The First Few Days

I'm on day four post-surgery. It's been four days of a crazy ride, let me tell you. A lot of the details of Wednesday evening are foggy, considering the circumstances. I woke up from surgery around 6pm and was in recovery for a couple of hours. All I wanted was to see Nick, because even though he drives me insane, he's my favorite adult human being. I was getting settled in my room after they moved me from the recovery room and in walked this handsome breath of fresh air. I, of course, cried. I was happy to see a piece of home when I felt so overwhelmed and on my own in the hospital. I hate hospitals for that very reason. So isolating and so impossible to actually rest or heal or recuperate. I've always wanted to get out ASAP, after my kids were born, and after any procedure or surgery I've had. There is no rest in a hospital bed, I assure you. 

Wednesday night was absolutely miserable. Nick went home after a little bit to be with the kids, there's no point in him being miserable alongside me in the hospital when he can be taking care of the littles. I was in pain at the incision sites, huge amounts of discomfort from the gas bubbles in my belly since they had to basically blow my stomach up like a balloon to manipulate the tools laparoscopically to perform the surgery, and scared of the decision I had made. I didn't know how this was going to turn out (and still don't) and the fog of the surgery/anesthesia overweighed the positive thoughts of changes to come and end results. 

I slept about 30 minutes total on Wednesday night. It was absolutely awful. The nurse kept coming in to see if I was able to fall asleep, but the second I did, another nurse would come in to take my blood pressure, which was high, because duh, I was stressed out. The nurses did their best, and I have no complaints about the care I received in the hospital. But it was one of the most miserable experiences of my life. Gas bubbles, stomach pain, discomfort, lack of sleep, anxiety, loneliness, and worrying about the aftermath of my choices. A perform storm for what came next, I suppose. 

My surgeon came in around 9am on Thursday morning and said the surgery went great, and I was doing a good job of getting up and walking around and tolerating liquids, so he was sending me home. I was having pretty strong bouts of nausea, but the nausea at home would be way easier to deal with than being in the hospital and miserable for other reasons there, as mentioned above. So by 11am, Nick had come to the hospital and we were on the way home. 

And then it began...the nausea that felt like it would never end. Like the worst hangover of your life times 1000, because guess what? Dry heaving with nothing in your stomach and four incisions which make every single motion more painful, was beyond words awful. It lasted for a good chunk of the day, I would sleep for an hour or two, and then wake up and feel nauseous. I wasn't eating anything, and was barely tolerating clear liquids at that point, but I was so happy to see my kids and be in my house, that I knew it would all pass. It would all be part of the journey, and I'd end up on the other side, hopefully sooner than later. 

Thursday evening I had some choppy sleep, but I'll take anyone over that first night in the hospital. On Friday, I took a good long nap mid-day and was feeling better than I had in days. Still a bit of pain and discomfort, but things were starting to look up. I even went and watched my youngest play soccer. A victory in my surgery journey for sure. 

On Saturday, I decided to take it up a notch and go to a soccer game, as well as my son's CIF volleyball game which was an hour away. The games themselves were tolerable, but the car ride was miserable. Uncomfortable, and then of course, the kids had to eat, so I smelled fast food for a bit on the way home. That wasn't as bad as I anticipated to be honest. I'm sure that will change as I get more hungry and my stomach develops a bit more, but for now, it was all good. I was so worn out from those adventures that day, that I was very sore on Saturday night, but slept well and woke up today to Day 4 Post-Op. I'm able to tolerate all of the clear liquids and a couple things from my full liquid list (potato soup strained so there are no chunks at all, and sugar-free vanilla/chocolate swirl pudding). I'm walking around, folding laundry, and blogging. My brain is working properly (for the most part) and I'm feeling stronger every day. I even washed my hair and shaved my legs today! 

I feel like the first few days are its own battle. From here, there will be other battles, but my body will slowly start to get stronger, my stomach will be able to tolerate more and more, and I'll resume a new normal. What that new normal looks like exactly, I'm not 100% sure. But I do know it'll be better than the old normal, and I'll be a better version of myself six months down the road. 

Pre-Op Behind the Scenes!

