Depression and hairy legs

Posted on by

5

I was having such a good morning on Friday that I forgot why I was there.

It wasn’t until the nurse asked if I could be pregnant, that I suddenly remembered. My eyes started watering. “No,” I said. “I’ve been widowed for 10 months. Pregnancy would be… well, it’s not even remotely possible.”

I scheduled a physical with a new doc a few weeks ago. I’m training for the mini (which is going SLOWLY, much like my running time…) and it’s been a few years since I’ve been to a doc for anything beside than needing meds for strep throat or vertigo. Best to establish a relationship with a doctor now, before I NEED one.

When the nurse asked about pregnancy, I suddenly remembered that I wanted to talk to the doctor about depression. Then I started crying.

For months now, I’ve been crying – a lot. I’m fine when I need to be “on” like while I’m teaching or meeting with students, but otherwise I’m crying for no reason. Sitting in my office. Tears. Driving to work. Tears. Going through the Starbucks drive thru. Tears. Reading FB updates from friends. Tears.

I hold my shit together really well when I’m in public (usually) and for the most part, people probably don’t know that I’ve been depressed. I’m a ray of fucking sunshine when people are around (unless they bring up the subjects of my kids, Mike’s death, my dad’s death, blah blah blah – then… TEARS).

(I write a lot about my grief and some sad/negative things on this blog, but that’s so I can be completely functional IRL. This blog is my therapy, my relief, my outlet for the stuff I need “to get out.” In real life, I think I portray an illusion of being pretty positive, pretty happy. I get stuff out here, then I try to move on.)

These tears remind me of when Ethan was born. About four months after E was born, I was crying all the time. For no reason. I was diagnosed with postpartum depression, and I was prescribed a medication, which I took for about a year. It was just enough to get me over the hump. Then I felt fine and was weaned off.

I’m feeling the same way as I did seven years ago. Same tears. Same feelings. Deja vu.

The nurse finished my health history then I waited for the doc.  After going through the normal stuff (health issues my mom and dad face/faced), I brought up the subject of depression.

“Are you seeing anyone about that?” the new doc asked.

“Like a therapist? No.”

“Why?”

“Because I’ve been focused on the well-being of my kids, especially my son,” I responded, eyes tearing. “That’s my priority. I have outlets – I blog, I visit an online widow forum/website-y thing, I participate in a parent grief group. But I think I need… something more.”

The doc stared at me for an uncomfortable amount of time. Then she took some notes in her computer and explained where the opening in the hospital gown should go (in the back). It wasn’t until I was stripping down that I realized I asked for a well-woman exam during this appointment.

“Shit,” I thought. “Totally forgot to shave.”

Who the hell forgets to shave her legs before a pap? That would be me. It’s not like anyone is seeing (or feeling) my legs, so I’ve been a little lax in the personal hygiene department. Damn.

I decided to play it off like there was nothing weird about quarter-inch dark stubble from my ankles to mid-thigh. I’ve found that (usually) if you act like there’s nothing going on, nothing weird, most people won’t notice what you’re trying to hide. That’s how I was going to play this off.

The exam was going fine, until the doc couldn’t find my cervix  (so “hi” to my friends who are now totally uncomfortable thinking about my inner girlie parts. Yeah… cervix. I have one, and apparently it’s shy and can hide. Who knew?) The nurse started to rub my calf to calm me down. Up, down, half way up, sudden stop…. HELLO, STUBBLE!!! A few seconds later, she quickly removed her hand from my leg. (She was probably thinking, “WHO DOESN’T SHAVE?!?!?!” Hi, that would be me…)

Cervix was finally found. Pap was finished and the overall exam was complete. The doc wrote me a prescription for an antidepressant – the same one I took when I had postpartum. I need to go back to see her in a month so she can evaluate how I’m doing.

Knowing I was going to my alma mater this weekend for a quick alumni board meeting – and with Mike’s birthday this weekend (and, thus, a few drinks for me) – I’ve put off starting the new meds until Sunday night – I don’t want to mix an antidepressant with alcohol.

Here’s hoping the meds work and I can stop buying tissues (and makeup) by the truckload.

EDITED TO ADD: While I think it’s funny that I forgot to shave, my mom was HORRIFIED when I told her the story. She’s the kind of person who dresses up to go to the doctor (think church clothes, the “good” coat, dress shoes), so forgetting to shave is close to sinning in her mind. Her reaction: “You need to go upstairs and shave RIGHT NOW. What if you get in an accident? Do you want ANOTHER doctor to see your legs?” (My reaction: hysterical laughter to her comments…)

Mike’s birthday present

Posted on by

0

Today would have been Mike’s 39th birthday. I bought him a cement slab. Headstone will be installed in the coming weeks.

Tonight, the kids and I will release balloons in his memory.

20121117-133543.jpg

Only parenting

Posted on by

10

Mike and I were separated when he died, so mentally, I was prepared to be a single mom. I had been thinking about it for months before we the court order that removed him from my home.

I knew it would be difficult. I knew there would be challenges, but being the kind of overplanning-kind-of-person I am, I was ready to be a single mom.

Given his condition, I knew Mike wouldn’t have a dominant role for the first year or two, but he’d be “there” by phone or Skype or the occasional supervised visitation. But, hell, he was GOING to pull his shit together – he was going to get BETTER, or so I believed.

When he was better, he’d have weekends, holidays, summers with the kids. And then I’d have a free weekend, or a kid-less couple of weeks over the summer. I had plans with that “free” time.

Things don’t always go according to plan.

