The two A's - anxiety and asthma are kicking my ass this week. The two definitely don't mix. It's really and oil and vinegar kind of combo.
Last winter, unbeknownst to me, I suddenly developed asthma. I found myself in the place that gives me the worst panic attacks ever - the hospital.
As I sat in the emergency room bed, all I could think of was being locked up in the psych ward. I suddenly wanted to flee. I did not want to be admitted to the hospital under any circumstances. My heart was racing, and my already labored breathing got worse. I was trembling and sweating with fear. Even though it was a totally different circumstance from my ppd hell, it felt all too familiar.
Now my asthma attacks have returned, followed by its friend anxiety. I ran a 5k this summer. Now I can't even climb my stairs without feeling like I'm going to keel over. I want to kick this crap - I'm a busy working mom of three and I don't have time to be knocked on my ass.
Then comes my friend anxiety trailing behind. It is wondering why the prednisone, flovent, allergy pills and albuterol nebs every four hours are not helping. It is feeding on my fear - will I be back in the hospital again? Then I wonder if it's just my imagination. Is it post-traumatic stress disorder, or am I physically ill? When I had ppd, I couldn't tell the difference.
I ask my hubby over and over for validation. "Do I seem any better to you?" I ask. "No, you seem about the same," he replies.
Nope, it's real. It's not my messed up head this time, though my head keeps taking me to places that I don't want to go.
Tomorrow I am seeing my asthma specialist. For today, I hope to kick these A's in the ass!
Thursday, October 27, 2011
Tuesday, October 25, 2011
Psych Ward Rememberence
Today is October 25. No, it's not my birthday. It's not even anyone in my family's birthday. Today marks the two year anniversary of the day I committed myself to the psych ward.
It's the place I still fear through night terrors, a result of post-traumatic stress disorder. It is the place I think about every morning when I take my Lexapro, or when I see my daughter's smiling face. It is haunting, yet it is healing.
It is shameful to admit I was there, yet it is powerful to tell people I was there. And I'm better now. And I'm not a crazed lunatic, nor was I ever. I am a strong woman, and I was strong enough to face the stigma behind the psych ward and get the help I needed.
To commemorate this anniversary, here is an excerpt from my book Supermom explaining what happened two years ago today:
I will never forget the day I went to the hospital. It was Emily's one-month birthday and I wasn't sure if I'd ever be the same again.
When they finally brought me back to the evaluation area, this was like no part of the hospital I had ever seen. It seemed like I was visiting a high-security prison.
Suddenly I felt like I had done something wrong. I felt like a criminal and was afraid the authorities were going to lock me away for trying to poison my son. I was paranoid of everyone and everything around me. But I wanted help--whatever it took.
It's the place I still fear through night terrors, a result of post-traumatic stress disorder. It is the place I think about every morning when I take my Lexapro, or when I see my daughter's smiling face. It is haunting, yet it is healing.
It is shameful to admit I was there, yet it is powerful to tell people I was there. And I'm better now. And I'm not a crazed lunatic, nor was I ever. I am a strong woman, and I was strong enough to face the stigma behind the psych ward and get the help I needed.To commemorate this anniversary, here is an excerpt from my book Supermom explaining what happened two years ago today:
I will never forget the day I went to the hospital. It was Emily's one-month birthday and I wasn't sure if I'd ever be the same again.
When they finally brought me back to the evaluation area, this was like no part of the hospital I had ever seen. It seemed like I was visiting a high-security prison.
Suddenly I felt like I had done something wrong. I felt like a criminal and was afraid the authorities were going to lock me away for trying to poison my son. I was paranoid of everyone and everything around me. But I wanted help--whatever it took.
Thursday, October 20, 2011
Body Art
Body art is kind of cool. On adults that is. Body art is not so cool when your two pre-school age boys decide to create Picasso-style art on each others' bodies. And I do mean every square inch of their bodies. Yes, even their "junk" was colored in marker.
I should have known better when I asked them to go downstairs and clean the basement and then I heard it - silence. The kind of silence that happens when they are up to no good. But instead of trusting my instincts that mayhem may be going on downstairs, I took the opportunity to have a shower in peace. A whole 10 minutes to myself.
My oldest son Evan was so proud of his creativity, that he came up the stairs and said, "Mom, you've got to see Eithan. He looks so tough!"
I think he was shocked by my reaction of absolute horror when my then three-year-old walked up stark naked and covered in marker shades of red, blue, purple, green, and orange. Evan actually thought he was doing something nice to his little bro.
