PITA PETA to Peskytarian and other Medical Mixes

So...

Still not dead yet?

Not even really all that thoroughly diagnosed yet. That's not true. I got a diagnosis early on - underweight prolly dehydrated - and it's sticking through the other testing whether it satisfies me or not.

Having returned my Ziopatch and let some complex algorithm review all my daily rhythms, I've been declared "not really out of the ordinary." I'm hurt. I was hoping for FUNKY PHUNKY ALL NIGHT LOOOOONG. Or something. Like "exquisitely syncopated with a cheeky rubato."

Anyways, this is comforting and frustrating at the same time. On the one hand, not one of those anecdotes in which I get called in upon results to get an emergency ablation immediately! Because that would have been less fun and logistically complicated with the nursling.

On the other... I had symptoms of something while wearing the patch. I pretty much still do on and off. Granted the holding theory that it's a long road to recovery from low weight maybe malnourished dehydration (that never actually medically shows up on anything) to normal.

And about that low weight. I'm not at all anymore. After a fairly impressive scurry up the scale (I didn't add water weight as much as I gained a subdermal water bed), I've continued to gain steadily if at a slightly less staggering rate. I'm mid-range healthy at this point and counting.

Mind-boggling how accommodating athleisure is to fluctuations in weight. I'd guess I've now gotten about 20 pounds and at least an inch and a half on my summer low. And my most structured clothes are starting to feel snug, but they do still fit.

(Yes, yes, I want to be totally cool and zen, but it is vertiginous gaining a ton of weight fairly quickly. I don't necessarily notice it and am surprised how little of a difference it makes in some ways, but it does trigger all kinds of alarm bells. I was really trying at first, but now I am just kinda doing my thing. And it makes me worry that some floodgate are opened and about what if I just keep gaining a few pounds a week for the rest of my life and suddenly I am now having health problems because I'm overweight??? And yes, I feel like I've checked off that box so I should be totally healthy because if I'm going to have a thick waist now - which appears to be the favorite spot for new distribution - I should have excellent health as a trade-off. But that's a different story).

I also had a stress test. This began quite appropriately by having to come a half hour early and then having wait for an hour because they were also "running late" not otherwise specified or updated. Talk about Adella-stress.

 Before that, they prohibited me from eating within two hours of the test and from having chocolate the entire day before.

 Next I thought they'd throw me into a room full of networking professionals, tell me that Andrew had lapsed into a coma, we'd lost our insurance and that I would need to get a job within the day or our whole family would be destitute and Chaya would be deported to... wherever our current administration is deporting small children these days.

The actual test was entertaining. The professionals were fairly incredulous about my low resting heart rate and low blood pressure as the test continued. Not in a "this is a problem way." But apparently I broke a record for "lowest blood pressure on phase one... looking good and not half dead." The test involved taking heart and blood pressure measurements in various positions: laying down, sitting, walking at a low speed and incline, and walking at increasing speeds and inclines in three minute increments. They mostly go to Phase Four, but people in my age and fitness group usually can squeeze to Phase Five (running a fifteen percent grade at some speed that makes you feel likely to go flying off the back). Apparently there too things responded appropriately. I was deemed to have excellent exercise tolerance and was further congratulated for my low blood pressure. They gave the proviso that this was not the official word but everything looked normal.

So, again, a relief. But, you know... A few days ago I felt horrible and my body did all those vague bodily things that bodies do and all I knew was that "it wasn't something that likely would show up on a Ziopatch."  Then suddenly fine again!

I can so see why people turn to naturopaths and the like. You want to hear something concrete. Clearly I was/am not getting some things I needed/need. Blood work only said low vitamin D, "but not enough to cause those symptoms." A few electrolytes were in low normal, but given the low blood volume and saline it's really hard to say what that really means.

So in problem-solving mode I think "well maybe I have a magnesium deficiency." Then I realize "but magnesium can cause bradycardia!" Etc. etc. So you go to somebody who coaches you through it. And maybe allopathic medicine requires a little more rigorous review, but sometimes I just want to be told that if I have licorice tea and take algae supplements things will be better. At least as convincing as "gain some weight and drink more!" Which is definitely a holistic allopathic approach that's been played out over my life. Though I haven't given it the fairest of shots.

And, well, I've gained weight. I'm drinking more. I've had roughly the same amount of salt in the last two months that I've had in the year preceding probably. And blood pressure is still what it is and really always has been from my recollection. I do feel better than the lowest point for sure. But there were a lot of years before that where I was lower weight and not salted to the gills that I felt about this fine or better. Yes, yes, tipping points. Still: kvetch and cavil. Where's my licorice algae tea (wait licorice lowers blood pressure too maybe!)

Anyways, I suppose in light of that...

I've started eating fish. Because, I don't know. I guess when I first started trying to gain weight more ambitiously, my body didn't love it. So, I started reading about gaining weight and the only really helpful resources on the physiological effects of gaining weight from underweight were directed at eating disorders. Thought it was interesting that there's new research that eating disorders are so persistent and invasive because they rewire the brain. So even when you've "recovered" you habitually still make the same food choices you did when you were trying to lose weight. Rewards centers get kind of renovated apparently.

 It did cause me to ponder about the concept of unnecessarily concrete dietary rules. Or holding onto dietary mores because they slowly become an intrinsic part of identity and ritual. I see that increasingly in a society that holds evermore complex dietary paradigms as moral paragons and class markers. We have so much to suggest that the healthiest people are those who eat fairly flexibly, with moderation in most things. But that's really an unsatisfying answer to life-the-universe-and-everything. Just like "love thy neighbor and don't start a Holy War" is apparently far less fun than dictating the way a ceremonial cup is held on a high holy day.

