Mountain Mama

The Unvarnished Truth, or Falling Apart at Forty

So the truth about our Labor Day weekend, and, well, our entire summer is this: yes we have had all the fun I reported and through most, pretty much all, of it I have been in some sort of pain.

The part I didn't tell you about this weekend was that I spent a couple of hours Saturday morning at the Urgent Care Center in Asheville due to some major shoulder pain and weakness. I left with my arm in a sling, a shot of anti-inflammatory in my posterior, a prescription for more anti-inflammatory plus one for Vicadin, and a promise of appointments to be made the following week with an orthopedist and an MRI. I spent the rest of the weekend unable to use my right arm very well. Plus I was nauseous and sleepy on the Vicadin (I took myself off them after a day).

Speculations among family members abounded as to the root cause of my pain: tendonitis, bursitis, torn ligament, perhaps a rotator cuff problem. Whatever it was seems to have been related to inflammation of some sort because after a couple of days of taking the anti-inflammatory (and not using my arm), I feel completely better. So much so that I think I'll skip the orthopedist and the MRI. Mostly, it seems as if my muscles were just too freakin' tight.

The part I haven't told you about my summer is that for months I've been suffering pretty severe foot pain, especially in the morning. It has been so bad that it takes nearly a minute for me to take a second step when I stand from a sitting position.

It has been so bad that I finally made an appointment with a podiatrist (after diagnosing myself over the Internet). I left there today with a prescription to keep taking the anti-inflammatory I was taking for the shoulder; ace bandages with pads wrapped around each foot (and orders to wear these all of the time, even sleeping); instructions for some stretches; and an order for a lovely (I'm sure) pair of orthopedic Mary Jane shoes to work in. I should get those next week.

The diagnosis was the same as my Internet diagnoses: plantar fasciitis. With the added bonus of bone spurs on both heels. And the orthotic guy was downright giddy telling me what weird feet I have: high arch, narrow heel, wide foot bed. I am not ever (with my particular feet) to wear flip flops, slides, or flat sandals. Never ever. Maybe someday I can wear Keen sandals, but not until this current issue is under control.

Oh, and by-the-way, he has never seen anyone with tendons and muscles as tense as I have. Are you kidding me? I have tense feet? Have you ever even heard of such a thing?

Did my body just fall apart when I turned forty this year? First I suffered with about a year of post-partum depression (admittedly before I turned forty) which transformed into a kind of ongoing anxiety problem; a shoulder issue due to tension in my muscles; and tense feet?

Maybe I need to start doing yoga. Or a regular therapy of full-body massage.

Straight through my heart

Tonight Owen was painting at the dining room table.

"I'm painting a picture for you, Mommy. To make you happy," she said.

"That's nice, sweetie, that does make me happy," I said, distracted. I've been tense tonight about my return to work tomorrow. Barrett was crying, inconsolable by anyone except me. I was pumping breast milk so Mom will have some to give her tomorrow. I needed to look at my notes for class, to get the pump and accessories cleaned and organized to take with me tomorrow, to get Owen ready for bed...a million things to do.

"I'm making a picture to make you happy, Mommy, so you won't be so sad."

I thought my heart would split wide open.

A better day

Just so you guys know, it's a better day today. Reading your great, supportive emails helps. Barrett having slept better helps. Having gotten out for an excursion (we went to Babies R Us today) helps. The sunshine and 70 degree weather helps.

My Dad helps. He doesn't quite know what to do, I think, so he helps by cooking for me, and planting flowers in my yard for me, and bringing me potted tulips, and letting Owen help him do all those things.

My Mom helps. She does the laundry and she cares for Owen when I can't and sometimes--I hate to say this, it sounds so awful--she takes Owen away for a while. Today she helped by taking me away for a while.

My friends help. By insisting on calling but not pressing me to talk too much or to be my usual upbeat self. By sending me fluffy novels (thanks Cathie) and fluffy Tv videos (thanks, Laura) and by reminding me gently of a few things. Cathie--for reminding me that I chose for Owen to not be an only child, that I chose for her to leanr the lesson that she's not the center of the world, so it;s okay if the lesson is hard for her in the short run. Laura--for reminding me of advice I not only would give others in my position but actually did give her three years ago (that is: get help). My Internet friends--for being there and being kind to a virtual stranger, for connecting.

Paul helps. He doesn't think he does because when he tries to ask me about my mood, I always say "I'm okay." But I love that he asks. And that he does so much practical stuff to take the burden off me. And that he tells me it's not my fault and that I'm doing a wonderful job.

