Is it Sad

Is it sad that the only thing I can think to write about is my hatred for pregnant women. All these women who get to have babies, who have multiple children and walk around like they're just so miserable. Try getting pregnant, knowing things didn't seem right, but no one, NO ONE, not even your three OB doctors, try to help you or look into anything. I guess I should start from the beginning. 

I was pregnant the beginning of September. After a few weeks I could feel the effects. A couple more weeks and everything just stayed the same. I've never been pregnant, I thought it was odd, but I let it go since I was going in for a 10 week ultrasound. There I am, at my first ultrasound with the first of one of my three OB that this stupid army clinic here in Vicenza make you see. He searches, pushes, wands my innards to what felt to be no end. He says there is a little sack, which is not a 10 week progression, it looks about 4 or 5 weeks. Does he tell us that it isn't right? No. Does he do anything but go on about his own miscarriages for a while, yet never ever saying that is what was on his mind. Well way to go, dude. I get to come back in another 5 weeks?! Isn't that a little long to wait when you think things aren't right?! Apparently not.

The first weekend in December, I was 14 weeks and at a marriage retreat in Garmisch, DE. I was feeling fine, but I knew all week long that this was the weekend. I was going to start gushing blood. And that I did; right in the middle of downtown Garmisch. I go to the ER. The OB there does an ultrasound, checks a bunch of things and she is very adamant about knowing if my cycles were regular. Why, yes, they were always regular, down to the day most months. She knew I was 14 weeks. She knew it was not right. She knew there was going to be severe pain. She wanted to do a D&C the next morning, but not having ever been put under, I did not want to not wake up when expected and miss the bus to go back to Italy. I forewent the procedure in Germany to go back to Italy and see someone there. 
Now, as a side note, it was Thanksgiving day and my friend Erica made me call the clinic (birthing center) about my light bleeding. The nurse, who rudely spoke to me, told me there was nothing they would do for me until I was filling at least one pad an hour. I thought that sounded pretty awful, but I went with it. She told me to just come to the clinic when/ if that happens. I hung up with that information. 

Moving on. I got back to Italy, slept and woke up to some gnawing little cramps, which, within two hours turned into pretty bad contractions. We went to the clinic as told because I was bleeding much more, but only when I went to the toilet. Once there, I was taken in by a rude nurse into their lunch area to be told there was absolutely nothing they were going to do for me.  At this point, I was keeled over in pain. She was like well, you do look pale and maybe like you're cramping a little. I wanted to scream at her that cramp didn't explain it. I was in full on labor, but I had no voice it was so painful. They told me no one would have ever told me to come to the clinic and that they had no room for me. There was no one available to help me since three women were in the birthing center in labor. Again, I wanted to scream about it. Labor is not a fast thing for most people and all it would have taken was a simple, fast ultrasound and labs, which wasn't even their job. I left.

On the 20 minute drive to the hospital I had one continuing 20 minute contraction. I honestly thought I was going to lose years of my life due to the pain, especially because I was not delivering a baby, I was just …dying. So, I get out of the car and by the time I get in the hospital, where the liaison spoke amazing english and the doctor on staff made us both feel so at home, the pain subsided. Now, I went in the bathroom 7 times in the hour I was there before I was hooked up to an IV. I made two major murder scenes and flooded my pants all seven times. Was I give another to wear? No. After the exam, and a shot that did the opposite of what it was supposed to, I was placed on a bed in a room lined with huge pregnant bellies and the heartbeats that resided within them. At the time, I was so relieved that the pain was gone, I just thought wow, if I didn't feel relief I'd be going insane, sitting here with these women hearing their babies heartbeats for an hour at a time. I was in there for a little over 2 hours and there must have been 10 women or more to come and go. The pain was so bad that I was in denial for almost 2 days. I felt a-ok with everything. Then I saw a pregnant women. I wanted to punch her face in and beat down that stomach. 

I hate that clinic. Even after I came back that same day they wouldn't put in for labs that were supposed to be done ever two days. They told me it took at least a week and that I shouldn't come back until my appointment and just do it then, a whole week later. I did not do that. And I still go in (every week now, but it was more frequent at first) because my HCg quantitative number is still not back to normal.  They didn't give a crap about me. They were more busy tending to the healthy pregnant people. Screw them. A lady on fb put up a question that was exactly like my situation, but they were taking care of her. They were concerned for her. She was getting ultrasounds and blood tests etc before she got past 10 weeks. How can they do that?! She already has a kid with no underlying issues. Screw them. Screw her. Guess what. I did it all myself. I dealt with it myself, right through to the end, even if that was in the hospital. I was waiting for them to see me the whole time, I got no treatment. I received what could be classified as abuse when you think of he mental state of someone like me being shoved in a shared room with women weeks from having their babies. 

