So I broke my first bone...

This may just be the most idiotic picture I've ever taken.

Here I am in crazy pain from fracturing my right elbow joint, waiting in the ER all day, and smiling?!?! Seriously?! Just a few minutes ago I was crying actual tears and my face looked grimmer than the reaper's as I contemplated the impossibility of cooking, cleaning, driving, or doing childcare with only one arm for weeks? months?

What about all my home-improvement projects? In particular, I was so excited to start tearing out some gnarly plants to clear some gardening space now that the soil was all prepped from a recent record rainfall. But there would be no wielding my giant shovel now. Sigh, maybe next year.

Soon, after I got home, I realized even perforating toilet paper was an impossible struggle for my ultra-pain-sensitive arm. I finally gave up and used a combo of my left arm and teeth. Oy. You know you are truly f*cked when TP is too much for you to handle.

But it wasn't just the loss of my dominant arm that bothered me - it was the pain. The raging, flaming, burning, never ceasing, I can't find any position that doesn't hurt, pain.

Pain that hounds you like a shadow to the point where nothing could distract you from it. Pain that feels like a crucible in which your actual identity starts to warp. Pain that becomes an ocean's roar and a hot glare shining right into your eyes. Pain that turned me inward and away.

The 3 year old's depiction of mommy with a broken arm - looks like a creature from hell - very accurate.

For two days I felt unceasing pain that wavered between a 7 and 9. I started to completely understand how chronic pain sufferers would commit suicide. Actually I started wondering why more chronic pain sufferers DIDN'T commit suicide. And I cursed the medical policies that made my docs advise me to only manage my pain with tylenol and motrin. Seriously? What do you have to do to get some Vicodin around here? Break a bone?!

And then on the third day I woke up to the sound of silence. My arm had finally stopped screaming at me. Oh it still hurt to be sure, but at least now I didn't feel compelled to swallow a raft of OTC drugs that had started to give me major stomach pains - the lesser of two evils.

But I still despaired. I don't want to go in for a numbing shot so the bone doc can check my range of motion. I don't want to get surgery if the range is impeded. Having needles and instruments stuck in me just makes me viscerally recoil...and kinda totally scream on the inside in panic.

And of course my mind revisits over and over again the moment things took a sharp dive for the worse. One second I'm fine. The next second I'm royally screwed.

One second I'm running down my driveway about to get something from my parked car, excited to take a nice stroll through the sunny neighborhood after 5 straight days of rain. And the next second I had slipped on a pile of still-wet leaves while rounding a corner.

Half a second. Flat.

The rest of that day was spent in urgent care. The rest of the next day was spent at the orthopedics. And a good chunk of the next day was spent getting a CT scan. Today is the only day I will not have some major medical appointment. But tomorrow will be judgment day - the day my bone doc looks at my CT scan, injects a giant numbing needle into my elbow, and determines if I need surgery. The moment I've been dreading.

Through all the endless waiting in waiting rooms, I (luckily?) had an e-book on my phone that I'd been very excited to read - When Breath Becomes Air - a memoir about a 36 year old neurosurgery resident who discovers that he has late-stage lung cancer. While I was totally entertained and absorbed by his fantastic writing and intriguing insights, I wonder if that was probably not a good reading choice - maybe I should've opted for something lighter and funnier - like by the SNL ladies.

Contemplating living while dying a horrible death in the midst of my own personal fear and pain is just not the kinda thing that lifts one's spirits, you know?

But you know what does lift one's spirits? All the acts of kindness and well-wishes from friends. Thank you friends! Those are sweet sweet balms indeed.

Which leads me to that ridiculous picture of me smiling. The spouse, who could've been understandably annoyed at losing his one day-off to a long hospital visit, and at the looming loss of all his free-time and then some to more housework and way more child-care, and a lot more driving duties for an indefinite period, was astonishingly smiling at me behind the lense.

Kindness.
Patience.
Graciousness.
And love.

It's impossible not to smile at that.

We Can Save Each Others Lives

This month is "mental health" month on Buzzfeed, or something like that.

Which means I get to see a lot of articles on FB about postpartum depression. Like these:
An Honest Conversation with Women of Color About Postpartum Mood Disorders
Is Postpartum Depression Really Postpartum Neglect?

Which means I get to reminisce about those crazy early months of motherhood and relive the horror and exhaustion in my mind.

When my first baby was born he was extremely colicky, sensitive and had horrible reflux. He would NEVER nap unless he was strapped to my body and I was IN MOTION the entire time. He would throw up rivers of breast milk all throughout the day to the point where, after changing my shirt 4 times in an hour, I just gave up and wore spit-up clothes the rest of the day. Hey, it's the "tie-dye" look!

But the worst thing about his reflux was how he would arch his back and wail in pain while he was frantically trying to nurse - crazed with hunger, but burning with acid when he swallowed. The entire nursing experience was a Catch-22 nightmare.

Often in his distress, he would scratch and pull behind his ears until it was a bloody mess.

To say I was stressed is an absurd understatement. I frankly marvel that I didn't develop some kind of horrific autoimmune disease from all the prolonged stress.

