Now with bonus crutches

In what is a sure sign from the universe that I have to slow down and stop taking so much on, I have hurt my leg and have been on crutches since Tuesday night. Woe is me. In lieu of flowers, please send chocolate.

But the way in which I have injured myself is so fucking unlikely for me. It might be normal for other people, but having my name and this injury in a sentence will make some people do a double take.

Instead of coming straight out and telling you what I did, I've come up with a list of things MORE LIKELY to see me on crutches than the actual event that caused my hop-a-long status:

1. Getting my big toe caught in my pants leg as I walk. No, really. It is ridiculous how often I do this; I fall, my life flashes before my eyes (kinda boring on reflection), and I somehow unhook the offending piggy and stop myself faceplanting... well I have so far.
   
2. Slipping on a puddle of my own drool as I stare through the glass at the local bakery. I need to carry one of those 'Slippery When Wet' cleaning signs with me whenever I go past.
   
3. Getting run over by my own car. Oh wait I already did that! But it still makes the list, because it happening again is still more likely.
   
4. Sliding down a hill. This was most recently attempted in February and I'll be honest, there were a few close calls. But who doesn't see a grassy slope and a sheet of cardboard and immediately think SLIDE TIME?! The kids had no idea what I was doing at first, but I led by example and hurtled myself down that hill and then gave them a turn. Because safety schmafety. It was disappointing to look up and see everyone else actively discouraging their kids from joining in our fun... keeping a huge part of their culture from them. I mean, skin on knees is important BUT AT WHAT COST? 

No one would blink an eye if I turned up on crutches and said "I got run over in my own driveway again" but when I drop the bombshell that I have a genuine, bone fide, 100% legitimate SPORTS INJURY from doing REAL SPORT it is shocking.

If my highschool had a "Most likely to never ever be injured playing sport" vote, I would have won it right after I won the "Most likely to never ever play a sport or do any physical activity" vote.

But then the whole martial arts things came along and I got bitten by the bug and I'm all sporty and shit now, complete with motherfucking TORN MUSCLES AND TENDONS.

Yep, landing after a switch push kick (a super simple kick that I did properly) my calf decided that the half hour of warm up and activity was not enough and riiiiiiiiip. I looked up at my sparring partner and said "I think I just hurt my leg?". The questioning was because it didn't hurt, but I had felt a ripping sensation that I had never ever felt before (and never ever want to feel again!). I went to walk off the mats and found I couldn't. Ah fuck.

I hobbled off, being held up by two people, and my leg was elevated and iced within a minute or two. It didn't hurt, but it felt really strange. 

My instructor said that if I'd torn it, it would probably start hurting real soon. He went back to the class after making sure I was OK and then the pain started to hit. I came soooo close to crying, partly from pain and partly from how bloody disappointed I felt to be out with an injury when I was really getting in to my training.

At the end of class I tried to stand up to hobble to the car, but it wasn't happening. I couldn't put any weight on my left leg at all and had to be carried, piggy back style, to the car that MG had brought down as close as possible to the door (we train together - nawww). 

I've kept the standard RICE routine going and been for an ultrasound that shows two tears in my gastrocnemius muscle and one tear in my plantaris tendon. They were thinking it was a grade three tear, but now it looks like three grade two tears instead. 

It had stopped hurting on rest and would only hurt if I moved my leg or put my weight down on it, but now, in a somewhat backward step, it has started throbbing all the time. Add sore arms and hands from crutches, my period, and the fact that I cannot unpack the new house or clean the old house, I'm really not a happy chappy right now. 

I start physio in the next week, because if anyone touches me now I will swat them with my crutches. I want to get back to martial arts as quick as I can, because I'm really loving it, and also because I don't want MG to get too many ranks ahead of me.

Priorities, people, priorities. 

When your "health practitioner" is anti vax

Recently I made the decision to go and see a chiropractor. It wasn’t a decision I made lightly because I’ve read so many things about them being quacks. But in my readings I found that they could actually be good for back pain, which is what I was seeking to resolve. I didn’t want it to miraculously change my fertility, or cure my asthma, or any pseudoscience bullshit, I just wanted my back to not keep me awake at night.

I've had a few appointments now and I was really intrigued with how it was all done, and my back was actually feeling a tad better. I went to my appointment the other day and my usual guy wasn't there, so I saw the head honcho of the centre. His treatment room has three beds; he’ll tell you that’s because the treatment isn’t secretive and so that we can all learn from each other. It didn’t bother me at all. I’ve birthed two babes, it takes a lot for me to be embarrassed these days.

So I lay down on the centre bed as indicated, my head through the hole, and listened as the Chiropractor went to work on the lady to my left.

She tells him she’s achy all over because she’d had a flu vax yesterday, but other than that, just her usual pain.

"Well if you get the flu vax you're guaranteed to get the flu, if you don't get the flu vax, there is only a chance" he said.

My head was down, so no one saw me roll my eyes.

The lady went on to tell him she has diminished lung function and that therefore, the flu is really dangerous for her. She continued, saying she got the flu every year until she started getting the jab. She explained that the theory is you get a small dose so that your immune system is trained with how to deal with it, hopefully meaning you'll be able to fight it off better if you do get it.

Quick as a flash he replied "I'm glad you called it a theory, because that's all it is. There's no proof anywhere that it actually works". Those were his exact words.

I’m so glad I was laying down for that, because I might have fallen over.

I didn’t know what to do. Do I get up and storm out? Do I start a huge argument with him? Do I stand up for this woman with diminished lung function who is being told to not have a flu vax in the future?