One of the reasons I fell into eating a low sodium, less processed, less fatty diet was that after a certain period of not eating those (read: law school when I was too stressed to eat and really did exhibit some pretty disordered eating and exercise behaviors) things, doing so made me feel really sick. Which I took as a sign that my body was just as happy not eating those things.

Apparently the body can sometimes be a bit like my toddler. It may tantrum when I coax it into the bath, but then two hours later, it's still splashing!

It appears there are ways that my diet can serve me better and there are ways to reacclimate to that. So still not really going to force myself to love maple bacon ice cream, per se. But certainly I've worked over some years to re-acquire a taste for fats and now salts. Do I sound like a broken record yet? How dated was that reference? Am I an mp4 looped on iTunes?

 Which all got me to thinking about vegetarianism. I'm a largely vegetarian because I'm a vegetarian. I decided to become one way back in 4th grade because the idea of eating a living being creeped me out. Since then, my philosophies have become more or less sophisticated and I have less issue intrinsically with "living being." I grant some of the environmental arguments, but think there are plenty of ways to be far more environmentally sound. I'm not Buddhist and I'm not purist about it.

My body has completely acclimated against eating meat and meat products. The smell and taste and texture makes me gag. Not psychologically, but physically. Yes I can usually suss out products with meat even if I can't put a finger on why they make me feel icky.

Any kind of restrictive diet makes eating outside of your dietary bunker harder. It's harder to eat out when you don't like salty fatty foods. It's harder to eat  at a friend's house when you're the only vegetarian and are thus not surrounded by clean eating tofu swilling seitans with lentil quinoa stews up their sleeves. You end up eating little and having to bring your own protein/nutritional supplements whatever. So it does impede your day to day life.

I disagree that vegetarianism is unhealthy and think there's a lot of mythology around that. People have ridiculous concepts about how much protein people need, for instance, and I've actually occasionally had quite a high protein diet based on plants. But I admit that there's a lot more planning and mindfulness to make sure I'm getting my omega-3s or enough B vitamins or what have you. Except for my Law School askesis, I've mostly been pretty comfortable with guzzling milk and eggs, so that's helped.

SO... reevisioning vegetarianism? I have no reason for being one exactly, except that it's some intrinsic part of my identity (but hey aren't eating disorders in a certain way?) and it makes me feel sick to try to eat differently.

And, I don't really see the argument for reintroducing meat. For not quitting meat, sure, there are plenty of arguments. If it brings you pleasure, I think a moderate portion of meat is healthy enough. But it's not healthier most of the time and I really do not enjoy handling, eating, or cooking it.

Anyways, epic sage abbreviated: I actually see a compelling argument for introducing seafood, healthwise. I'm not a strongly holding vegetarian on any particular point, but I like that there are fairly enough options for eating sustainably.

And I never really gave seafood much of a shot before I "turned" in fourth grade. Like none.

Turns out it doesn't really feel or taste like meat. It stinks sometimes. And I don't love prepping it yet. But there is some really good fish. I've had a pretty amazing simply grilled salmon. I've had the meat of Chaya's fishsticks. I've had shrimp in spring rolls. I've made a pretty amazing tuna salad with greek yogurt, lemon juice and dill.

I am not ready for sardines. We tried. I thought I'd even managed to pour enough complementary spices to cover the taste, but that smell just burrows into your nose and start kickboxing. I'm afraid of shell fish, still. But I am trying things out.


Wish me luck and then Smoke me a Kipper... I'll be back for Breakfast.

Though I'm not sure I'm up to kippers yet.

Mastitus Andronicus and the Febrile Feeding Frenzies

There be boobies and babies and even bottles ahead. Return of the Mammoth Mammary Misfortunes. Lactilagoons, pumping pains, and some tasty messy munchies. Oh and a few cognitive lightyear leaps... 

Mini-Mitts and the Angry Boob

Not to frame all parenthood in terms of struggle, but for all worthwhile accomplishments, there are birthing pangs. To create a beautiful new, the pretty (darned) old must chafe away. 

And learning is a bare naked time of terrifying vulnerability. When the stakes are as high as the flesh of your flesh (sometimes in baby form, and sometimes in the form of skin that baby has literally ripped right off of you under her talons), it can be a time of high striving for grand and noble reward. So I start by acknowledging the paradoxical stance most parents take when discussing their children: (1) yes it is the most exhausting, horrifying, annoying, vexing, unnerving and chaotic thing to ever happen to one; (2) but it's also the best, most joyful, amazing, and profound journey upon which you'll ever venture.

Because the two feelings are inextricably related. Call it Stockholm syndrome. Just don't call it late for dinner. Nothing of value comes without a cost and a struggle. And if you are taking it so in stride that you aren't the slightest bit put off from time to time, well, I question your eligibility for the parenting mantle. You might just be carrying the baby as an accessory.

That said, we continue with the baby battles. In many regards, I feel like the life of baby can be divided handily into three little pockets of battles/challenges/overlying motifs.

The first 6 weeks were the bloody (all too literally) postpartum shock of a body more enfeebled than it was in the latest throes of pregnancy and labor. In many ways, the baby herelf was the easy part. She was small. She needed constant nursing. She slept in odd and jagged spells. But the feel-good chemicals were strong, her cries were tearless, and her needs were simple. My exhaustion, however, was substantial. My body virtually ripped to shreds from that rapid ejection of life. It was a long haul just to be able to walk more than fifteen minutes at a time. And finally giving myself the rest required was an agonizing exercise in "taking it easy" and trying not to get too involved in day to day life or the exciting intrigues of our inevitably enthusiastic visitors.

