Well, love-monkey's, you are going to have to wait a few more days before I can get to part IV of No Babies Allowed because tomorrow I'm packing a suitcase and headed for a four-day adventure at the LAX Marriott for the Adults with Congenital Heart Defects Conference. I'm in charge of the social committee, if you can believe that shit, and I'll be doing all sorts of fun crap in the Hospitality Room starting tomorrow. We'll be playing icebreaker games, scavenger hunts and all sorts of ways to force friendships upon strangers.
If you're going to be there, come up and say hey. I promise I won't bite - unless you interrupt me as I'm napping by the pool, 'cause that's where I plan to be in between panels.
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
No Babies Allowed! (part drei)
OK, so let's get caught up and dive in.
Part One: Babies = bad. Sterilization = good.
Part Two: Dr. Melonbrains withholds birth control pills and I get an IUD, which self-aborts in 4 days.
We all caught up?
Now, some of you - those of you who know me - probably thought, "Gee, Rachael, why would you see a Lady Doctor that isn't affiliated with UCLA?" (where TEAM RACHAEL! is) and it is for 2 reasons:
1) Bitches don't take my insurance
2) I had a horrible experience with a cunty doctor who actually made me feel guilty about being on birth control pills. I was there to take care of some ovarian cysts, not get a lecture about my barely existent sex life. It didn't help that she was 7 months pregnant and full of judgment.
OK, I wanted to address that before we moved on. Now, where was I? Oh, yeah. In agony.
I didn't blame the IUD for self-aborting. I thought it was just my body reacting to a foreign object. I'd still recommend an IUD for a lot of people. I was just frustrated that I had to make a decision on whether or not to do this AGAIN or figure out something else. To add insult to injury, Dr. Melonbrains was on VACAY! and wouldn't be back until the 15th, when I already had the good mind to have a follow-up appointment scheduled.
On Monday morning I tried to get in touch with my old gyn, who as I said previously, works in the same office space but is not actually affiliated with Dr. Melonbrains, who has a male partner. The Front Desk Ladies From Hell (another post unto itself) would not even hear of it. I betrayed my goodly gyn and crossed to the dark side, so now I had to just live with it.
SOMEDAY, FRONT DESK LADIES! SOME FUCKING DAY...!
So I got in touch with Dr. Melonbrains partner, Dr. Faaaaaaaaabulous! Our conversation went something like this:
ME: This IUD came out. Give me my $700 back and some goddamn birth control!
HIM: Ew, vagina's! Why did I go into this business again? Yeah, get you cleaned up and Imma call in some pills. I hope you bagged that bitch up so you can get a refund.
ME: Bitch, I wasn't about to let $700 flush away!
US: HAHAHAHAHAHAHA! Gross.
ME: You think I should do this again?
HIM: Fuck no. Ew.
So I wait around and when the 15th comes Dr. Melonbrains is not as appalled as I thought she was going to be. What I failed to mention in my last post was how confident, and dare I say, full of herself she was when it came to the IUD. She went on to brag that she never had any patients have complications - and while she "knew of other doctors whose patients experienced complications" she had a perfect track record.
I was kind of proud of myself to ruin that for her.
So we went into her office where she confessed something.
Dr. Melonbrains admitted she did not secure the IUD in my uterus. She was "uncomfortable" with the amount of hormones that the Mirena IUD would release into my system so she was just HOPING that the IUD would behave itself and somehow know it ought to stick around in my lady parts for you know, half a decade.
Now, imagine if you will, the self-control I exercised when I did not immediately punch her in the tits after confessing this to me.
In moments like this my brain goes off somewhere to protect the rest of my body from getting into a physical altercation and wind up as somebody's bitch down in county. I get kind of light-headed and dazed so I'm more prone to agree to anything just for the sake of getting the fuck away from the situation that is pissing me off so much.
So when she suggested I have a partial hysterectomy I was like, "YOU KNOW WHAT? BRILLIANT!"
She had the genius idea of writing me an order even though she knew I could not have it done at the hospital her clinic was adjacent to because I am a cardiac patient. I didn't tell her how stupid this sounded, but took the order anyway and inquired about what I should do in the meantime. It's not like I can just walk into UCLA and demand hysterectomy's like I'm ordering an Eggnog latte at Starbucks.
"With that order I gave you, that should get the ball rolling and they'll see how in need you are for this and hopefully schedule it after a consultation."
Hm. Sounded easy enough, so why not?
"OK," I said, sticking to my guns. "But I do need something to get me by until then."
She decided a NuvaRing would be perfect to patch me up with. After explaining to me that I take it out 3 weeks from the day of insertion, I then asked what I should do after that one had to come out.
