Sleepless Nights

Author: Veronica

  • And everything keeps going down the drain.

    There are things you don’t want to hear when you go to the doctor.

    Like – You have the back of a 60 year old. When Nathan is only 28.

    His back is bad. Really bad.

    There are arthritic changes, a bulging disc, some compressed discs, bone spurs, narrowing of the nerve canals and degenerative issues.

    Never gonna get better kind of bad.

    Sure, loads of physio should help in the short term, but as far as I remember, nothing can be done for bones that are arthritic, or bones that are breaking down.

    ***

    I’ve been seeing a Gyno for my insane periods and heavy bleeding/cramps like labour pains. That’s the backstory.

    I went to see them yesterday, to follow up on how the trial of a contraceptive pill went.

    [paraphrasing, as best I can, because somehow, telling you without the conversation added is too hard]

    ‘So, how did the pill go?’

    ‘HA! Badly. Really badly. I came off it early because it was bad.’

    ‘Bad how?’

    ‘Mood swings, depression, increased dislocations, etc etc. Bad.’

    ‘Well, in situations like yours, we really like to try the contraceptive pill.’

    ‘Yes, but the pill doesn’t agree with me.’

    ‘I can see. And you seem very against trying it again.’

    ‘Yes.’

    ‘So, we’d like to try the Mirena.’

    ‘No.’

    ‘Huh? No?’

    ‘I have anecdotal evidence to tell me that the mirena would be really bad for me’ [he tries to cut in] ‘and YES, I KNOW that the progesterone supposedly doesn’t leave your uterus, but really, my body is so sensitive to progesterone that I don’t want to trial the mirena.’

    [he looks very spluttery]

    ‘We would like to try the mirena. If you don’t want the mirena, then we’re looking at things like gonadatropins and they’ll make you gain lots of facial hair and will deepen your voice and -‘

    ‘Well I don’t want to trial those either.’

    ‘If you’d try the Mirena, we wouldn’t have to look at gonadatropins.’

    ‘I don’t want the Mirena.’

    ‘Gonadatropins will make you gain a lot of weight… wait, I’m going to consult with my boss.‘

    [A few minutes later, his boss- the doctor I saw last time enters.]

    ‘Hi Veronica, so you trialled the pill?’

    ‘Yes. And it was awful. I stopped it after 3 weeks because I couldn’t cope anymore.’

    ‘What happened?’

    ‘My joints fell apart, it felt like I was walking on a wobble board instead of a pelvis, I was angry and sad and it was horrible. So I stopped.’

    ‘Good, that’s what we discussed. So really, our next option is the Mirena.’

    ‘I don’t want the Mirena.’

    ‘It’s really the best option.’

    ‘I don’t believe it’s the best option for ME. I think it will make my joints worse and YES I KNOW the progesterone won’t leave my uterus, yada yada, I’m not willing to put a coil into my uterus to just see.’

    ‘We’re really running out of options here, the Mirena…’

    ‘No. I am opposed to IUD’s on ethical grounds too and really, I don’t think poking my internal organs with metal and making them angry is going to make me feel better on the whole.’

    ‘Ethical grounds?’

    ‘Yes. I don’t like how they work.’

    ‘Do you KNOW how they work?’

    ‘I know a plain IUD doesn’t prevent ovulation or conception, it just prevents implantation. I know the Mirena with it’s progesterone generally prevents ovulation, and also that it prevents implantation in the event that conception occurs. I don’t want the Mirena, I don’t want something I can’t stop using myself if I get bad. I can’t afford to wait weeks until I can get in here to be seen and fixed and HONESTLY, I’ve been on the wrong side of side effects and statistics for so long, I’m not prepared to mess around with things.’

    ‘Right. Well then.’

    ‘Can we try something to help with the cramps and pain instead of trying the mirena? ‘

    At this point, I feel like I’ve been fighting the doctors to get ANY sort of health care that doesn’t involve inserting a foreign body into my uterus and leaving it there. Not to mention the absolute shock on their faces that I wouldn’t accept the Mirena as ‘the best possible thing’ [all hail the fucking copper coil] and wouldn’t be badgered into it. Not even with the ‘you’re gonna grow facial hair and get really fat’ scare tactics that the original doctor was using. I mean, fuck.

    Eventually, the doctors agree on a course of action, medication wise and send me away with a script.

    45 minutes later, I get to read all about the reasons I should not take a drug to help my blood clot.

    Like, don’t take the drug if anyone in your immediate family has had a blood clot. Both Mum and Nan have had blood clots.

    Don’t take the drug if you have bruising, especially bruising without trauma. Hello fucking EHLERS DANLOS.

    Don’t take the drug if you have irregular periods. Um yeah, that’s part of why I’m seeing a Gyno. I’m 21, I’ve had periods since I was 12 and I’ve had 2 kids, my periods should be fucking regular. They aren’t.

    I’m just so tired of having to fight the doctors for things that might help. Tired of them not asking questions they should before they prescribe something. Tired of being treated like a disobedient child, for not falling into line and letting them do whatever ‘they think best’.