I was angry but I decided to stay put to hear what he had to say for himself when it was my turn.

After saying his goodbyes to Lung Lady, he walked over to my bed and asked how I was. I said fine. He said he didn’t believe me. What can I say? I suck at lying and it was obvious from my voice that I was not happy.

“I’m just a little upset from the conversation I just heard” I said.

“Ah, yes, vaccination can be an emotive topic. Can I ask why you are upset?”

“Because science” I replied.

He went to work on my back, making strange breathing noises, rubbing my temples, placing glass vials on my throat, a finger in my mouth; a whole heap of weird stuff and dude, I just want my back to stop hurting, thanks. As he worked, he talked.

He told me how he’d never been vaccinated, that his lifelong chiropractic treatments had kept him safe from viruses and diseases. It was really hard to not scream out that actually herd immunity had kept him safe all this time, and now that the herd immunity is lowering we’re seeing an increase in vaccine preventable diseases and deaths.

But I just listened. In fact I stayed, for the most part anyway, completely silent. He took my silence to mean I was agreeing with him, so he kept talking. Digging a little hole for himself.

He told me that food allergies are caused by vaccines. He stopped just short of pulling out the autism link (you know, the one that has been debunked about three million times now), but mentioned that vaccine can cause delays, social problems and behavioural issues.

At this point I was so angry that I had tears in my eyes and he saw me wipe them away. Again, he took this as passionate agreement.

“Has one of your children had a vaccine reaction?” he queried, with genuine concern.

“No.” I spluttered.

I couldn’t say any more. I was dumbfounded. I opened my mouth to speak but nothing came out.

I have met people who don’t vaccinate before, but they weren’t standing in an office, as a ‘medical professional’ proclaiming that there is no evidence behind immunisations. Interestingly, by the way, there is a heap of studies on how there is no scientific evidence behind chiropractic work helping with anything but back pain.

He talked at length about how the government is taking away the choices of parents by removing Centrelink payments from those who choose to take care of their kids; claimed that pharmaceutical companies only introduced vaccines to make money; and said his mother was brave to make the right decision not to vaccinate him. Spoken like a true conspiracy theorist.

All of this in the space of ten minutes while he manipulated my spine and made me move my legs, open my jaw and put my hands here and there; a game of Twister on myself.

I collected my belongings, paid my fee and walked out the door. I promptly wrote down everything that had happened, not wanting my emotions to cloud my memory, and when I was done, I burst in to tears.

They were angry tears. Embarrassed tears. It took so long for me to come to chiropractic, to embrace a little bit more of the alternative side of life. I ignored all the evidence, all the science, and had treatment anyway, based on anecdotes. In my head I was thinking “what does it say about me if I choose this method?” and at the time my answer was that I was, quite obviously, a dickhead. But I’ve changed my mind since then.

I’m just a person looking for answers. A person with an insanely sore, previously broken back, that just wants to be pain free. I’m desperate, to be honest, and willing to give anything a go, even “alternative medicine”.

Because anything Tim Minchin says is true. Especially if it's on the internet

I had been liking the treatments. My back was actually feeling better, but now I’m just so conflicted. The next day I rang up and cancelled all my future appointments. Then I rang my health fund and told them he should not be on their preferred provider list.

I cannot support a business or practitioner who can advocate to a woman with diminished lung function to not get a flu vaccine, in odds with all medical advice.

I cannot support a business that tells me vaccines are only about making money, particularly when he wasn’t cracking my back for free.

I cannot support a business that says vaccines are not proven; that it is just a “theory”.

I haven't decided yet if I'm going to search for a new Chiropractor that only tries to fix backs and doesn't claim he or she can cure addictions and diseases. Once bitten, twice shy, fool me once, and all that shebang.

As I sit here, contemplating what to do next, I'm staring at an Australian Health Practitioner Regulation Agency complaint form that my health fund has provided for me to fill out. Because if you use your position as a "health practitioner" to spout bullshit about vaccines being unproven, when there is a plethora of scientific evidence that they do work, and recommend people don't get them when there are people who can't get the jab and babies too young to be immunized DYING, you can bet your arse I'm going to make an official complaint about you.

I can't believe what my back xray showed

Photo by Michael Dorausch via Creative Commons. Text added.

The thing with training (and I'm using the term quite loosely) six days a week, is that any past injuries or niggling pains come out of the woodwork. Considering I've got a chronic pain disorder, it means my daily pain level has moved from whinge worthy to GIVE ME DRUGS worthy. It's being managed with strength training and Tramal  - ahhh, Tramal, I love you.

My mid back has been giving me the most grief since #GlowGetsFit started. It has bothered me for years. It feels like my spine isn't moving and my muscles are spasming. Last Saturday I was at friend's house for her 30th and by 9:30pm I sent MapGuy to the playroom to find a ball so I could get some relief. Everyone else was looking glam, and there I was, rolling a tennis ball between my back and a brick wall so that I could stay another hour.

After much deliberation and an embracing of my crunchy mama self, I booked in to see a Chiropractor. I've never been a fan of the profession, and have spent years and hundreds of dollars seeing physiotherapists and being loaded up with anti-inflammatories by GPs. I'm in such agony that I am willing to try anything.

Before my first treatment I was sent for xrays. Standing or sitting in one position kills me (never sit next to me on a plane if you can help it) so the process of getting them done and not being allowed to move almost brought me to tears.

Yesterday I got the results:

Query for Ankylosing Spondilitis. Big words for chronic inflammatory disease of the spine. Suspected because of the degeneration of my vertebrae. Apparently it has a large genetic component, and since my dad has it, I'm off for further tests.