Loftily, she replied, "Oh, I can just switch it out if you want to come back."
Though sick to death of coming to this clinic, I just nodded and moved on to my it other order of business. Approaching the front desk, I slapped down the Ziploc bag containing the fallen IUD and said, "I'd like my $700 back, please."
Mirena IUD: $700
Bus Fare: $3.00
The look of horror on a medical office ladies face: Priceless.
"We'll send you a check in the mail," she promised and before long I was on my merry way.
I conferred with TEAM RACHAEL! who recommended a couple of UCLA-affiliated Lady Doctors, the first of which I passed on based purely on the fact that he was a dude and my general attitude toward straight, male Lady Doctors has always been a little backward and archaic ("What the hell would they know about my lady parts?" being my general response) so I went with their second suggestion, whom I'll refer to as The Wizard (because Doctor Oz is already taken).
My appointment was just over three weeks, right when the NuvaRing would need to come out. I still had a couple of weeks worth of birth control pills leftover when Dr. Faaaaaaaaaabulous prescribed them to help with the side effects of a self-aborted IUD.
I wasn't precisely sure what to do when the NuvaRing expired because while my insurance did not cover it, Dr. Melonbrains invited me back to her office to have it taken it out and possibly get a new one in? She used a sample last time, maybe I could explain to her about the impending appointment, she'll see that I am not dicking her around; that I am really going through with this and she will be more than likely to give me another sample (or 2, or 3). I called her office to confer.
This is what the conversation went like:
ME: Hey, so what's up when this NuvaRing is supposed to come out? Dr. M said to just come in and she'd take it out, but what then? My insurance doesn't cover it and I need something to keep me in check so I don't (a) have babies (b) kill everyone with spiked Flavor-Aid when PMS settles in.
FRONT DESK GIRL: Oh, it shouldn't be a problem! Yeah, we have samples all over the goddamn place. No worries, just pop on in! Sunshine and rainbows for everyone!
ME: Cool.
I get a call later that day; it's the front desk girl.
FRONT DESK GIRL: (in a solemn, nervous voice) Uhm. Uhm. Dr. Melonbrains said that she's uncomfortable giving you NuvaRing more than once because of the estrogen and uhm, stuff.
ME: You have GOT to be shitting me. That bitch told me to come in and she'd take care of it!
FRONT DESK GIRL: B-b-b-b-ut you can talk to her all about it and discuss your options when she calls you back tomorrow, okay? She's going to call you back tomorrow and you two can figure it out.
ME: Fine. (I am too exhausted to put up an argument with this little girl, who is, after all, just the messenger)
I never heard from Dr. Melonbrains again.
Part One: Babies = bad. Sterilization = good.
Part Two: Dr. Melonbrains withholds birth control pills and I get an IUD, which self-aborts in 4 days.
We all caught up?
Now, some of you - those of you who know me - probably thought, "Gee, Rachael, why would you see a Lady Doctor that isn't affiliated with UCLA?" (where TEAM RACHAEL! is) and it is for 2 reasons:
1) Bitches don't take my insurance
2) I had a horrible experience with a cunty doctor who actually made me feel guilty about being on birth control pills. I was there to take care of some ovarian cysts, not get a lecture about my barely existent sex life. It didn't help that she was 7 months pregnant and full of judgment.
OK, I wanted to address that before we moved on. Now, where was I? Oh, yeah. In agony.
I didn't blame the IUD for self-aborting. I thought it was just my body reacting to a foreign object. I'd still recommend an IUD for a lot of people. I was just frustrated that I had to make a decision on whether or not to do this AGAIN or figure out something else. To add insult to injury, Dr. Melonbrains was on VACAY! and wouldn't be back until the 15th, when I already had the good mind to have a follow-up appointment scheduled.
On Monday morning I tried to get in touch with my old gyn, who as I said previously, works in the same office space but is not actually affiliated with Dr. Melonbrains, who has a male partner. The Front Desk Ladies From Hell (another post unto itself) would not even hear of it. I betrayed my goodly gyn and crossed to the dark side, so now I had to just live with it.
SOMEDAY, FRONT DESK LADIES! SOME FUCKING DAY...!
So I got in touch with Dr. Melonbrains partner, Dr. Faaaaaaaaabulous! Our conversation went something like this:
ME: This IUD came out. Give me my $700 back and some goddamn birth control!
HIM: Ew, vagina's! Why did I go into this business again? Yeah, get you cleaned up and Imma call in some pills. I hope you bagged that bitch up so you can get a refund.
