nugget daddy and her grandmamie brought nugget to my hospital room to get ready for trick-or-treating. she was, of course, beyond adorable in her tinker bell dress and wings, sparkly green tinker bell shoes, tinker bell wand, and ballet pink tights. i pulled her tiny tresses up into the best tink-like puff i could manage, fluffed it up with plenty of hairspray and added a clip with tiny white flowers. she politely shrieked, “dada! dada!” and beamed with pride as she was showered in nugget daddy’s hair product. what, you didn’t think it was mine, did you?
then we selected where she wanted her green star stamps placed and where best the pink star stamps were suited for. earlier, i ‘d done a sample patch of each color on each of my cheeks so she could see how they both looked.
then we applied a very liberal dusting of pixie dust. i should have gotten her some “pixie dust” glitter of her own to keep in her “berry bucket” for dousing unsuspecting passers-by. ah well, there’s always next year!
we made a few rounds though the halls to the different nurses’ stations. nugget was heartbreakingly cute and insisted on holding my hand, always unsure of how to navigate around all the wires attached to her mama. i told her it was almost time to go to the mall for more trick-or-treating and that her grandmamie would be getting her the tinker bell movie while they were there.
we said our goodbyes and i swear, i just couldn’t get enough hugs or kisses from my sweet baby girl. i watched as they made their way down the hall, all the while nugget was cheerfully waving goodbye, happy as a clam, all pixied-up and ready for more candy collecting.
i stepped back into my room just as the tears started rolling down my face. i tried to sob silently for my own selfish sadness.
i hoped she was having the time of her life, holding out her fat little felt flower bag – surely that’s what fairies collect halloween candy in – and squealing with delight with the acquisition of each new piece of candy. she had oh-so-politely signed “thank you” for each treat she’d collected from the nurses and i hoped that trend was continuing at the mall. i’m so very proud of my little tinklet.
i hope i can get out of here this weekend in time for the good post-pumpkin day costume sales at the disney store and old navy. otherwise, i might have to send someone armed with a fully charged cell phone and a whole lot of patience on my behalf!
I’ve attempted to write this post so many times. And every time, I fail. Either the two small people that inhabit this house are at my feet, refusing to let me write, or words just fail me. This isn’t one of those light-hearted, witty posts where I talk about poop, that you’re all so fond of.
No. This one is about my vagina.
Writing about this has been something I’ve toyed with for a while. Because, unlike my boobs, which the entire internet has probably seen by now, my vagina is a different story. Unless of course it had something to do with my infertility and my making fun of the fact that there’s a line of people waiting to get a look at the goods. DOCTORS, people. It’s not like I’m a slut. Also? I guess a lot of people have seen my vagina. Never mind, then.
After a while I figured, well, if blogging about my experiences can help even one person, then isn’t it worth it to share? I mean, isn’t that what I blog for? Because I like to overshare?
Back when I first had sex, at the tender age of 18 or so, it hurt. Anyone that says that sex doesn’t hurt the first time is a liar. But I had no idea how much it was supposed to hurt, all I knew was that it HURT. A lot. I wondered how women ever went on to have more sex, have babies, or worse, do porn, or make any other sort of living having sex. Because I wanted no part of it.
I tried marching on, like a good little horny soldier should.
But it never got better. I went to the gynecologist. I told her my problems. I winced in pain as she shoved the speculum in my girl parts and fished around with her fist for my ovaries. She never seemed to notice, told me that the pain was all in my head and sent me on my merry way. I should have found another doctor at that point, but I was young and naive. When I went back again the next year complaining of pain, again, she told me it was in my head and to maybe find a good therapist to talk to.
And it was at that point that I didn’t go to the gynecologist for another few years, because her bedside manner was atrocious, and I figured they were all like that. Really there’s nothing fun about getting fisted and then walking around like you have a snail in your pants for the rest of the day, all the while your nether regions feel as if they’re on fire.
Fast forward a couple of years. I was at the hospital waiting for my then soon-to-be niece, to be born. The midwife who was delivering her seemed to have this aura of goodness and light surrounding her. I made a mental note to make an appointment with her, and it was the day that changed my life forever. The midwife’s name was Vivian. And if it seemed that she had an aura of goodness and light surrounding her, it was because she was such a sweet woman. She cared deeply about her job. Her craft. Her patients. We went over my history. I told her about my last doctor, and told her about my problems. She immediately told me that no, my issues were absolutely not at all in my head. She told me that I had a condition. A condition that other people suffered from.
