Shot At Life: Save Lives, Change the World, With a Few Clicks #shotatlifedc

April 23, 2012 By 3 Comments

If you could prevent a child’s death would you? Of course you would. Picture all the children who enter kindergarten in the US each year and then imagine half of them being dead by the end of the year from preventable diseases. That’s the number of children in developing countries who are lost each year, all for the want of some simple vaccines. (Statistics in this post are  provided by the United Nations Foundation).

One in five children around the world does not have access to the vaccines they need to survive, which means that a child dies every 20 seconds in developing countries of a disease that can be prevented by a vaccine.  

This does not have to happen. There is a very simple solution.

$20 can provide a lifetime of life-saving vaccines for a child in a developing country. The United Nations Foundation with many partners, has a program called Shot@Life focused on global health for children, currently by providing vaccines against four preventable diseases: polio, measles, diarrhea and pneumonia.

In the US, many of us have the option to delay or even deny vaccines, where in other parts of the world, mothers are walking 15 miles, desperate to get their children vaccines so they won’t lose another child to a preventable disease. United Nations Foundation Shot@Life Director Devi Ramachandran Thomas shared with us that in some countries, “They may have very few posessions, but they cling onto their immunization cards as their most precious possession, because it is that important.”

Every child deserves a shot at life. Every child should be able to reach the milestones we look forward to our own children reaching. His first smile. Her first bike ride. His first time reading a book out loud all by himself. Her first cartwheel. Knowing the facts, can we turn a blind eye? We can’t.

I learned about Shot@Life by attending a press event Friday evening, hosted by Monica Sakala of Wired Momma and Anastasia and Gianluigi Dellaccio, owners of the local business Dolci Gelati. They are ambassadors for the program and shared their stories about why they have become involved. And while the event itself was lighthearted and fun, the seriousness of the campaign was not lost on any of us who were there. Children are dying. And we can stop it. But we have to get the word out about how simple this solution is.

Here are a few more facts to know:

  • 70% of all unvaccinated children live in just 10 developing countries.
  • The Measles Initiative, which vaccinated one billion children in 60 developing countries since 2001, decreased world measles deaths by 78%.
  • Polio eradication is within reach — the world is 99% polio-free, but getting that final 1% is critical.

This week is World Immunization Week. Will you join me in advocating about the need to help? Here are some very simple things you can do:

  • Educate yourself further about the need and the program at the Shot@Life site.
  • Tweet about the program or World Immunization Week using the hashtags #shotatlifedc and #vaccineswork. Feel free to give a shout out to @shotatlife and to me as well @caffandaprayer.
  • Don’t know what to say? You can always tweet this post using the short link http://caffeineandaprayer.com/?p=3232 with the hash tags #shotatlifedc and #vaccineswork.
  • Keep current on the campaign by following @ShotatLife on Twitter and Liking them on Facebook.
  • Sign the pledge on their web site.
  • Put your money where your mouth is and donate whatever you can to the cause – remember, $20 can provide a lifetime of vaccines to a child.
  • Share, share, share the info any way you can, from old-fashioned word-of-mouth to your personal Facebook pages, to even offering to host your own informational night about Shot@Life.

Very rarely can we actually make a global difference right from our living rooms, but this time, we can.  Let’s do it!

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Disclosure: I attended a press event with other bloggers and members of the media and was provided a PR gift bag. I have not been compensated for this post and everything is from my heart. I believe in this campaign. All statistics cited have been provided by the Shot@Life media kit. All photos are provided by and copyrighted by Shot@Life .

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Raw Milk – Stirring Up Memories and Controversey

September 8, 2011 By 1 Comment

jar of raw milkI love to tell people that one of the blessings of living in Northern Virginia is that we drive to the east to find museums and drive to the west to find farms.  I’ve blogged before about our membership in the CSA (community supported agriculture) program with Great Country Farms, but last week we joined our friends to visit their cow from their “cowshare” at another farm and try some raw milk!

Raw milk has been in the news a lot lately, in fact, if you are NoVA local, you may have read or heard a story on WTOP about cowpooling.  Raw milk is fresh milk, straight from the cow and refrigerated without being pasteurized.  It is not legal to sell raw milk in the Commonwealth of Virginia, but a share program is legal in Virginia — essentially people can buy into a herd of cows, paying into the costs of boarding a cow and in return receiving a quantity of the milk from the herd.  This is what my friend does and each week she drives out to the farm to pick up her glass jars of fresh, raw milk.