Osteophytes. Big word for extra bone growth on my vertebrae. Also known as "parrot beaks". There are parrot beaks on my spine. Bwaarrk.

I thought that sounded bad, but then I was in for the shock of my life.

"Have you been in a car accident? A while ago?" he asked.

I thought back and remembered that I had actually been in a car vs bus crash. It was 1996 and my sports class was returning to school from swimming lessons. There were 30 of us crammed in to a 21 seat bus, meaning kids were in the aisles and my best friend and I, being the last to board, were on the steps. Totally sounds safe, right? Our teacher pulled out... smack, bang, straight in to a car traveling at 70km/h.

I was thrown against the doors of the bus and came back down, my mid back landing on the edge of the step, my head snapped back and hit the knee of a girl behind me, knocking me, momentarily, unconscious. I don't remember the impact, but my cuts and bruises told the story. All I remember was seeing a couple of blokes trying to force the bus doors open, and wondering why on earth were they doing that for. Ambulances turned up, a bunch of kids were loaded in to them and taken to hospitals around Perth. After a bit of poking and prodding, I was told I was fine, and sent home.

Bizarrely, the things I remember most about the crash is the blood on my stretcher from a small head wound, the cuts on my leg that were the exact shape of the door opening mechanism and my school skirt covered in grease from the door hinges.

"Yeah, almost 20 years ago... " I replied

"It's likely you had a vertebral wedge fracture."

Registering my blank look, he continued.

"At some point, you've broken your back. It's healed now, but this vertebrae is 7mm shorter on this side than the other."

HOLY SHIT, I BROKE MY BACK?!?!

That is INSANE!

He went on to explain that it's a compression fracture, and it could have been missed on initial xrays for a bunch of reasons, including if a scared 14 year old was crying a bit when they were being taken.

He let the news sink in and asked how I felt about that.

"I bloody told you it hurt!"

If I'm honest, I'm a bit pissed off that there is nothing much that can be done for the majority of the issues the xray showed, but at the same time, knowing there is a reason for my pain other than me just being weak and whingey, is actually reassuring. Hooray, I'm not (very) pathetic.

For the rest of the issues, like the wonky hips and stuff, I'm going to see a Chiropractor. I am scared and a little skeptical, but I'm so sick of this pain that I'd try almost anything right now to ease it.

My hips don't lie. They don't work, either.

You know the film clip for Shakira's My Hips Don't Lie? The one where it looks like her hips are disembodied and have a life of their own? Well, I'm currently imitating that video clip with every step.

Now I don't look anywhere near as attractive as Shakira (plus I don't have some weird undead mummy-boy standing in the background to make me look more youthful and... alive?) and I can only put it down to the fact that I don't have rhinestones stuck to my back and that my movements are involuntary. And painful. But other than our marked physical differences, our hips move in the exact same way.

I'm suffering yet again from Pelvic Girdle Pain with a side dish of Pubic Symphysis Pain. Because the world obviously doesn't think I say Girdle and Pubic enough. I could call it PGP and PSP but I just think of mining companies and gaming consoles when I hear that. And my hips aren't a gaming console... well *ahem* not when they hurt this much.

I had it last time around and even had my ass taped to prevent my hips rotating. This time I knew the first warning signs it was happening (it was inevitable with my super stretchy ligaments - my body does not do pregnancy well at all) so sought treatment really early. Early treatment means I can still walk most of the time, hurrah!

This time, rather than having adhesive strapped to my backside, I'm relying on weekly physio, yoga and pregnancy Pilates plus a super tight belly belt that manages to make my baby bump look like a giant muffin top the way it suddenly juts out over the top. But for the mild relief the brace brings, I will be muffin-y with pride. Besides, muffins are delicious, right?

And did I mention the part time crutches? OH a preggo on crutches is quite the sight, let me tell you! If you thought people moved out of your way when you were pregnant, you should see the enormously wide berth they give you when your growing bump comes hobbling along with support sticks and a face that says "if I stop I may never start again". Shop assistants come out of nowhere to help you out of their stores lest you be stuck in them and actually give birth next to the sales rack. I can't blame them, amniotic fluid is a bitch to get out of carpet. So far I've only needed them a few times though. Phew.

People tell me not to wish this pregnancy away and I'm not. I'm just wishing it speed. Light speed.

Did pregnancy screw with your body?

The B&B Bee

When Aunty Penny and I went on our mini-break to Northam to go Hot Air Ballooning we stayed in a cute little B&B right on the Avon river. It had everything you would expect from a B&B - a comfy bed, a clean bathroom, tea and coffee facilities (aka a kettle and a couple cups), and a TV that got My Kitchen Rules. Turns out it also had a free added extra in the form of a stow-away bee that came in on my jeans.

Walking around the town we'd seen bees bloody everywhere. Every tree we walked past was buzzing and we kept doing the I've-just-been-dive-bombed-by-a-bee ninja dance. The thing is no one else sees the bee so it just looked like we were both spontaneously break dancing. Badly. It was very attractive.

I have been stung by bees more times than I care to remember (a result of embracing my inner-feral and refusing to keep my shoes on as a child) and every time I would swell up like a balloon and be rushed off to get some antihistamines. Nothing life threatening, just a temporary case of what looked rather like elephantitis.

The last time I was stung was the day of the end of school concert when I was in year one. I was two weeks away from the huge milestone of turning six (requires TWO HANDS to display = major milestone) and as I sat cross legged in the sun rehearsing "The Daisies In The Meadow" a bee landed just above my ankle, no doubt attracted by a group of children with oversize daisies on their heads.