ME: Bitch, I wasn't about to let $700 flush away!
US: HAHAHAHAHAHAHA! Gross.
ME: You think I should do this again?
HIM: Fuck no. Ew.
So I wait around and when the 15th comes Dr. Melonbrains is not as appalled as I thought she was going to be. What I failed to mention in my last post was how confident, and dare I say, full of herself she was when it came to the IUD. She went on to brag that she never had any patients have complications - and while she "knew of other doctors whose patients experienced complications" she had a perfect track record.
I was kind of proud of myself to ruin that for her.
So we went into her office where she confessed something.
Dr. Melonbrains admitted she did not secure the IUD in my uterus. She was "uncomfortable" with the amount of hormones that the Mirena IUD would release into my system so she was just HOPING that the IUD would behave itself and somehow know it ought to stick around in my lady parts for you know, half a decade.
Now, imagine if you will, the self-control I exercised when I did not immediately punch her in the tits after confessing this to me.
In moments like this my brain goes off somewhere to protect the rest of my body from getting into a physical altercation and wind up as somebody's bitch down in county. I get kind of light-headed and dazed so I'm more prone to agree to anything just for the sake of getting the fuck away from the situation that is pissing me off so much.
So when she suggested I have a partial hysterectomy I was like, "YOU KNOW WHAT? BRILLIANT!"
She had the genius idea of writing me an order even though she knew I could not have it done at the hospital her clinic was adjacent to because I am a cardiac patient. I didn't tell her how stupid this sounded, but took the order anyway and inquired about what I should do in the meantime. It's not like I can just walk into UCLA and demand hysterectomy's like I'm ordering an Eggnog latte at Starbucks.
"With that order I gave you, that should get the ball rolling and they'll see how in need you are for this and hopefully schedule it after a consultation."
Hm. Sounded easy enough, so why not?
"OK," I said, sticking to my guns. "But I do need something to get me by until then."
She decided a NuvaRing would be perfect to patch me up with. After explaining to me that I take it out 3 weeks from the day of insertion, I then asked what I should do after that one had to come out.
Loftily, she replied, "Oh, I can just switch it out if you want to come back."
Though sick to death of coming to this clinic, I just nodded and moved on to my it other order of business. Approaching the front desk, I slapped down the Ziploc bag containing the fallen IUD and said, "I'd like my $700 back, please."
Mirena IUD: $700
Bus Fare: $3.00
The look of horror on a medical office ladies face: Priceless.
"We'll send you a check in the mail," she promised and before long I was on my merry way.
I conferred with TEAM RACHAEL! who recommended a couple of UCLA-affiliated Lady Doctors, the first of which I passed on based purely on the fact that he was a dude and my general attitude toward straight, male Lady Doctors has always been a little backward and archaic ("What the hell would they know about my lady parts?" being my general response) so I went with their second suggestion, whom I'll refer to as The Wizard (because Doctor Oz is already taken).
My appointment was just over three weeks, right when the NuvaRing would need to come out. I still had a couple of weeks worth of birth control pills leftover when Dr. Faaaaaaaaaabulous prescribed them to help with the side effects of a self-aborted IUD.
I wasn't precisely sure what to do when the NuvaRing expired because while my insurance did not cover it, Dr. Melonbrains invited me back to her office to have it taken it out and possibly get a new one in? She used a sample last time, maybe I could explain to her about the impending appointment, she'll see that I am not dicking her around; that I am really going through with this and she will be more than likely to give me another sample (or 2, or 3). I called her office to confer.
This is what the conversation went like:
ME: Hey, so what's up when this NuvaRing is supposed to come out? Dr. M said to just come in and she'd take it out, but what then? My insurance doesn't cover it and I need something to keep me in check so I don't (a) have babies (b) kill everyone with spiked Flavor-Aid when PMS settles in.
FRONT DESK GIRL: Oh, it shouldn't be a problem! Yeah, we have samples all over the goddamn place. No worries, just pop on in! Sunshine and rainbows for everyone!
ME: Cool.
I get a call later that day; it's the front desk girl.
FRONT DESK GIRL: (in a solemn, nervous voice) Uhm. Uhm. Dr. Melonbrains said that she's uncomfortable giving you NuvaRing more than once because of the estrogen and uhm, stuff.
ME: You have GOT to be shitting me. That bitch told me to come in and she'd take care of it!
FRONT DESK GIRL: B-b-b-b-ut you can talk to her all about it and discuss your options when she calls you back tomorrow, okay? She's going to call you back tomorrow and you two can figure it out.