Then there were the next months of let-down let-down: the boobie battles. When momma's milk evaporated, baby went on a very unintentional crash diet, and we clawed our way back from hours of pumps/supplements/and frustrations in the haze of purple crying. The Hail Mary dom perignon tic tac savior. And the final arduous struggle to tear baby from the plastic teat of an increasingly fervent bottle nipple preference and the iron maw of perpetual pumping. Husband and wife perilously at odds over the timbre and intent of her sobs and cries. Shaken by knowing she'd been left hungry before.

We stopped using formula (thank god for baby's belly) after a month. Baby took her last battle-bottle sometime before Thanksgiving. She has occasionally been offered one since, but at these times mostly gnaws on the tip (making mommy's boob tingle) and coughs with indignant splutter when milk comes through. Mommy waits until baby is old enough for a sippy cup, which seem somehow less seductive a replacement for her boobie, and she continues her dom perignon altoids (mint free because - of course - peppermint theoretically reduces some women's supply as surely as cookies boost it!). Some women are worried baby will never take a bottle. I worried she'd remember the ease and flow of those old bottles whilst already being distractible and impatient at the breast due to her ultra-aware age.

As this war wound down, we entered into sleep territory at the four month marker. The aftermath continues razing through life as we once knew it. Mommy bade adieu to her work with baby pipe dreams. Cribs, monitors, sleep sacks, books, and rituals dominated the dialectic. And sweet SAHM had the occasional success with a fair bit of bittersweet failure.

Current status during the ceasefire: 

(1) mommy's acceptance that baby doesn't really sleep more than 30-45 minutes at a time anymore during the day (except when it's an hour and a half and wait what?? Crazy baby), and that after that baby will spend any remaining time in the crib doing gymnastics and edging her way towards bursting straight out of the crib, quite possibly the nursery. We know one of these days all I will find is an open window and a rope fashioned from old onesies hanging out of the window. And that mommy doesn't care what baby's doing up there as long as mommy gets a moment to breath and/or do all the household chores and work she cannot even pretend to do when baby is downstairs;

(2) baby's acceptance that she doesn't really need to feed more than every four hours at night and that she can actually thumb-suck herself back to sleep if she's awake between those intervals; 

(3) a mutual agreement that baby will get drowsy and at least sort of sleepish (or lay there quietly maybe) after mommy reads and sings to her in the nursery and lays her in the crib;

(4) a mutual understanding that at least one nap on a four nap day will probably be taken out of the crib;

(5) an awesome video monitor supplants The Real Babies of Bellingham as the best reality tv this side of Senegal.


Aaaaand so we take a break to return to prior battles: ANGRY BOOB STRIKES BACK. With a vengeance. While bottles took baby scratches with equanimity, mommy's skin breaks more easily. No matter my stabs (har har, no the stabs were baby's) at ingenious mini-manicures, baby has talons. And she kneads as she nurses. Leaving both breasts with several scars and kitty scratches. Some worse than others.

At the same time, mommy found that disassociating nursing and napping seemed to help naps work a little better. This reduced the frequency of nursing. And the desperation to keep grumpy baby occupied, stir-crazy mommy socialized, and everyone napified also encouraged her to drop a few more pumping sessions a day.

Resulting in a backlog of milk. Resulting in a clogged duct. Resulting in broken infected skin. Resulting in... drumroll please... AN ABSCESS! In the milk maker area. And ouch. Let me just say ouch. To make it worse, baby sensed something was wrong and stopped much wanting to nurse on that side. Meaning more pumping, which didn't help with the irritation or the sanity or the rest.

My poor right breast was a snarled sunset of reds, purples, mauves and raw skin. The nipple itself distorted and cartoonish. And all the surrounding area unsettled and sensitive.

And so back to the Bellingham Center for Healthy Motherhood. And back to Mt. Baker Imaging (haven't been there since my fertility fandangos) for a breast ultrasound. Apparently, there is liquid, but they'd prefer not to "aspirate" (poke with a big needle and suck the liquid out, which may or may not leave a little hole in the skin through which milk would pour) so long as antibiotics are seeming to work. Fingers crossed. We're hoping for a big improvement by tomorrow.

The good news is that the angry boob still looks utterly battered, but it's more pinkish than purple. And baby has been a little less reticent about nursing on that side. Sometimes. She still has no problem suddenly getting thoroughly disinterested in nursing, and whipping her head off the breast while still fully latched. In fact, it's a common enough occurrence that mommy has to practice her zen breathing in advance. The downside is that increased nursing involves increased discomfort afterwards, since she's still nursing somewhat brutally in light of the changed shape of her number two suck sack. But I feel less urgent about pumping to get the milk out at, say, 2 a.m., and that's nice.

Still chained to the pump, but not in the middle of the night anymore. And I've discovered that those teeny tiny socks that don't quite fit her feet anymore are pretty optimal for her teeny tiny claws. Well, she still manages to get them off with all her busyness, but most of the time it still protects my worst areas from the utter writhing agony of a fistful of nail.

And so we carry on, having added one more pill to the arsenal. And one more wrinkle to the magical mummery of baby rearing. Little one is almost six months, and oh so mechanically close to making a mobility breakthrough. I envision all new battles beginning then. And evolving well into her late forties and fifties. Because she will always be worth it all. And I will always be there with my pound of mangled flesh hating and loving every step of the ride.

Of Boobs, Bellies, and Battlefields - Turn for the Worse 

Booby battles continues over the blare of a nap detente. It appeared at first that a little blue capsule (or four a day for ten days) was all that stood between me and recovery. My angry boob mellowed out. Chaya started nursing better on the right side again. All was well.

And then, not so much. The night before last, swelling increased to areas yet untouched. There was tightness, achy inflammation, and a really hard spot.