For the first time in my whole life I did not panic. My mum had flicked away bees with her fingernail so many times and I was sure I could do the same. I would be a hero. I would go home and tell her proudly that I had done what she had always tried to get me to do. There would be NO STING on concert day. I calmly went to flick the bee away, just like I had seen her do... only I hadn't paid too much attention and flicked so hard down the bee IMPLANTED IN MY FUCKING LEG!

There was much crying and flailing as my teacher dug out not only the sting but a few legs and a wing. The swelling started straight away and my parents were called to pick me up. I spent the rest of the day with my leg raised, sucking down antihistamines and begging to be allowed to perform on stage at the concert. I hadn't put all that effort in to my ice-cream bucket hat with petals attached for nothing, ya know?

Image Credit via CC: Treesha Duncan

A pair of tights were sought and the show went on. The ultimate performer with a flower hat and one leg twice the size of the other all the way from my toes to my hip. For the record, me and my fat leg completely rocked out and I still remember the words to that song. No doubt the trauma of the day has imprinted it in my brain for eternity.

So anyway, back to Northam! Aunty Penny and I were getting ready for bed at the Nanna time of 8:00pm when the bee dropped from my jeans on to my foot between my toes and, deciding that his lack of grip on denim was in fact my fault, stung me immediately.

I graduated from bee avoidance ninja dance to holy-fuck-I-don't-remember-it-hurting-so-damn-much cha cha followed by the desperate flamenco of someone thinking they're about to have an allergic reaction.

It had been 25 long years since my last sting and in those years I was always told to assume the allergy remained and rather than subject myself to a sting to test the theory I just went with it. So after scraping the sting from between my toes with my fingernails I put my foot up and so began the "Great Toe Stare of 2013". For someone who hates feet, this was almost as painful as the sting itself.

As we watched to see if my whole leg would swell I started Googling things like "outgrow sting allergy" "bee sting allergy pregnant" and "why me?". Meanwhile Map Guy informed me that if I did have a reaction I'd have to go to hospital since extended trading hours is a concept still quite foreign to that tiny town. Great.

The area started to puff up a little and a red line started to streak down my foot. Oh fuck, here it comes, I thought. But then the most lovely thing happened... nothing. The anti-climax to beat all anti-climaxes! I am officially no longer allergic to bees!

Despite this fabulous news I am still going to be ninja dancing my way around them though because DAMN it bloody hurt.

How long since you've been stung by a bee? Are you a ninja dancer?

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Pregnancy, Pain and Pilates

This is a C2 post

For full details see my disclosure policy

Exercise and I do not mix. Unless you count walking on a completely flat surface at a leisurely pace, my body does not like to move and I end up in so much pain that I can't get out of bed for a few days. The only vigorous activity you will see me doing is dancing with much help from alcohol and shed load of pain killers to numb me to my eyeballs. Because sometimes even I need to let my hair down. Healthy, huh?

I've struggled with chronic pain since I was little. I was shipped around to all sorts of doctors and specialists, my favourite of which said it was all in my head and I need a psychiatrist immediately. To which I replied, of COURSE I need a fucking psychiatrist, but that is actually a separate matter to the whole can't move my legs thing. The two are related (I get sore, it's depressing, duh) but they are not mutually exclusive.

So for donkey's years I've been through all sorts of treatments including major opioids, mindfulness training, orthotics, you name it, and nothing has helped. Well, OK, the drugs definitely helped, but they screwed with me a lot and I quite like the ability to digest food so I had to stop taking them. I had given up. This was just how I was.

Then Jacqui Gilmour from Queens Road Physiotherapy offered me a rehabilitative physio pilates session. Other than it being a mouthful I thought "well it can't hurt to try" and then laughed my ass off because yes, yes it can hurt to try if you're me. But I went along anyway.

Jacqui offers pilates for chronic pain, lower back pain and the like, but also specifically for women's health: think pilates for pelvic floor, pregnancy, incontinence, prolapse and all those fabulous things that sometimes come after carrying a watermelon in your uterus for nine months. 

 

She watched me walk, asked me a few questions, prodded me (gently) then proceeded to tell me where I hurt... and WHY. How many bloody years have I been asking these questions and in a matter of minutes she had answered them.

Turns out I don't activate my muscles correctly - I use the wrong ones to do certain movements so they're having a serious marathon workout every time I take a step and other muscles just aren't working and are wasting away, getting weaker and weaker (meaning the other muscles have to do even more work to make up for it). It's a vicious cycle... but it can be corrected.

I got on "The Reformer" and after singing Reformer to the tune of Informer a few times I started figuring out how to use the muscles that don't want to move... and... I DIDN'T DIE!! Although I nearly wet myself laughing when Jacqui kept telling me to "Spread your butt! Relax it! Relaxed bum!" - so maybe I should see her for some pelvic floor work too. 
 

I left feeling elated and then promptly burst in to tears. Could this be the answer that has eluded me for over half of my life? Could this lead to a reduction in pain? And if so, why the fuck hadn't any of these specialists over the years told me to do it? They just repeated their stock standard response of "try water aerobics" despite me letting them know that anything in water hurts twice as much. There was only one way to find out: keep going back.

I've been back weekly for sessions (that I pay for) and do a lot of "homework" on a giant rolling pin thing and what looks suspiciously like a dog toy (I'm assured they're actually pilates equipment) and I have had LESS PAIN! HALLE-FREKAIN'-LUJAH!

