Some Thoughts On Parkland

I'd had a lovely Valentine's lunch with Grumpy. We were in our favorite Kroger, having picked up prescriptions and wine, and standing in line to get a burrito for the girl child when I saw the footage on the cafe television. Another school shooting. That's all I could think. Another school shooting. They're happening so often that I'm getting numb to them.

Grumpy and I discussed it on our way home. We share the same ideas on the public sale of military grade weaponry. He, as a retired member of the military, and I, as a mother and all-round rational human being, think they have no place in civilian society. But that isn't what I want to write about.

I told him that I couldn't spend too much of my energy grieving for these families. If I threw myself into the whole cycle of grief every time there's a mass shooting on the news, I said, I'd never be able to come up for air. I can't be an effective part of the solution if I don't practice good self-care.

Then, while my pastor was talking about the shooting last weekend in church, and conducting a ritual that she initially created as a way to commemorate victims of another school shooting a few years back, she remarked that she'd had to draw upon this ritual too many times. The ritual involves placing rocks -- one for each victim -- in a bowl of salty water that represents tears. She said that her collection of rocks was piling up too high. It was impactful, but as congregants formed a line to walk to the podium and participate, my mind kind of drifted off in other directions -- the new job starting the next day, the origami cranes strung on delicate threads and draped in front of the windows where they softly danced in the draft, what I would eat for lunch after church, what I would pack for lunch for work the next day, and really, how was work the next day going to go?

A few weeks ago, Live From Here (the show formerly known as Prairie Home Companion) featured a reading by novelist George Saunders of an excerpt from his book, Lincoln In The Bardo. In this excerpt, President Lincoln sat in the crypt of his son, newly dead from typhoid, processing his grief and thinking at the same time about the memorials being held for the fallen Union soldiers. He talked about those in the crowd -- himself included -- who harbored a secret happiness that they, themselves, had not had to experience the same loss. And now he was no longer in that group. He had now suffered the loss of a child.

I am one of the parents that secretly harbors the happiness that I am not among those that have suffered the loss of a child. I have the privilege of allowing my mind to drift during a memorial service because I am not in the grip of violent grief.  The chances of my daughter's school being the next mass shooting news story are slim to none. But then again, before [I will not dignify him with a name] opened fire, so was Douglas High in Parkland, Fl -- rated one of the safest places to live.

_____________________

I started writing this piece last week but got cut off before I could finish because the library closed. So much has happened this week that has tweaked the perspective I held a week ago. Last week I was writing with the belief that school shootings are just part of the new dystopian reality we live in and there is nothing to be done but sit back and watch and try to keep your own soul intact.

Boy was I wrong. Shit. Is. Going. Down.

I am in awe of the sheer badassery of the Parkland survivors. The voices of these children are leading a revolution that we complacent adults had come to believe impossible. Watching and listening these kids, I know in my heart I am looking at the future of political leadership, and the future of political leadership looks good. The kids are going to be all right. Emma Gonzales is my new hero.

My daughter shared something she wrote with me this week that puts her also on my shortlist of heroes. I share it here with her permission:

_____________________

I stand here on this ground in a mix of pride, anger, and disgust.

Anger is what gave me the ability to stand here in jeans and a T-shirt.

Pride is what gave me the chance to stand up for myself and fight.

And disgust. Disgust is why I’m here.

I stand for those who cannot stand for themselves.

The gays. The trans. The people of color. The women and the men and everything in between who fought for our rights and died for us. You wave that flag like it is your birthright and whine about immigrants in our great country yet do not acknowledge the people who have died in our claim of this land.

I shouldn't have to hear stories of women being terrified of walking home alone at night. I shouldn't see women on the street tense and clutching their keys in her hand like it's a weapon when I'm out with my dad.

I should not have to see one gender so terrified to be alone at night because of the other gender.

‘Not all men’ is a ridiculous statement. If not all men, why are you making it about all men? You claim to support women yet still say she was asking for it when a woman is raped. When she's killed. When she dies because her body couldn't handle a baby and nobody would let her have an abortion.

‘Straight pride’ is also ridiculous. You whine and complain about ‘the gays’ having an entire month to themselves but refuse to acknowledge that Life is just a ‘straight pride’ in and of itself. You do not have to be scared of holding your partner's hand in public. You do not have to be scared of your basic human rights being ripped away from you over something so trivial as what gender you like.