And despite my fear of fear itself (and the shame of possible hypochondria) I called the Bellingham Center for Healthy Motherhood to suggest my motherhood was not currently on track to healthy. Being the ridiculously caring and present health providers that they are, I was beckoned in at Chaya-beastie-nap's convenience. And it was agreed that things looked gnarly. And angry. And it was time to go back back back for another ultrasound. Shockingly, the Mt. Baker Imaging Women's Diagnostics Center had availability for "immediately" and so off I went.

There, they also agreed that things weren't looking fantastic (but from a deeper, more internal perspective) and that it was time to break out the biggish needles.

I dun been aspirated! That means they stuck a needle in my breast and used an ultrasound guide to locate a lagoon of puss-fluid, which they then extracted into a syringe.

Remember, dear Mr. (W)right when you got that liver biopsy and thought it was the funniest thing ever to respond to any question about your well-being with "they stabbed me in the liver!!" Well, buddy, "they stabbed me in the boob!!!"

And they drew out some delicious looking puss as well as some walled in milk. I guess I have a clog somewhere along the way? Or little lagoons of milk in my bosom. Uncomfortable little lagoons. That don't seem to clear up. I'm not a fan.

Luckily Gramma Pam was nearby and able to watch Chaya immediately while this all happened. Chaya spent her time flirting in the lobby, making eyes at everyone who came in, and showing off her mad new skillz. Oh yes, I came upstairs yesterday to find Miss Chaya on her hands and knees rocking back and forth! Holy moley, we are in for it. 

She's not super agile about it yet, but these are definitely the foundations of crawling happening around here. We are in trouble. I am particularly in danger. That girl is wiley and - as primary warden/caregiver - I'm in the crosshairs.

At any rate, the prompt aspiration did not magically cure my problems and I'm still waiting for a report on the lab cultures. I desperately hope to hear that there is some superior antibiotic that will clear everything up. Currently I am unable to nurse from this side, pushing me back to the early nightmare days of pumping and bottling. They're less nightmarish now, somehow, but the pumping frequency is demanding. And this is not just for nourishing my child, so much as preventing painful and dangerous engorgement. I got no sleep last night between feeding from my left boob plus ambidextrous bottles and sneaking downstairs to pump out the ever-filling lactalagoon of my right boob.

I am of course exhausted, frustrated, uncomfortable, and having stomach annoyances from the antibiotics. But I'm glad the turn for the worse came during the weekend so that I have help from my darling husband.

In the meantime, I'm making my peace once more with the bottle baby. It's cute now that she can hold her own bottle. She still makes the most soul-searching eye contact over a bottle. And grabs your face just like she does while breastfeeding.And pumping is still a major pain in the nipple. Mostly the time filling aspect is the most brutal. Hard to be chained to a stationary object with an active little baby. The day I wean is the day the PISA gets thrown off a tall building while I scream Yippee Kayee Motherf**er! The Spectra will go to the bottom of the lake perhaps.

The time is winding on and still no lab results... Will I have my answers soon? Will I figure out new and inventive ways to bottle feed and pump with a baby who must have all things (cords and pump equipment) in her grasp? Will a bushel full of cabbage leaves dry up the lagoon and send me on my merry way to happy formulaland? Will Monday bring a whole new series of aspirations and visits to the Mt. Baker Imaging Center? Will I come in to find baby hanging from the ceiling next?

I really haven't the faintest at this point, but I'll certainly keep you - sorry, so, so sorry in advance - abreast!

Bonzai Boobie Bath and the Six Month Magic

Another week past and the battles wage on. As I write, I have currently plopped the left-most half of my modest decolletage in a bowl of warm water, epsom salts, and essential oils. Soaking the udder is my new naptime hobby and calling. Because my life is thrilling like that. Like a spa day for one small vector of my body mass. Maybe next time, my toe will get shiatsu. Who can say?

We left off with a turn for the worse in Abscess-Mastitis land. Or better in that I did in fact seek medical attention and get my massive abscess aspirated. There was still some uncertainty as to whether I had MRSA or not. I do not. Just garden variety nasty strepoducacacadoodledoo. And the antibiotics I had been taking ought to have been doing the job. They actually were kicking some infectious bacterial ass, except that the clogged areas (near the nipples, by the way) were still very much backlogging milk into a painful breeding ground for the nasty infectious puss. Oh there was more in the magical land of TMI. So much more.

Anyways, let's montage that nonsense out of ponderous tomes and straight into victory - here's me squeezing, soaking, scrubbing, exfoliating a very delicate lady area, pulling off skin-like-something from that delicate lady area, pumping, nursing, crying, and finally squirting my baby right in the face with and unexpected surge of milk.

What a relief.

But I'm not out of the woods yet, so I'm reticent to proclaim anything but a detente. Today I had a follow up and we agreed that it's nice to see the nip area back down a third of its peak swollen stage, and that pink is a much nicer color than dark red and purple. But we also agreed that probably antibiotics don't need to stop just yet. There's still some hard areas and a fair bit of pink.

And so we carry on carry on.And panic when baby atypically decides to try out sleeping through the night. Yes, I eventually sneaked into the nursery and nursed her while she was still asleep. Yes, it's a thing. They call it a dream feed. Because that boob needs to be emptied, even if it no longer fills up as urgently as pre-mastitis. And if I had to pump, you know she'd have woken up hangry immediately afterwards. Plus I am still devising elaborate execution plans for both my pumps at this point, so dream feeding it is!

Of course going through all of this and wondering when the next resurgence might explode has been a contemplative time of transition. Will mommy soon reclaim her boobs for herself (and occasionally her paramour?)

After the domperidone started working, I had set six months as my initial goal for pulling out all the stops to nurse the little beast. And we're at six months.