Because I have private health cover that pays for some of it, the sessions are costing me less than $30. I will keep going back in the hope that the pain reduction continues and that it stops my hip separating like it did when I was preggers with Tricky so I don't have to have my ass taped again.

Have you tried pilates for an injury or pain condition? Did you cry like me?

The blog post to break the blog break

OHAI! Fancy seeing you here! Long time no see. Or write. Or read. Whatever.

It has been a while, indeed. I gave myself a lovely bloggy break over Christmas and New Year and if I'm completely honest I Loved the time off. See that? Capital L, Loved. I adore blogging but I also really enjoyed living in the moment without the constant ticking over of my brain thinking "I could totally blog the crap outta this". It was all Zen and shit.

But how exactly does one come back from an extended blog break? And yes, I consider a month extended because the blogosphere moves so damn quick if you blink you've missed 300,000 posts and your Google Reader is bursting at the seams.

There are just so many strings of stories running through my head from the last month that they're all jumbling up together and looking like a failed Cat's Cradle that is in dire need of being cut off your fingers because they're starting to turn purple.

Maybe I should tell you about the pest inspector man who came and out of nowhere started banging on about how religious people were ruining the world and how I should really start hitting Tricks if I wanted him to grow up right? What, right like you, pal? Errmmm no.

Or maybe I should mention that on Boxing Day we went out to Map Guy's Aunty and Uncle's farm and we all got to have a go in a gigantic bloody harvester? I could even tell you how we actually had to jump-start it from the Land Cruiser first because it had a flat battery and how I never in my wildest dreams ever imagined jump starting a machine that could have cut us all up so fast it would put Dexter to shame.

But that just won't do. Even a giant mofo harvester is not big enough to break a blog break.

So instead, I'll cut to the chase and mention that I've been really sick. I've been spending a lot of time in bed over the last month and even more time with my head hung over a toilet bowl calling for Ruth. Because I'm in The John Hurt Way again.

Yep, my friends, that is how you come back from a blog break with a bang.

Spawn2.0 is currently taking up prime uterine real estate at this very moment and causing this Mama to be sucking back on Maxolon like they're orange flavoured Tic Tacs. Sadly they've done almost nothing for me and I spend most of my days wallowing in self pity and complaining to Map Guy that it is cruel and unusual punishment to be starving hungry and aversive to food all at the same time all the while clutching my spew bucket. Classy.

Cletus the Fetus has already managed to give us a scare with a suspected ectopic, on my bloody birthday no less (yeah remember that appendix thing on Facebook? Yeah, that was a fabulous night). On a side note, you go straight to the front of the triage list and personally escorted to a private nook of the emergency room and filled with tubes if you rock up preggers with a pain in your side, a previous ectopic on your file and only one fallopian tube.

We were going to wait until the obligatory 12/13 weeks but I am terrible at keeping my own secrets (tell me yours and I'll take 'em to the grave, but mine? BLABBERMOUTH!). It turns out Map Guy is terrible at keeping secrets too, because at work when he announced it on Friday half the office knew already after he'd blurted it out after a few drinks at the office Christmas party.

It truly has been the worst kept secret. Half the Perth Blogging scene had a suspicion when I wasn't drinking at the W.O.M.B.A.T. Chrissie shin dig because hello, free drinks. I had to tell my work early on because it's caused my chronic pain condition to flare uncontrollably and I'm unable to stand up for a whole shift any more without the need for major drugs and a weeklong stay in bed.

But despite my body not doing the whole hormone thing too well, I'm happy. And when Tricks rubs my belly and leans in to kiss the baby I'm deliriously happy. He says it's a boy and it's name should be Spotty Dog or Tractor.

So it does appear that 2013 will be a big year. I can't wait and I'm shit scared at the same time.

But what I want to know, what I've always wanted to know, is WHERE'S MY FUCKING GLOW? 

Big walk = big bucks... hopefully

Princess Margaret Hospital for Children means a lot to my family. My sister spent a lot of her life there, I had countless asthma admissions there, and Tricks has had two surgeries, asthma and allergy admissions there. If it wasn't for the fact that it was a public hospital I reckon we'd be getting a bulk discount right about now.

When my friend's boy was diagnosed with cancer this year I felt impotent. The whole wanting to help but not knowing what to do thing is a bitch of a feeling. So, I figured throwing money at the problem might help somewhat. I could have done a naughty cake sale to raise the cashola, but decided that walking 6km would have to do.

It remains to be seen whether I'll be able to walk 6km non stop what with the whole chronic pain thing. But I figure if kids like Adam can put up with chemo then I can pop a couple of painkillers, get off my fat arse and push through the pain. I might end up on the couch for a week but screw it, I'm gonna do it.

I'm also doing another fun run a few weeks later. Because I'm a dickhead. But if someone could loan me a wheelchair for December, that would be ace.

If you feel like helping the sick kids then you can donate here. If you're going to be in Perth on Sunday the 4th of November and feel like joining in on the action (HAH! Action? Please, it's me we're talking about, this will be a casual stroll!) then join the group here - the password to join is Glowglow. There's a few other bloggers/tweeps already involved but we'd love some more - that way I can hide amongst the group so no one sees me hobbling along. 

We'd like to raise $500 (well actually we'd like to raise a shed load more than that, but we're being realistic) and we're almost half way there already.

On the day you can follow my slow deterioration by checking out the #BigWalkBloggers hashag and then join in the linky that will be hosted here after the event.

Will you support us? I will give you endless love and devotion. 