Looking back, it is obvious I had PPD or something like it. What kind of mental health toll does it take on a person when he/she has no idea how to take care of or comfort his/her baby who needs 24-7 care (waking up 3-5 times every night and constant holding during the day)?

It doesn't really matter if there's a label/diagnosis slapped on it or not. If you are getting less than 4 hours of quality sleep per day for months on end and you have about 25 minutes of self-care time per day (in which you triage showering, eating, napping, and socializing), your mental health is going to be pretty much shot to hell - diagnosis or not.

But what makes it even worse? The feeling that no one else is failing and flailing quite like you. Far from it. Why are all the other moms looking and sounding so normal?

I remember visiting a "new moms" support group when Judah was 10 weeks old thinking - all these women look so NORMAL. WHY AM I SUCH A FREAK?!

And then a few months later I looked at photos of myself during that period and realized, oh, I looked normal too. Even cheerful. Ha! What a load of crock.

Me during one of the lowest and darkest moments of my life, seriously.

But truly, there are undoubtedly new moms who take it all in stride.

Maybe they have a really good friend/family support structure.

Maybe they're just really good at asking for help when they need it.

Maybe they have the means to hire excellent child care.

Maybe they have one of those legendary "angel" babies who nap without assistance for 18 hours a day like all the books say they're supposed to.

Maybe they are just temperamentally comfortable with chaos and lack of structure/routine.

Maybe they are perennial optimists with strong can-do attitudes (I've actually met a new mom like that and I've never been more envious in my life).

All this to say, my number one advice to new moms is always this - if/when you're feeling "blue", seek help. If you're not ready or comfortable getting medical help, at least join a new mom support group in which women truly open up and share. (These are everywhere - in almost every hospital and even an online community is better than nothing.) You will feel less like a freak and a failure.

You will realize the struggles are real. And common.

You will get lots of sympathetic "hmms" and "ahhhs" when you share about clueless partners and callous in-laws.

You will feel informed and validated no matter if you choose to breast-feed or bottle-feed, baby-wear or not, sleep-train or co-sleep, stay-at-home or work full-time, etc.

It's jarring to realize that we are not self-sufficient (especially in our highly individualistic culture). Indeed, even the prototypical "mom and dad" are usually not enough. Now I realize why those with means always had extensive, full-time childcare employees - nannies, governesses, etc.

But there you have it.

Parents are the opposite of self-sufficient.

Especially new moms.

WHAT THE F?!

One day I will get back to blogging about my kids and motherhood, but today I have to interrupt our regular programming for a very special my-head-is-exploding-with-wonder-and-horror announcement - a little episode I like to call WTF* Gap?

I was browsing their Spring dress line up and came across this horrific little number:

Uh...WTF Gap? My 80's childhood just called - it wants its dress back.

But, the crack Gap designer didn't stop with that. He/she went on to yet another abomination - you know, for when you feel real fancy - denim "color" block!

This one made me laugh too, though it's the least offensive of the bunch. I call it, pillowcase with a waist.

And the denim piece de resistance:

It's like Snoop Dogg meets ladies' medium security prison. Meets low end budget department store.

Seriously Gap, WTF?! Seriously. Seriously?!

p.s. If you actually like any of these designs and I've just offended your tastes, sorry! (Not sorry).

*of course WTF means Why The Frumpery? This is a family friendly blog.

LOOK AT ME!!!

It's often said the opposite of love is not hate, it's indifference.

To make someone feel truly awful, just ignore him.

If you hate them, revile them, insult them, rage against them, at least they know they are worthy of your attention, however negative.

But if you simply ignore them, they realize they are worthless--their existence has no significance whatsoever.

There is a theory that massive public shootings, starting from Columbine, are motivated by the desire to be known.  Notoriety, revilement, negative attention (even posthumous) is better than no attention whatsoever.  Better to be significantly hated, than to have no significance.  Period.

I don't really follow the details of mass shootings very closely, but my vague recollection is that all of the gunmen have been loners, outsiders, marginalized outliers in their respective communities.  This current gunman most certainly was.

We ignore the marginalized at our peril.  And we publicize them posthumously at our peril as well.

May the press and public not reward this kind of behavior.

The Aftermath

My tax exam this morning was easily the worst exam I have ever taken. Period.

Words that immediately come to mind are: Total decimation, carnage, The Rape of Nanking, scorched earth...you get the idea.

I did sort of anticipate the destruction. For the last 3 nights I have had the worst insomnia DESPITE popping sleeping pills like a young starlette her vicodins. So...tired...

If the exam was graded on an absolute scale, I would easily get an F. Definitely. Because I didn't even answer half the exam. Oh, I certainly B.S.ed my way through it...writing down freely associated thoughts in a stream of consciousness form.

I imagine my professor having a good laugh with his tax-buddies the way I laugh at highschool essays that say things like, George Bush is the King of America. Or we have 50 justices on the Supreme Court.

And if I can make someone chuckle...well, then it's not all for nought, I suppose.