I like to imagine people in different categories.

First you have the entitled, the straight white people who cry about their rights ‘being taken away’ when they have to hide their bigotry about other people's rights.

Then there's the helpfuls, the straight white people who do everything in their power to help the minorities in every way they can. I would like to personally categorize my own mother into this particular trope as she is the woman who made feminism such a staple in my life I never realized it wasn't as massively supported as I thought it was until I was fourteen.

Then there's the people of color, the ones who try to stand for themselves and get shot down, often quite literally. I don't like reading about a black man who was gunned down by police for being ‘hostile’ when all he wanted was help with a flat tire.

The LGBTQ+ community as a whole. I have only seen one website that wasn't specifically about gay people that was so accepting of the LGBT to the point of where- after hours and hours and hours looking through posts on that site I was never, ever, able to find a single homophobic or transphobic post. I bring to you: Tumblr. I am astonished by how welcoming that website is and how quick they are to educate and correct someone's bigotry. It makes me proud to be one of the many who use that site.

The massacre of the Florida Shooting has affected students everywhere and while I may not be around to participate in the National School Walkout on March 24th, I will do everything in my power to support it and spread the word. 17 people, maybe even more, lost their lives that day. Students, kids, just like me, died because of one group’s ignorance and refusal to restrict gun laws. Your ignorance and bigotry means nothing to me, you fascist bastards. I will make you learn. I will make you pay.

I refuse to be walked on. I refuse to be a toy. I refuse to stand by and watch as you take away my rights and use others like me like they’re nothing but puppets. I refuse to let you destroy me and all those around me for your own gain. I will not set myself on fire to keep you warm.

I will stand for my mother. My father. My brothers and my friends and their friends too. I will stand for those who cannot do so themselves and if you dare challenge my pride, you may come at me with all you wish.

For I am a woman, and women are fiercer than men could ever hope to be.

_______________________

Like I said, the kids are going to be alright.

Just Very Quickly

I had my job interview on Monday at the small industrial company. I was pleased with the general office vibe -- laid back and drama free. I sat down with the GM and the office manager. We seemed to have good chemistry. They outlined the general workings of the company and laid out in fine detail the tasks that would be expected of me -- lots of information management, data entry, basic office stuff, and a heavy emphasis on customer service. My resume is almost tailor made to match that list of tasks.

On my part, I think I charmed them -- at least I made them laugh a few times. I tried to communicate that I am an extroverted mega-nerd with a major girl-boner for Excel. Putting information into neat little ordered boxes makes me far happier than it should. I am detail oriented, work well both independently and with a team, take instruction and correction well, am not a control freak, am a problem solver, and that I have received praise from previous employers on my conflict avoidance skills. I stressed that my favorite part of administrative work, hands down, is customer service. (Hub is reading this over my shoulder and questions the not a control freak bit -- but work me and home me are two entirely different people.)

Upon leaving, the office manager told me that my agency had highly recommended me and that she could see why.

Tuesday morning I got a call from my agency that the company would love to have me come be a member of their team.

Screw that other federal agency and their tentative offer for higher pay. They don't know me from Adam. They don't care who I am or that I'm quirky and people-oriented. This place cares that I came highly recommended from an agency that I have been working with for the past year and a half, and they would LOVE to have me come be on their team because they LIKE me! ME! I was chosen for a position for MY personal skill set and winning personality.

So, I avoid downtown rush hour traffic, I'm not stuck in a cubicle, shuffling paper and devoid of human contact, and I am specifically wanted for exactly who I am. This is totally worth taking a $1.86/hour cut in pay. And it is still considerably more than I was making at Great Big Corporate.

I start tomorrow. I already have my first-day outfit picked out.

(BTW -- heard from my old manager at GBC. It has turned into a complete shit show and everyone there that I like, including my manager, is looking for other work. Screw that place.)

Another kind of plus is that the library is on my route home from this job so I can pop in and update more often, unless, you know, I can stealth blog at work. Expect to be hearing from me more often. I have major mom-of-teen shit I need to unload.

Big Stuff

And you thought the last post was a long time coming...