The JavaKids have always enjoyed our CSA program and making the connection between where food comes from and how it gets to our table, so this field trip out to the dairy farm was a natural extension.  We went to the store and saw all the jars lined up in the fridge, ready for pickup.  I showed the kids the jars of milk and then we walked outside and saw the three cows from which the milk came!  Since the cows had made a bit extra, our friend allowed us to take a jar home to try — and I showed the children how the cream rose to the top and gave them the option of shaking it up so the milk would be whole, or skimming the cream to make butter and turn the milk into skim.  (They opted to shake.)

They couldn’t wait to try it, and immediately declared it delicious.  Since we often buy organic, I can’t really say I noticed a huge difference in taste (except that I usually drink skim, so of course it was more full-bodied), but they loved it.  Later, when we allowed it to separate again, I gave each child a spoon of just the cream, which JavaGirl loved and JavaBoy wrinkled his nose and called, “disgusting!”

Eager to share their discovery with their grandparents, we made the usual round of phone calls.  Most were surprised that we were able to access raw milk, but my grandmother and mother both said, “Well, it used to be that was the only kind of milk we drank.”  My father was amused, but not surprised as my kids are always adventurous.  My mother-in-law’s immediate reaction was, “Why?  Isn’t there a reason we pasteurize milk?” 

Mixed reactions like these are exactly why drinking raw milk feels like participating in making moonshine during the Prohibition, even though unlike moonshine, raw milk is legal and many think, actually good for you.  Farmers who provide raw milk, whether through cow shares or other programs (methods vary by state) fear government raids like ones that have happened in California (see Jessica Haney’s post on The DC Moms) and that’s why the owner of the farm we went to last week asked that I not name her farm when blogging about this experience, though she is very careful to follow the local laws and cites them on all her materials.

Cow

Part of the cow share herd.

I do not claim to have enough of a science background nor any medical background to be able to argue either side of the pros and cons of the raw milk vs. pasteurized milk debate.  Pasteurization kills of certain pathogens in order to minimize disease.  Raw milk proponents say that it also kills of valuable nutrients and microbes that bring health benefits and that when under proper management, farms that produce raw milk can produce just as safe if not safer milk.  My friend feels confident about her choice to purchase from this farm because it is a very small operation and she has personally seen the many precautions in place to ensure that the cows are healthy and that the milking and storage is conducted in a sanitary manner. 

For some pro-raw-milk arguments see http://www.westonaprice.org and http://www.realmilk.com.   Some pro-pasteurized-milk arguments are at the FDA site and Centers for Disease Control site. 

I’m not ready for our family to become full-time raw milk drinkers, but I’m glad we had the opportunity to visit the farm, try the milk from our friend’s cowshare, and that my kids got a chance to get an even better understanding of how milk looks straight from the source.

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Getting Addicted to Exercise: You Can Do It!

July 9, 2011 By 9 Comments

You know that friend who is perpetually thin and jogs every day and talks about her runner’s high?  Yeah, don’t you hate her?

Okay, well, I’m your fat friend who has has started a walking program and now talks about endorphins and secretly obsesses about when I can get my next four-mile walk in and I don’t want you to hate me… if you are in need of exercising too, I want you to join me.  Here’s why — I had a million reasons why I couldn’t start a walking program, but all I needed were a few reasons why I COULD, and the main one was because people believed in me.  And I believe in YOU.

I felt horribly, horribly out of shape and consequently my self-esteem was very low.  I felt certain that if I were given a stress test by the doctor, I would fail embarrassingly.  With my recent diagnosis of diabetes, I knew that I had to incorporate exercise back into my life and walking has always been my exercise of choice.  But as tried to picture myself launching a new walking program, all I saw were roadblocks:  how to do it with small kids in tow, my lack of energy, my lack of confidence, my chronic trick knee.  I could only see failure on the horizon.

But life has an amazing way of conspiring to bring all the right elements together.  A doctor who looked at me with a twinkle in his eye and a giant grin while saying, “I know you can bring it, girl!  You can start exercising tomorrow, no problem!”  An IM completely out of the blue from an old high school friend who said, “Not only were you pretty then, you still are today.”  A reminder from a colleague that despite going onto the “mommy track” for a few years, I have managed to cultivate the skills employers most desire in my field today and that I can walk back into the marketplace easily whenever I chose to return to full-time work.  And yes, the sudden realization that my high school reunion will be next year.  Suddenly I had a target date (reunion!), a little bit of fuel for the ego fire, and that’s all I needed to put a plan into action.  Because I’m a Type A, Aries, goal-driven kind of a gal.  Give me a purpose and a date and I’ll go out and smash that goal in a way you’ve never seen.  I need to be healthy, in career-resuming fighting form, and reunion-ready in a year.  And yes, I want to be back in my head-turning shape!

