Deep Breath. Here Goes.

I certainly have a lot on my mind. I’ve been sitting here for a few minutes, trying to collect my thoughts on what I wanted to post; how to make my ideas cohesive and organized…but then I promptly gave up. I’m not sure I can completely connect my thoughts tonight. There’s a lot going on upstairs.

I’m a little upset at myself that the majority of my posts lately have been a bit depressing and centered on the irrigation in my stomach and throat and coming out of my nose. I initially wanted to pretend like this tube thing had never happened, and get on with my merry little life, but it’s proving much more difficult than I thought. So how can I blog about other things, when my mind isn’t on other things? It’s only on one thing: my tubage and recovery.

So that’s what this blog is going to be about, among other things.

I saw my dietician yesterday morning, hesitant of getting on her scale. I felt bloated, and swear I looked about six months prego. I always seem to forget the phenomena of getting a big belly when weight-gain begins, when everything else stays small. All of the weight just seems to sit there in my stomach until the weight is eventually distributed. So this was terribly distracting and alarming, as you can imagine, and I just swore to myself that I had gained a good five, six pounds, and while I knew that was a good thing, it also didn’t feel so good, you know?

So I stepped on the scale, and, and…suck.

I didn’t gain weight. Well, technically I gained a tenth of a kilogram, but my dietician said that doesn’t count. And you know what? I wasn’t happy about it, not even the sneaky eating disorder side of me. Because I have a freaking tube in, and I want it out, like, ASAP, people. I don’t want to have a giant food (er, Boost) baby and be bloated and sick for nothing, and not gain weight. So I was mad. And frustrated. And disheartened. I felt like I had done something wrong, even though I had followed my D’s Boost and food plan.

And then today. Today was pretty lame. I feel like I’ve more or less handled this tubification like a rockstar. I’ve gone out in public and endured the stares of strangers and the mocking of ugly little kids, I’ve cheerfully made many a tube joke at my expense, and I’ve willingly (I use that term loosely) allowed the Liquid Satan to nestle inside my tummy. But today, for the first real time, I lost it. I cried. And it felt good, in an awful sort of way. I think I needed to cry, to get those tears out, and to tell the universe that this sucks and this hurts and that it’s okay to cry. It’s okay.

I mean, there’s never a time, not even a teensy little minute, that I don’t not think about my tube. It’s impossible not to. Because it hurts. My throat, my sinuses, the way the tape feels sticky and abrasive against my skin. I can’t get away from it. Ever.

And then I had therapy tonight. And, I didn’t want to go. When I get really down, I tend to want to hibernate and cut off contact with everyone and just hide in my room. But my husband’s good advice prevailed, and I went (mostly because I would’ve had to pay a cancellation fee).

The highlights of my session included:

She being worried I was going to have a heart attack because I was so medically unstable.
I stared at the certificates on her wall. (Did you know she was the valedictorian of her graduating class at university?)
She wanted me to take off even more than two weeks of work because I might “have to go into the hospital at any time.”
I stared at her dumbfounded.
She stared at me, and then put her head in her hands.
I, once again, stared at her dumbfounded.
Her telling me she talked with H, my dietician yesterday, and they both thought it “extremely worrisome” I didn’t gain any weight.
I reinforced to her that I followed my meal and boost plan.
She and I talking about how recovery has to be real this time, that I can’t do this to my body and mind and marriage anymore.

After the session was up, my mom was in the waiting room, having just brought me Cade (long story). M then sneakily asked my mom to talk to her in her office, while I stressed out about what kind of crazy conversations could be happening on the inside. Basically, M wanted to make sure that I really had been following my meal plan, and that I wasn’t lying to her.
Thanks for your confidence in me, Freud.
She wanted to ask my mom what she thought about hospitalization, was she worried that I looked like a holocaust victim?

Oh, geez.

I came home, gave my baby boy kisses and loves and promised to him I would always stick around until I got old and wrinkly and my skin felt rough and paper thin and I died a natural death. I then ate a snack. Then I cheerfully allowed Brandon to Boost me up.

Why, you ask?

I want to be around. I want to be around to watch my baby grow into a boy and then a man. I want to have a baby girl, and I want to grow old with my husband.

I don’t want to be sick anymore.

And I sure as hell want to un-earn the nickname “Tube Face.”

Besides, I kinda realized it was time to gain weight, when I was so brain-dead and forgetful, I had this interesting experience/conversation with Husband yesterday:

Shuffle into the bathroom.
Me: What is that? Point to the floor by the toilet, at what looks like suspicious yellow liquid.
Brandon: Wha-? I don’t know. But it looks like pee.
Me: Oh nooooooo. No! Did I pee my pants and not remember?
Brandon: ?
FYI: Sad day, folks, when you think you might’ve peed your pants, but aren’t sure. (I didn’t, by the way.)

So.
Deep breath.
Here goes.