Quick catch up. My surgery was delayed by two weeks because the doctor's office waited until the week before surgery to get approval from my insurance and Tricare just doesn't move that fast. Ever. So I wasn't in the hospital over Christmas. We still had a super low-key holiday. We went for a drive in the snow and made soup. New Years Eve I was asleep way before the ball dropped and the next day we went for a drive and made soup. I went under the knife on January 5th. I woke up in pain but dilaudid is a lovely drug. I made friends with one of the nursing assistants who schooled my daughter on tauntauns after I made note of feeling as though I'd been sliced open in same fashion. (Seriously -- incision from breast bone to belly button requiring 35 staples resulting in a scar that looks absurdly like a zipper.)

I spent my recuperation binging various series via streaming services. (Not blogging, as previously suggested, as the girl child managed to break the laptop.) I did Grimm (falls in line with my obsession with all things Thile). I did Preacher. Well, I did season 1 because that is free on hulu. Season 2 is only on Amazon and even with Prime they want $25 for the season and that's not gonna happen. Hunted around a bit for the next binge-worthy series. Tried out a few. The Night Manager has too much realistic political violence. I just can't right now. I was told that I would love Portlandia but I couldn't even get through episode one. I guess I just don't do sketch stuff? SNL has even lost my attention lately. I tried that biopic series about Zelda Fitzgerald but the put-on Southern Belle accents were intolerable and I couldn't finish the first episode. I landed on Nurse Jackie. I find her combination of being deeply flawed whilst having a passion to do good comfortingly familiar. Last night I fell asleep watching that and my wine glass toppled from my lap and spilled all over the bed. I have no idea why I was holding my wine glass on my lap.

The whole wine thing probably would not have gone down thusly had my husband not taken a new position at his job. This new position has a most ridiculous schedule -- he works from 4:30 in the afternoon to 1:00 in the morning so I'm left to binge in the evenings all by my lonesome. This lifestyle will eventually turn me into a potato.

Recuperating has been harder than I thought it would be so I'm just now resuming the job hunt, which is where I hit a bit of a dilemma. I have a job interview on Monday at a small family-owned company. It is an office assistant position with a heavy customer service emphasis. I'm a people person and customer service is definitely my forte. It is located near to my house so no interstates involved in my commute and also pays considerably more than did the contracting position with corporate overlords.

I've also had a tentative offer from the same federal agency that employs my spouse (although without the ridiculous schedule -- I'd simply not be able to function that way). The fed job pays more and isn't through a temp agency so it's more secure, but it would likely be mind-numbingly boring -- just shuffling the same papers on constant repeat without much human interaction. I'm afraid it would permanently mar my soul. Also, it would require I drive through downtown interstate traffic twice a day during rush hour, which frightens me to my core.

So what do? Take the job that I think I would find more rewarding even though it pays less and comes with little to no job security or take the money and security and risk damage to my eternal soul? I just don't know. Maybe it wouldn't be a numbing as I think it will be. It would at the least get me into the federal system and make it easier to get a job I actually want. (I have my eye on an administrative position at the VA.)

Adulting is hard.

Damn But It's Been A Minute

It's been a month since I've written. There have been developments.

First off, tomorrow is my last day at Music Hall and though it has been physically exhausting, getting to work behind the scenes of the symphony has been extremely rewarding. Henceforth, any symphony, pops, opera, youth symphony, or ballet performance I attend is likely to feature music that I have actually held in my hands and that's a mighty big thought.

Also, there have been developments from former job and Huge Corporation. My manager (who was not my supervisor, the Word Murder) has been keeping me up to date on office drama.  The WM has officially LEFT THE BUILDING! She was shuffled of to another site where she is not in charge of managing other people and has very little contact with the public, which is for the best. The president of the contracting firm that I worked for (it is a very complex food chain) is filling in as supervisor in my former office and, if Manager is correct, the corporate overlords may be choosing the next supervisor, as the contractor has, at least in their eyes, thus far displayed a lack of good judgement in hiring managers. If the new permanent supervisor/room manager is who she thinks it will be, she would be a terrific choice. 

Also, the department I helped administrate has absolutely gone to shit in my absence. The hens were put in charge of my duties with no real training. Even if there had been attempts to train them, the job requires a level of technological skills (Excel for instance) that they cannot seem to wrap their hopelessly analog heads around, and a certain savvy in dealing with millenials that they will never, ever have. (Seriously, wrangling mommies into completing tasks required for the thing they signed up to do takes some real finesse -- you gotta be bossy without being bitchy.)

