This morning, against my better judgement, I got up at the ungodly hour of 8:45. I know, how did I manage to hoist my delicate ass out of my lovely bed to the harsh reality of life with 3 (minus one today) children before plopping my butt down in front of my laptop? The things I endure, I tell you.

Well, despite my mango-vodka-flavored drinky-poo last night, I woke up refreshed, bright eyed and bushy-tailed and veritably bounded into the office of my new shrink. Being a (retired) medical professional myself, I knew that my first visit would involve a whole lotta observations of my behavior.

Did The Patient scratch herself too much? Did The Patient blink her left eye more quickly than her right? Does The Patient look like she engages in self-care activity (not, for those of you playing along at home, involving dildos)? Is The Patient trying to mount my desk AGAIN?

LOCK THAT CRAZY BITCH UP!

I don’t mean to make light of the situation,* but when you have streak of mental illness and alcoholism sixteen miles wide running through your family, I’m pretty sure you’re allowed to try and chuckle. Or at least, in my case, be very careful to remember that while giving your (sorted) medical history, it’s probably not wise to grab the red Sharpee on the desk and run around the room screaming about the eyes in the ceilings that watch us aaaalllllll!!

You should be pleased to note that I kept both butt cheeks firmly planted on the chair.

As part of the general information that he was gathering for me, I took this…test thing. I got pretty excited because I enjoy taking tests, until I looked at it more closely. It was a whole lot of questions to be answered in a true/false manner. I fucking hate true/false tests.

I was suitably confused.

I feel like I am a special person who deserves special things.

Well, DUH. I thought Mr. Rogers spent most of my early childhood telling me that we were all special rainbow snowflake droplets. Obviously TRUE.

I have travelled to Africa seventy times this past week.

OF COURSE I HAVE. TRUE, TRUE, TRUE.

I have been on 37 magazine covers.

Who hasn’t?

I have homicidal thoughts.

How often is often enough to mark True?

I’m much better at essay questions, as you can no doubt guess, considering how frequently I pollute The Internet with my pointless drivel. I always want to qualify my answers in these questions. Am I always in the middle of things at parties? Well, what kind of parties are we discussing? Because if it’s a Sausage Fest, you better believe I am. But in the middle of a comic book convention? You’ll find me crawling the walls, looking for an escape route.

The rest of the questions were pretty mundane. It appears that I do have a mild case of Post Traumatic Stress disorder and that I am ridiculously confident. Neither of these statements shocks me much.

What shocked me more than anything else is that this is all that appears to be wrong with me.

For 28 (29 next month. HOORAY for ALMOST 30!) years, I have been waiting patiently for the day that I wake up and do not go back to sleep for 4 days. For the day that I decided that 5 years old is old enough for my kid to fend for him/herself and lock myself in my room with a bottle of booze and a script of valium. For the day when I am so full of energy that I repaint the entire outside of my house with a toothbrush and my tongue between the hours of 1 and 3 AM one idle Thursday.

It’s never come, but I’ve waited.

Apparently, Amelia isn’t the only person in this house who has been diagnosed Completely Normal**.

Now, thankfully, I can focus my attentions on more fascinating pursuits. Like wondering if I should really make a shirt that says “I’m Friends With Heather Spohr” and if it’s more PC to call BlogHer “Beaver Fest 2009” or “Vagina Stock 2009”?

The jury remains out on all counts.

*I totally mean to make light of any situation, because hey, if you can laugh your way through having to collect your poo in a bucket, you can laugh at anything.

**When you’re used to dealing with people who routinely bathe the floor with their tongue and are convinced that they are pregnant with Jesus’s baby, “normal” is relative.

I’m often tragically glib about my own issues with guilt: I know this. I’ll joke about how when I see a cop sitting on the side of the road my mind immediately believes that he will pull me over for any number of infractions: flagrant use of the color pink, inappropriate listening of Britney Spears, maybe I’m being recklessly garish with my choice of handbag. I can’t be sure.