ME: Fine. (I am too exhausted to put up an argument with this little girl, who is, after all, just the messenger)
I never heard from Dr. Melonbrains again.
Monday, April 25, 2011
No Babies Allowed! (part deux)
So, where was I? Oh, yes.
Sterilization: good.
Getting Knocked-Up: bad.
I'm glad that I'm with a fella who not only accepts this decision but accepts my health issues as a whole and is there when I need him. He even put on a dress shirt when he met TEAM RACHAEL! for the first time (collective "D'awwwww!"). Not that he really has a say in my lady business anyway, or that I'd ever be with a guy who needed his woman to give birth to His Offspring. I'm a Strong Black Woman (minus being black) and I ain't got time to deal with a man's ego about his legacy. My guy wouldn't mind passing on his genetics, but he's a big believer in surrogacy.
I don't want to get in on the drama that has been Going to the Lady Doctor and my history with trying to get my Lady Doctor to settle down, stop running off and having babies and take my insurance, goddamnit. She's always been a supporter of me getting a tubal litigation. I kept in on my mental back burner up until the top of 2011, when I wanted to just check out my other options. Through a mistake of my own making I ended up having to go and see another Lady Doctor - same office, but across the way. My mother sees her. We'll call her Dr. Melonbrains.
Dr. Melonbrains was a pussy and kind of a moron. She was terrified of my heart condition and while she believed I should have a more permanent, let's-not-rely-on-shitty-birth-control-pills-forever form of birth control, the way she talked about birth control was as if it had taken part in the Holocaust and now enjoyed a lonely but well liquored exile in a South American country.
"I'm not comfortable prescribing birth control to you." Her exact words.
Her fear was well-meaning, but definitely overblown. I had been on blood thinners since October of 2002 and this made her nervous. Birth control had little to nothing to do with my need to go on them, especially because at that time I was on a pill that had no estrogen.
She kept pushing for an IUD. The way she talked about it I thought rainbows and sparkling unicorns would be positioned across the lining of my uterus, warding off any would-be fetus cocktail with their magical powers.
"OK," I sighed, realizing I needed to say something vaguely affirmative just to get her to let me put my pants back on. "Listen, I can't make any decisions like this on my own. I have to run it by TEAM RACHAEL! If they give me the OK, I'll go through with it."
That shut her up and she sent me on my way. I was so eager to get the hell out dodge that I forgot to inquire about my pills. No problem, I figured. I'd just order them through my pharmacy and they'd get the prescription. I mean, I went to my Obligatory Lady Check-Up, so it was her turn to make good.
Well. Turns out when she said, "I'm not prescribing birth control pills to you." what she obviously meant was, "THIS BITCH IS GONNA CLOT ANY SECOND AND SUE YOUR DUMB ASS FOR PRESCRIBING BIRTH CONTROL PILLS!"
Her fanatical fear was not unlike a four year old's fear of the boogie-man. It would have been adorable if it weren't me being denied the one form of birth control I'd known and relied on since the age of 17.
I was flabbergasted. Who the hell was she to overwrite what my cardiologists had already approved of? True, I'd like to break free from the pills, but not without a solid back-up plan already set in stone! Aggravated, but feeling like this was the match lit under my butt to stop worrying about whatever pain I may or may not be in when I get the IUD in and confer with TEAM RACHAEL! They were very supportive of an IUD, gave me their blessing and I had it scheduled for the first week of February.
Tuesday, February First: IUD goes in.
Saturday, February Fifth: IUD self-aborts.
to be continued
Sterilization: good.
Getting Knocked-Up: bad.
I'm glad that I'm with a fella who not only accepts this decision but accepts my health issues as a whole and is there when I need him. He even put on a dress shirt when he met TEAM RACHAEL! for the first time (collective "D'awwwww!"). Not that he really has a say in my lady business anyway, or that I'd ever be with a guy who needed his woman to give birth to His Offspring. I'm a Strong Black Woman (minus being black) and I ain't got time to deal with a man's ego about his legacy. My guy wouldn't mind passing on his genetics, but he's a big believer in surrogacy.
I don't want to get in on the drama that has been Going to the Lady Doctor and my history with trying to get my Lady Doctor to settle down, stop running off and having babies and take my insurance, goddamnit. She's always been a supporter of me getting a tubal litigation. I kept in on my mental back burner up until the top of 2011, when I wanted to just check out my other options. Through a mistake of my own making I ended up having to go and see another Lady Doctor - same office, but across the way. My mother sees her. We'll call her Dr. Melonbrains.