I possibly appended a "until she's firmly on solids" to that goal. Breast milk has qualities that help digest solids while babies are adjusting. It is, of course, also the bulk of nutrition and the ideal nutrition until age one. But formula can follow as second best.

She's not firmly on solids by a fair mile, although solids are darned well on her pretty firmly these days. I have discovered that she enjoys eating sweet potato and peanut butter from a small spatula. And that she can't get enough black rice and pear porridge. I have discovered a few more things as well: (1) baby food is super fun to make, (2) Chaya is not thrilled when she accidentally throws a spatula full of brown rice and pear into her eye, (3) avocado is interesting but weird in baby land (apparently "finger foods" mean "foods you attempt to masticate and swallow through fingers alone," (4) while I disagree with the slightly misleading and inaccurate "food before one is just for fun," food is a lot of fun.

Oh and diapers get a lot more interesting even when it's just a little bit of semi-solid material passing through.

But yes, I think now that she's starting to enjoy the textures and flavors of various caloric mushes, Chaya's going to like food. And I'm going to like making a right mess with her. Of course food will be a small percentage of her diet for a long time to come, but it's a way for me to give "myself" to my baby in a more abstract and independent way. Instead of processing the food internally and giving back, I externalize the process and give her more and more agency in choosing it while sharing my own love for the tastes and textures of the world (and eating half of all of it myself).

Of course there's so much I am not quite ready to give up - the intimacy (when she isn't clawing holes into my chest, jabbing her talongs in my eyes and nose, and shrieking at me), that feeling of becoming one and giving myself to her in the most personal of ways, the convenience (ok this is debatable - I don't need bottles, but it's a PITA to feed distractibaby on the go), the extra calorie kick (when I'm chained to the house and too tired to get out, I have to acknowledge I'm hugely out of my usual shape), and mainly the excuse to go to the BCHM for Breastfeeding Cafe every Tuesday. And I see so many mothers struggling so much harder for so many fewer results. I am a "success" story in a very heartfelt community. It's weird to even conceive of walking away from that. Like a strange version of the sunk cost fallacy.

But I've also made my peace with letting go, and always when the equation favors the downsides of trying to nurse against the benefits provided. And although breastmilk is great at any age, the hugest relative benefits diminish with each passing month. I've made progress towards minimizing the downsides by cutting back on pumping. I'd like to - much more carefully, because I don't need more clogs and mastitis - phase out the final two pumping sessions. And if switching to a bottle meant encouraging Chaya to nightwean with no fear of any consequences for mommy's boobs... well I wouldn't complain about the extra sleep. I suspect the boobs could handle the night weaning at peak form, of course, but if not...

I am ready to wean down the dosage of my domperidone. It's a lugubrious process anyways, so beginning now is not as dramatic as it might sound. I'm currently taking twelve pills a day. To wean, I drop one pill at a time at weekly intervals - one week with eleven pills a day, one week with ten, etc. If there's a real reason to get off quickly, you can drop a pill every three days, but that comes with risks of side effects and so on. It's possible that a slow wean could find my sweet spot dosage at a much lower amount. It's even possible that I could wean completely without losing my ability to breastfeed, though less common.

I suspect that Miss thing will self-wean before the age of one. She's not been a particularly avid nurser, and certainly is ecstatic about food (despite being horrible at actually ingesting it)

And that darned little tiger is eventually going to get teeth... just saying... 

Hard to imagine breaking the mold and giving up the certainty that I can "EBF" when so many women kill themselves for upwards of a year or two to provide just half of their child's diet with milk.

But in the meantime, I'm captive to the vestigial mastitis hanging about in my bosom. Must obsess over every hour between feeds, soak that boobie, and pump away! Chaya doesn't mind. As long as mommy keeps loading up that spoon and too much food (milk or otherwise) doesn't get in her eye!

And hey, sitting! She can kind of sit. If I put her in a sitting position first! And then she falls to the side randomly after several minutes of looking very sturdy. Like a cute little drunk person. My little baby girl is growing up and preparing for college.

When You Look Into an Abyss, That Abyss Goes Cuckoo for Cocoa-Puffs

Previously on A&A's Adventures in ARTistry: The ghoulish gobliney go-go-gonadotropins upped their ante and asserted their achey angry emotional second puberty upon an unwitting sock monkey and her zombie camel compatriot. A zonk lay in store and bodies laying in wait for fairy Batmen and Winco whirlwinds. Blood pooled at the prick of a somnolent needle, but barely rivaled the terror of the stomach-stabbers. Cleaning women driven mad with power and powder ran amok through the DITK's home. And turbulent tears were shed for the torments of the Trix Rabbit over a bath in La Nausee, but to no avail. Trix ne'er were for any but the kids our trusty couple never could sire. 

Coming up: A stagger back through time in a groggy haze brings our heroine to the brink of the often feared relaxation, with an accent. Will Adella's tryst with Swedish wreak havoc on her deepest most blessed of tissue? Will her massage assassin strike back against the perfidy of his patrons? Kumbayas collect and haunt the hollows of a hobbled head. Will emergencies and ailments provide ironic succour from the spiritual snap? More blood spilled on a Monday morning. Will dragons be yet slain in Chthonia? A follow up marathon reveals results for Mr. (W)right and his myriad medical mysteries. But are the results anything beyond a wash of weirdess and wacky wonders? Will answers pending all these years finally emerge from the ether? Will muffles muffle? And what on earth will Adella possibly feed this bilious boys cavilling tummy? 

Pull out your (FOD)MAPs, toss your Nietzsche and gobble that (gluten free?) cookie crunch. The answers lay beneath...   