And, just so you know--I am also getting medical help. I have an appointment Friday.

I don't believe this is actually the end of this struggle, I know the depression is there, almost a cartoon cloud hanging over my head, like Eeyore. But it is a better day today, and that's something.

Darkness lingers

The situation  has gotten better. Unfortunately, I have not.

Owen was back to her routine last week --back to school and regular bath time and regular bedtimes. I think it's made a difference for her behavior. While the tantrums have not disappeared, they've been cut in half. Until today, she's been healthy. Today she'd has a cold, scratchy throat, and cough. But her mood is okay. She's spent the day planting in the yard with my Dad.

My mood, however, is low. I've been in a deep funk since coming home from the hospital. At first I blamed it on the stress of the events of that week (birth, Owen sick, etc.). But once things settled down, my mood did not lift.

I feel as if the last days have passed in a fog of nothingness. I have no energy, no motivation to do anything. I can't concentrate. I have to force myself daily to brush my teeth and get dressed. I have no appetite--nothing tastes good to me. Of course I only sleep in short bursts, but that has more to do with newborn life than anything else. I can't nap because there's always something, someone that needs attention the very minute I get relaxed.

The worst part, though, is the way I feel I'm failing Owen. I know I'm being a good mom to Barrett. Her needs are easy--change her, nurse her, hold her. I can do that. But I have no energy for Owen. I have little patience for her constant chatter, the never ending "why?", the constant pleas for attention, the "mommy, mommy, mommy, mommy, mommy, mommy, mommy..."

And I feel terrible for it. I feel as if I'm abandoning her in favor of Barrett. I feel like an an awful mother.

The irony of it is that I am a counselor by training. I teach psychology. I know about depression. I know about self-defeating thoughts and the vicious cycle they create. I just can't seem to change it myself.

Some of the reasons...

I started to write a detailed description of my last two weeks. Actually I did write it. But then I read it over and it was a long complainy list events with details that really could interest no one.

So I'll just summarize: Since the baby's birth nearly two weeks ago, Owen has been to daycare only two and a half days. Not only that, but she has had one bout of 24-hour throwing-up, has been sent home with diarrhea, and has been struck with the most severe and painful constipation. She's also had what appears to be either bites (flea bites?) or hives on her feet and arms. We spent nearly three hours in the pediatrician's office one day only to be sent home with a lecture on the child's diet and a laxative.

For her part, Barrett has been to the pediatrician twice--for the initial check after release from the hospital, and then again for a weight check and follow-up on her mild jaundice.

Of course I don't sleep more than two hours at a time, since I'm nursing Barrett. I'm unsure of myself in the whole breastfeeding arena, and some days I'm convinced she's not getting nearly enough to eat. I'm certain that I'm doing something wrong or my breasts would not hurt every time she latches on (every two to three hours).

And Owen, well, she's been reacting, I guess to the changes in her life and the stress of her messed up schedule. She's been pitching the worst tantrums several times a day. And I haven't reacted well. I am exhausted, irritable, and, as I said in my previous post, I want everyone to go away.

There's more, of course, small things that have added to my stress. I won't go into those.

Your comments have helped--Alissa, Jennifer, Sara, thank you. You've made me feel less alone.

My saving grace has been Paul.

Paul, who holds and hugs and kisses me and tells me I'm doing a wonderful job. Paul, so makes me sandwiches and puts Owen to bed. Who at this moment is sleeping on the couch, Barrett on his chest. He opens my heart to loving them all.

Dark thoughts

I don't feel like writing.

I don't feel like talking.

I don't feel like visiting.

I don't feel like going out.

I don't feel like doing anything, really, except holding my baby, nursing my baby, sleeping with her against my chest, kissing her soft, soft cheek.

I want the quiet, peaceful, restful time the breastfeeding books and baby books say are needed for creating a successful breastfeeding relationship.

I want to be witty, insightful, thoughtful, intelligent, caring. I can't.

I want to be a good parent to my toddler during this difficult time. I can't. I want to be able to manage my newborn and toddler at home all day by myself without being overwhelmed with the stress of it. I want to not resent the fact that Owen has only been able to go to daycare 1 1/2 days of the last ten. I want to not have to go to the pediatrician's office again. I want to stop being so short-tempered with her tantrums. I want the tantrums to stop. I want her to do more for herself. I want to be able to give her all the attention I did before. I can't.

I want to not feel so pulled in so many directions.

Truth is, I want everyone except the baby to just go away. I'm sorry. It's a terrible thing to say, but, for right now, it's true.