Dr. Melonbrains was a pussy and kind of a moron. She was terrified of my heart condition and while she believed I should have a more permanent, let's-not-rely-on-shitty-birth-control-pills-forever form of birth control, the way she talked about birth control was as if it had taken part in the Holocaust and now enjoyed a lonely but well liquored exile in a South American country.
"I'm not comfortable prescribing birth control to you." Her exact words.
Her fear was well-meaning, but definitely overblown. I had been on blood thinners since October of 2002 and this made her nervous. Birth control had little to nothing to do with my need to go on them, especially because at that time I was on a pill that had no estrogen.
She kept pushing for an IUD. The way she talked about it I thought rainbows and sparkling unicorns would be positioned across the lining of my uterus, warding off any would-be fetus cocktail with their magical powers.
"OK," I sighed, realizing I needed to say something vaguely affirmative just to get her to let me put my pants back on. "Listen, I can't make any decisions like this on my own. I have to run it by TEAM RACHAEL! If they give me the OK, I'll go through with it."
That shut her up and she sent me on my way. I was so eager to get the hell out dodge that I forgot to inquire about my pills. No problem, I figured. I'd just order them through my pharmacy and they'd get the prescription. I mean, I went to my Obligatory Lady Check-Up, so it was her turn to make good.
Well. Turns out when she said, "I'm not prescribing birth control pills to you." what she obviously meant was, "THIS BITCH IS GONNA CLOT ANY SECOND AND SUE YOUR DUMB ASS FOR PRESCRIBING BIRTH CONTROL PILLS!"
Her fanatical fear was not unlike a four year old's fear of the boogie-man. It would have been adorable if it weren't me being denied the one form of birth control I'd known and relied on since the age of 17.
I was flabbergasted. Who the hell was she to overwrite what my cardiologists had already approved of? True, I'd like to break free from the pills, but not without a solid back-up plan already set in stone! Aggravated, but feeling like this was the match lit under my butt to stop worrying about whatever pain I may or may not be in when I get the IUD in and confer with TEAM RACHAEL! They were very supportive of an IUD, gave me their blessing and I had it scheduled for the first week of February.
Tuesday, February First: IUD goes in.
Saturday, February Fifth: IUD self-aborts.
to be continued
Sunday, April 24, 2011
No Babies Allowed!
I know that childbirth, pregnancy, motherhood and all things FEMALE ISSUES related are topics that are traditionally taboo, but that is totally patriarchal doctrine fear-speak, so I'm going to ignore that bullshit and dive head first. I will back pedal this once though and say that it has taken me up until very recently to be able to share my thoughts in this area with perfect strangers. This is for a few reasons:
1) I have a mental reflex that tells me I should never, ever discuss my woman problems with anyone outside of my mother and my lady doctor. I have no idea where this reflex came from since my mom did not bring me up to not share shit. My girlfriends usually have to pinky-swear that they REALLY want to hear this stuff and that I am not giving them TMI.
2) I've been working with kids since I was a kid. Pissing Parents Off is like shooting fish in a barrel. Certain Parents get their knickers in a wad over the most mundane shit that has nothing to do with them and their kid, but because there is SOMEONE out there in this vast, vast world that DARES to disagree with what they believe is the gospel truth about procreation and child-rearing, they must reach way deep down and bring out the Rampant Asshole Within.
I have been face-to-face with the RAW many-a time, but have yet to feel the flaming wrath of the parental internet troll because I am smart enough to never bitch about anything childcare related in a public form.
WITH THAT SAID - if anything I say in the following post (and subsequent posts) offends you and makes you want to send me a comment detailing why I am wrong and will be promptly sent to hell for whatever beliefs I practice in my own personal life, I want you to keep in mind that you have better things to do then read the inane babbling of some stranger on the interwebs. Who will not be persuaded one way or the other by the frothy rants of another stranger on the interwebs. We savvy?
Here we go.
I've been debating permanent sterilization for years now, but only since Boyfriend has come into my life have I been actively pursuing my options. People without cardiac issues have been timid to ask me about the whole having babies thing, and this is what I tell them in a nutshell:
I was fortunate enough to have been advised from an extraordinarily early age in my life that adoption was the best option for me. There may be a chance for me to give birth, but that chance was always accompanied by a frown on my cardiologists' face. No one wanted to say, "YES, GO FORTH IN PROCREATION!" and no one wanted to be the negative Nancy and say, "GOD NO. CLOSE SHOP BEFORE THE FACTORY EXPLODES!"