I started my program simply by walking to pick up my son from school — half a mile away.  Walking with small children is challenging and frustrating.  When you WANT them to be slow, they zoom all over the place.  When you want them to be FAST, they drag their feet and complain and act as if they have no clue how to put one foot in front of the other.  So I made a game out of sending them running ahead from mailbox to mailbox — far enough ahead that I could keep a steady pace but close enough that I could keep them from being hit by cars or kidnapped.  Now that school is out and extra-curricular activities are fewer and further between, I try to take advantage of walking while they are at vacation bible school, in the evenings while JavaDad is at home to watch them, and sometimes I am even walking very, very late at night (safely) in well-lit areas while the family is snoozing.

At first those one-mile round trip walks were all I could muster and they were far, far slower than my old pace of 15-minute miles walks.  Which I found quite frustrating.  I would get mad at myself for how out of shape I had allowed myself to become.  But I found two things that helped me out.  First, building myself an iTunes workout playlist — I find that I respond very well to music — it sets both a pace and a mood for me and the familiarity of listening to the same songs for each walk help me maintain an even tempo.  And second, a handy app called Nike+GPS  that runs on my iPhone.  Although I had also bought the Nike+iPod sensor, I actually prefer this far less expensive app.  Nike+GPS requires no equipment other than your phone and ear buds.  Download the app, program in some information and walk (or run) – it’s that simple.  You can even use it on a treadmill, though you must carry or wear it (don’t set it down on your treadmill).  Here’s a pretty decent review of the two different apps.

Nike+GPS tracks where you walk, your pace, distance, allows you to play music, set goals, and — here’s the most important part to me — share the fact that you are “running” (even though I am walking) publicly on Facebook, Twitter and the Nike Running web site.  On Facebook, people can then “Like” or comment while you are exercising and you will hear rock-star style applause and see their comments on your phone.  To me, yes, a completely shameless extrovert, this real-time encouragement motivates me to keep walking, sometimes even faster.  I have been stunned at how involved my friends have become in my exercise.  The amount of encouragement I have received has been overwhelming!  When you complete your “run” (the app assumes you run and doesn’t allow you to change the postings to say “walk”), it publishes the results on Facebook, so your friends can see your time and distance.  You can, of course, choose not to publish any of this, but to me, this is part of the attraction of this app — it makes me accountable and gives me the encouragement and feedback I need.

In a month’s time I have gone from struggling with one mile to craving my four-mile walks and watching my average per mile time decrease by three minutes.  It’s still not at my best average, but it is improving.  Walking, for me, has become not something I dread and force myself into, but something I enjoy and look forward to.  My anticipation builds as I change from my mommy outfit du jour and into my workout outfit, lace up my running shoes, grab my iPhone and ear buds, fill up my BPA-free plastic water bottle and head toward the door.  I take a few minutes to touch up my make-up, and if walking by day, grab my sunglasses; if walking at night, grab my flashlight.

I step out the door and fire up my Nike+GPS, sometimes I’m almost immediately rewarded by a roar of applause from a friend on Facebook “liking” the notification that I’m starting a walk.  I close my eyes for the first few steps as I listen to the orchestral strains of Coldplay’s Viva la Vidafill my ears… 1, 2, 1, 2, 1, 2, 3, 4 …I let my feet feel the beats and take over as I feel the breeze that always seems to swirl in our cul de sac collect just under my ponytail.  Swish.  Swish. Swish, swish, swishswishswishswish.  Even my hair picks up the beat.  The water bottle swings on one side and I hold my iPhone on the other. 

Though my casual walking style is to stretch with long legs forward, I’ve learned that the best and fastest exercise walking style is quick, short strides.  Thanks to years of ballet, if I don’t focus, I can walk a bit duck-footed, so I try to walk toes straight forward and to compensate for my trick knee, I sometimes have to bend a little more on the right leg, so the music helps me block everything else and just focus on the walk.  I choose songs very intentionally for their driving beats, some very fast and a few slower ones in the middle to give me a break.  I’m the crazy lady who will sometimes sing the lyrics out loud and emote with hands in the air — whatever, I consider it a little cardio boost!  This time is not about anyone but myself.  For one hour, I am utterly selfish and not self-conscious.  This is freedom.