My problem! It had a name! And I wasn’t alone! She told me that she was no expert, but it sounded like I had something called vulvar vestibulitis.
Vestibulitis is basically a condition where the vestibule (or entrance to your vagina) is inflamed, causing stinging and burning and redness to the nerve endings. As I understand it, it’s an excess of nerve endings. The inflammation can range from severe, as in you can’t even wear pants, to mild, where it’s basically aggravated by something being inserted into the vagina such as a penis, or tampon, or a Buick Rivera. Whatever you fancy, I don’t judge. (I guess I still can’t avoid wittiness. Even when I’m trying not to be). Mine ranges on the mild end of the spectrum where it kind of feels like there’s a buick being shoved up my yang when I’m having sex, but otherwise, I can wear pants, sit, and walk if I so choose.
Vivian referred me to one of the best people to deal with this condition. Her name is Susan Kellogg-Spadt, a nurse practitioner (PhD) who is considered a pioneer in the field of pelvic and sexual disorders. I am extremely extremely fortunate that she is based in Philadelphia and that I only have a 40 minute drive to see her. There are people that fly here to see her. I didn’t walk, I ran to see this woman. She made me understand I wasn’t insane. What killed me was that from being on birth control (which I find so funny, after going through fertility treatments for years), I always had a chronic yeast issue.
The stupid asshole gynecologist that told me everything was in my head just threw pills at me, and whenever I went in, she told me, “you don’t have an infection, just have yeast.” And that should have been my second clue to flee from her care. Because of this chronic yeast problem that only temporarily went away with things like Diflucan or some sort of vagina suppository containing foul goo, it was most likely the cause of the condition. When I first went to see her, she started me on an estrogen/atropine combination that I applied topically. I graduated to a capsaicin cream, also applied topically.
Did I mention that not only did she help me, but this woman is all sorts of awesome?
I know I just heard screeching brakes in your brain. Hold up. WHAT? Why on earth are you putting the equivalent of a jalapeño on your vagina?
I know, right? It totally sounds like backwards logic and it kind of is. The first time this was applied by Susan herself, she gave me full on “no bullshit or sugarcoating” warning that it not only was going to hurt but that it was going to hurt like a bitch. And then she proceeded to stand near my head, because she’s obviously not stupid. I would have full on donkey-style, kicked her right in the teeth. But then, once the burning wore off and I stopped swearing, I realized that it calmed the nerves down, and helped with the pain.
It was ten years ago that I sought care from her. And where I’m at now is basically, well, I’m uncomfortable. Sometimes sex is still unbearable, sometimes it’s a lot less painful and I can handle it. The pain has not completely gone away. My next option is surgery. Even though it’s knives coming at my vagina, I’m kind of at the point where I’m ready to take that step to see if it will make my quality of life better. Recovery is very tough from what I’ve heard. No heavy lifting for a really long time. I went for a consult when the Mini was about LG’s age now and I just couldn’t bear not being able to pick him up for that long. Even going through what we were with him at the time, when the doctor told me that I couldn’t lift him up, he got up from where he was playing and climbed in my lap and nuzzled his head under my chin. Even though it seemed as if he was checked out and not paying attention, he knew. And then a few short months later, we found out about matlock baby. And now she refuses to be put down, ever. I’m not ready to put her down yet. This time with her will go fast enough. But I’m ready. I’m just waiting.
Why am I telling you this? Because there are so many women out there with this condition. I thought it was something that was rare. Something I was one of the few that suffered from it. And I’ve learned that I’m not and that it’s not uncommon. People just don’t talk about it. It’s a shame. I don’t go around talking about it like I do developmental delays and Autism. Because that just makes for an awkward introduction. But I do share it with people I’m close to. I guess I’m close to you, internet. I don’t want people to feel afraid or like they’re a freak. It’s so damn common that every time I make an appointment to see Susan, it’s like a three to four month wait. So it’s obvious that it’s a secret hell that so many women are going through. It’s a sad thing. It’s a frustrating thing, especially for your significant other.