The corporate overlords directly in charge of my department, along with my manager (who is also contractor) are appealing to the BIG corporate overlord, who is in charge of all of the departments similar to mine, to request the contractor that I be brought back on board as the lack of my presence seems to be the reason for everything going to shit. (They really seemed to like me while I was there and often told me what a good job I was doing. I understand from Manager that they were quite distraught by the news of my abrupt departure.)

I am a week and a day from my stomach surgery -- the one that, ironically, I planned around the holiday so as not to disrupt the schedule of Huge Corporation. I should be recovered enough by the date they are scheduled to return from the holiday break to resume work, if Contractor decides she would like to have me back. I would be willing now that Word Murder is gone. Jesus I hated that woman. (Always respectful, compliant, and blah blah blah good employee, but I HATED that woman!)

If not, I am sure my agency will be able to find me something.  I'm just so tired of the endless string of short-term assignments. One of the reasons for my moving north was to find my Big Girl Job and actually launch a career. I really thought I was headed that direction at Huge Corporation. Temping is NOT a career.

In the meantime, I'm enjoying my new Twitter account, listening to lots of good music, trying to adjust to PHC being The Show Formerly Known As Prairie Home, watching the sex-crimes dominoes fall (Mario Batalli??? Really????). and trying have enough faith in Mueller and humanity in general to keep me from total despair over impending Armageddon at the hands of an orange buffoon.

That, and upping my smoothie game.

Maybe with all the excess down time I will find more time to blog.

My Rape Story (Because too many of us have one)

I was molested at the age of 7 by the uncle of a friend. The uncle was, at the time, living with the friend when I went for a sleep over. At some point, I found myself alone with the uncle in my friend's bedroom. He began rubbing my back. I hated it. It made me feel weird and gross. He asked if he could kiss my back. I was raised to always obey authority and adults are authority so I complied. That made me feel even grosser. He asked if he could kiss me on the lips but, even as timid of authority as I was, I couldn't bring myself to agree to that. He told me not to tell. He told me that it was our secret.

I kept the secret to myself until I returned home from the sleepover. The next morning, I told my sister as we were getting ready for church. I couldn't keep it to myself -- those feelings of shame and dirtiness. After church, at lunch, I sat at the table silently crying. My mother asked what was wrong and my sister blurted out my secret. I don't remember how my mother reacted. I know the news must have sickened her. I just remember being terrified that my abuser would somehow punish me for disobeying.

The church/school (I was at the time attending a parochial school) Christmas program was scheduled for that night. I knew that it was my mother's intention to speak to my friend's mother about the actions of her brother that night, which in turn probably meant that my friend's mother would speak to her brother, and HE was in the audience. I remember managing to keep myself together enough to perform with my classmates, but I could feel him staring at me. I just knew he was plotting his revenge.

A few days after the Christmas program, I was told that the uncle was asked to move elsewhere (to another of his siblings' homes, I believe, who did not have children to molest). I never saw him again, nor was the "situation" ever again mentioned. Something about the context of the conversation seemed to hint that this wasn't the first time this had happened and I'm sure it wasn't the last.

After this incident, my mother finally had the conversation with me about bodily autonomy and "bad touching" and formally gave me permission to say no to an adult if he (because she assumed any abuser would be a he) made me uncomfortable, and that I should tell her if anything like that ever happened again. Too little too late mom.

When I was 12, attending the same church, I had an extremely inappropriate relationship with a boy in my youth group who was 15. He was cute, popular, kind of a jock, and all the girls had crushes on him. I, on the other hand, was chubby, awkward, and unpopular. During a social gathering at the church, a half dozen or so rogue members of the youth group (including me) participated in a rather lewd game of truth or dare. (I have to wonder now how a half dozen tween-to-teens were so unsupervised AT CHURCH that this was even possible.) The dares mostly centered around the theme of show-me-yours-and-I'll-show-you-mine.