I make my rounds of the neighborhood, noting that someone on our street orders pizza every single day as I always pass a pizza delivery car.  Getting to know every dog behind a fence.  Noting every utility that has a crew in the neighborhood.  At night I now know where the teens hang out.  Who runs sprinklers when, sometimes I avoid them, sometimes I run through them, at times coming out looking like I’ve been in a wet t-shirt contest, but if I do, few are around to give me a raised eyebrow.  I enjoy the wildlife and love the fireflies who light my evening walks.  During the day and dusk, I give a nod and a smile to the joggers, bikers, walkers and dog walkers.  I no longer feel self-conscious as I pound the pavement, wondering who is judging me and my imperfect figure as I sweat it out in public.  And invariably, whether I’m out at 8am, 8pm or even at midnight, somewhere, someone on cyberspace is clicking a “Like” or a comment and giving me a cheer at the exact moment when I’m thinking of cutting it short and heading home.  Spurring me on.  Making me want to go that extra mile — literally.

The transformation inside me has been faster and more dramatic than the transformation on the outside.  I feel more alive, more confident, more relaxed, happier.  Though I keep the same music, I try new paths all the time — a personal trainer once told me changing things up allows the brain to build new neural pathways — and I remember the first time I encountered a hill that was so tall and steep the crest towered above my head.  I stopped for a second, stared at it and wondered if I should attempt it, given my knee.  But I did.  And now I am not afraid of that or any other incline.  I can do it.  I can do anything.  I’m still fat.  I’m still too slow for my perfectionist’s standards.  But I know I’m capable of anything I set my mind to.  Don’t get me wrong — the fact that some v-neck t-shirts I wore just a month ago are falling off me flashdance-style and that my belts now have to be replaced is AWESOME!  But not being afraid of a hill is even better!

The first pair of shoes I bought hastily gave me blisters.  I had to acknowledge that I needed to invest in the right pair of shoes (thank you, VA Runners in Clifton!)  For the first time ever, I’m not just using any old pair of socks, but runner’s socks, made of synthetic materials — after 29 comments (!) on a thread on my Facebook page with advice from friends.  This is how much people care about helping me on my journey.  And this is why I want to help you.  If you need that voice to speak louder than a million reasons telling you not to get off that couch, let it be mine.  Let me tell you, you can do it.  Start with the pair of shoes you have, if you need to.  Start with a walk around the block.  Don’t worry about the skinny friend with the runner’s high.  You can do this.  And if you need me to keep you honest, post here or post on Facebook at https://www.facebook.com/caffeineandaprayer.  Share your favorite workout playlist songs.  Do it for your health, do it for an upcoming reunion, do it to find your inner sexy, do it for one reason or twenty.  But if you know you need to get off that couch and get out there, and you’ve not known where to find the inner resolve to do it, find it here.  And keep coming back here until the endorphin high compels you to keep going out there.

Because YOU CAN!

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Disclaimer:  Always check with your physician before embarking upon a new exercise routine.

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My Summer of Rediscovery

June 29, 2011 By 2 Comments

The words weren’t entirely unexpected, and yet they still punched me in the gut.

“You, my dear, have diabetes.”

I looked at my endocrinologist somewhat blankly.  I knew this was coming, and yet, the words fell down around me like individual blocks of cement. I. Have. Diabetes.  I. Have. Diabetes. Ihavediabetes. Diabetes.  Dammit.

The family history is there.  The individual risk factors are there.  The pre-diabetic symptoms had made their unwelcome appearance over a year ago.  The horrible ”buzzy feelings” I get with high sugar levels.  The pins and needles numbness in my limbs.  The blurry eyes.  And yet, I realized, the shock still comes.  For friends who don’t understand the shock, I explain it like this — even when you are trying to have a baby, even when you know how to conceive a baby and are actively trying, when that pregnancy test comes back positive, you still have that moment of shock — that moment of, “Oh my, what have we done?”  Except you wanted to get pregnant and I never wanted diabetes.

I cope best with information and a plan.  I won’t bore you with the details of the multiple appointments and frustrations, but suffice it to say, that putting together information and a plan wasn’t as easy as I had hoped.  I wanted to walk away with a precise way to deal with things and I didn’t get it.  Coping with diabetes was to become — and still is — a journey.  I’m in the early stages of Type II Diabetes and am controlling it through diet, oral medication (Metformin) and exercise.   I monitor my blood glucose levels with a meter regularly.  I started out feeling absolutely paralyzed about making food choices and was miserably hungry while adjusting to my new lifestyle — an effect of the insulin resistance on me was constant hunger.  Now that things are under control, I find myself eating significantly smaller portions easily.