 Oh man. I did not know what I was in for with the pre-op liquid diet and the sheer weight of the anxiety that I experienced last week. Seven days ago, I was having my last day of "regular eating", which if you take a look at the truth behind my regular eating, you'd see that it wasn't regular at all. Food had become a comfort to me in the crazy chaos of motherhood over the last 16 years, and especially since I started working from home exclusively since 2014. These aren't excuses, just more foundation for you to understand where I am coming from in this decision, and why I chose to go the surgery route. 

Liquid diets are really terrible. Especially for someone who has issues with texture (Jell-o isn't my friend) and an awful gag reflex. Super bad combo. Starting on Monday, April 24th, I was on a clear liquid diet in preparation for my surgery on Wednesday, April 26th. I started that week off at 273.2 pounds. That is so embarrassing to even type it out, but I know in six months, I'll be far away from that number and celebrating my successes, so here goes. Full transparency. 

My lovely diet on Monday began with protein shakes, Gatorade Zero, chicken broth (gag), sugar-free popsicles and sugar-free pudding. The Jell-o, I really gave it a shot, but it's just not my jam. Even with very limited options, I'll pass. I was so cranky by the afternoon on Monday, I was seriously second-guessing my decision to go through with this. I talked to my husband about it, and he was rationally supportive, per usual. Telling me that I needed to focus on my goals, and not get caught up in how I felt at that particular moment. He was probably right, but it was incredibly aggravating to hear. On a liquid diet, no less. 

By Tuesday, I was freaking out. I didn't know how to tell people, I had only let four people know at that point. Four people that I knew I needed the support of and trusted to keep my best interest in mind, even if they were concerned or worried about my decision. I still hadn't told my kids when I went to sleep on Tuesday night. They knew I was having surgery, but they didn't know why or what the process would entail. They knew I couldn't eat food prior to the surgery, but since they're kids and have their own stuff at the forefront of their minds, they didn't ask too many questions. 

Tuesday evening, I was starting to get a little more excited about the possibility of the end game here. The results. The solution. The feeling better. The dropping of excess weight I'd been carrying around for so many years. Then I woke up on Wednesday morning and was scared all over again. It was a back-and-forth emotional roller coaster, and it was exhausting. Not to mention that I am anxious by nature, and was suddenly thinking about what would happen to my kids if I didn't make it through the surgery. I was already worried about who was going to get them to and from school and sports and friends' houses, and now this. Wednesday was one of the longest days of my life. I was supposed to be at the hospital at noon, but then we waited around, of course, and I was in pre-op stressing out and worrying about things until about 3pm. I think I went into the pre-op room around 3pm or so. The thing is, I'm not scared of surgery. I've had 7 or 8 surgeries in my life. Anesthesia is usually fine for me, no complications. I don't have a really difficult time with pain management, I usually have a pretty high tolerance for pain and can muster through it. I remember going to a high school play a day or two after I had my gallbladder removed when I was 17, no problem. Now granted, I've added a few years of wear and tear to this body, but even back in 2019 when I had a procedure requiring anesthesia, I woke up happy and fine and in minimal pain. 

So I went into the surgery anxious and worried, but not scared of the actual procedure. More scared of what was to follow, and rightfully so. The best (and worst) was yet to come. 

Body Image & The Decision

 I've struggled with body image since I was a teenager, like most American females. My weight fluctuated as an adult after I stopped playing sports and started being less active in general with a "real" job and full-time college classes. Fast forward to the year before I got pregnant with the twins, and I was at my heaviest. I went on a lean protein diet and lost weight to a healthy point, and then got pregnant and struggled to get that weight off for about a year. Toss in a divorce (stress diet) and I was back down to my comfortable weight of about 140. I got remarried and then got comfortable, add a few pounds, and then got pregnant a few years later. Fast forward to 10 years later, and I am at my heaviest weight. Uncomfortable. Not trusting my own body. Fearful of falling or getting hurt because the recovery would be next to impossible at this size. Ready to make a change, but terrified that the wrong step will lead to no progress, setting me back or keeping me standing still. 

