me write pretty

Chunky Monkey

I still haven't decided what I route I am going to take in regards to weight loss. I am currently 264 pounds, and I am about 5'11", and I have seen suggested weight ranges from 140 to 175 for my build. I will never be 140. I would be a walking skeleton. I was 160 when I was 17 and in pictures I look quite emaciated. But I had gotten to 160 by eating one meal a day and hating myself the whole way, so it's not like I was healthy. So, my goal is 170, meaning I have 94 pounds to lose. Eek. You would think that the motivation of creating a happy and healthy environment for my ovary to thrive and therefore bless me with many healthy eggs and children would be great motivation. But its not. Because I am not quite over my anger at my body.

And I don't know where to start. I've done Weight Watchers, losing 40 pounds before my surgery last year. But I promptly gained it back after the surgery when depression set it. I've read Dr. Phil's weight loss book, all of Geneen Roth's books, Bob Greene's second book, a book about an insulin resistance diet that kinda sucked, and the South Beach Diet book. It is all so overwhelming. I know I must enact a lifestyle change to get the long term results I need, but which lifestyle do I choose?

Oh, and my best friend is getting married in May of next year and I am the matron of honor. So I have vanity to add to my sins as well.

I am going to try to convince myself to jump on the treadmill tonight and figure some of this crap out. Ninety-four pounds is not going to lose itself.

How I lost Danny. And his little friend too.

Danny was my dermoid. A dermoid cyst growing on my left ovary. He was discovered in January 2004. I went to the OB/GYN complaining of pain. I saw a LPN because, unless you're pregnant, it takes months to see the actual doctor. She ordered a sonogram. (Not my first experience with the Wand, nor my last). It looked like there was something on my left ovary, but they thought it could be my bowel crunched up in constipation. I was ordered to increase my fiber intake for two weeks and come back. And so I did. And it was still there. So then, because I was now special, I got to see the doctor immediately. And he sent me to a fancy sonogram doctor. He saw it, but couldn't get a good look at it. And so I was sent to get a CAT scan. (One of the worst procedures of my life.) It took me over an hour to drink the goo. (Have bad gag reflex). The CAT scan revealed a dermoid cyst - about 3cm if I remember correctly. So the good doctor decided on surgery to remove it. We decided to do the big incision instead of lapriscopy to "preserve the ovary" since I hadn't had any children. The doctor told me that there was a 1% chance of losing the whole ovary. I thought those were awesome odds. And on April 1st, 2004, I went in for surgery.

I woke up from surgery feeling very positive. The nurses had been wonderful. The anesthesiologist was wonderful. I felt 100% better than I did after my gallbladder surgery. Life was good. And then the nurse came in. Here's how it played out:

Nurse 1: Hello, how are you feeling?

Me: Did they take the ovary? (I actually surprised myself by asking this since I was so sure it wouldn't happen.)

Nurse 1: No, they didn't. Everything is fine.

Me: Thank god.

Nurse 1: Are you feeling ok?

Me: I feel great.

Nurse 2 walks in: Did you tell her they took her ovary?

Nurse 1: No...I thought...No I told her...

Me: They took the ovary?

Nurse 2: Yes, honey, I'm sorry.

And then I started crying. They moved me to recovery, where R met me. I ordered him to put my watch on me so that I could administer myself the Demerol shot every five minutes on the dot. And so I spent the next 10 hours or so in a cloud of medication. It turned out that Danny was quite a bad dermoid and was stuck to my bowel, and was hogging my ovary's blood supply. Taking Danny meant the ovary had to go too.

Boy was I pissed. Two weeks after I returned to work, my boss announced that she was pregnant. And then I went into counseling, because watching her rub her belly every day, babble on about how fucking fabulous it was to be pregnant, plan her nursery, and force me to rub her belly, well, it made me a little crazy.

So that's how I lost Danny. And my ovary. And why I sit up nights worrying about every little pain in my lady regions, wondering if Righty is growing some huge monstrosity, and if Righty will even be up to ovulating when the time comes. And why I have to lose 100 pounds, so that I can give Righty a fighting chance against the PCOS. 