I have had intentions of re-launching my walking exercise regime over the years and always had one issue or another crop up, but this time I knew just how critical it was for my health.  Even more so, I needed it as an outlet.  Life suddenly felt very out of control, and I needed to feel like there was something in my control.

Because of the timing, the severity, and the physical impact, my diabetes also became the launching pad of what I like to call my Summer of Rediscovery or what my friend Julie calls my “midlife crisis.”  I’m not much of one for navel-gazing, but both are correct.

I’ve turned 41.  I’ve just completed 10 years of service in a major volunteer organization, several of which were in key leadership positions, the last of which was as the president.  For the first time in a decade, though I’m still a member, I’m not even on a committee — I’ve gone from overbooked most nights to home almost every night.  My diagnosis came literally days before I ended my term as president.  My youngest child graduated from preschool a week later and will head off to public school in the Fall– the writing is on the wall, my days as a stay-at-home mother will be coming to an end in a year or so.  My husband has patiently stood by as I took what little energy was left after being with kids all day and threw it into part-time work, volunteer commitments, and blogging over the past few years — and I realize there was little to none left for him when all was said and done.  I feel like I woke up on a Monday and suddenly didn’t know who I was anymore.

Summer arrived and a blank chapter lies before me and I’m furiously writing it without knowing exactly where it ends.  So I walk.  And I think.  And I pound the pavement with my Nike-shod feet as fast as I can.  Listening to the kind of music I’ve denied myself for years because I’ve been so focused on making sure that the kids heard classical music as babies, and “appropriate” music or music in foreign languages as toddlers and preschoolers.  In the car, even alone, I was always catching up on news or talking on the phone.  The simple act of listening to music that doesn’t involve farm animal noises or something the kids had to learn for choir felt so liberating, it almost feels sinful.  Like I am cheating on my entire family.  My apologies to my neighbors when I occassionally burst out in (horrible) singing while walking with headphones on!  I come home, bursting with ideas of things I want to do, to try, to write.  Some are completely ridiculous (hair tinsel) and some are less so, but exceedingly ambitious (wanting to find out how to apply to manage the Nike + running web site).

It’s been a month.  My eating habits have changed — I eat far more broccoli slaw, far fewer sweets and far less of everything.  I’ve lost about 10 pounds (I say “about” as we had to replace our scale when it said we each weighed 0 pounds — so I have to start with a new baseline.)  I’m slowly becoming an exercise-induced endorphin junkie.  I’m finally cashing in all the iTunes gift certifcates I’ve been given over the past couple of years.  And I’m rediscovering who I am — more than just “Mommy.”  Different schedule, different diet, different routine.  Trying to unearth the woman who is buried inside under the layers of mommy neglect — the woman, the writer, the wife, the person.

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Hysterectomy Part 3 – Surviving It All

August 17, 2010 By 16 Comments

I’ve compared the sudden discovery of pre-cancerous cells and pronouncement by my doctor that I needed a hysterectomy to a tornado whipping through my life.  Unlike a lot of people who find themselves in this situation, I was not gradually building up to this diagnosis due to complaints of symptoms that then led to a discovery of cancer.  There were no cysts or fibroids or mysterious pains we were looking into — the discovery of the pre-cancerous cyst was a “lucky” happenstance of dealing with the anemia from my monthly cycle.  Had it not been for anemia, this would never have been discovered, so the concept of a cyst, much less of cancer, never even crossed my mind.  A hysterectomy at 40 wasn’t even a blip on my intellectual radar.

But the upside of a tornado is that it comes in unexpectedly — without the building dread of a hurricane — does its damage, and then leaves just as quickly as it came.

I had enough time to run through the gamut of emotions — fear, anger, denial, dread, grief, anger, anger, anger, frustration, but not enough time to really dwell on any one of them very long.  I had enough time to rally the troops and get a plan together.  And yes, I blogged.  I had very public obligations that involved a wide group of people I needed to let know what was going on and once I started letting one circle of friends and associates know, I realized I might as well let another.  I decided that the benefit of this experience might as well to be to open it up not only for those who know me in person, but for that person who finds herself in the dark, searching on the Internet for real-world answers like I was a few weeks ago, and is slightly terrified by what she finds.