Twenty-six Years

I will have been married four years on January 12, 2014. I will be 26 years old in about 4 hours and 20 minutes according to the time over here in Italy. I have lived in Illinois, Wisconsin, Oklahoma, Germany, and Italy in these (almost) 26 years. And in my 26th year of life I will be bringing another life into the world.
On that note, while remembering I am in Italy, I am very disappointed. Why didn't I have a baby in Germany? They care! They care to check the baby, to make sure everything is good, to look at it and say "Hey, there's a live creature in there. You're doing gute!" Not in Italy. If you aren't completely routine and healthy then the "Birthing Center" on post will not have anything to do with you and they send you out to an Italian hospital. Now, what's so bad about that, you ask? Let. Me. Tell. You.
So, every hospital has visiting hours, and some are strict, but most give a little leeway behind those double doors that house those new babies. Now, many times it's just for Daddy, and IT SHOULD BE! Not in Italy though. They have two hours the husband/new daddy can come into the shared room and visit his wife and child in the evenings. Baby is put away all night and I hope your room mate doesn't snore or puke. Oh, and you walk alone if you have an emergency of any kind. Lone Ranger. I think I am done.
At this point, I believe pregnant women who eagerly await their babies are the only ones who know how long 9 months really is. I can't even be excited about it because, frankly, I dislike both green and yellow, so I am suppressing the excitement until I know who/what is in there. So goes life...

"You Look Great"

I highly dislike people trying to compliment my looks by saying "You look great, how much weight did you lose?" Shoot me. I do want to be skinny, I do want people to notice my efforts and when they do it is a good thing, but I don't take the above statement as a compliment when someone says you look much better, then want to know to what extent you have actually shrunk. UGH. It makes me feel a bit inferior and my work less than acceptable.

So, on the days that I don't want to make dinner for the little old man, I don't want to do anything. I feel for those wives from the 50s and before, who were dedicated to making dinner every night for their leave- it-to-beaver families. They catered for 25 years or more to a family of four (equally distributed genders), but no one tells you what they did after they got sick of cooking. Now that my time to be the wife has come around, I have at least one night per week where I do not want to cook and I have only been going for two years. Where did the longevity, persistance and patience go?!  The last person to do this was my Nan. She cooked and cleaned for 5 to 10 people every night for 25 years and finally decided it was not her responsibility anymore once she was too frail to continue on. She will still cook for her little family of two in her little apartment by the lake on her good days. I have a great respect and thankfullness for generosity, time and care for all the years I was a part of her breakfast, lunch and dinner because that shaped my want and ability to do my six days per week now. Perhaps I need more people to cook for.

Edy's Fat Free Frozen Yogurt

Well, the darned stuff isn't as bad as it sounds. I certainly cannot just eat a half cup and call it a day, though. That's right, a serving is half of a darned cup! A serving of most other things is the same and I just discovered this. I just discovered that I am eating for a lot of people according to these nutritional labels. My nutrition is good for a lot of people and I am still hungry! This has me thinking that 18 cents will not feed a starving child in Africa for the day. Heck, Medifast, Jenny, and Nutrisystem all want $4 per 1/4 cup of goop that is supposed to be appetizing and full of vitamins and minerals. Vitamins taste like CHIT. This is why we have them in pill form. So, kudos to the companies that sell crap in a quarter of a cup to fat people who are used to eating for two or three; $4 vs. $.18. ( and cut that 18 cents in half becuase we are talking the quarter, not half cup.)
Anyway, a year later, after gaining 40 lbs and losing about 15 of them, I am feeling FAT. That will never change. Weight gain ages you by many years. I try to work out at least 6 days a week and after four months of working out I have only lost 15 lbs and I eat that 1/4 cup that probably costs anywhere from $4 to $.50. I like to "reward" myself with things, but nail polish isn't going to cut it, nor are new clothes, because they won't be the size I want them to be. I have decided that an appropriate reward for a complete life change is a massage and body scrub/wrap. I have waited 24 years for one and I am going to get one if it kills me. Hopefully, I will die after I have the experience. :)
Let's see... over two years with the old ball and chain and the ball just gets heavier and the chain shorter. Maybe it gets longer... I guess it's all in how you want to view the situation.
I could go for some clam chowder, salad with ranch (no tomatoes) and cheddar bay biscuits from Red Lobster. Yea.... I went to the gym today, I'm going to tomorrow, and there is not a clam in my future, but a girl can dream. I dont' eat my Ritz before bed nor do I have chocolate anymore, just my fat free frozen yogurt in larger than half cup doses.