After taking a year-long series of classes through my medical insurance to find out more about the options offered, I decided to meet with a bariatric surgeon to discuss possibilities. I decided in late March to pursue a gastric bypass surgery, which was scheduled for April 26, 2023. I did not make this decision lightly, but considering the health effects of my weight over the past several years, I knew I needed to make a drastic change in order to see drastic and life-changing results. I know myself, and I know that this isn't the solution for everyone. I still don't know if it was the right choice for me, to be perfectly honest. But I'm embracing the steps and the process, and taking it one day at a time. 

For those of you considering weight loss surgery, I wanted to share a few of the reasons why I chose to go this route. 

1. I have sleep apnea, which has gotten worse over the last few years. 

2. I have ongoing issues with high blood pressure and it seems to be getting worse as time goes on. 

3. I am borderline diabetic. 

4. I am uncomfortable in my own body. I don't trust it, I'm always worried I'm going to fall if I try to do something physical, because this body just doesn't feel like my own. 

5. I want to coach my kids and run around with them. I want to be an active mom. 

6. I want to live a long time and be able to know my grandkids. 

7. I want to enjoy life and our pool and wear a bathing suit around friends and family without feeling like a beached whale or a sideshow. 

8. I want to be confident in my own skin again. I haven't felt that for almost 15 years now. 

9. I want to be able to fly on an airplane and not feel like I'm inconveniencing the person next to me because I'm spilling into their seat. 

10. I want to ride roller coasters (maybe - I am getting older so this one might be out!), and sit in movie theater seats, and walk next to my husband and not feel like I'm an embarrassment to him. I want him to be proud that I'm his wife. I want my kids to be proud that I'm their mom. 

So there you have it. Last Wednesday, four days ago, I had gastric bypass surgery. But that's not exactly the beginning of it. I'll share more of this journey with those of you interested in following, and I'll even include some of the details no one likes to talk about. For those of you who aren't interested, skip ahead, I'm sure there will be more content at some point, but in this season of life, I'm deciding that I was made for more than a sedentary life on the couch, and I took the decision into my own hands. Follow along if you'd like! 

The Hardest Thing

 It's been awhile since I last blogged, friends. And holy shit, have things been rough. On February 4th, my husband lost his dad. On February 15th, my husband lost his mom. 11 days apart. They both suffered from different forms of Parkinson's, but they had lived very different lives and been divorced for 30+ years. It's been absolutely surreal and heartbreaking and the absolute hardest time of my life on several different counts. So here goes. 

Instead of reliving the past six weeks, I want to start with sharing the hardest thing, which came to a head last night. Since I was about 13 years old, I can look back and say I have battled with some form of mental health struggles. I believe, knowing what I know now, and understanding more about mental health now that the stigma of the late 20th century regarding mental health has somewhat decreased in society, that I had undiagnosed depression and anxiety for most of my teenage years and into adulthood. I wonder if I may have some level of bipolar disorder, but the fact that I can usually manage symptoms unless extreme stress is in my life is indicative of more than likely major depressive disorder and/or anxiety disorder rather than bipolar. But, I digress.

The hardest thing.

The impossible thing.

The gut-wrenching thing.

Here goes.

It's that I gave this invisible disease to my kid.

Micah has struggled with his emotions and having outbursts since he was about 4 years old. That's when we really saw an inability in him to express his discomfort with people he didn't know extremely well coming into his personal space, trying to hug him without permission, or generally just being up in his business and him preferring for them to stay out of his bubble. Now don't get me wrong. Micah can be an extremely loving kid. He loves his mom and dad, his grandparents, and his cousins and his siblings. But that's kind of where his circle ends. I think I am the only human on this planet that he will willingly come up to and ask for a hug. He will let other people hug him (his dad, grandparents, cousins, siblings) but he doesn't ask anyone else for a hug except for me. It's as privilege to be loved by Micah. It's an honor that he chooses me to be his person. But it's also the most exhausting thing in the world. Because not only does it drain me of the normal mom emotions of wanting your kid to have what they need and emptying your cup to fill up theirs, but I struggle with the same mental health issues that he does, so I'm emptying my cup that's already emptied a million times over again. The easiest way for me to explain it that I shared with my husband yesterday was that it's like I ran a marathon, and then I have to run another marathon right away, but this time I'm starving and dying of thirst. 