I’ve been this way since I can remember, likely since Jesus was my classmate. I was born a guilty soul, I guess. Having a mentally ill parent only intensified this and I’m sure it only added to my Naturally Guilty ™ personality.

Now, I must first give you the disclaimer that the things that I do feel guilty about are mostly irrational. I don’t have a guilty conscience because I cheated on my husband, or because I secretly beat my kids or have a cat fetish. The guilt I have is much more ingrained than that. The guilt is irrational, completely so, and it’s become as much a part of me as my colorblindness or green thumb.

Thanks to my Online Degree from Google University, I’ve read up on excessive feelings of guilt, and while I can see where a lot of the symptoms fit other people, the only one that really is applicable to my situation is this: feelings of over-responsibility. I’ve been this way my whole life: I got a degree in a field I hate and graduated at the top of my class because I felt like I should, not because the coursework was fascinating to me.

The days when I can’t keep up and comment on the 300+ blogs in my reader? I feel terrible. It’s so stupid, I mean, 80 % of them don’t comment here and yet I bust my nuts to make sure to be Super-Aunt Becky, Overachiever, Esq? DOES NOT COMPUTE.

(to be clear so this doesn’t sound all whiny, wah wah wah, I don’t mind commenting and I enjoy the f-c-u-k out of connecting with other bloggers)

I know, I know, I need to cut myself a break now and again–I know I do–and I’m trying. I spent the whole weekend chanting (to myself. I’m still not THAT crazy) “I am not the potter, but the potter’s clay” and it sort of helped.

I mean, I still felt awful about not being able to see my friend Heather, I felt terrible that we needed a new dishwasher even though the thing has been limping along, spurting out half-clean dishes for years. I felt awful that we hadn’t found the dying fledgling robin sooner and had gotten him to the wildlife rehabilitation center before he was really, REALLY sick. The list is long and increasingly stupid.

I am not responsible for anything but the way I react to things.

It’s time to stop this. I know that I need to stop this. I’ve known it for ages, but I’ve been waiting for…something to push me in the right direction.

After months of ignoring it, I am going to meet with someone to help talk me through this. I need to come up with a way around the guilt and I’m confident that I’ll be able to find one after awhile.

I’ve waffled on posting about this, not because I don’t think you’ll be unfailingly kind (wait, did that double negative make sense?), but because it doesn’t really…go anywhere. It’s not something I want to stand up tall and proud in the soldiers uniform I picture myself in when I’m standing proud and tall and speaking my truth and admit to you: hey, Internet, I have issues! Pretend to act surprised!

I’m showing my vulnerability to you because I am hoping that maybe somewhere, sometime, someone will be able to look at this and say “Dude, if that crazy bitch can do it, so can I.”

I’m not the Potter, but the Potter’s clay.

(ring, ring)

RN: “Hello, Your OB’s Office, this is Chris, how can I help you?”

Becky: “Hi, I’m Becky Harks and I’m a patient of The Doctor. I’m calling because I’m 5 weeks postpartum and I think I need to adjust my dosage of my meds.”

RN (not unkindly): “What’s going on?”

Becky (begins to cry): “I’m on the lowest dosage of my Wellbutrin, well the generic one and I think I need some more. My baby just had to have brain surgery and I’m not handling it well.”

RN: “I see. Are you thinking of hurting yourself or anyone else?”

Becky (with conviction): “NO.”

(they go back and forth for awhile, as pleasantly as possible when one of the members of the conversation is weeping)

RN: “I’ll talk to the doctor about increasing your dosage. Can I call you back?”

Becky (relieved): “Sure.”

(both parties hang up)

————-

(ring, ring)

RN: “Hi Becky, I spoke with your doctor.”

Becky: “Uh-huh?”

RN: “He’s not comfortable with increasing your dosage because he’s not a psychiatrist. But here are the names of some people you can call.”

Becky (stunned): “Uh…”

RN: “They might not be able to get you in right away.”

Becky: “…”

RN: “If you feel like killing someone or yourself, go to the ER.”

Becky: “…”

Becky: “…”

Becky: “…”

Becky: “…”

Becky: “…”

Becky (small voice): “okay.”