After the game, he coaxed me into a secluded room, showed me his erect penis, and told me it was hard because I was so hot. He asked me to show him my boobs, and asked if he could touch them. He asked me to give him a hand job. I'd had a crush on him forever, and of course consented. He kissed me and told me that he'd wanted me for a long time and I could be his girlfriend, but, even though he really did care for me, we had to keep it a secret. I was so excited that he liked me and so thrilled at the feeling of sexual awakening that I was about to pop, but I kept his secret. I kept his secret even while he bullied me in public "for show" he said.

Of course, it had to be kept secret because the caring about me part was utter bullshit and he was just too embarrassed, as the popular jock, to be "going with" the dumpy nerd girl, but he still wanted the sexy stuff from me. This relationship went on for several months and got as close as possible to actual having sex without ever crossing that line. He certainly wanted to, but at that time I was still committed to keeping my virginity for my husband.

I found out later from other girls in my youth group that they were also his "secret girlfriend". I kind of always dismissed his actions as a teenage boy being a teenage boy, and felt ashamed at being so foolish as to believe his ridiculous come-ons, but now I see it as the predatory behavior that it was and wonder how this behavior carried on into adulthood.

When I was 21 I was raped by a military guy. It was my first time out barhopping as a legal drinker. A friend took me out and offered to pay for the drinks. And honey were there drinks. I think I calculated that between the lemon drop shots and Cape Codders I had something like 20+ servings of vodka. I met a guy at the bar that I thought was cute. His name was Westley, with a T, like Westley from Princess Bride. He was tall and geeky and we had a nice conversation.

Meanwhile, my friend was over making nice with his buddy Mike, who I did not find remotely interesting or attractive. He was the cocky jock type, and I was so not (and still not) into that type. When my friend went to the bathroom, Mike and I had a slurred and drunken conversation about our mutual non-attraction and how we were both cool with that and could hang even though we didn't want to fuck and I thought that was pretty cool.

We closed down the bar and the boys invited us over to their place to continue the party. My friend readily agreed and we followed them back to their apartment. It was the two of us, the two of them, and two or three more of their military buddies. A bottle of tequila was being passed around and I managed one shot before passing out on the couch. One of the other guys kept trying to kiss me and I kept pushing him away. Finally Mike told me that I could go pass out in his roommate's bed as his roommate was gone on some training thing.

I don't know how long I was passed out in that bedroom before I woke to find someone leaning over me, trying to kiss me. I pushed him away, thinking he was the same guy as before, but it was Mike. I reminded him that we'd mutually agreed that we didn't want to fuck and what the fuck was his deal? He told me that he'd been "so wrong" and that he'd really been wanting me all night. Well, I didn't want him. And I made that clear!

My friend heard us arguing through the door and came to intervene, but he'd locked it when he came in and he yelled back to her that everything was just fine. So she left me there and went home! I was at the point of drunk where my mind was working but my body wasn't and he went on ahead and did what he wanted to do. I just laid there and let him. I didn't really have a choice at that point.

The next morning I called my friend and she came and picked me up and took me back to her house. I sat in her shower, as hot as I could stand it, trying to wash the ick of the night's events off of me. I felt so ashamed and dirty. I'd gotten drunk. I'd put myself in this situation. It was my fault. And I'd cheated on my boyfriend. (I was already dating Grumpy at this point but he was stationed elsewhere and I was living with my parents.)

When I got home I repeated the hot shower thing in another attempt to wash off the shame and guilt and the feeling of him touching me. I told my mother what had happened and she informed me that I had been raped and that even though she didn't approve of me drinking, being drunk didn't give him permission to have sex with me if I said no. She took me to the police station where I gave my statement. The cop there told me he didn't think I had much of a case since I was drunk and had willingly gone to his house. It would just be my word against his and I would probably be better off not pursuing, so I let it drop.

I called Grumpy and told him what had happened. He said it wasn't rape because I didn't fight back hard enough. He also confirmed my own self-accusation that I had cheated on him. (He has since admitted that he was very, very wrong about this and has apologized profusely.)

I now wish that I had pressed charges. Even if there'd been no legal consequences, there'd have been some resulting unpleasantness from his chain of command -- enough, at least, to make him think a little harder about the potential consequences of his actions. But because I let it go, he never had to face any consequences whatsoever. I'm sure I wasn't his first and I'm sure I wasn't his last. The lack of consequences for shit like this just reinforces the entitlement complexes that perpetuate rape culture.