There’s a big difference between being a “single” mom and being an “only” parent. Differences I’m just starting to realize 10 months after Mike’s death.

Being an “only” is exhausting. There is no time away, no time to refresh, no downtime. You’re always “on” no matter how much you just want to be “off” for a while longer. There’s no end in sight, no waiting until the other parent’s weekend. I’m actually jealous of “single” parents.

Before Mike slipped into a bottle of vodka, we were a good team.

  • When I reached the end of my rope, he was still calm and rationale, and vice versa.
  • If he had a bad day at work and needed a break when he came home, I was there to take Ethan (Lauren was born AA – after alcoholism), entertain him, keep him away until Mike found his peace – and vice versa.
  • On weekends, one of us could always sleep in while the other handled breakfast and other morning rituals. For parents of kids who always wake up by 6 a.m., an extra hour or two of sleep can make or break the day.

We tagged-team parented a lot. It worked for us.

Since Mike’s death, I’ve learned to have more patience and that’s good. But patience only goes so far when there’s no parental backup – and I’m still nowhere near as patient as I should be.

I have a few friends who have volunteered to take the kids when I need a break. (One divorced mom friend even really “gets it.” She’s mentioned the “only” parent thing without me ever discussing it. I cried that someone acknowledged it!)

But I don’t like to ask for help. And if I did take my kids to a friend’s house or drop them off for a few hours, I’d probably be so worried about them, and feel so guilty that I NEEDED the break, that I wouldn’t be able to relax. (God, what if Ethan talks about how much beer his dad drank – which is a favorite topic of conversation right now? What if Lauren freaks out? Am I letting the kids down by needing an escape?)

Being an “only” parent isn’t where I thought I’d be, and I often wonder how I got here. But “only parent” is now our normal. I just need to get comfortable with it, figure it out, come to terms with it. I’m not complaining or asking for sympathy, just realizing there’s a big difference between the two distinctions. Being an “only” parent is what I am now.

Home

Posted on by

4

One year ago today, I left the kids with my mom and moved seven hours north to start a new job. They would join me at Christmas, but until then, it was up to me to prepare a new life in a new state.

When I started job hunting in the summer of 2011, Wisconsin wasn’t on my radar. I had vacationed there when I was very young. As an adult, I had driven through, but I had never BEEN there and I certainly never thought about LIVING there. A head hunter convinced me that it wasn’t too far from Chicago so I should consider the southeast part of the state. Why not, I thought. I didn’t have anything to lose.

When the plane landed in Milwaukee for my first interview, I felt a sudden and overwhelming sense of calm. I was at peace. Everything that was happening with my marriage, all the financial trouble we were in, having to find a job – it all faded away. I felt like I was home… And the plane was still taxi-ing to the runway.

I was picked up from the airport and driven to a trendy hotel on the outskirts of downtown. I couldn’t stop smiling. I looked out the windows with eager anticipation. I wanted to take it all in. Breathe it in. Absorb it. It felt good, this unfamiliar place. It felt RIGHT.

I’ve only had that sense of peace and feeling of home one other time in my life – when I visited the college that would become my alma mater. My dad and I had just driven through the front entrance on our way to admissions when I said, “Dad, this is where I’m going to school.” He thought I was crazy. We weren’t out of the car yet, he said. We haven’t talked to anyone. We don’t even know what programs they offer, let alone financial aid packages…  Yet, every college and university was measured against that school. There was no contest. To this day, as I participate on the college’s alumni board of directors, campus is very comfortable to me.

In the last 365 days, I haven’t regretted the decision to move to Wisconsin. It still feels good; it still feels right. Even after all the drama and sadness of the last 10 months, I’m confident that this is where I’m meant to be right now. Even when I knew the job wasn’t working out and I needed to move on, I never considered leaving.

This is home. We are home.

Musical Flashback: It Had to Be You

Posted on by

0

One of my favorite memories of my 16 years with Mike happened during our wedding: our first dance.

Mike was one of the world’s worst dancers. So bad, that he embraced his dance floor awkwardness with complete zeal. He loved being a bad dancer. Mike had zero rhythm. But he liked making people smile by so thoroughly enjoying himself…

But I wanted OUR first dance to be something amazing. Something people would remember. So I signed us up for private dance lessons. Twice a week for almost six months we drove more than 30 minutes to a dance studio in one of the suburbs. It was quite a financial splurge for a couple just starting out.

I don’t remember our instructor’s name – I don’t remember much of anything about the instructor. But I remember the lessons.

The feeling of being in Mike’s arms. Of him twirling me around. Of spinning. Of our hands intertwined. Of looking in his eyes. Of fighting against him – each of us trying to lead… (I’m not a good follower, not even on the dance floor!)

It was time for us. Just us. Two hours a week, just me and Mike. It was lovely.

The instructor choreographed our entire first song. It was a combination of classic steps and a dance that was all our own. It was perfect.

The night of our wedding reception, the DJ called us to the floor and the song started. We reached for each others’ hands and… “Smile,” I whispered. “I love you.”

The dance was perfect. Shear perfection. I remember looking out into the crowd and seeing the faces of our loved ones. People were smiling, clapping, cheering us on. No one knew we took lessons, and Mike’s staying in step was a complete surprise to everyone. We received several compliments that night. People who knew Mike (and his bad-dancing prowess) were in awe at his moves that night – well, at least during our first song. 🙂

The song was Harry Connick Jr.’s “It Had to Be You” from When Harry Met Sally. I keep the song on my iPod, and when shuffle decides to play it, I listen to it all the way through. Reliving that night, that song, that dance. It’s kind of nice to remember the good.