EDIT: If you join the group it doesn't actually let me know your contact details! Please email me glowless@wheresmyglow.com and I will let you know where we're all meeting on the day! It's also not letting me know the contact details of people donating so I'm unable to thank everyone individually. But I can say now, watching the tally go up has me crying happy tears. Thank you so much x

Parking Rage: Why I Don't Use My ACROD Permit

There was an article on The Punch this week entitled 'What bastard would park in a disabled space?' that featured two stories from people with permits. The article made me sad, but it didn't surprise me, because I have experienced almost identical incidents.

But the comments? Well, let's just say the level of ignorance never ceases to amaze me. Ill-informed yet ready to sprout their 'wisdom' for all to see:

"People who have a gammy leg and go to their doctor and get a letter that the RTA then issues a Disabled parking permit on the basis of that letter. Because I ask all ypou (sic) punchers this. How many people do you see with a disabled pass get out of a car and use and aid for mobility. Ie wheelechair etc etc. The how many actually look like they have a limp or such when they walk.  I would reckon the answer would be close to one in every 15 vehicles."

I've spoken before about my chronic pain disorder and the fact that I have an ACROD permit (point #6) that lets me park in disabled bays.

I very rarely use it. And not because I'm not in pain.

I don't look disabled. My illness is invisible and because of this, "well meaning people" have blocked my car in, accused me of theft (of the permit), called security, abused me and threatened me. All for using a parking bay I am legally entitled to use, just because I don't fit in to their idea of what disability is.

My favourite, the one that is seared in my mind, was the woman who did almost all of them at once. She positioned her car behind mine, ranted on that I'd stolen the pass from my grandmother, called over security and said, in front of her two small children, "My husband works with retards, I know what it looks like to be disabled and you're not." Charming.

So let's clear up a few things here;

1. Not all disabilities that qualify a person for a permit are visible; some muscle disorders, lung problems, and heart disease can all qualify and none of those are normally associated with a "limp or such"
2. An intellectual disability doesn't qualify
3. Permits can be issued if you need extra room to get out of a vehicle; if you can walk relatively fine but struggle to get in and out of a car in a tight bay then you may qualify
4. It is not easy to get a permit; a letter from your doctor does not cut it. There is a form and a medical history which your doctor must sign before it is then reviewed by a panel
5. They're not free; they're not expensive but you do have to pay for your permit

I have good days and bad days. A few years ago there would be one good day for every month of bad. Now it's a little bit more even, and thanks to mindfulness training and therapy I'm able to cope better with the pain (I was unable to stay on pain meds any longer - if I could've stayed on those suckers I would have!).

It still stops me from doing every day things, but I try not to let it stop me having fun. So I will go out, in high heels, and dance for hours, knowing that I will be in bed for days and have to use my permit for a week after... just so that I can feel normal for that one night.

I stopped using my permit unless I was in extreme agony, years ago. The stares, the comments, the abuse, it all got too much for me and I found that I would fake a limp just to escape the prejudice.


So when others, no matter how delightful they are, complain about non-parents parking in parent bays, I, in all honesty, can not join them in their fury. You can just park in a different bay, some days, without an ACROD bay, I have to go home.

Image by Jörn Guy Süß

Parents with Pram bays are a there as a convenience and run on a courtesy system - and obviously there are a lot of discourteous people. They might be assholes but they're not breaking any laws.

Yes it's a pain to lug our kids a bit further in a car park, but that's what prams and trolleys are for, and hey, at least you have a car, some people don't and have to do all that lugging on public transport. We don't deserve special treatment just because we've popped out a kid. And I'm expecting a few 'unfollows' for saying that.

So before you go shaking your head and tutting at the person who doesn't look disabled, check their dashboard or rear view mirror. If they've got a permit, reserve your judgement. If they don't, then feel free to tell them they're a schmuck.

EDIT: This post upset some people. This was written as is, before the post that it previously linked to was published and was therefore not an attack on said person. It was not accusing said person of parking in disabled bays, nor accusing them of abusing people who do or don't or whatever, as was suggested. It is not a rant at her, it is a rant, there is a difference. The point of this article that I wanted people to take away was that sometimes we have it so good and we can't see it - we complain about trivial things when really, we are so privileged. Sometimes, people will park in parents bays because the ACROD bays are full, and maybe we shouldn't be so quick to judge that "those people" who are parking there without children are not in need of a closer bay. I simply cannot not get angry at the misuse of a courtesy bay when I would gladly take that inconvenience over the abuse.

Lardy McLard Ass

My BMI is so very very close to obese.

It scares the crap outta me.

I know I'm fat but I don't tend to step on the scales, so I didn't know my actual weight - even when I found out my weight I didn't think it would be enough to put me in to the obese category... but it did. No, I'm not gonna put it here, I can't bring myself to do it, but you can pretty much guess it I'm sure. 

If I’m to lose weight before December as part of my Thirty before 30 list, then I need to get a move on. Quite literally. So, I went walking. What did you see? I saw a yellow dog looking at me.

I can’t do as much exercise as some other people. I don’t really talk about it much, but I have a chronic pain condition that means if I go all out and “work through the pain” Biggest Loser style, I will end up in bed, unable to move for the rest of the week even with the help of some very hard core drugs. I’ve even got one of those disability stickers on my car that lets me park in the ACROD bays – it comes in really handy on the days when I can barely move, but, because I don’t limp or “look disabled” I tend to get abused by people who assume I have stolen my grandmother’s permit, so I don’t use it unless I’m desperate and ready to fight off people who block my car in (yes, that really happened).