Time Keeps Marchin' On... Except at 2:00 a.m., which it liked well enough to sample twice

Adios Daylight Savings. Or hello. I forget most of the time whether it's coming or going. As far as I know, "daylight savings" is a code for "time is going to change on you all of a sudden as some sundry Saturday passes the baton to Sunday." Seems so far to only stagger and stutter within the matter of an hour, but I suspect that some day we'll gambol straight into Sunday two-weeks-ahead. Only a matter of time. Har har. 

I would typically take this wee little soap-text-box to complain about the pointlessness of the shifts. The utter anomie created weighed against the purported benefits. The lost evening light on one side and the lost morning light on the other. But it was so well appreciated, that extra hour. I am still quite bedgraggled from whichever million sources or blurg or other. My ability to sleep is well enhanced and rarin' for a grand display at almost any hour. 

 I've taken this arbitrary little study in time travel  as an excuse to go to bed at "the normal daylight savings summer time" and wake at "the new normal standard time" hour all weekend. Allowing a luscious extra hour that I can attribute to "adjustment." Perhaps I'll continue this trend through the rest of the week... 

Yesterday was quite the lavish exercise in self-care. A rarity in Adellaland, and one interrupted by a billion little kitchen to-dos, but nonetheless a net gain for relaxation by hook or crook. 

For the first time in years, I had a massage with somebody other than my massage assassin. Figuring this to be a stressful time, I've increased my massage intervals for a spell. And while Nick knows how to do it oh so right, I thought it would be nice to (1) schedule a few on a day that Nick doesn't work, (2) have a flirtation with the old comfy, slightly wussy, highly relaxing Swedish style. I feel like I'm cheating! On deep tissue!

No, really, it was fascinating to have a Swedish after so long. They certainly do not do the job for my kinks and crumples, but they are very pleasant. And there's a certain style of full body, high-pressure caress that feels as if the masseuse is dragging the blood fully through each and every vein and aorta of my body. And how peculiar to experience a massage in which the masseuse does not advise me to take an aspirin and ice when I likely I feel sore later. 

After my massage, I was pulled away from kitchen devilry by the enticement of a walk in the damp, crystalline November afternoon. Cool, yes, but quite stunning. 

 I pulled myself away from additional whirls through the kitchen with proclamation that I should and shall take a long warm bath. It never seems that appealing, until I'm about fifteen minutes in. But worth the pay off if I can drag myself to that point. 

And finally I forced yet another incursion from my darling mother and her courteous boy-toy for a dinner in the stuffy fire-pit of comfort food. One of our local restaurants, The Colophon, has always been a bit of a trendy place. Once the basement hole in the crypt of our most favorite local bookstore, it's known for that sort of handcrafted hearty foods that mean soup and sandwiches for dinner. I have an undying devotion to their split pea and corn and bean soups, but can't help that notice portion sizes staying lunch-grade while prices get dinner-with-it. A while back, the bookstore moved out. A specialty craft olive oil store moved in. The Colophon remodeled to look simultaneously sleeker and more "homey" in a way that screams Seattle yuppie on Cap Hill. Not a horrible thing, except during the remodel, they decided to stoke up a gigantic fire pit near the entrance doors. Presumably to battle draft and bellow out "cozy" but mostly it just adds a certain relentless incalescence to the dining experience.

Add to this that "water is a valuable resource" by their local and handcrafted ethoi. This seems to mean that you not only have to request water specially (which is reasonable) in order to receive it, but also that it will never be refilled. And though our waiter was quite adorable, he seemed to have a magical blind spot for muddling things like utensils, napkins, and requested refills. Perhaps not the most stellar place to beat off a lingering daze and headache. Perhaps. But then again, the soup was divine and the boyfrianceband somehow managed to survive his ordeal (4 hour race down South) and arrive in time for heavy munching.

Upon returning home, we set to the arduous task of finishing up a Futurama we had started on Thursday, while I set my injection bottles out to "acclimate to room temperature." That takes a while.

And then, of course, a quick jab and several alcohol swabs later... oh sweet bedtime. After Andrew showed me where he rode and analyzed the data of his 4 hour race (apparently he gets tired after two or three hours of riding all out... go figure!)...

And back to a deliciously dilatory morning. We have plans, but my plans about these plans are to shrug at them lazily and see how I feel in the moment. All plans are subject to revision, particularly in the "napping in a pile of drool" direction.

Mo(nkey)vember Madness Neenerneenernano rye-berries month maunders forth (e.g. #toevember )

Another day, another morning commenced at a local blood lab. I'm getting to be quite the regular there. Pretty soon, they'll all start chanting "Norm "when I wander in. Today, I arrived about five minutes later than usual. I'm not sure if this is the cause of my significantly longer wait (longer than zero, which in this case meant about twenty minutes). It may also be a difference between Monday morning and Thursday morning. Regardless, it was slightly less of a breeze than some of my previous experiences. And, while I got the same delightful phlebotomist, my little arm apse is aching and smarting a bit for the pricking today. Can't be perfect every time. 

I'm beyond curious what today's estradiol levels are. Because my have I been feeling something this weekend. Something I'd equate with roiled up estrogens marauding through my system and making me all moody, fuzzy headed, and head-spun to turgid twitterpation. Also, and this is gross, I may or may not be feeling the old ovaries themselves getting a bit big for their britches and an eensy bit... er... hyper. Mostly twinges, but a little alien sense of presence when I twist or move my torso. Or maybe it's the vapors! Lord knows.

Regardless, like a pockmarked tween, Imma goin through changes, baby. And I'm curious if those will be reflected in this next blood test result. And if so, am I back to fighting the dragon in chthonia or off to the fair Duchy of Kirkland for another tryst with a not-so-magic wand? 