M&M, Me, Toilet

I can officially not fall asleep if I feel that I am the least bit hungry. For example, I was in the blackout stages of sleep and I kept waking to tthis haunting feeling that I neede an M&M. I finally just got up and indulged with a Ritz cracoer thrown  in here or there. There is nothing normal about this and it teoubles me to think that my eating habits are showing up in my sleep. For all I know I'm eating in my sleep, just standing at the kitchen counter pigging out in the wee hours of the morning. To add to the sad fact that I need to eat to sleep, I also need to have an empty bladder. It will dive me to insanity if I do not pee before I lay down. I guess there ar e consequences to that too.
I dont't throw a fit over my husband leaving the toilet seat up, it really doesn't bother me at home because it's just us and I have better things to complain about currently. But last night is a different story. I cannot use the master bedroom's bathroom toilet because the inards need fixing, so I walked down the hall to the other bathroom, not turning on the light because that would send a wake up signal to my brain. Last time I visited that toilet the sea was down and in the ready to use position. In pitch blakc, we can be a little off. I'm glad i was becasue my husband didn't put the seat down and that left me half way in the holea I barely survived that incident thanks to midnight grogginess. Needless to say, the light had to go on and anger ensued. I guess I am doing good though. After a year of marriage and not being bothered by the toilet seat not being restored to the natural position, I have only had one close call.

Cooking on the Fat Diet

In lieu of disappointment and utter regret I will say that eatig my cooking for the last year has been fabulous in the mouth. And horrifying in the stomach. I'm not talking the small fleshy orb that is my little stomach within my rib cage (or thereabouts), but my all out, or rather, all around blubber that cascades over my pants and has recently been having a love affair with my lap when I sit. Laying down seems to be the only viable option if I want to feel even an ounce of security in my choice to cook and eat what I've made. So, I only seem to look down when I lay down, and even then I am miserable at the lumps and bumps. I liken it to a "pond effect." What I mean by that is the flattening when you make contact with a surface, the sheer area you expand outward to is grossly enormous, it is rippled and jiggles, wobbles and looks like something live inside with every breath. TONIGHT is the night. Tonight I will go to the gym. The ellipticalis my friend and will make me hot, sweaty and tired, but it will not let me down. It will work my pond scum into shape. I just hope and pry that the shape of my pond scum is relatively the same shape I was when I was fourteen.
I will not be a victim of my own clothes!
That's right. Let's take a look at peopleofwalmart.com. Go ahead, look, smirk and even giggle, but do you know how many people allow their clothes to eat them? My mother has always been a firm believer in large sized clothes and flannel. Ignoring the flannelizms, the shortage of correctly sized shirts and pants relative to the body they cover. Looking back at the peopleofwalmart, we see bulges and bubbles, tires and handles in place we never thought would need to be lifted. From my flub to yours, keep it smooth.    

Michelin Man Strikes Again! And Office Lunch.

So,... what a way to state the obvious nothingness that gunks up or perceptions of life.

Starting out, I'd like to state that I am coming to the very VERY sad realization that everyhting older people tell you you are going to think when you're they're age is truly what you think when you are their age. It's a SAD thing for the most part. It's like they are predicting that you are going to become a fat schlub that looks back on high school photos andd thinks, "gee, look at me. I was so skinny," especially compared to the current situation you find yourself in. Yes, where you're sitting is in a chair, in an office, with down time, nothing to do, but write about the tires that you now find protruding from your mid-section. The Michelin man has entered your tangible self. You have become a large, bulbous fat-so sitting in a chair reminiscing on the olden days, which, really aren't that far behind you. And don't get me started on what is being me. What constant bounces and jiggles in front of me is enough to make an appointment over, let alone thinking of the rear end of the deal.

What's for lunch? Isn't that another sad thing? In the morning, we arrive at our secular jobs, our minds still blaming that alarm for waking it when sleep was the foremost thing in that knoggen.. 9ur sit in a chair staring at a computer all day routine begins and we are too many hours away from the end of the day, so we dwell on our break: our lunch break. In the office setting, lunch is talked about from the moment we arrive up until the drive to the selected site. Trying to coordinate a lunch time and place in a small office of seven people, three of which aren't even going to join can be a logistics exercise of epic proportions.