I feel like I've moved past and healed from whatever injury or trauma occurred as a result of these events. But I feel like I have to tell these stories. My stories are only a drop in the proverbial rape culture bucket. All women, and many men, have these stories. We all need to tell them. We all need to speak up. I feel like predators, like the men in these stories, have to be called out publicly, even if the calling out does not result in legal consequences. We cannot just quietly shuffle these things off to the side and pretend they didn't happen, you know, for the best interests of all involved.

We, as humans, all have urges to do things we know are wrong. We, as a society, have both a spoken and unspoken set of rules that keeps us, as individuals, from acting out those urges. We aren't just nice and generally well behaved because deep down we know it's the right thing. We are generally polite and well behaved - in public at least - because we fear the social consequences of being rude and obnoxious. (Really, I do so miss those happy days of my youth when racist assholes knew to keep their deplorable attitudes in their own rumpus rooms.)

This epidemic of predatory behavior has to end. The justice system and our politicians aren't going to protect future generations from this bullshit. We, as a society, need to end it. We need to teach our children early that they own their bodies and NOBODY has a right to touch them without their consent. We need to let our children know that allowing someone in a position of power to manipulate them into doing things that they find humiliating and gross is NEVER okay. We need to stop the victim shaming and start supporting those -- and believing those -- who are willing to speak out. We need to make it known to those who would be predators that they will be called out, the stories will be told, and that they will face serious consequences to their social standing and career status. We need to make it crystal clear that this behavior will no longer be tolerated. Period.

Peanut Butter and Shostakovich

I'm loving my new job. The combined music libraries of the symphony, youth symphony, ballet, and opera are being reorganized and I've been brought in to help with the project. I have specifically been tasked to the youth symphony, moving sheet music from old archive boxes to new archive boxes and relabeling them. 

I am in awe of the papers that are passing through my hands -- some of them dating back to the 60's when the youth symphony was founded. (There are pieces in other parts of the library that predate the founding of the main symphony in the 1800's -- I'm hoping to get my hands on that collection at some point.) The sheets are embellished here and there with the pencil notes young musicians have made to accommodate various conductors interpretations of the pieces -- noting cues, dynamic changes, and inserted or emphasized rests. I am handling years of history, and who knows what musical careers some of the previous holders of this music have gone on to accomplish. 

Many of the pieces brought back memories for me -- Smetana's Moldau has been my favorite piece of classical music since my 4th grade class went on a field trip to a concert the state symphony put on just for elementary students. I aided in murdering the William Tell Overture that same year by the all-county elementary orchestra as a first-year viola player. (My viola career came to an abrupt halt after only two years when my mother switched me to a private school with no music program.) And so much Sound of Music. That soundtrack and that movie are woven throughout my entire life like a thread through a tapestry. 

The dearest recollection a piece evoked today was during a battle with several large boxes comprising an entire Shostakovich symphony. My hands and wrists are covered in paper cuts and I'm sporting three bandaids. (Wouldn't want to bleed on the music!) Wrestling with this symphony brought back memories of a blog entry that I wrote almost 15 years ago -- February of 2003 -- about a toddler having a tantrum and then mellowing out in a most bizarre way. In honor of Shostakovich, and my paper cuts, I present it to you now. 

My life is strange. Granted, life with children is always strange in that crazy, wild, unpredictable, loud, chaotic way that children make life strange, but my life is strange in the quiet, subdued moments -- strange like scenes from surreal foreign films with softly lit backdrops of grey, overcast skies, and soothing baroque music wafting through the air.

My obstreperous middle child was in the midst of a typical 2 year old tantrum. He was in the kitchen laying on the floor gurgling out protests. "I don`t want it!! It`s STUPID!" As nothing was being forced on the child -- or even offered to the child -- I`ve absolutely no clue as to what IT could be. I made him a sandwich and got him a glass of milk, which he flatly refused mid-gurgle, preferring instead to lay on the floor and bemoan his lot in life.

Abruptly, he changed his mind. He stood up, picked up his sandwich and sippy cup, and requested that I "hold him to bed" which is his way of asking I carry him to my room for a nap.