    Tired of feeling like these bandaid fixes don’t do anything towards working out why my body isn’t doing regular periods, why I bleed for 10-12 days each period, why the periods feel like labour pains, and why I’m having hot flushes.

    Tired.

    I’m booking an appointment with my regular GP to discuss the new tablets before I even think about taking them. Somehow, knowing how my body works and which side of the stats I fall on, I’m a little concerned about taking something to promote blood clotting.

    On the upside, there was a Med Student there during the whole appointment and I got ages to talk to her about Ehlers Danlos while the doctors were consulting in the other room. She was lovely and interested to know how EDS presents in normal cases.

    So good deed done. Even if I still want to bang my head against the wall.

  • Cottees

    The cottees post has had to be taken down, due to legal reasons – the competition terms and conditions haven’t been approved yet, so we need to wait for that. Anyone who has commented already, your comments will remain, everyone else, I’ll give you a yell when you can comment and enter the competition again.

    Sorry.

    Ugh.

  • The harlotry of mummyblogging

    Mummyblogging: It sounds like a dirty word. Like something you’d spit out of your mouth, or scrape off your shoe. People say it with a snide smile, or throw it over their shoulder. Like ‘the dirty mummybloggers, bringing us all down’. It’s become the word for all that is boring and mundane in blogging.

    It’s a bit of a rough deal, to be considered a mummyblogger. The rest of the blogosphere avoids mummyblogging like the plague, even as advertisers and sponsors court the hell out of you. Mummybloggers are considered to be sell outs, to be making money off the back of their children, to be blog whores.

    It’s all a little bullshit if you ask me.

    I spent a lot of time avoiding the whole mummyblogger cliche. I called myself a personal blogger, because I was writing about myself, with bits about the children thrown in. I wasn’t writing about poo or doing nothing but updating with photos of my kids and telling everyone how wonderful my life was.

    It took a long time to come to terms with the fact I was a mummyblogger (spit, cough).

    But I am.

    I write about my kids, myself, my life.

    THAT is mummyblogging. If you put photos of your kids on your blog, you are mummyblogging. Whinge about your sleepless night? Mummyblogging. Complain that nursing tops are hideously uncomfortable and that you tried to drown the baby in breastmilk? Mummyblogging. Remind everyone that kids are hard work and you’ve got it hard? Mummyblogging.

    You might not do it all the time, but you’ve got to own the fact you do it sometimes. You might hate the term, it might make your insides curl up and die a little, but if you have ever blogged about your kids, then you’ve participated in that thing we call (spit, cough) mummyblogging.

    Funnily enough it isn’t solely the genre of crap and mundane writing, in fact, some of the best writers I’ve ever read are writing about themselves and their children.

    I’ve seen plenty of utterly crap blogs, written by people without children, so why don’t they get the (spit, cough) reaction that mummyblogging gets?

    I share parts of my life and you guys click over to read about it. It’s a little voyeuristic, a little like being a whore, only without the need to shower afterwards. It’s also the closest thing I’ve got to a community and the most supportive network you’ll ever find.

    Some people might exclaim that I’m selling out my children in exchange for Internet celebrity (hahahahahaa, cough, ahem), that children and disabilities are all currency that sells here in the InterWebs. And I’ll consider those points, probably while I tear my own hair out and the children bounce off the walls, and then I’ll disagree with them.

    I’m selling myself, sure, maybe a little. After a fashion at least, but I don’t think I’m selling the kids.

    Like most mummybloggers, the kids are the supporting cast to my (not-so-brightly-lit) stardom. They get their own lines, sure, but in the end it always comes back to me. Slightly narcissistic? Okay, probably. We’ll go with that.

    But, that’s me, I’m the mummyblogger harlot. Taking off layers of my personality for money. Baring my soul for dollar signs. Supposedly.

    I might as well own it.

    And as the old saying goes, if you don’t like it, click away. It’s the Internet, it’s big enough for everyone.

  • If I ever leave the house again…

    This post sponsored by Nuffnang

    ***

    The HP Wireless e-All-In-One Printer. I was sort of hoping that in order to do a sponsored post for HP, that they’d give me a printer to try out. We don’t have one at the moment and it’s a pain. Then I looked around my ‘office’ and my lack of space and figured that any printer I had would be likely to end up full of crayons and 20c pieces and decided that maybe we’d wait a little longer before buying a printer. Like maybe we’ll sell this house first or something.

    Anyway.

    The printer. Apparently, it works via the InterWebs, meaning that you can print things at home, no matter where you are.

    I can just imagine how awesome it would be for teenages.

    BEEEP BEEEP WHIRRRRRRRRR:

    HAVE YOU DONE THE DISHES?! GET OFF THE COMPUTER.

    end message

    Or:

    STOP KISSING YOUR BOYFRIEND AND LEAVE MY ICE-CREAM ALONE.

    end message

    Oh, the possibilities are endless.

    I like the idea. Being able to print photos at home while you’re on holiday, sending messages to your spouse while you’re at the supermarket, bothering your teenage children, it’s all a pretty cool idea. Maybe not exactly what HP thought of when they designed it (I imagine they had people at work in mind, being able to print things to your home computer, while you’re at work), but it’s exactly the way my mind works.