Stay tuned, Miss Adella's brain... and make absolutely certain to be utterly distracted all through that feel good kumbaya Collaborative Law retreat you've conjured up this afternoon. 

That's right. Today is the day to get all ooey gooey warm and chocolate coated caramel with my collaborative comrades. For a good four friggin' hours.THE COLLABORATIVE PROFESSIONALS RETREAT!!!!

The premise of this little get together is that several of our more starry eyed compatriots went to a big conference in Vancouver last weekend. And boy oh boy was it purportedly life changingly amazing, if you believe the fifty missives malingering in my inbox from our more ponderously prolix of members (yes, there's somebody who blathers on beyond even my taste for the finger-tip tangos). I suspect the entire four hours will be him jumping up and down with tears in his eyes waxing rhapsodic regarding his magical summer camp experiences. 

 I'm frankly not sure there's room in that group hug for my swollen gonads and estrogen-ensnared befuddlement. I'm really not sure. Especially given the mood swings. 

Oh the mood swings.  Maybe I just am this way. It's possible. Maybe I shouldn't blame the universal scapegoat "hormones". Maybe I do suddenly turn to an unplaceable rage between a cozy second in bed with my husband and an otherwise pleasant breakfast... over... um... I don't know, but screw it all!!! That cabinet was looking at me funny!"

And don't me started on the occasional crying jag. They're infrequent, but pop up at surprising and inscrutable intervals. Totally happy and glad and mellow to hear great news of friends' pregnancies (though sad that my situation might even for a minute make any friend feel nervous or awkward to tell me in the first place), that the first person who ever asked me if I wanted children and made me realize "well, wow, maybe I do" and then nudged me alone that path again years later is now somewhere far away on the magical parenting odyssey I may or may not ever find, mother-in-law's mad marriage plans, and husband's vehicular and bicycle escapes. But something about the sheets just makes me profoundly sad for a few minutes. Maybe it was the bathroom towels being crooked and slightly off-color. I forget.  

And then suddenly I'm flashing back to my early twenties, sobbing while my hand is held in ways that defy humanity by somebody I'm losing. And I'm remembering how some time before that I'd dreamt of a child we'd somehow innocently conceived and how real just the dream was and the weight it had on my whole body even just imagining, the personhood of a fantasy. How easily my body could have accomplished then what may be closed off to me forever now. And I'm grieving the losses of everything that can't be and what might still not be and ... oh for fuck's sake the dish towels are crooked and one is the wrong shade of cream! Why???

Regardless, I may either start sobbing over the beauty of a collaborative tale of love and redemption or I might just shove all the sandwiches into somebody else's face because I don't like the way their hair is waving at me. It could go all sorts of ways. And really, I have no great excuse. I'm administering a droplet of these injectables versus the full syringes that several thousand IVF patients pump into their bodies. But there we go. I'm a sensitive gal, I guess. Considering I've been virtually menopausal for 1/3 of my fertile life, I guess I am going through puberty all over again this last year. And this is a big amp up hereabouts. 

Hyper, hyper sensitive this morning. And that fan is mocking me!! Ok, maybe not. Actually I'm fairly sanguine at the second. Can't say what comes next.

But that's not for another few hours. I suppose this is the time to glare at the work I have to do and tell it that it's being a stupid doodoo head by not having the associated documentation and analysis required to make anything useful of it. Hisssss hisss. 

Now I'm just enjoying being a cranky monkey. OOOO OOOOO OOOOO OOOO (that's my monkey noise!)

Happy Monday! Wheeeeee! It's gonna be an interesting week. 

Twiddle-Toed Tuesday in Migraineville Remodeling Raspberries and the Looming Headache

Yesterday's blood results came back with a big old "double your dose of FSH and give us more blood later" I was a tad concerned about doubling my go-go-gonadotropins, considering how flattened I'd felt all weekend. Also, given how I shot away a large portion of the first bottle and will likely shoot through the rest of it by the time of my next choose-your-own-adventure blood draw. 

As it turns out, so far, I actually feel a tad on the mend. Perhaps I was casting calumny and dispersions in the wrong direction. Maybe I merely had some hormonal effects blended well together with a garden variety flu. Yes, I got my shots, I promise, but there are still little buggers out there. Or perhaps I'm just starting to adjust to having more estrogen in my system again, and it takes a while to react to a different dose. Or maybe the incredibly restful process of "staying holed up at work slogging through emergencies instead of kumbayaing with my yippee-kayeee collaborative law buddies" was just what the reproductive endocrinologist ordered. I don't feel 100%, but I'm not throwing Nietszche at Cookie Crunch cereal boxes or crying over doilies. So, that's promising. 

In an uncanny spat of timing, the construction men next door have decided to move in and make up that deficit of "argh" with some early morning BZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ. It sounds like I'm working next to an asthmatic ogre with sleep apnea. Ear plugs are appropriately burrowed against my ear drums. But it's still a mite vexing! I need some additional protective head gear, and a better surround sound. I know Dvorak's strumming about in the background somewhere, but mostly I get wisps of strings between knocks, rattles and BZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ. Kind of a "modern" arrangement of a Romantic classic I suppose. 

Today, Mr. (W)right is attempting to accomplish every last strand of business and follow-up in Bellingham all at once. Or spaced out by an hour apiece. Medical follow up in the morning. Automobile repair in the mid-morning. More medical follow up in the afternoon. Should anything go wrong with the automobile angle, I expect to be the knight in shining kia. He may disparage my little baby, but it comes through in a pinch... most of the time anyways. 