(both parties hang up.)

*headdesk*

——————-

Have no fear, Internet. I called my GP who was able to bump up my dosage for me until such time as I can get in to see him.

But I’m left wondering, why the hell does getting proper help have to be so hard?

When I was growing up and people other than me bought my clothes, my paternal grandmother would mark every special occasion with a new fancy party dress. Luckily for me, despite my mother’s best efforts, I remained a girly-girl and not the tomboy she wanted me to be, so the dresses were a smash hit. I remember the yards of ribbons, lace and itchy, yet beautiful netting underneath. I remember fondly the stockings and the patent leather shoes and feeling just beautiful when I wore it all.

I couldn’t wait to carry that tradition on with my own daughter.

Because I am a freak of nature, I decided to wait until my daughter was born (and therefore it was a bigger pain in the asshole to get away) to settle on her first dress, an Easter dress. Easter is one of my favorite times of year, one of the only times that Chicago-land weather stands a chance at being remotely temperate and not Ass Cold or Ass Hot.

(Why YES, those are technical terms! Didn’t you know I have a degree in meteorology? Because I totally don’t.)

But Amelia was born and she had a spot on the back of her head that reminded me every time that I saw it of a bad spot on an apple. You know, the rotted bit? Not exactly the mental picture you want when you have a new baby, trust me, I know.

And because at any given time, none of us knew what the hell was REALLY going on with her–was she going to live? Die? Turn into a Jonas Brother? NO ONE WOULD TELL US–until after her surgery, we were in a constant state of limbo. I hate to harp on this, really I do, because I know so many people who have had real problems with their offspring and while I know now that her surgery really was fake brain surgery (sort of. Kind of. It was still brain surgery) and not nearly as frightening as we’d been led to possibly perhaps maybe sort of believe, I didn’t back then.

(still waiting on that pathology report. Want that pathology report)

So the things that comforted me while she still had her rotten spot were few and far between and I spent those four weeks alternating between Freaking The Fuck Out A Lot <---> Freaking The Fuck Out A Weensy Bit Less Than A Lot. Had this brain surgery been STAT, while it would have sucked for a couple of days, it was nothing compared to sitting around and wondering and waiting and not getting any answers. Because that, my internet lovers, sucks more.

I had, in no particular order, these things to comfort me: my friends in the computer, white cupcakes, Valium, and my word search books (shut up. I am not an old woman). The most important thing, though, was imagining a life post surgery, something I didn’t really want to do often lest I jinx it and kill her by thinking positively. Yes, it was magical thinking, and no, I couldn’t stop it no matter how berserk it sounds.

But I’d imagine two things: shopping for an Easter dress and bonnet for my daughter and planning her debut party.

And yesterday, the Gods smiled upon me.

Because there is this:

And something like this:

(Not, obviously, the same cake. This was Alex’s first birthday cake which neatly shows my cake fetish. And we are rapidly approaching Alex’s second birthday. Which is going to happily coincide with Amelia’s Debut Party. April 19, party people. Save the mother-humping date!)

It’s going to be one hell of a celebration.

———————

Oh, and I must add, while I thank you for all of your kind comments about the picture of me in that post, that is another old picture. Because I am still about 25-30 pounds up from that and am horrified by pictures of myself, I refuse to show you what I look like today. BECAUSE WHAT WOULD HAPPEN IF THE INTERNET DIDN’T FIND ME SEXXY?

When Alex was about 10 months old, I realized that I was suffering from Postpartum Depression and was promptly seen by my doctor and treated with some excellent mood enhancers (sadly not MDMA).

Every now and again, even knowing better like I do, I’ll get this bright idea that I need to go off of them for some reason so I do. The results are always predictably bad, save for when I was badgered into going off them at 8 weeks pregnant with Amelia. Then, for a good 20 odd weeks, I did remarkably well all things considering.

But, what goes up must come down and at 20 odd weeks pregnant, I realized that I Was Not Handling Life Well. Crying whenever a commercial came onto the television–even aquadoodles! which may be annoying but certainly not sob-worthy–wasn’t my standard MO and I made the executive decision to resume taking my Vitamin W.