Then came up baby Em, then one, with her bare feet covered in every color of the rainbow. Horror. All I could think about was how horrified I was. What a bad mother I was for leaving my little darlings unsupervised. But I really needed a shower!
Now don't get me wrong, I love art work and creativity, but this is where I draw the line!
Yes, it was washable marker, but in case your kids ever try this at home, red does not wash off for at least three days! My kids looked like they had streaks of blood running down their bodies.
I should have known better when I asked them to go downstairs and clean the basement and then I heard it - silence. The kind of silence that happens when they are up to no good. But instead of trusting my instincts that mayhem may be going on downstairs, I took the opportunity to have a shower in peace. A whole 10 minutes to myself.
My oldest son Evan was so proud of his creativity, that he came up the stairs and said, "Mom, you've got to see Eithan. He looks so tough!"
I think he was shocked by my reaction of absolute horror when my then three-year-old walked up stark naked and covered in marker shades of red, blue, purple, green, and orange. Evan actually thought he was doing something nice to his little bro.
Then came up baby Em, then one, with her bare feet covered in every color of the rainbow. Horror. All I could think about was how horrified I was. What a bad mother I was for leaving my little darlings unsupervised. But I really needed a shower!
Now don't get me wrong, I love art work and creativity, but this is where I draw the line!
Yes, it was washable marker, but in case your kids ever try this at home, red does not wash off for at least three days! My kids looked like they had streaks of blood running down their bodies.
Tuesday, October 18, 2011
Punching Out
Welcome to the re-launch of my blog! Yes, I started a few posts last year, but you know, life gets busy. Anyway, I'm taking another stab at it and I hope you'll join me for the journey.
If you're a mom like me, whether it's to one kid or to 12, it's a tough job. And unlike any other job, there is no "lunch hour", "break" or "time to clock out". And forget vacation days and sick days, moms don't get those either.
I remember one night when my boys, 4 and 6, who share a room, would not go to bed. It had been a long day and I was exhausted. Apparently my husband was too, because when I asked him to go check on them, his response was, "It's 8 o'clock and I'm off the clock."
Really, off the clock? Can parents do that? My husband thinks he can. When the clock turns eight, parenting is done.
He's a stellar dad, don't get me wrong. He takes the kids to the park, on hikes and watches them when I work. He really is one-of-a-kind when it comes to being hands-on. That is, until 8 o'clock.
One night I came home around 10 p.m. to find my husband downstairs on the treadmill and my boys running around like monkeys on the loose upstairs.
"What's going on up there?" I asked the hubs. "I don't know. It's past 8 o'clock," he replied.
Now, what if moms were to take on this same philosophy? I guess the kids would eventually go to sleep. Or would they?
I think the rules are different for moms. We're always on the clock. When the kids are barfing at 3 a.m., we're there cleaning it up. We don't have time to be sick. Someone's got to keep the household from falling apart.
But maybe we should try "punching out" at 8 o'clock. Maybe we need a break. A glass of Riesling and a little cookie dough. Perhaps I'll give it a try.
If you're a mom like me, whether it's to one kid or to 12, it's a tough job. And unlike any other job, there is no "lunch hour", "break" or "time to clock out". And forget vacation days and sick days, moms don't get those either.
I remember one night when my boys, 4 and 6, who share a room, would not go to bed. It had been a long day and I was exhausted. Apparently my husband was too, because when I asked him to go check on them, his response was, "It's 8 o'clock and I'm off the clock."
Really, off the clock? Can parents do that? My husband thinks he can. When the clock turns eight, parenting is done.
He's a stellar dad, don't get me wrong. He takes the kids to the park, on hikes and watches them when I work. He really is one-of-a-kind when it comes to being hands-on. That is, until 8 o'clock.
One night I came home around 10 p.m. to find my husband downstairs on the treadmill and my boys running around like monkeys on the loose upstairs.
"What's going on up there?" I asked the hubs. "I don't know. It's past 8 o'clock," he replied.
Now, what if moms were to take on this same philosophy? I guess the kids would eventually go to sleep. Or would they?
I think the rules are different for moms. We're always on the clock. When the kids are barfing at 3 a.m., we're there cleaning it up. We don't have time to be sick. Someone's got to keep the household from falling apart.
But maybe we should try "punching out" at 8 o'clock. Maybe we need a break. A glass of Riesling and a little cookie dough. Perhaps I'll give it a try.
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