 'how are you' sort of way. She never looks at me or offers her sanitary hand, which I find immediately disconcerting. We go through a similar list of questions the previous nurse asked, and then she leaves me to get undressed. I put the hospital gown on, laugh wholeheartedly in the mirror and putz around the office until she returns, by which time I am six months pregnant. I mean, you just cannot leave a pregnant woman waiting that long in a one-sided outfit with no access to a bathroom.
The PAP proceeds as usual, which I am grateful for because I haven't had one in over two years, and it goes rather quickly. We then prepare to listen to the heartbeat...oh weird! She procures the Doppler listener thing, which is handheld, squeezes the hot gel on my byelly, which is a lot warmer than I'd anticipated, and we take a listen. For the first fifteen seconds or so all I hear is outer space noise, and then (gasp)...there it is. Wroosh wroosh wroompsh wroompsh. Then we lost it and found it again on the other side of my melon-sized uterus. Wroosh wroosh wroosh wroosh. Gone again. I thought 'oh, an athlete! Oh no, not a softball chick...' but then I thought of what my potential midwife suggested to me about ultrasounds, that babies seem to move away from the heat, which is evidently fairly unpleasant to uber-sensitive fetuses (feti?). It seems that the Doppler device and ultrasounds are fairly similar instruments, though I pushed it out of my mind to enjoy the extremely new and eye-opening experience because it's early enough for me to maintain a bit of selfishness.
After that weird sort of instinctual joy Jane tops off the appointment with a delightful lecture on the risks of Down Syndrome, Spina Bifida, and my very specific time frame to get the not-always-accurate screening test for these and other chromosomal abnormalities. The lovely visit wouldn't be complete without filling this first time mom-to-be who's never even had a cavity with loaded warnings of sneaky and deforming genetic mutations. Ahhhhh yes.
I know this is all what she's required to tell me, medically, but not once during this visit does she ask me how I'm actually feeling, other than a single query into the caliber of my long-gone nausea. She never even asks if I have any questions or offers any positive insight into my extremely normal yet all-encompassing transformative experience of becoming a mother. The few questions I do ask seems to annoy her, as if the only things I need to know are what she tells me.
In recent years I have really moved away from considering the hospital or standard American medical caregiver as any sort of pillar of support (apologies to both my parents in the medical field) so I had no real expectations that my OB appointment would support any of the emotional or spiritual needs I have during this time, which is exactly why I am hiring a midwife. But for all the millions of women whose prenatal care is solely invested in appointments just like this, I'm surprised at how many babies and mothers make it past the first few months! I can't imagine how terrifying it would be to have any problems that would be considered "high-risk"!
I believe unless there is a legitimate medical or environmental reason to contain a birth or even most of the prenatal care to a hospital, then there really is no reason for that to be the standard for one of the most natural and common human processes. I could go on about my growing interest in midwifery and home birth, but it's 1am, and I will undoubtedly rattle on about this later when I am more eloquent and conscious.
The point here is that I left my first prenatal appointment feeling almost angry that I had been so powerless in that situation. This is my body, my baby, who is doing a lot more work than even I can comprehend, not a clinical procedure that can only be navigated by a stranger with a medical degree.
I admit there is a time and a place for the OB/GYN department, and I am grateful it is there when it is needed, but it is irresponsible to designate this treatment as The Way It's Supposed To Be. Not for me!
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