While waiting for my superhero cue, I suppose I should continue my scrambling and egging on towards completion of "the big emergency" that' still ongoing. It's a recondite little number involving dueling mediation and court calamities between several convoluted arguments of experts and appraisers. I'm so very good at that nonsense. Really. No, no I'm not. Numbers - as my dosing strategies may indicate - are not my forte. I'll be side-stepping those as much as possible.

 Serenity now, baby. Yes, the movie. Please. I'd like to go home and watch a Firefly marathon, actually. 

But hip hip hooray, it's Tuesday! Or - to drag out an old chestnut - #toesday   in #toevember  HASH ALL THE TAGS!!

All Over the FODMAP with the Muffled Maniacs of Michelin Captious Culinary Camels Day and the Wild Wednesday WhoopeeWhirl

I do believe we are making our initial ascent up the hump itself. The apex of this paltry work week nonsense beckons with sultry song and promises of a careening crash-landing into weekend world! Happy hump day all!

And date night to me. Yesterday was Mr. (W)right's marathon medical and mechanical follow up day. He was in town all day! But pinging twixt appointments like a pinball in the bonus bumpers, so I didn't exactly see much of him beyond the post-appointment reports. Basically my man is medically weird not otherwise specified. No test can quantify him! Or - if it does - it's mostly a wash of highs and lows that hopefully average out to "meh, probably ok." I guess that's good news, because it means no impending liver stabbing (we'll stick with stabbing my stomach for now, thanks). It's a touch disconcerting, I think, for the ongoing and enormous medical shoulder shrug when it comes to any curiosities that might arise from his uniqueness. 

But good news is he's done with his little medical merry-go-round for a while. No parasites, no super duper weird blood work, no blood cells where they shouldn't be, and his microscopic swimmers may be morphologically unique, but they're plucky little guys and they brought their friends. So back to me and solely me frequenting the labs and centers of our noble Northwest. For now, anyways. 

Of course, he did have some unanswered questions about suspected food sensitivities and digestive discontent. These may merit some fairly elaborate food experiments in the future (he decided the Holidays are not the time to start anything, so we're putting anything dire off until 2015). I inadvertently got this whole FODMAP idea into his head when I reposted a New Yorker article about gluten. FODMAP sensitivity is a little more complicated but much more scientifically sound. Because there are components in wheat products that are high FODMAP, it may well be that a GF diet doesn't hurt those with these sensitivities. But FODMAP itself is much more extensive, cutting out legumes, anything with fructose (including several fruits), onions, cabbage, and garlics... a few other things... and everything (read: everything for sale) made with some of those items. One goes off all that for a spell and then gradually works things back in to find individual variances and tolerances. 

Of course, actually, my bizarre taste for odd grains and foods does help this. Andrew's dinners - once I started weeding out the beans, legumes, and onions - have been pretty well in compliance with a low FODMAP diet. But, bread is really convenient. And high fructose corn syrup/wheat products are in a a lot of things that Andrew really enjoys eating.

So, it will be a bit of clinal research-and-experimentation to see what that morning heaping of toast might turn into. I'm thinking crepe/pancake type things. I make my pudla with chickpea flour, but have definitely used buckwheat and oat flour  before. There's always oatmeal and hot cereals as well.

And lunch... well, actually I've long since weaned him from his two huge PB&J sandwiches down to one sandwich. In this last year, actually, he went from having eight pieces of bread a day to five... so that could be a general trace of trajectory there.  Most nuts are ok (phew given the bulk of his replacement calories are in a self-mixed trail mix), but the candy I like to stash in his lunch box would be out. As would the apple. But not the veggies!

Of course who knows whether those are his particular sensitivities. When he was remarking that his symptoms seemed quite inconsistent and uncorrelated with any particular meal, I did mention that my system will become universally grumpy in phases when I'm either experiencing stress or recovering from a lot of exercise. To my sense, they both release stress hormones in the body (I mean, endorphin-producing exercise in a humans usually is a sign to the physiological part of these beasts that their lives are in danger and they'd best dump and run). 

And those stress responses result in all kinds of weird oddities. He actually - begrudgingly - admitted that his "symptoms" did start at the onset of a period in which he began cycling in a serious training manner and during which stress has been a larger constant in his life. Then fell into a paroxysm of terror at the sheer idea of "cutting back" for a brief spell. 

I don't see any month long experiments in which he stops training, and spends his idle time meditating, doing the odd brisk walk, and channelling his inner yogi. But I still wonder if it wouldn't be as effective as any dietary changes. Possibly in concert. And it wouldn't hurt some of our other mutual "health" interests from what I can tell. 

But then again, Adella needs an excuse or an inspiration for some creative kitchen-thinking even (or especially) in her time of intentionally attempting to chill the frig out and slow the smeg down. 

Speaking of which, if Andrew's really does need to switch over his dietary habits, I have got a freezer full of couscous, whole wheat, bulgar, farro, pasta, and rye crackers (not to mention a few cupboard shelves of leftover Halloween candy, and a fridge full of apples) to eat on my own. That should help my other latent goal of actually gaining weight... win win!

Of course, I needn't even say that immediately upon returning from his various appointments, the bike-and-chain went out for a long arduous ride and returned with half the forest to deposit in our trusty tub. He was appropriately dazed for the rest of the evening. And lest we list that as his sole affirmative accomplishment for the day, he also got his muffler fixed. He now, has a tail pipe. Which is probably a good thing. 

Today both he and I are back to work. I suspect Mr. (W)right is somewhat relieved all in all. I'm not sure I can say I'm relieved, but maybe a little. The construction chaos has abated today. No ear piercing whirls or drills. Just my trusty treadmill, two fans (the heat in here is unbearable), and some balmy Bach. Oh and a crapton of shiznet to accomplish that still somewhat relies on information I've yet to receive. Let the anxious waiting game commence!