Throughout the years, being keenly aware of my own body's limitations, witnessing the struggles of parenthood from a caregivers POV, and learning about the role genetics play on ones health, I decided that it would be in my best interest to never risk giving birth. It would be completely irresponsible on my part to gamble with my life and the life of another just for the sake of what? Passing on my oh so wonderful genes? Hell no. While I have a deep maternal instinct (shut up, fuckers, I do) it is not strictly reserved for my own kin. I know in my heart of hearts I could love any kid, any age, any race if given the opportunity. I did not have that overwhelming desire in the depths of my heart and soul to have my own child. Some folks do and cannot imagine (or are incapable of) loving any offspring other than their own. It's OK. Hundreds of thousands of years worth of biological instinct can be tough to shake up.
Did this decision come easily to me? I had some trouble wrapping my brain around it when I was a teenager. I thought I knew everything and I had very romantic, and frankly, fantastical, ideas about childbirth. Once I grew up and started a career in childcare, though, yes, the decision came very easily and with a finality that you would never guess such an indecisive person like me could accomplish.
Does my biological clock tick? All. The. Fucking. Time. It doesn't just tick, either. It blares in my head like a foghorn calling to mist-covered ships in search for the safe and familiar. I look at pictures of friends babies and my uterus feels like it just got sucker punched. Some primordial mental voice yells at me, "YOU NEED ONE OF THOSE! GET ONE! WE WANTS THE PRECIOUSSSSS!"
Then I have to beat it back with a stick I've named REALITY CHECK and reason with the voice.
"Oh, yes. Let's have a baby. Where shall it sleep? My shoe rack or just stick it in the cubby on the cat tree?"
That usually quells those biological urges to find the Ideal Mate and procreate and do all of the stuff anthropology class taught me in community college. Quells until I see the latest set of pictures from my boyfriends friends - who had triplets last year.
So a decision had been made and it was time to shop around for my options on the best way to close down the factory before any accidents happened. I'll get to that in another post, though. Stay Tuned.
1) I have a mental reflex that tells me I should never, ever discuss my woman problems with anyone outside of my mother and my lady doctor. I have no idea where this reflex came from since my mom did not bring me up to not share shit. My girlfriends usually have to pinky-swear that they REALLY want to hear this stuff and that I am not giving them TMI.
2) I've been working with kids since I was a kid. Pissing Parents Off is like shooting fish in a barrel. Certain Parents get their knickers in a wad over the most mundane shit that has nothing to do with them and their kid, but because there is SOMEONE out there in this vast, vast world that DARES to disagree with what they believe is the gospel truth about procreation and child-rearing, they must reach way deep down and bring out the Rampant Asshole Within.
I have been face-to-face with the RAW many-a time, but have yet to feel the flaming wrath of the parental internet troll because I am smart enough to never bitch about anything childcare related in a public form.
WITH THAT SAID - if anything I say in the following post (and subsequent posts) offends you and makes you want to send me a comment detailing why I am wrong and will be promptly sent to hell for whatever beliefs I practice in my own personal life, I want you to keep in mind that you have better things to do then read the inane babbling of some stranger on the interwebs. Who will not be persuaded one way or the other by the frothy rants of another stranger on the interwebs. We savvy?
Here we go.
I've been debating permanent sterilization for years now, but only since Boyfriend has come into my life have I been actively pursuing my options. People without cardiac issues have been timid to ask me about the whole having babies thing, and this is what I tell them in a nutshell:
I was fortunate enough to have been advised from an extraordinarily early age in my life that adoption was the best option for me. There may be a chance for me to give birth, but that chance was always accompanied by a frown on my cardiologists' face. No one wanted to say, "YES, GO FORTH IN PROCREATION!" and no one wanted to be the negative Nancy and say, "GOD NO. CLOSE SHOP BEFORE THE FACTORY EXPLODES!"
Throughout the years, being keenly aware of my own body's limitations, witnessing the struggles of parenthood from a caregivers POV, and learning about the role genetics play on ones health, I decided that it would be in my best interest to never risk giving birth. It would be completely irresponsible on my part to gamble with my life and the life of another just for the sake of what? Passing on my oh so wonderful genes? Hell no. While I have a deep maternal instinct (shut up, fuckers, I do) it is not strictly reserved for my own kin. I know in my heart of hearts I could love any kid, any age, any race if given the opportunity. I did not have that overwhelming desire in the depths of my heart and soul to have my own child. Some folks do and cannot imagine (or are incapable of) loving any offspring other than their own. It's OK. Hundreds of thousands of years worth of biological instinct can be tough to shake up.
Did this decision come easily to me? I had some trouble wrapping my brain around it when I was a teenager. I thought I knew everything and I had very romantic, and frankly, fantastical, ideas about childbirth. Once I grew up and started a career in childcare, though, yes, the decision came very easily and with a finality that you would never guess such an indecisive person like me could accomplish.