So, one weekend while shopping at the hallowed halls of the beginning and end of my current social life (read: Target), I had The Daver pop over to the pharmacy to request the refill on my Vitamin W while I peed or something equally pregnant-like. No sooner had he walked away (as I walked up behind them), but I hear my name booming over the loudspeaker to “return to the pharmacy.”

Since I was already there, I popped my head up and addressed the no-nonsense looking pharmacist who appeared to be glaring at me.

“Hey, I’m Rebecca Harks, what’s up?” I started in.

“Didn’t you go OFF this medication?” She accused me, her voice dripping with…anger? Could that REALLY be anger? “Because it says in the system that you stopped taking it.”

I was momentarily shocked as this woman had immediately put me on the defense, not a common reaction I have to people talking to me. (IT IS NOT A COMMON REACTION, INTERNET!) (see, that’s a JOKE. Because I was being defensive about being defensive. God, I crack myself up. I should be a comedian.)

“Well,” I sort of sputtered, taken completely aback and somehow now on the verge of tears. “I did. But I need to go back onto it now.” I wondered why my fucking pharmacist was making me justify something that she personally had no reason to do so. She, as I knew, couldn’t write me a prescription, so what does it matter WHY I take ANYTHING?

Answer: it doesn’t.

“Well,” she angrily spat at me, “you ONLY have a script for 10 more pills. THEN you’ll need to call your DOCTOR.”

The tears were welling up as she accused me again and my throat became lumpy as I tried to swallow.

“Fine,” I said. “I’ll call them on Monday. But in the meantime, I want my 10 pills.”

Internet, hand to heart here, the woman then rolled her eyes at me. No, really, she did. Daver even saw it, so you know I’m not being hysterical here.

While I’m aware that being on an anti-depressant while obviously pregnant isn’t perhaps the best thing on the planet, trust me, I struggled with being on it for that reason, it’s not the end of the world. My own mother was on Lithium while she was pregnant with moi and look at how well *I* turned out!

Okay, bad example.

I guess what I’m saying is this: if you have to be on something to help you make it through your life, that’s something that’s between you and your doctor, and God not you and the Target pharmacist. I wasn’t asking for Viagra, I wasn’t asking for meth, I just wanted my fucking anti-depressant. More than anything, I wanted NOT TO NEED IT.

But if I do need it, I’d prefer it without the side of Judgmental Bitch.

It should have come as no surprise to me that last week, when I called in a refill for my Ativan (with one clearly left according to the jaunty label) I attempted to do so through the computerized system. Immediately as I hung up, the phone rang. Guess who?

The natty haired Target pharmacist!

Immediately she launches into, “Did your doctor change your dosage?”

“Erm, no,” I sputtered, upset to begin with.

“Well, I can’t give you this. You can’t have it for another 2 weeks.” She stated flatly, but with an accusing tone to her voice. I must add that the first and only time I’ve needed this medication was after Amelia came home with a cyst on her fucking skull. And even then, I was so upset that I had Daver call my doctor and request this FOR me.

“Can I pay full price?” I asked, thinking it was an insurance thing. Money was not an object here. Sanity was.

“NO. You can’t have this for 2 more weeks.” There was no budging her. And now, of course, I’m in tears. While everything set me off into a crying jag last week, this was especially brutal.

She finally agreed to call my doctor to request a dosage change for me once I started hiccuping hysterically into the phone as I explained the situation with Amelia to her.

And while I don’t fault her for doing her job–shit, my dad is a pharmacist, I respect that stuff–it’s become clear that she has a bias against psychiatric medication. That’s what makes me so sad.

If she couldn’t practice empathy, at least she could have been less I’m all gonna judge you for needing medication YOU WEAK, SPINELESS BITCH, YOU.

*sighs*

Perhaps I should act REALLY crazy and go and take a poo on her car or something.

So tell me, wise Internets, has someone done something similar to you? Accused you in their voice and actions something that you didn’t deserve to be accused of?