Chronic pain affects my social life too; if I go out dancing or to a pub and have to stand the whole night, I do it knowing that the next two to three days are a write off… but I still go cos I’m stupid and quite partial to wine young (ish) and want to have fun.

When I do exercise, it has to be very gentle; walking is pretty much all I can do and there can’t be any incline. I even considered joining one of those granny walking clubs once only to find out they walk much faster than I can.

So yesterday I walked and five minutes in to it I knew it was a mistake. Not because I was in pain but because I made the stupid mistake of wearing a g-string, the only clean pair of undies in the house. Every now and again I’d glance around to make sure there was no one behind me and yank those suckers out. I am nothing if not classy.

For today's walk I will be much more prepared and actually wear proper underwear. A bit of walking, no less crappy food, and I'll be on my way to looking and feeling fab I'm sure.

Is your body screwed up like mine? If so, how do you keep fit?

___________________________________________________

Glowless rocked the Aussie Bloggers Conference thanks to

HealthyChart and Baby Goes Retro and Simply Colors

Gettin the girls out

Boobs. The second you have a baby those glorious mammary glands are no longer yours. Whether they're big or small, been your best asset and used to obtain free drinks every Friday night in Northbridge or your worst enemy, getting in the way and causing nothing but trouble it doesn't matter. Because as of that moment they are there solely to feed this creature you have created. Tricky's paediatrician put it best when he said “they're not just for sticking in a bikini anymore.”

I'm still new at this breastfeeding business and wasn't too sure I was doing it correctly even though all the midwives said he was 'latching on' perfectly... because it really hurt! You see, it's not meant to be painful if you do properly... but one of the midwives explained that when you're not used to it and learning, it can hurt even when you're doing it textbook perfectly. Her actual words were: “Well you've never had a vacuum attached to your nipple ten times a day before.” It took all my resolve not to reply “As kinky as I am, you're right, I only ever get the old Hoover on the nipples twice a day maximum.”

I've always been rather well endowed in the chest region and was not really looking forward to finding out just how big those suckers would get when my milk came in. On day three I went to bed looking quite normal only to wake up on day four looking like a porn star. Oh my! Up until now the midwives had been asking if my milk had come in or if I felt like it was coming in... they stopped asking - the enormous melons bursting out of my top spoke for themselves. Even Hubby had trouble looking at my face that day. I told him I felt like a cow to which he replied, “Don't be stupid, cows only get milked once a day.” Thanks, I'm feeling the love.

So one week on Tricky and I definitely seem to be getting the hang of it and the pain is almost gone. But as much as I am all for the right of women to breastfeed in public I don't think I'll be joining that club any time soon because I'm not quite at the discreet stage yet... it's nipples akimbo right now and I can't do anything else whilst feeding but sit there and watch tele. When it becomes second nature though, you better watch out – the girls will be featuring at a coffee shop or shopping centre near you!

And then there were three - Part two

Previously, on “Tricky gets born” - Booked in for an induction but didn't need it (hooray!), got put on a Syntocinon drip to speed up labour and Tricky had a bad reaction to it (boo!), got prepped for a caesarean section (boo, hiss!). If you want to read all about it, have a look at part one. If you're up to speed then keep reading...

In the next few hours my contractions still weren't doing much. This is what the obstetric community call 'stalled labour' but an old-school midwife will tell you that labour never stalls, it just slows down when the labouring woman is faced with danger. It is the classic case of fight or flight. Our bodies are designed to temporarily halt labour so that we can run away from a sabre tooth tiger if we need to... unfortunately the shock of being prepped for surgery does the same thing.

At 1.40pm I was 3cm dilated and the contractions were about 4 minutes apart. Not good enough. More Syntocinon was ordered, but this time at a lower strength. Were these people trying to make Tricky distressed again? He had such a bad reaction last time but yet you're going to try it again? It made no sense to me. So as the Syntocinon went up, my spirits went down.

It acted fast. My contractions started coming every two minutes and were lasting for what seemed like half an hour but was more likely two minutes from first twinge to peak to final release. I was wearing a TENS machine for natural pain relief and I was getting close to the top setting – it was no match for the super contractions. The drip was stopped after half an hour because it was obvious it was becoming too much for me. It was now 2.25pm and I was at 4cm. All of that for one lousy centimetre!

Even though the Syntocinon drip had stopped the contractions were becoming more and more intense. I was told that it would be another four to six hours of labour and the midwives suggested I have an epidural since it didn't look like I would progress much more on my own and with the pain relief they'd be able to crank up the Syntocinon and get the show on the road. These afternoon midwives, Penny (not to be confused with Aunty Penny) and Mary, were amazingly supportive and when they said they were proud of me for going so far without pain relief I believed them (Miss Melodrama's shift had finished and I was glad to see the back of her). I don't know why, but those few words made me feel a little bit better. I had done more than had been expected of me hours earlier when I was being prepped for a c-section, so even if I wasn't going to get my natural birth, at least I'd felt some of it.

In the next ten minutes my contractions went insane! They were less than thirty seconds apart and lasting for two minutes. I was getting no break between them and I was pounding the boost button on my hired TENS machine so furiously that I might not get my deposit back. Penny had gone to get the anaesthetist and Mary stayed with me and Hubby, helping me focus and breathe. It was 2.35pm... I told her I felt like pushing... she checked me... I had gone from 4cm to 10cm in ten minutes. So THAT'S why it had started hurting so much! I was being offered the epidural for what they thought was an unreasonable level of pain only to realize I was in transition (the stage between 8cm and 10cm, considered the most painful stage of labour)! Women in transition have been known to say they have changed their mind, they're not having this baby, and they would like to leave now, thank you very much. I can see why.