Does my biological clock tick? All. The. Fucking. Time. It doesn't just tick, either. It blares in my head like a foghorn calling to mist-covered ships in search for the safe and familiar. I look at pictures of friends babies and my uterus feels like it just got sucker punched. Some primordial mental voice yells at me, "YOU NEED ONE OF THOSE! GET ONE! WE WANTS THE PRECIOUSSSSS!"
Then I have to beat it back with a stick I've named REALITY CHECK and reason with the voice.
"Oh, yes. Let's have a baby. Where shall it sleep? My shoe rack or just stick it in the cubby on the cat tree?"
That usually quells those biological urges to find the Ideal Mate and procreate and do all of the stuff anthropology class taught me in community college. Quells until I see the latest set of pictures from my boyfriends friends - who had triplets last year.
So a decision had been made and it was time to shop around for my options on the best way to close down the factory before any accidents happened. I'll get to that in another post, though. Stay Tuned.
Saturday, April 23, 2011
Infamy at 300 beats per minute
For a brief, yet poignant time in my childhood, I lived in King of Prussia, Pennsylvania – just 40 minutes west of Philadelphia, where I was a patient at Children’s Hospital of Philadelphia (CHOP). The five years I spent in this little town brought me the most profound experiences that would shape the adult I am today, from the two wonderful elementary teachers whom I still attempt to keep in contact, to the two life saving open heart surgeries (performed by Dr. Norwood himself, if you don’t mind a little horn tooting), to forming the two most meaningful relationships of my life; that of my cat, Mr. Destiny (hello, crazy cat lady here) and my best friend, KD.
Those five years saw me in and out of the hospital more times than all the rest of my years outside of the 19406 ZIP code put together. My heart “problem” (as we so lovingly referred to it) was well known throughout the town, especially those unfortunate individuals who happened to either work or attend or have some affiliation with the elementary schools I attended because I was at school just as much, if not more, as I was at home. My health reached new levels of high tension drama, one that could quite easily rival any prime time medical show (I’m looking at you, Dr. House!), and one instance my heart having a throw down with me garnered enough attention to send me in local King of Prussia infamy that still follows me today.
During the winter of early 1990, between my second and third open heart surgeries, I was enjoying a peaceful morning in my first grade class. My teacher, Ms. Twiss, chose myself and another little girl to take the slips of attendance and lunch orders up to the office and cafeteria, respectively. This little girl and I…did not get on well. She did not like the way I looked, and I did not like the way she displayed behavior common to a sociopath. We made the walk up to our respective destinations in silence, I to the office first while she went on to the cafeteria. As we were instructed to go together, I knew we would have to go back together as well. I waited in the main foyer for her return from the kitchen when BAM! Everything went black.
The next thing I knew I was lying on the overstuffed, split-pea green vinyl bed in the nurses office while phones were blaring, people were rushing in and out, talking in rapid, tense tones and panic rose in the air. The nurse, dear Mrs. Noll (whom I would later see in my adult life and thank profusely, though there are no words to express the gratitude I feel for this woman) told me to lie still, my parents were on their way.
I caught on that something was amiss, though I laughed it off and insisted I was fine, cradling my head in my arms Ferris Bueller style to emphasize my point. That is when I saw it – my thick, mint green and pale pink woolly sweater leaping in rapid palpitations from my chest, over and over and over, as if it had suddenly been given the Powder of Life. It was tachycardia – and after the initial shock wore off, embarrassment set in. WHY HERE AT SCHOOL? OMG!
My parents were soon by my side, paramedics on their way but caught in traffic. TRAFFIC? Traffic! What could they do; they were a good twenty minutes away and I needed to get to CHOP now. It was decided that the spacious field beyond the baseball diamond would be made use of by the hospital-issued helicopter and I would be air-vaced to the Childrens Hospital of Philadelphia. I believe my reaction was, and I may be paraphrasing, “Rad!”
Embarrassment was gone, and what I oft refer to as my patent False Bravado (a self-preservation tool) officially kicked in. I could hear the principal speaking with my classmates in the cafeteria; she had wisely decided to hold an impromptu assembly so as to keep little busybodys away from the windows as the medics strapped me in my own luxury seat and wheeled me to my first class position on the waiting helicopter. On our way out, I caught sight of local news vans and told the medics my left side was my best side. They laughed and secured me in my sweet new ride, my dad buckling up near me, ready to join in on the adventure.
When I eventually returned to school, my best friend proudly showed me the newspaper where my aerial had a write-up and told me I even had a spot on the local news. Dude, I was famous.