…is followed by one of the longest days I’ve had. Please, if you can spare some prayers for my sweet girl tomorrow, I would be so incredibly grateful.

I’ll update as I can, which means from my iPhone and generally of shittier quality (typing on that thing is a bitch) and from twitter.

Love you all.

I’m not having A Good Day today. My days alternate between being bearable and excruciating and I apologize profusely for anything I ever complained about having to wait for before. Living and waiting until Thursday to breathe again is nothing compared to how irritating it is to be pregnant for 9! whole! months! or wait an hour! for a pizza! THE NERVE! Waiting for a surgery that will result in a 3 day PICU stay is even more annoying than waiting for the next episode of American Idol!

I spent the first 3 weeks home cleaning like a crazy person, which is probably what I’ve become (crazy, I mean, not clean) as I’d been unable to move without creaking audibly before Amelia was born. Plus, the way I handle stress is to try and use my muscles. I find it quiets my brain and allows me to relax. It’s also breastfeeding safe, unlike the pharmaceutical alternatives I’d prefer.

Not really much point in the entry, I confess, but I wanted to thank each and every soul who has prayed for us. Honestly, it’s kept me afloat during these weeks and through all of the turmoil, I know I’ve got a friend in you, Internet. And that’s saying a lot. Thank you doesn’t begin to describe how much I appreciate and am humbled by your support.

(BONUS! No one has called me an idiot in a couple of weeks! HOORAY! A shout out to my trolls who are taking a break for now. It’s appreciated. When it’s all over, I’ll rejoice that I have trolls and you can go back to mocking me. It’s cool. I like the trolls.)

Today I will continue to float by, hoping simultaneously that it will pass quickly and not end because it’s one day sooner to the day I don’t want to have to live through. I honestly do not know how I am going to get through those hours of surgery where I’m stuck in a waiting room wishing I could claw my skin off. I’ve even enlisted my father to come sit with us so that Dave and I don’t have to talk to each other. Distraction is key here.

(anyone who wants to join us, please email me becky at dwink dot net)

And what the hell am I going to do in the PICU for 3 straight days? Any ideas of what I should bring/do to avoid rounding with the residents and taking over some of the patients for the nurses? Because no one would appreciate that.

I remember back to my mental health rotation in which we had to attend–in our scant off hours–a support group. While I have no idea what group we sat in on (nor would I tell you if I did), I remember that they had a motto: “Feelings aren’t facts.” It’s something that’s stuck with me and until my daughter was born, I’m not certain I could tell you if that were true or not.

I’m a fairly rational person, despite how it may appear on my one-dimensional blog here, and I used to think that after I finally came to terms with how I was feeling (having a mentally ill parent has given me a unique gift in which I am able to distance myself from my feelings and examine them to check for rationality), I was probably feeling something real. Only time this wasn’t true was when I was pregnant. Then I was certifiable, although less so with each pregnancy.

I had several nagging suspicions that proved to be wrong while I was pregnant, but if you’d asked me and I’d answered you honestly, I would have sworn up and down that I was Onto Something. In no particular order, I was convinced that I was going to go into labor early, not have to be induced, and have a c-section. All obviously not true. Once in labor, I was convinced that Amelia would not come out breathing on her own. She came out bellowing like her mother does.

These feelings obviously weren’t facts.

And yet I sit here, my 3 week old daughter sleeping blissfully on my knees (she refuses to sleep without being held which makes for some interesting sleeping arrangements) and I’m convinced that she is going to die. I’m convinced that she is only here on loan to me and will return to her maker on Thursday next. I know it’s not rational, the surgery carries only a 2-3% chance of problems–all bad, of course–and she’s the model of health. It’s not likely that there will be any long-term complications.

And yet. And yet.

I cannot break this feeling of doom and foreboding. I cannot imagine a life past next Thursday one way or another. I cannot believe that I am lucky enough to have this baby AND KEEP HER.