    It’s just a shame I don’t have teenagers yet, or a printer to try out.

    But hey, you might end up with a printer, simply by reading this!

    Tell me in the comments how you would most like to use the HP Wireless e-all in one printer (that’s a mouthful, yes?) and you’ll go into the draw to win a printer. Lucky you.

    You can find more info about winning a printer here and as always, please read the terms and conditions [PDF].

  • Killing chooks, the other side of things. When meat doesn’t come from the supermarket.

    Warning, this post talks about things that some readers may find distasteful. Please don’t read it if you can’t get your head around animals being slaughtered for food.

    This is a repost from a while back on my food blog.

    ***

    There is a feeling you get in the pit of your stomach when you kill an animal. It’s that sinking feeling as you hit a wallaby in your car, that drop when you have to kill something for it’s own good.

    These are the things I thought about as I held a flapping dead chook in my hand this afternoon.

    3 hours previously:

    Walking to collect the eggs, I entered the shed with the laying boxes and spooked one of my hens – she wasn’t laying, but she bolted when she saw me.

    Another hen was laying at the time, curled up in her nesting box as I went down the row, collecting duck eggs and a chook egg.

    Only…

    Is that a peck hole? In my egg shell? Fuck.

    It was, a suspicious peck in an egg – done recently as there was no dirt or grit around the entrance. As recently as me walking into the chook shed.

    Fuck it.

    Some chooks, they eat eggs. Something happens and they discover what is inside an egg and they start pecking all the eggs to pieces. If left, they’ll teach the other hens how to eat eggs and it will end up terribly. No eggs = no baby chickens = no reason for keeping chooks.

    There is only one cure for an egg eating hen, and that is a quick death.

    A few days ago, I’d found a duck egg broken in the bottom of the nest. I thought it odd at the time, knowing how tough the shells on my eggs are and I wasn’t sure a duck standing on the egg would have broken it.

    I didn’t clean it up at the time, planning to come back and clean the straw and broken mess out of the bottom of the nest when I got a chance. So this morning when I found the pecked egg, I remembered the broken duck egg and went over to clean the nest.

    Only to find the entire egg was gone, shell and all.

    An egg eater, for sure. A possum or rat, well, they would have taken eggs from the other nests as well and made a right mess.

    At this point, I was fairly sure that the chook I’d seen disappear when I walked into the chook shed was my culprit. She didn’t make an alarm call of ‘I was laying and PREDATOR’ or act like the other hens, quietly clucking at me in distaste when I bothered them.

    AND she was standing leaning into the nest with the pecked egg.

    So, we did what you do with an egg eater.

    We caught her and killed her, humanely and fast. One chop and she went from upside down and relaxed in my hand, to dead. It was fast and it was painless for her, over in less than a moment. Slightly more traumatic for me, as my stomach dropped and I felt the feelings that come with slaughtering something.

    But this is how it works when you’re making an effort to live more sustainably and only wanting to eat happy, ethical chickens. No one likes killing, (no one normal anyway), but it’s a fact of life.

    Once she stopped flapping the death flaps and relaxed, we strung her up by a leg and did what you do – skinning, gutting, cleaning. It took a little while, as it was the first chook I’d done myself. I watched plenty of times as a child, but the actual act of doing, well, slow and steady and all that. There are things I’d never asked my father, like ‘how do you get the lungs out?’ and ‘how do you make sure you’ve got all the unborn eggs and kidneys out?’ but no matter, I worked it out myself. Me and my sharp knife and Nathan chatting to me while I worked. It was okay once I started, less like killing and more like processing meat. No different to gutting and filleting fish – a regular part of my growing up.

    And then I brought the meat inside and chopped it into pieces for soup – which is bubbling nicely at the moment.

    Tonight when we eat, I will silently thank the chook for living a good life and enabling me to eat ethical meat my way and I will know that this chook, she had the best life possible before she died and that her death wasn’t traumatic, for anyone other than Nat and I. Amy walked outside just after we’d chopped the hen’s head off and we talked about it.

    That this is where meat comes from. We don’t get meat from the supermarket, meat comes from animals and our job is to give animals a happy life and ethical humane death.

    Half way through skinning a chicken

    Note the yellow fat? Proper free range healthy chooks have yellow fat and skin. Supermarket chooks have generally been bleached to make them more ‘attractive’. Personally, I’ll take bright yellow over covered in bleach any day.

    This is once I’d broken it down and was browning in olive oil.

    Recipe for chicken and potato soup:

    Take your chicken, make sure it’s free range and break it down into it’s various elements. Take off the breasts, chop the legs down close to the carcass and remove them from the body. Brown everything in olive oil, including the carcass.

    When everything is well browned, add 5 roughly chopped onions and a leek. Let them colour a little. Don’t burn anything!

    Deglaze the pot with some white wine if you’re organised, or if you’re me, deglaze with warm water.

    Cover the chicken pieces with water and bring to a simmer.

    Add 4 large potatoes, chopped.

    Cook until the meat falls from the bones and the potato falls apart.

    Season with salt and pepper.