Fame is fickle, though, and not a year went by afterward nor in the years after I would move from Pennsylvania and return irregularly for visits that a person stopped me, mid-conversation and cried, “Oh my GAWD! You’re Rachael Faught? You’re the Little Girl with the Heart Problem? You’re the one that got picked up in a helicopter? I totally thought you were dead!”
Moved to Fresno…dead…you know…same difference?
(Just kidding…go Bulldogs!)
I’m never insulted, however, because I always take great comfort in the fact that upon realizing who I am, though perhaps we had very little interaction as children, these well-meaning individuals always seem extraordinarily relieved to discover I am alive and (relatively) well.
Twenty years later, their peace of mind at unburdening them with thoughts of a fallen peer still never fails to bring a smile to my face, and determination of survival to my spirit.
Those five years saw me in and out of the hospital more times than all the rest of my years outside of the 19406 ZIP code put together. My heart “problem” (as we so lovingly referred to it) was well known throughout the town, especially those unfortunate individuals who happened to either work or attend or have some affiliation with the elementary schools I attended because I was at school just as much, if not more, as I was at home. My health reached new levels of high tension drama, one that could quite easily rival any prime time medical show (I’m looking at you, Dr. House!), and one instance my heart having a throw down with me garnered enough attention to send me in local King of Prussia infamy that still follows me today.
During the winter of early 1990, between my second and third open heart surgeries, I was enjoying a peaceful morning in my first grade class. My teacher, Ms. Twiss, chose myself and another little girl to take the slips of attendance and lunch orders up to the office and cafeteria, respectively. This little girl and I…did not get on well. She did not like the way I looked, and I did not like the way she displayed behavior common to a sociopath. We made the walk up to our respective destinations in silence, I to the office first while she went on to the cafeteria. As we were instructed to go together, I knew we would have to go back together as well. I waited in the main foyer for her return from the kitchen when BAM! Everything went black.
The next thing I knew I was lying on the overstuffed, split-pea green vinyl bed in the nurses office while phones were blaring, people were rushing in and out, talking in rapid, tense tones and panic rose in the air. The nurse, dear Mrs. Noll (whom I would later see in my adult life and thank profusely, though there are no words to express the gratitude I feel for this woman) told me to lie still, my parents were on their way.
I caught on that something was amiss, though I laughed it off and insisted I was fine, cradling my head in my arms Ferris Bueller style to emphasize my point. That is when I saw it – my thick, mint green and pale pink woolly sweater leaping in rapid palpitations from my chest, over and over and over, as if it had suddenly been given the Powder of Life. It was tachycardia – and after the initial shock wore off, embarrassment set in. WHY HERE AT SCHOOL? OMG!
My parents were soon by my side, paramedics on their way but caught in traffic. TRAFFIC? Traffic! What could they do; they were a good twenty minutes away and I needed to get to CHOP now. It was decided that the spacious field beyond the baseball diamond would be made use of by the hospital-issued helicopter and I would be air-vaced to the Childrens Hospital of Philadelphia. I believe my reaction was, and I may be paraphrasing, “Rad!”
Embarrassment was gone, and what I oft refer to as my patent False Bravado (a self-preservation tool) officially kicked in. I could hear the principal speaking with my classmates in the cafeteria; she had wisely decided to hold an impromptu assembly so as to keep little busybodys away from the windows as the medics strapped me in my own luxury seat and wheeled me to my first class position on the waiting helicopter. On our way out, I caught sight of local news vans and told the medics my left side was my best side. They laughed and secured me in my sweet new ride, my dad buckling up near me, ready to join in on the adventure.
When I eventually returned to school, my best friend proudly showed me the newspaper where my aerial had a write-up and told me I even had a spot on the local news. Dude, I was famous.
Fame is fickle, though, and not a year went by afterward nor in the years after I would move from Pennsylvania and return irregularly for visits that a person stopped me, mid-conversation and cried, “Oh my GAWD! You’re Rachael Faught? You’re the Little Girl with the Heart Problem? You’re the one that got picked up in a helicopter? I totally thought you were dead!”
Moved to Fresno…dead…you know…same difference?
(Just kidding…go Bulldogs!)
I’m never insulted, however, because I always take great comfort in the fact that upon realizing who I am, though perhaps we had very little interaction as children, these well-meaning individuals always seem extraordinarily relieved to discover I am alive and (relatively) well.
Twenty years later, their peace of mind at unburdening them with thoughts of a fallen peer still never fails to bring a smile to my face, and determination of survival to my spirit.
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