So this is the fulfillment of that promise.  This is my story, what I went through just before, the day of, and thus far in recovery.  What I hope will be helpful to someone in a similar situation sometime soon.  If  you found this post through such a search, it may help you to read the first two posts to get a little bit of background (Part I and Part II).

Every story is different

Whenever I’m faced with a new, daunting situation, my reporter instincts kick in.  I start asking around to see if anyone has been through something similar and has words of wisdom to share.  While I found the HysterSisters site to be somewhat helpful, I found that very few of them were really going through the same scenario I was — the same diagnosis and the same surgery.  My biggest area of concern was understanding what recovery would be like so I could line up the appropriate resources and I would get all kinds of answers.  This frustrated my Type A desire for concrete information, until a friend who had had a hysterectomy a few years ago told me, “just like everyone’s birth story is different, everyone’s hysterectomy story is going to be different.  You can’t assume your experience will be just like someone else’s.”  This was good advice for me to hear.

Now is the time to accept acts of friendship

I found it difficult to accept a friend’s generous offer to set up a “care calendar” which would allow others to cook meals for my family.  After all, what if I end up not being “that sick” after all?  What if recovery is easier than I thought?  I had a lot of excuses in my head.  Stop the excuses.  If you have friends willing to do this, let them.  It has been a true blessing.  It is not just about the nourishment of the body, but the nourishment of the soul — it means a lot to know that someone cared enough to prepare a meal not only for me but for my family.  It also provides some structure for the day — it is a big “event” in a day that for the patient is one big endless day of pain, pills, and sleep.  Though my mother, a Southern lady, sometimes felt a little displaced at not doing ALL the cooking, I reminded her she could still cook lunches for us and that helped me want to eat things — the smell of home cooking wafting from the kitchen would make me want to come from my pill-induced slumber and eat something.  The desserts so kindly left with the dinners have been a huge treat for the kids and given them something to look forward to each day.  I have not been up to much “visiting” but it has meant the world to me to know that friends have demonstrated their friendship in this way.

Additionally, Facebook has been my little window to the world.  Email is a little too much for me to handle as there is work to be done in the email, but Facebook gives me a chance to read some updates, post updates, and crack a few jokes.  I’ve been astonished that friends who aren’t even necessarily part of my daily back-and-forth on Facebook have kept tabs, offered words of comfort, and traded jokes with me on Facebook.  It’s much easier for me than a phone call right now and it brightens my day (and night) as I can reach over and re-read the comments.

My advice in this area is to figure out some concrete things people can do for you and then if they ask if they can help, let them.  It may be meals, it may be helping drop off or pick up the kids, it may be something else, but people will want to help and not know how.  It’s much easier to line up the help in advance and then cancel it if you don’t need it then to turn it down and the scramble around to look for it at the last minute.  Some people may not be able to do anything more than call or email and that’s okay, too.  Don’t judge your friendships based on how well people can help during this time, other people’s lives go on, but do acknowledge those who pitched in.

Let’s hear it for the guys

I worried about talking about “girl parts” so publicly, but I have to say I have been so impressed with not only the general level of support, but the support of the men in my life.  To be clear, I’m a married woman, most of these men are married men, we’re talking strictly platonic and sometimes even business-level friendships here, but the fact that men are comfortable publicly posting on Facebook (a few emailed) to send their good wishes and prayers on a surgery of this nature seems significant.  A few of them referenced the experience their wives have had with this procedure.  I haven’t fully processed what I think this all means — just that I think it is wonderful that men feel fine with expressing their support for a female friend with this kind of a surgery in a public forum.  I don’t think that would’ve happened a generation ago even if the technology existed (and mind you,  I’m talking about men from all generations — Boomers, X and Y).  Women are used to being so vocally supportive, it somehow seems socially significant that the men are stepping up as well — way to go, guys!

Why you should talk about it

Talking about my surgery publicly has allowed other friends to share their stories with me.  Stories about current health issues they are going through (I’m praying for you!)  Stories about recent health issues they’ve undergone.  Stories about things long in the past, but that are a big part of who they are now.  You have to do what you are comfortable with, but for me, being frank and open on all fronts allowed me to be able to not feel like I was hiding anything and also allowed me to deal with some parameters realistically, as in, “I’m sorry, I can’t do that, I will still be recovering from my hysterectomy then.” 