This is where we pick up with the soft classical music and the muted light from the overcast sky through the window. He settled himself on my bed and put his finger to his lips to signal a hush. He lay meditatively, very deliberately chewing bits of sandwich, nosily smacking his lips while conducting an imaginary symphony with his one free hand and one chubby little leg waving in the air. I laid on my side, head propped on my arm watching this miniature Shostakovich in a none-too-clean t-shirt, diaper, and stained sock (he was only wearing one) as he smeared my white cotton pillowcases with Welch`s strawberry preserves.

The moment lasted until he`d chewed and swallowed his last bite of sandwich and drained the last drops of milk from his cup. The magic was over. He has returned to his tantrum and is acting sleepy. Perhaps he will nap soon.

Yeah, My Stomach Is Screwed

This is an illustration of a procedure called Vertical Banded Gastroplasty. I had this procedure in 2004, after the birth of Andro. This procedure is no longer approved by the FDA as it has been replaced by a safer, less invasive procedure -- the adjustable lap band -- that has a much lower rate of complications. Complications such as vomiting, malnutrition, high rate of failure (meaning patients gained back the weight), acid erosion of the stomach lining and esophagus, and general inability to eat almost everything, especially healthy foods.

I've always been self conscious about my weight. I remember having to shop in the pretty-plus section throughout elementary school. But I was never like FAT fat. I don't think I ever exceeded a size 20, which, while certainly not thin, isn't absurd for 5'8". In high school I joined the cross country team, ran about 3 miles 3 or 4 times a week, and dropped all the way down to a mind-bogglingly thin size 14 and about 185 pounds. I even had some people who suggested I try for a gig as a plus-sized model, though I never pursued that. (I did do art modeling in college, but that's entirely different.)

I struggled with my weight on and off through college to my early 20's, gaining and losing the same 30 pounds over and over. I tried to eat right and exercise, but fell off the wagon now and again. When Grumpy and I were stationed in Colorado, we were constantly hiking and camping and at the age of 22 I was about a size 16 and just under 200 pounds. And I looked good. And I felt healthy.

And then pregnancy. I got pregnant for the first time at 22, but I miscarried at 11 weeks. Even though I was pretty much nauseous the entire time, I managed to pack on about 30-40 pounds that hadn't even begun to budge before I got pregnant again, a month and a half after the miscarriage. Again, extreme nausea. The term "morning sickness" was a cruel joke. I was sick 24/7 and it didn't end with the first trimester. I was sick the entire 41.5 weeks. (He was late, stubborn boy.) I was in the ER 15 times for rehydration. I once threw up 18 times in one day day (pregnancy plus food poisoning) and it took several tries to get the IV started. They eventually nailed it with a pediatric-gauge needle - the kind they use for newborns. Even with the extreme nausea though, I managed to pack on pounds.

I knew I didn't want to go through that again anytime soon, and I knew I wasn't good at being consistent about things like taking pills, so I got the depo shot, which was supposed to last 3 months. It lasted a year and I just ballooned further, despite a healthy diet and a physically active lifestyle. Now, mind this was before the age of Google so I couldn't really research the side effects before I had the shot. It wasn't until after I'd gotten the shot that I found out my experience was super typical.

So, a little more than a year passed and I finally had a period -- ONE period -- and found out that I was pregnant AGAIN! (This seems to be something I do easily.) Cue the nausea. Cue the trips to the ER. Cue yet another round of weight gain. 

A few weeks after N2 was born, Grumpy was sent overseas and I moved back home to the South. Again, good diet, lots of walking and hiking, but the weight wouldn't budge. I went to the doctor. Nothing wrong with my blood work except my liver enzymes were high because of the fat in my liver. She said I needed to try to lose weight and put me on Prozac. I'm still not sure of the connection there, or why a PA for a liver specialist was handing out anti-depressants. I didn't lose any weight. And I didn't tolerate the Prozac well. I pretty much just slept. Constantly. So that didn't last long.

In December of 2001, Grumpy came home on a two-week leave. Two friggin weeks. And of course I get pregnant again. I miscarried that one at 10 weeks. I really tried to get myself together after that, eating right and exercising. And I think I lost maybe about 10 pounds over the next six months before Grumpy returned stateside for good. That's when we got sent to Bumfuck where medical care isn't really a thing. (Really, this is an AWFUL place -- the first question asked when anyone hears that you've been stationed there is, "Who did you piss off?")