So last night, the hardest thing. We had Micah's grandmother's funeral mass and internment service on Friday. Then on Saturday, Micah spent most of the day with his grandparents (my parents) while Nick and I went to start cleaning up at Nick's mom's house. On Sunday, Micah spent most of the day with Nick and Jaxon, going to the movies, running errands, just having a nice day off together. Then came the evening when it was time to settle down and get back into the routine of the week. I asked Micah to eat dinner or get in the shower. And then it was stonewall time. He refused. We went back and forth, me remaining relatively calm, giving him time and options to make the right choice, but also knowing I had to stand some sort of ground because he's getting too old (and frankly too big and strong) for me to let him get out of control or get physical with me. He has in the past gotten angry and a little big violent with me and his dad, just acting out and wanting to release his feelings and his anger somehow. So, I finally told him he just needed to sit on the bed, after he had thrown a few things around the room, beat up on his brother's gaming chair and some furniture, etc. I told him he just needed to stay in one spot on the bed or get in the shower. He chose to stay on the bed, and I told him I had to go vacuum the living room rug and I'd be back in a few minutes.

While I'm vacuuming, I hear him start to yell, "I'm going to hurt someone!" a few times. I waited, and then I went back into the room and told him that's a serious thing to yell. He's either going to need to tell me if he means that and we'll take him to the hospital to talk to a doctor who can help him, or he needs to tell me if he's just saying that to get my attention because he doesn't know what to do with his feelings right now. He didn't say anything, just stared at me and starts picking at his fingernails, a sign I've recognized over the years as one of his anxieties coming out. So I told Micah I needed to finish vacuuming and I would be back in one minute to hear what he decided. 

I came back as promised and Micah was crying. I laid down with him on the bed, and he was just sobbing uncontrollably, his body rocking back and forth. God, I hated every second of that for him. It's the absolute hardest thing in the world to see your child walk through the worst pain that you know all too well. Hearing your kid tell you that he can't breathe, he can't catch his breath, that it hurts to breathe, seeing his eyes just drowning in pain and hurt, it will literally break your heart into a million pieces over and over again. 

The loss of two parents within weeks of each other is a pain I cannot even begin to imagine. Watching my husband walk through that loss and pain over these past several weeks, seeing him deliver eulogies for both of his parents and do an amazing job at that and just carrying the weight of coordinating the services and all of the other pieces has been hard. Trying to be what he needs me to be has been incredibly difficult. But seeing my kid fall apart, and knowing that in some way I did that to him, I passed that down to him, I gave him those broken pieces of myself, that is the hardest thing. The thing I wish I could take away. But I can't. 

So for now, I'll do what I can to make it less hard for Micah. I'll take the pain that I can carry for him, and carry it on my back instead. I'll be there to hold him while his little body rocks back and forth. I'll try to talk him through what he's willing to share, and I'll make sure he has people in his corner at school and at home that know where his struggles lie, and can recognize those signs and help walk him through the harder days when I can't be right by his side. 

Because no matter how hard other things are in my day, whether it's a shitty job or friendships that aren't always what you want them to be, or bumps in the road of marriage or relationships with family members, or financial struggles or whatever other curveballs life will inevitably throw our way, God chose me to be Micah's mom. He chose me to be the mom to all four of my kids, for better or for worse, they're stuck with me. And even though sometimes I feel like they got dealt the short end of the stick because of my struggles, maybe God chose me because He knew my struggles would in some way be the lifeline that my kids needed. Maybe I'm exactly the right mom for Micah because as painful as it is, I know the feeling of your body shaking uncontrollably, of your emotions being so out of control and not really being able to explain why or how it got that way. 

Maybe the hardest thing is exactly the thing that makes me the perfect person for this job after all. 

Grief is Love Not Wanting to Let Go

 Grief is a tricky thing. Everyone copes differently, and in a house of six people, it ebbs and flows and sometimes crashes hard.  The most difficult thing is knowing how to support the people you love who are hurting the most.