I also had to talk about the surgery with the JavaKids because I knew they’d hear me use the terms with doctors on the phone, with friends, etc.  With my children, being very straightforward and factual is the best way to go.  They are both very scientific minded so I can’t throw a lot of fairy dust into stories.  I simply explained that they found some “bad stuff” in Mommy and they needed to cut it out in a surgery or operation called a hysterectomy.  That I would go into the hospital and they would cut the bad stuff out and then I should be fine but I would have a “boo-boo tummy” for a while.  They asked me some questions so I went a little more in-depth — they wanted to know how they would go into my tummy so I explained they would make some small holes in me, one of which would be in my belly button.  They wanted to know if it would hurt so I explained the doctors would put some numbing stuff on me and that they would give me medicine that would make me go to sleep for a while.  We talked about the fact that I may come home on the same day or I may spend the night at the hospital.  JavaBoy wanted to know more about the instruments used, so I found an animation about the harmonic scalpel online to show him.  Somehow I mentioned that there would be some smoke (water vapor actually) inside me and this led to a silly conversation about whether the smoke would come out my ears or my belly button.  The JavaKids were very disappointed I didn’t come home spouting smoke rings like the caterpillar in Alice In Wonderland after the surgery.  I decided not to go into great detail about the glue holding my incisions together and instructed JavaDad to hide the KrazyGlue just in case the kids got any wise ideas.

I have, at other times, made a point to tell them that if “something should ever happen to Mommy, I will become an angel in heaven and watch down on them always.”  I’ve made sure to reassure them that I don’t expect anything to ever happen to Mommy, but I wanted them to have that to hold onto,  just in case.  Fortunately for us, they find religion a source of comfort and talk of heaven and angels is as normal as talking about ants on a blade of grass, so though it is an emotional thing for me to say, it didn’t seem overly meaning-laden to them.

The day before — Mommy the Grouch

Every story is different.  You may not have to do this, but I had to do a bowel prep, and I’ll spare you the gory details except to say that means swallowing magnesium citrate and drinking only clear liquids starting noon the day before your surgery.  And they don’t mean vodka!

If you have to do this, my best advice is get all your “clear liquids” (clear Italian ice, broth, clear juices, etc.) ready and then isolate yourself from your family and watch TV as much as possible — unless you can maintain a pleasant demeanor while going through this humiliating practice.  It is probably NOT advisable to do what I did and schedule a conference call with your boss.  Fortunately I still have a job.

Before your surgery the hospital/scheduling nurse will probably pester you to death with questions.  This will give you plenty of chances to counter-pester with questions.  By this point I had answered all my questions.  Just keep a keen ear out to make sure everyone seems to be onboard with the same plan you have — if you are removing ovaries, make sure everyone is checking to be sure you are removing ovaries.  Likewise if you are NOT removing ovaries, make sure everyone is saying you are NOT.

Surgery – it’s showtime

Since we had to be at the hospital at 6am, I said goodbye to the kids at bedtime.  And later I went back in and kissed their sleeping heads again.  As much as I tried not to go there, I did briefly allow myself to think, “what if…”  What if something goes wrong on the table and I don’t wake up.  What if they find really horrible cancer in the muscle of the uterus?  What if this is the first step in a journey I don’t want to take?  I forced myself to just move forward – it’s out of my hands.  I have a strong personal faith, but I am a control freak, so this is a constant struggle for me.  I had to trust that what was meant to be would be.

At this point you’ve mostly lost control of the ball.  Remain hypervigilant about everyone who comes in and what they say, but you have to trust that you are in good hands at some point and now is a good time.  The anesthesiologist was going to great pains to reassure me of all the safeguards they had in place, and since I’ve been through a few surgeries, I looked her in the eyes and said, “I trust you to take care of me.”  If you haven’t had anesthesia before, feel free to ask all the questions you need in order to get comfortable, but this wasn’t my first rodeo and I’ve come to see anesthesia as the best possible nap.

Our minister came to be with us and I’m hoping he wasn’t offput by the fact that JavaDad and I had hit the goofy joking stage of stress at this point.  Pastor had been with us through two c-sections and a few scary hospital visits, we appreciated his comforting presence and prayers.  I think we’d hit the point where we felt like it was all up to God and the docs and we might as well have a few laughs along the way.  As Pastor reminded me, I had two jobs at this point, “Go to sleep.  And wake up!”

As usual, all I remember is the “We’re going to give you a little bit of oxygen….” and then next thing I know I’m in the recovery room wondering who ripped the hell out of my organs.  Keep in mind at this point I’d gone 23 hours without a Diet Coke, so someone wisely gave me a Percocet and a Diet Coke.  I don’t think I actually crushed the can with my bare hands after finishing it, but somehow a second Diet Coke appeared out of thin air.  May God bless whomever stocks the recovery room fridge.