P.S. I received my PCOS diagnosis about 3 years ago. Danny was an oddity unrelated to the PCOS, according to the doctors. Of course, they know shit, so who knows?

PMS - The Long Version

I am experiencing what I can only call Perpetual PMS. This has been going on since my last period - three weeks ago. I am crampy, bitchy, and hungry. My lower back hurts all the time. I keep switching between constipation and diarrhea. (I have IBS, so that isn't a huge deal, but normally flares around my period.) I would like to go to the doctor, but I know my family physician is gonna tell me I am fat and need to lose weight. (Really? I had no idea? I am so comfortable with this extra 100 pounds on my body, I never even noticed.) And I am considering switching my ob/gyn because the last appointment I had in regards to pain (on the side of my remaining ovary) didn't go to well. He was outright rude. I had an appointment, and yet he spoke to me in the hallway as I was getting my blood pressure taken by the nurse and told me, well, you know, there might be adhesions from my last surgery and the only way they can tell is to go in lapriscopically, and there I was crying in the hallway with nurses and other patients coming and going, while he dismisses my "lady problems" with a vicodin prescription. Hooray for asshat doctor. In the hallway. I had an appointment. I waited for an appointment and I got a hallway talk. I paid $50 for that shit.

So I don't know what to do. Perpetual PMS sucks. Just ask my husband.

P.S. I am on BCP, so I don't think I could be pregnant. And I can't afford a pregnancy test right now anyway. I have to buy textbooks this week.

Come together

Please take a look at this story. I love to see women helping other women. Donate if you can, and you will be blessed for your kindness.

Boat Mama

R and I are saving up money to buy a boat. A boat for living on. We are currently debating the pros and cons of a large cruiser or a sailboat. R wants a sailboat. He grew up on sailboats and loves them. I have never been on a sailboat, and honestly never really thought about sailing until I met R. I have, however, spent a decent amount of time on motorboats and I am very comfortable on them. So the debate rages on.

No matter what we decide, we are pretty dedicated to the idea of living aboard. Or obsessed with the idea. I dream about boats almost every night. I look at boat ads almost every day. I read boat blogs. I have even named the future-boat. My boat lust has somewhat surpassed my baby lust, although many of my boat daydreams do include raising a baby on the boat. The beauty of my boat obsession is it's simplicity. If we save up enough money, we can buy a boat. If we can buy a boat, we can live on it and have many fun adventures. Conceiving is not so straight forward. We could do everything right and still be unsuccessful. Ugh. And so ends my boat/baby ramblings.

It's a pirates life for me. Aye matey!

Oh, and newsflash: I hate my job. More on that later.

Um. Oh. Uh. There's a big storm coming. Lets talk about that!

My sister was here this weekend. We sat around and talked quite a bit, since it's sometimes hard for us to find the time to sit on the phone for hours discussing all things imaginable. One of the topics of discussion was dreams. I have had many dreams recently (the past 6 months or so) about adopting a baby. My sister recently had a very vivid dream about giving birth. She said she was in the process of birthing a baby and was freaking out because she didn't want to give birth because she a) was afraid of the pain, and b) didn't want the baby. She said she was literally trying to push the baby back in as it was coming out.

This just shows how far apart we are on the whole baby thing. Or fertility thing, for that matter. Despite the fact that R and I have not begun the whole TTC process, I have resigned myself to the fact that it is probably going to be difficult because of the PCOS and the one-ovary issue, and that it may, in fact, never happen. If I had my way, I would probably skip the whole heartbreaking process of dealing with it and go straight to adoption, but I have R's feelings to consider. And he would like us to give it a try. I have been very open with my mom and my sister about all of my "lady problems" and they have both reacted differently to it. My mom is very optimistic about the whole deal when speaking to me, always repeating the following story: "They told me it would probably take me years to get pregnant because I had irregular cycles, but I got pregnant with you three months after I went off birth control pills. Maybe that will happen to you to!" My mom not only had this happen to her, but managed to get pregnant again every year for two years after that. She did, however, miscarry the last pregnancy. (Her doctor said, "What do you think you are? A baby making machine? Your body is not made for that! You can't have 3 babies in 3 years." Not the most sympathetic doctor.) She never let on how difficult that was for her until about 2 months ago. Then I realized why she was so positive when discussing pregnancy with me. She was terrified of the potential heartache associated with my problems and didn't really want to talk about it. At this point, I cannot even get her to discuss it, she just changes the subject.