My husband lost his dad on Saturday. He was a brilliant, kind, funny, sharp man when I met him almost fourteen years ago. He was still all of those things the last time I saw him in late 2022. The sharpness had dulled a bit due to his disease (similar to Parkinson's), but I could still see the twinkle in his eye at times. I saw the love and pride when he looked at his son and grandkids. 

Knowing how to support my kids is relatively easy for me. I may not have wanted four kids when I was 18 years old and thought I'd be a tortured author living in a studio apartment in New York City. But I'm glad God always has a better plan than I do, because being their mom is my greatest blessing (and biggest headache depending on the day). I know how each of them responds to crisis. How they respond to stress and big feelings. I know how to love them through it. 

My husband is a different animal. He's the strong one in our relationship in the most visible ways. He stands by my side when I go through difficult emotions, even if he doesn't always understand them, he loves and accepts that I am a highly emotional person. He is not highly emotional. He is a very hard egg to crack on the emotional front. To see him breaking down over this loss, that was gut-wrenching for me. I feel the need to come in and protect him, to shield him from other things so he can process this loss in his own way, on his own time. He's not someone who rushes things, and he's probably not even completely dealt with 5% of the emotions he's going to feel over the next several weeks and months and maybe even years. 

As Earl Grollman said, "Grief is love not wanting to let go." 

I promise we won't let go of the memories we have of you, Julio. I promise we will all do our best to feel the sadness, but not let it consume us, and we'll support each other along this new journey we haven't had to navigate yet as a family. Thank you for making my husband a strong, good, hard-working man. You will be missed. 

Uncomfortably Stuck

 When I was going through the grief of my first marriage ending, and navigating dating for the first time in over a decade, plus raising twin toddlers without a stable co-parent in the picture, I started going back to church. I had turned away from it off and on over the years, feeling judged for decisions I made, feeling like I wasn't part of the "good kid" crowd and having struggled with depression and anxiety since I was in my early teens. That wasn't as socially acceptable as it is today, and sidenote, I'm so grateful that the narrative around mental health has changed since I was a teenager. 

Going back to church as a single mom in my twenties was a little rough. I wasn't really in the same place as many of the young adults attending church, because I had been married, divorced, and had two toddlers by the time I was 26. But there was one night I remember vividly, my moment where I realized that being broken could be a beautiful thing. Rising up from the ashes of pain and betrayal and hurt and grief, it could be a beautiful thing. 

Shortly thereafter, I got a tattoo on the side of my ribs of a cross with the words "Sweetly Broken" stretched across it. I think those two words accurately summed up how I felt. I was broken, but I was coming back together, and it was all going to be ok (mostly). 

In this season, I feel entirely different. If I had to pick two words to describe where I am, it would be Uncomfortably Stuck. 

I feel stuck in my career.

I feel stuck in wanting to do more, give back, serve a purpose, feel like I'm making a difference somewhere, but yet, the mom guilt of doing anything that takes away from me being the best mom I can be is this huge catch-22. 

I feel stuck in this holding pattern. 

I feel stuck in the choices I made twenty years ago to not pursue my PhD and become a college professor. And now I feel like it's too late. And to be honest, I'm tired. I don't know if I can take on the mental or emotional stress of something new and different that demands my time and energy. I don't have enough of that to go around most days as it is. I'm forever drawing from an empty cup no matter how I try to fill it up. 

Let's look at the positives. 

I have four beautiful kids. I have a supportive husband. I have amazing parents. I have a handful of family and friends that I love and cherish. 

I have a decent paying job that allows me the flexibility to work from home and still be a mom and show up to most school activities and sports events. I am still able to drop off and pick up my kids from school most days. On days that I can't, my husband or my parents do. My kids have family raising them, not strangers. I am blessed to be able to say that in the area we live, the cost of living, and the fact that most households require two incomes (outside of the home). 

I volunteer as a mentor at the local high school, meeting with a junior once a month to discuss their academic goals and their future. I occasionally volunteer at church in the early childhood department. I'm the team mom for soccer. 