We had about a month between his return and his report date. The plan was to get an IUD ASAP and look for job and like, be a person and stuff, but no. At my appointment to get an IUD, about a week after arrival, I found out it was too late because..,(drumroll)...I was pregnant again. (Seriously, you'd think my sex life was WAY better than it actually was, but no, I'm just really really fertile.) Again, all the nausea, all the vomiting -- once on N2's wee junk because while changing him, the smell of his poopy diaper overwhelmed my gag reflex. The smell of the rotisserie chicken at Walmart made me so sick that I was unable to make it fast enough to the restrooms and hurled on the floor of the dairy aisle at least twice. And somehow, I STILL gained weight. The fuck??

After the arrival of AndrogyNut, a full two weeks late, I lost exactly 9.5 pounds, which is exactly how much she weighed, and then proceeded to gain another 20. Again, I tried to eat right, exercise. There's pictures of me at 300+ pounds (I think I topped out at 320) with her strapped to me in a front-carrier, hiking with the family. (I spent a lot of time wearing all three of my babies, both front and back. I did most of my hiking then carrying a baby -- when the got older and moved to the backpack, my braids made for great reins.) But the weight would not budge.

By this time, I think Yahoo was the search engine of choice and was able to research options for bariatric surgery. I was just sick of this shit. My dad died at the age of 50, a few weeks after N1 was born, from liver disease. They said he had hepatitis from an unspecified source because they never isolated a virus. I don't think there was one. I think he was just fat. He topped out over 400 pounds. Either his doctors were never observant enough to come to this conclusion or they were just too polite to tell my dad he was morbidly obese and that his obesity was likely killing him. (Why would you not tell your morbidly obese patient dying of fatty liver that he was fat and it was killing him? You'd never be too polite to tell a patient they had cancer. Ugh.)

I knew I didn't want bypass, even though it put Carnie Wilson in the pages of Playboy. I researched that and the side effects and noped the fuck out. I read about the reversible, adjustable lap band, but I'd have to go to Mexico to get it because it wasn't FDA approved. Tricare wasn't going to pay for that. I decided on banding because it was reversible and didn't involve rearranging my intestines. (I think they're just fine where they are, thanks.) The closest qualified surgeon I could find was about 3 hours away. I asked my general practitioner at the military hospital for a referral. She said she was wondering if I was ever going to bring that up. (Again with the being too polite to tell your sick, fat patient she/he is sick and fat. This is just stupidity.)

Had the surgery. Went on a liquid diet for a month. Lost my mind. Slowly began eating regular food, being very conscious of what I could and could not eat. Lost a little over 100 pounds the first year. Reveled in my new body (which was just like my pre-baby body, only a lot saggier). Got used to throwing up. Grump got used to pulling to the side of the road on a moment's notice so I could throw up. Still totally thought the surgery worth it.

I STILL, almost 15 years later, think the surgery was worth it. Last check, I'm not pre-diabetic and my liver is just fine. I've kept the weight off, though I still battle that 30 or so pounds I battled before pregnancy. I'm not going to drop dead at 50. However, the not eating thing has gotten out of control. I've had to have several endoscopic procedures where the gastro doc goes down my throat with a balloon and blows the band back open because it keeps closing. The last time he did this, back in July, he told me he was willing to keep repeating this procedure but really, I needed to have it out.

I was still settling into what I thought was going to be my permanent job, and didn't want to take the time off for surgery, so I put it off, and off, and off. Finally in October I got frustrated enough (and felt fairly secure in my job, joke's on me hahaha, bitches) to go see the surgeon, who agreed that yes, it needed to come out and he could do that handily. I scheduled the surgery for Dec 20 when big corporation marketing shuts down for the holidays so as not to interrupt the job I no longer have. Jesus the irony.

Anyway, today I went in for an imaging appointment. I did the whole barium swallow thing. The band has completely shut and the yummy barium milkshake was exiting to the right, where my stomach tissue should be stapled shut, as illustrated in the above picture. I don't even know how that could happen. But yeah, fucker needs to come out.

Grumpy is afraid I will get fat again, but seeing as I had the doc go full scorched earth on my girly junk (slashed and burned) as soon as Andro was born, I think I will be fine.

Now the only thing is finding a new job once I'm healed.

Goddamit multinational corporation marketing department!