But you’re not alone. And if that’s how you feel, then talk to me. Ask me questions. Or tell me what you know. I want to give you a hug. I want to bump fists.
Most of all, I want you to feel like it’s going to be OK.
I’ve been suffering, silently, for going on eight months…I guess. And, I’ve needed and wanted to write about it. But, I’ve been afraid. Mostly, I’ve been afraid of the emotions that come flooding back to me when I think, talk, or picture the experiences that led up to this day.
Actually, I don’t know when it started. But, I finally said something last week to Mr. B and my Momma.
This suffering stems from an accident, on July 19, that involved my 7-year-old son.
Bubs was in a golf cart accident with his grandfather. The 800-pound cart, fell on a 45-pound baby and drug him on concrete for quite a distance. Bubs was air-cared to the local Children’s Hospital. And I, well I was 39 weeks pregnant. And, I fell when I saw him. Literally.
I fell because my son, my first born, and my best friend was trapped. Under a machine. He was covered in blood from “road rash” and he was broken. everywhere. He suffered with a dislocated hip, broken femur, butterfly fractured femur, crush-fracture of his foot, dislocated toes, puncture wounds and road rash all over his body and a removed quadriceps muscle. When I stood from falling, there he was, screaming for help and frantically searching for his mommy. And my heart couldn’t take it. It was broken.
In that instant, I was changed. Forever. I can’t forget the pain of driving to the scene. The soul crushing fear that flooded through my body the way I imagine Hurricane Katrina taking over New Orleans – engulfing your body with no hope or relief in sight. The fear and pain took me to a place that had not existed prior to this accident. And now I can’t seem to find my way out of it.
I still remember the scene like it was a dream. There were people rushing all around me, ambulances screaming to the scene, a helicopter circling overhead, paramedics asking questions…about him…and about me, paramedics taking blood pressure, police officers begging me to go to the hospital. I was swarmed but still felt invisible. All I wanted to do was go back in time. Just 20 minutes earlier. To make this moment disappear. All I could think about was this “never happening” and how it “couldn’t be happening” to us.
I am ashamed to admit…but, I didn’t care about the baby inside of me in that moment. Because the boy who had my heart first was seriously hurt. More serious than I even knew or wanted to know in that moment. More serious than anyone was willing to “tell the pregnant mom.” It was hard for me to consider the unborn child. I “knew” right where she was and I “knew” she was okay. All I knew was I heard words like “internal bleeding”, “head trauma,” “internal damage” and “spinal cord injuries” being thrown around…regarding my baby. MY baby. It was as if I was having an out-of-body experience.
I still remember the paramedic who took me to the hospital. His attempts at consoling me, while my son flew overhead, were heroic. He was kind and gentle and was a true professional. There are no words that can describe these moments. No words created by man that can put your thoughts and fears on paper to describe the instant you think you may lose your child. It’s a pain like I’ve never known. A pain that was sharp and reckless and it had no concern for me or the perfect family I had built.
And now, it has been replaced with fear.
As I sat in the hospital waiting room, waiting for his six hour surgery to be complete, and cried. I cried for my unborn baby, who would be born into a world interrupted. I cried for me. Because I was afraid and exhausted and broken-hearted. But mostly, I cried for my baby boy. Because I didn’t know what the future held anymore. 10 hours prior, I knew. And now my world was crashing in around me. I couldn’t breath.
See, Bubs and I started on this journey alone. Mr. B was our answered prayer that came four years later. For four years it was just us…and nothing will ever match those four years for our small family. Nothing will ever match the bond we built. He is my best friend. My confidant. My companion.
I am suffering silently with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. I am struggling every.single.day with constant fear and irrational thoughts. I become overwhelmed with illusions, memories and possibilities…which all hold me back from living. These fears consume everything I do. Everything I let my family do. And, they consume every thought I have. I catch myself living in a world of “what-ifs” rather than just living and loving life. (Loving the life that God so graciously spared last summer.)
And, even with Bubs upstairs sleeping in his bed. Even if we made it through 12 weeks in a wheel chair and two weeks in a walker and one week of God-fearin’, earth rattling pain and torture…I still can’t shake the memory.