It’s an awful feeling. I have no idea how to combat it or change my mind or approach this with anything resembling a positive attitude. I can’t seem to stop crying or panicking and I’m pretty sure I’m going to drive my family members bonkers (if not myself) by the time Thursday rolls around. Any suggestions are appreciated (save for those telling me I’m an idiot. Because A) tell me something I don’t know and B) now is not the time to beat on me) for how the hell to get on with this. I have 8 more days of this agony before The Big One.

Today she is three weeks old and I wish I were celebrating instead of weeping.

*Despite my own crankiness and fears about keeping Amelia NPO after 3:30, she was a trooper and a half.

*Although we were told to arrive an hour early, no one saw us for the first 45 minutes.

*Living up to her middle name, my amazing daughter didn’t need sedation for her MRV. I was sad that they didn’t offer it to me.

*The MRV showed that there is a huge vein behind her posterior cephalocele, but it does not run through it.

*The surgery on the 26th will take anywhere from 2 to 6 hours.

*We will be in the PICU/NICU for 3-4 days postop. I’ll staying with her since I am her food source, which means I will not sleep for those days. God bless insomnia.

*Alex is going to have a terrible time with Dave and I being gone for so long.

*I’m still, armed with all of the facts, shitting my pants over all of this.

*I’m terrified that something will go badly wrong and I will lose my daughter. Whenever I close my eyes, these scenarios pop into my head.

*I feel like I’ve now used up all of the strength I had to get through this and I don’t know how I’m going to get through. I feel like I’ve been run over by a large truck.

*Hearing “don’t worry” has gotten on my nerves and now hurts my feelings to hear. It’s irrational, but it makes me feel like I’m overreacting. I only wish I was overreacting. No, I don’t mean you.

*I still can’t believe what a month it’s been.

Tomorrow, bright and blurry, after many hours without food (her, not me. I can eat if I choose), we take baby Amelia in for an MRV. An MRV, for those gloriously unaware, is an MRI of the venous system. Our new neurosurgeon would prefer if, before opening up my daughter’s head, he knew where the blood flow was.

It’s all well and good, and shit, I’m glad he’s thorough about the whole situation, because how much would that suck if he weren’t? Answer: a fucking ton.

Afterwards, sedated baby or no (the sedation is the optional part, thankfully. Although it’s not optional for moi, who plans to experience better living through chemistry from the moment I wake up tomorrow until we’re back home) we meet with the surgeon one final time before her surgery on the 26th of the month. This displeases me nearly as much as Amelia being NPO for the MRV does.

See, now, I really hearted my first neurosurgeon who made me feel like this situation, although not idea, was going to be just fine. Sadly, my insurance doesn’t pay him what he deserves, so he’s forced to not take it. Hence, neuro #2. Who, I was correctly warned by neuro #1, has a deplorable bedside manner. He’s not gruff or mean or even all doomsday on us, he’s just very matter-of-fact.

He’s straight, to the point, and easily the cockiest person I’ve met. Which, if you know my friends, is saying a hell of a lot. I’ve been trying to tell myself that I’d rather have a talented and cocky surgeon than the alternative, but I wish I didn’t have to deal with the guy. But if I were to request another surgeon, a third neuro, it would likely be someone that Cocky Neuro #2 trained. So, I’ll take him and his attitude and medicate the shit out of myself so I don’t get hysterical in his office. Again.

Shit, this time I’m prepared. I even packed my OWN KLEENEX in the diaper bag! I’m slowly turning into an old lady who carries around tissues! I remember being completely squigged out when my mother used to use my coats because I’d always get them back with used tissues and plastic baggies in the pockets. I don’t know if she used the tissues for her nose or her eyes (sincerely hope it was her eyes. Because, ew) but it always annoyed me to no end. It just seemed…rude.

But that’s who this whole brain thing has turned me into: an old lady who cries at everything and shoves Kleenex up her sleeves so as to not snot all over other people. I was okay with the grey hairs I’ve gotten steadily more of since Ben was born, but this development? Not so much.

If you happen to be in the Same Day Surgery wing tomorrow, and you see a red, puffy-eyed haggard looking broad with a baby seat and a econo box of Puffs, come and pull up a chair, I’m not catching. I’ll even share my Valium with you.