My sister will talk to me about it, doesn't sugarcoat it, and has already offered her eggs and/or uterus, if needed. But maybe this is just the difference between sisters and mothers and daughters. After my aunt went through 4 miscarriages, my mom and aunt were making plans for my mom to be her surrogate when my aunt became pregnant a fifth time. And the fifth time was the charm. Maybe my mom realizes her powerlessness in this whole situation. She can't offer me a solution like she did my aunt. But, I would like to talk to her about it without being ushered along to a new, and less painful subject.

miso tired

So some books say that fatigue is one of often missed symptoms of PCOS. Well, that must explain this week.

Monday: Work a half day. Come home, eat lunch, read some blogs. Take a nap from 1:30p - 4:00p. Get up, make dinner. Go to bed at 9:30p

Tuesday: Wake up at 6:00a. Work half day. Go out to lunch. Come home, read blogs, watch General Hospital. Get in bed at 4:30p and do not get out except to pee. Sleep on and off until R came to bed at 9:30p.

Wednesday: Wake up at 6:00a. Work half day. Come home, eat lunch, read some blogs. Order pizza (starting diet next week). Get in bed at 6:00p and sleep on and off until R came to bed around 9:30p.

Thursday: Wake up at 6:00a. Work half day. Come home, eat lunch, read some blogs. Watch General Hospital. Start to watch Oprah until R comes home. (We have a rule that if you are on the computer or watching TV when the other one comes home, you must stop and spend at least 15 minutes talking, catching up on each others day, etc., before you can resume your previous activity. )Take a nap from 5:30p-7:30p. Wake up to eat dinner and write. Go to bed at 9:30p.

So. Thats a lot of sleeping. And I am lusting for next weekend, when I can sleep in on Saturday. Fatigue. It is kicking my ass. And my house is a mess. Oi vey. 

You are here

I guess introductions are in order. My name is Melinda. I am married to my best friend R, who also happens to have a very fine booty. I didn't know how much I loved man-butt until I laid eyes on his. This love has extended to a love of football, where there are all sorts of men with nice "bubbles." Yes, there is a football term for butts. And sometimes the sportscasters will talk about butts on TV, but you don't know that they are, because they call them bubbles. Ahh, bubbles. That is good stuff.

So I love butts. That has been established. I also love my dog Louie, a rescued Rottie. And my two cats Maggie and Christopher. Maggie is the inside cat, we found her on the side of the road when she was a kitten and took her home. That was about 4 years ago. Christopher is the outside cat. He wandered up one day while I was sitting on the stoop out front and jumped on my lap and meowed. He was whoring himself for food, so I obliged and fed him and he has been around ever since. Every once in a while we will invite him in, but he prefers it outside. He is a mouser. (Or a straight up killa' as I like to call him.) He likes to kill things and leave them for us. Or eat them. (He ate a lizard whole the other day. It was quite odd to watch.) You know, whatever suits his fancy.

So with all my talk about my pets, you would be right to assume that I have no human children. I will probably write about that here. Right now I am struggling with PCOS (polycystic ovarian syndrome) and trying to lose weight. My goal is to get under 200 pounds by February (I am currently around 260) so that I can go off birth control and cross my fingers and hope that my body has found a happy hormonal place. I have found some pretty positive stories about PCOS on the internet, and I am hopeful about my reproductive future, despite the PCOS and the fact that I only have 1 ovary. (I'll get to the whole 1-ovary-story later.) So here I will write about PCOS, (in)fertility, my pets, school, my fucked up family (everyone has one), my attempts to lose weight despite my body's desire to hold onto it's friend Fat, and hopefully my success at losing weight. I also intend to write about writing and, you know, other interesting and relative Current Events. So watch this space.