JavaDad also appeared (I notice, not until after the first Diet Coke…) and told me the first pathology report looked good.  I’m pretty sure I said some horrible things and muttered something about food, pain pills, and Diet Coke.  I hope I told him I love him.

I was pretty dopey but after I was done being dopey I was more aware of the pain and I said so.  I may have threatened someone’s life if they didn’t give JavaDad a script for decent drugs, or that may have just been in my head.  Either way, we left with a script for Percocet and no actual violence occurred.  We left the hospital 3 hours after my surgery.  So far I haven’t met anyone else who has left that fast after a hysterectomy so I figure it gives me mad bragging rights and street cred.  “Oh yeah, well I’m so tough they ripped all my girly parts out of me and I was home by lunch!” 

Homecoming

An extremely chipper volunteer wheeled me out to the car and I have a vague recollection of JavaDad calling someone to say we were on our way home.  I walked in the door expecting the JavaKids to give me a huge welcome and instead, they called out, “Oh, hi Mom!” from the other room where they were playing with their grandmother.   Your kids may love you more than mine love me.  (I joke, I joke.)  Take note: Grandmas visiting from Florida will trump a mom who has only been gone for a few hours even if she’s had all her girly parts taken away any day.  Especially if you can’t blow smoke out of your belly button.

You may be hoarse from the tube from anesthesia — which EVERY person you speak to on the phone will comment on.

The pain?  Let’s just say I felt bad for every cat we had had spayed.  I really hoped their drugs were better than mine and I will endlessly question the vet about this on any future cat spayings.  What followed was a blur of days/nights of popping pain pills and sleeping when the pain would allow me to.  Too much pain and too little focus to read more than a trashy magazine.  Falling asleep in the middle of tv shows.  Sitting up in chairs sometimes put too much pressure on the internal stitches.  I was told walking would be good and would help restart the digestive system, but it hurt and it is easy to get tired. Because it is blazing hot outside, I made two field trips to extend my walking to more than just inside my house — one trip to the used bookstore, and one trip to the library.  I am a wild child.  Sometime in the next week I plan to go to a Hair Cuttery and let them wash my hair for me.  I’m living it up!

Remaining questions

I did have my ovaries removed, so I supposedly will start early menopause.  Sometimes I feel hot — are those hotflashes or is that the result of the pain medication?  I don’t know.  We won’t start any hormone replacement therapy just yet until my body heals a little more. 

The final pathology report came in.  JavaDad took the call because I was asleep, so I didn’t get the thrill of receiving the news myself nor did I get to quiz the doctor.  All I know is the report was clear – no cancer.  This is good news.  It does play a slight headgame with you when you are still in pain from the surgery — why did I do all this then?  We had already removed the pre-cancerous cyst.  Should I have gone ahead and removed the ovaries?  Intellectually I know this was the right decision — I will never have to worry about cancer in these areas, where pre-cancerous cells once existed, more could’ve cropped up any time.  I have the added benefit of not having any monthly female troubles and though I had not gone in to complain about monthly pain, I did have a lot of monthly pain.  But the human mind can’t help but play the what if game.  I am a lucky, lucky, lucky woman and I don’t mean to play down how lucky and grateful I am.  I am blessed.

I’m still recovering.  Impatiently so.  Still tired.  Still have pain, but less of the “come here and let me scratch your eyes out” level of pain.  I’ve kicked JavaDad out of bed as I seem to require all of the bed and all of the pillows.  I want to do more than I can.  I’ll think, “hey, why don’t I walk across the room and reorganize that bookcase?!”  Which will become, “In ten minutes I’ll do that.”  Which ultimately becomes a matter of me maybe moving three books around sometime that day and then going back to bed.

I cannot thank my family and friends enough for riding out this tornado with me.  I do believe in the power of prayer and I think your prayers help make this turn out to be a best case scenario.  From the meals to the comments and emails to reading the posts, each of you have supported me in your own way and it meant a lot.  I’ll be glad when the glue dissolves and the incisions heal, but most of all I hope that my experience can be used to help ease someone else’s journey, so please share my story with anyone who needs it and I’m happy to answer questions to be the best of my ability.

Disclosure:  I’m a patient, not a doctor and cannot provide medical advice.  All information in this post is based solely on my individual experience and sh0uld not be substituted for advice from your doctor.

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