I recently had to make some hard decisions for myself and my family and stop volunteering with an organization that I had been involved with for over 10 years. That sucked. But I know at the end of the day, it's best for my family and my own emotional health. In place of that, I've begun a journey to be a CASA (court-appointed special advocate) for foster youth. It's an 18-month commitment. It's six hours a week for the month of February of online video classes and a few more hours of reading and studying up on policies and procedures. I attended the first class last night, and the whole time, I'm thinking, this is super interesting, I'd love to do this, but how much is it going to cost me in terms of time with my own family? How much added stress is this going to put on me, which then causes me to snap at my kids or not be as present for them. 

I saw something on Instagram this morning that just sort of clicked for me. It said: 

"My best friend's mom taught me the most important parenting lesson: She demonstrated how to make a kid feel wanted, secure, and loved unconditionally. Now as a busy mom myself, I think about her when I'm feeling maxed out and am tempted to tell my kids I don't have time to do something. Instead, I remember how she constantly said that her relationship with her kids was the most important thing to her and nothing else mattered half as much."

THE MOST IMPORTANT THING TO HER. NOTHING ELSE MATTERED HALF AS MUCH.

I want to be that mom. I want to embrace that maybe, just maybe, my purpose is being fulfilled every single day when I show up for my kids. Sure, I have a job that helps pay the bills. But my primary JOB on this earth is to raise good human beings. 

I don't need to save the world. I don't need to be a CASA to a foster kid. Maybe now isn't the season for that. Most of the people in the class I attended last night were retired. Or empty nesters whose kids had gone off to college. Maybe there's a reason for that. Maybe the busy-ness of this season of life is my purpose. To be there. To pick them up after the dance at midnight. To be the house where their friends feel comfortable hanging out. To show up to all the practices and games. 

Maybe my presence in my own kids' lives is what I really need to be focused on, and then I won't feel so uncomfortably stuck, thinking I'm "between" other things. Maybe I shouldn't feel stuck, but actually settled and ok with sitting on the couch and reading a book now and then and not needing to DO something that gives back to someone else all the time. 

Is this a mid-life crisis? I feel like it is. I feel like it started during COVID, I went back to school to become a teacher, decided when I was close to the finish line that wasn't the answer. Now I'm chasing this dream of saving foster kids in some way, and maybe I should just focus on saving my own kids. Or at least being here for them every step of the way if they're stumbling or falling or crumbling. Maybe that's exactly where I'm supposed to be. 

I'd like this mid-life crisis to end now, please. I don't want to be uncomfortably stuck anymore. 

Missed Opportunities

I can be impulsive. I can be reactive. I can be scared to move forward and make big changes. I am prone to thinking about how a change in my life will affect my kids, most of all. 

I regret not moving forward with the teaching credential. I was scared last fall, and unsure of my next steps. Instead of chasing a dream, and jumping out on a limb, I froze. I stopped myself from moving forward. Now, months later, I'm seeing things in my current job that remind me of why I did not want to keep working in this field. I see missed opportunities to make a change in my life that would impact my mental health, my relationship with my kids, my relationship with my husband, and my sense of self-worth. 

I feel as though I am always reaching for the next thing, but then when it gets close enough to my grasp, I give up. I'm afraid to make that big leap. I'm afraid of failing. I'm afraid of not being perfect, or making a mistake and everyone seeing me fall. 

I don't want to live my life looking back at missed opportunities to make things better. To do better. To make a difference.

I've recently stopped my volunteering with Safe Families and El Roi Foster Ministries. I felt called to pursue becoming a CASA. I think my pull towards that is to have an impact on a child's life in a way that doesn't impact my family by bringing a child into our home and disrupting everyone else's lives. The more I think about becoming a CASA, the more I think I should have pursued the teaching credential so I could make an impact daily with kids that came through my classroom. 

Turning 40 has been a bitch. I feel like I've missed so many chances to be something more, to claim victory over decades-long battles and depression and self-doubt. 

Now that I'm recognizing and realizing this, what's next? Do I start over again? Do I just "stick it out" for 25 more years? 

Have you ever felt like you just missed the biggest opportunity to change your life, and you're frozen out of fear? What did you do? Did you settle or did you chase that dream, and prioritize your own happiness over others that you love?