I still live in fear of losing someone. And not just Bubs now… Mr. B, Bubette, my mom, dad, step-dad, cousins, aunts…it is growing. And, for that reason, I have decided to talk to someone who knows more about this than I do. A professional….which makes me feel like a nut job.
Because prior to July 19, I lived in a beautiful world where horrible things happen “to other people.” and now…well, I can’t help but think that those horrible things “could happen to me.”
I wish I could write like our favorite Aunt Becky, but I can’t. My words will be misspelled, my commas will be out of place, and there will definitely be run on sentences, but I swear like a trucker so somehow I think I will fit right in.
So back story: BAD shit happened to me when I was a kid.
You know, my dad was an alcoholic, show me on the doll where the bad man touched you, which I never told my parents. My sister got pregnant when she was 14 and eventually my Mom could no longer deal with it all so I had to pick up the slack. That kind of bad shit.
There were days when I didn’t know if I would make it. Days that I wasn’t able to deal. I would burn myself or punch a wall just to feel… something. I made it through bruised but not broken.
I just wish I could tell the young girl that dealt with all of that what I know now.
I’ve been talking to a young friend who is going through so much in her life right now. She reminds me so much of my younger self. She, like me, puts up a strong front, but just beneath the surface you can see the hurt and self-doubt. When asked we will both say we are “fine.”
Every time she says it to me, my heart cracks just a little. See I know that when she says, “I’m fine” what she really means is “This hurts like hell! My heart is breaking. Somebody please just take away the pain.” I just want to give her hug and tell her it will all be okay. I won’t, mind you, because that would make me seem weak or soft or whatever my fucked-up mind thinks.
Still, through talking to her, I’ve been thinking, what would I tell my younger self?
So I wrote myself a letter today. Maybe it will help her or some other young girl who needs to know it WILL BE OK.
Dear Tonya,
I know it’s hard right now, but experience brings knowledge, adversity brings strength. None of that makes a damn bit of difference when you’re hurting but faith, faith gives you hope. The hope that there is something greater out there brings a small amount of peace even in the darkest times.
When you find love, it calms. Love doesn’t hurt; it heals, it comforts, it expands. Love gives. It should not take away.
If life seems to be spiraling out of control, find solace in the small things. Family, friends, music, words. These are your armor against all that will stand against you.
Remember that the lessons learned from the mistakes we make and the paths we choose make us who we are. Never regret them. To do so would mean you doubt yourself. Nothing and no one should make you doubt your worth.
Though it’s sometimes easier to forgive others than yourself, YOU ARE ONLY HUMAN.
Be as kind and love yourself as much as you do those others.
Stand tall without being cocky and be proud of who you become.
I know I am.
Tonya
PS. If none of that shit works there is always vodka.
Hello to all. I’m new to The Band. It looks like a great place to seek help, advice, and to have someone who will listen and not judge you.
I have known that I was a compulsive liar for years, but I never thought that it was actually something that was ruining my life. Compulsive lying is an underlying psychotic disorder that can be a sign of something much larger. I began to do some research about this, reading a lot of articles and websites. I had been thinking I was the only person having a hard time with lying, but I started seeing that this disorder is real, other people have it, and it is very serious. The messages written by other people on this site, as well as other websites, gave me hope.
At first, I thought I could really change on my own, but I’m realizing that being a compulsive liar is like an abdication. Some people may really need help to get past this point in their lives. I feel like I am to that point. My first course of action is admitting that I’m a compulsive liar, and that I need to seek help.
It’s so bad that sometimes I don’t even have a clue why I lie. It just comes out without hesitation. Most of the time, when it happens, at the back of my mind, I’m asking myself why I lied. The truth would have been easier to say in the first place. When I have a chance to correct the lie, I can’t because I feel so guilty. I don’t want to admit I’m wrong, or that I just told a lie.
The worst part is that I lie to the one person I love the most. That hurts me more than anything.
Today is the day. I’m going to keep searching for help and with my disorder and try my best to speak the truth, no matter what. If anyone who has gone through this has any advice on how to get past this, I’m all ears. And to anyone who is reading this, if my story is hitting home, please seek help. Know that you are not the only one out there going through this problem. You are not the only compulsive liar in the world. Help is there, you just have to want it.
Until next time, thanks for reading and responding. I’m turning my life around one truth at a time.