She said I could push whenever I felt like it. But there was a slight problem... I had not heard her say that I was at 10cm. I was thinking “Are you crazy, woman?! I'm at 4cm and you're saying I can push?! You're all insane!”. So I used all my strength to resist the urge to push, thinking I was about to injure myself! Only ten minutes ago she had said we were looking at about five more hours and gone to call the anaesthetist. Penny and Mary managed to get my attention somehow and told me that this was it, they could see Tricky – he was coming now! We were go for launch!

The room got very busy all of a sudden! The OB came rushing in announcing with a laugh that the second most important person in the room was now here. Penny and Mary were running around getting everything ready and a student midwife stood watching the scene unfold in front of her, trying not to get in the way. Hubby, who had been holding my hand, rubbing my back, pressing the acupressure pain relief points this whole time, whispered words of encouragement and love to me, saying our baby was about to be born... and I STILL didn't quite believe it.

His cord had stayed by his head and therefore the pressure on it while he was coming out meant his heart rate started dropping again so an episiotomy had to be done because there was no time to let me stretch that last little bit naturally . About half a dozen pushes later... Tricky came in to the world at 2.54pm weighing 3825grams (8lb 7oz), measuring 54cm long (21.3 inches) with a head circumference of 36cm (14.2 inches) and was placed on my chest.

His crushed cord and low heart rate meant we couldn't have the delayed clamping we had wanted, so the scissors were shoved in to Hubby's hands to do the cutting. He hadn't yet taken a breath and they wanted to take him to the “Cosy Crib” (what a lovely name for a piece of machinery that looks so ominous with heat lamps, wires and oxygen tanks!) to get him going, but in true Tricky style, the second the cord was cut he sucked in a huge breath and let out a fantastic cry! It was the most wonderful noise I have ever heard! Although ask me in a few weeks if I still think his cry is wonderful and I may have changed my mind.

Mary picked him up saying “I'll just give him to Aunty Penny for a check” and even in the haze of endorphins and adrenaline I remember thinking, no, he already has an Aunty Penny and she won't be happy if you take her title from her! A quick check over and he was handed straight back to me. Hubby and I stared at him in amazement, saying hello to him over and over again, looking at every inch of his body, in total awe that he was here. Mary and Penny fussed over all of us and then said the words that will stay with me forever, “We love to be proven wrong”. It dawned on me, I had done it. I had just given birth with only the supportive hands of my husband, a TENS machine and a whole lot of determination (some would call it being stubborn). I will admit that part of me wanted to say "I told ya so!" but I was too fascinated by this new creature in my arms to care about anything else.

Immediately I felt a fierce protective love for him. I had only just met this child and already I knew I would do anything and everything in my power to protect him. It had been such an adventure and now he was in our arms, perfect in every way. There are no words to describe the joy.

From water's breaking to birth had been ten hours... so I guess they got their average of 1cm an hour after all!

 Introducing Tricky

Note: In the coming weeks I'll endeavour to keep blogging my experiences with this new little guy as often as I can. From the nights with no sleep, the tears of the baby blues to the first meetings with the dog. I hope you'll come on this journey with me.

Contractual obligations

I am now officially overdue, even by my Obstetrician's dates, and fast running out of both patience and possible sweepstakes contenders. What happens if Tricky comes after the dates everyone has guessed?

The Braxton Hicks contractions have now been full on for almost two weeks and I will admit to feeling like a complete failure already – and I haven't even tried the hard bit of giving birth yet! I thought the feelings of inadequacy were coming later - after Tricky is born and I start screwing up his life as Freud assures me I will. But no, it's here now and I'm only on the starting blocks of motherhood.

The pain of the BH contractions isn't that bad, it is more the relentlessness of two weeks of them and the knowledge that they're going to get worse and become real labour before they eventually go away. Yep I'm whining but c'mon, this is getting ridiculous.

It has gotten to the point where I am even thinking about being induced. Me who wants as little medical intervention as possible is considering having a synthetic hormone dripped in to my veins to start contractions – even though I know that once you have one intervention, the chances of another sky rocket.

Everyone I know who was due around the same time as me or later has given birth already... and I'm jealous! I realise how pathetic that is, but as I sit here having even more BH contractions, I know that the grass has never ever looked so green over there. But what if that green, lush grass turns out to be prickly astroturf? Could I, knowing what I know about all the possible side effects on both Tricky and myself, actually go through with an induction without a medical reason? Or is my sanity worth more than the chance of complications?

Is it selfish of me to want this to be over? The hip pain, the heartburn (both of which get worse the bigger this guy gets), the poor sleep, the back aches and the constant contractions... how much can I take? I think the government should employ me in the new role of state sex-ed teacher in schools, because after hearing me complain this much, what teen would risk unprotected sex?

Did you struggle playing the waiting game? How did you handle it? Leave a comment, my mental health may just depend on it.

Sweeps

Some people celebrate the birth of a child with cigars, champagne, presents, investment portfolios or sports club memberships... we are celebrating Tricky's imminent arrival with a spot of light gambling.

The rules for the sweepstakes are pretty simple: pick a date, pick a weight, pay $5 and sit back and wait to see if you get the cash – winner takes all and it's almost $150! To make sure everyone had a fair chance of winning they were told my actual due date and the date that my obstetrician wouldn't let me go past without being induced. If two people had the same date then it would go to the weight with the person closest without going over being the winner – it's just like being on the Price is Right except that Larry Emdur is replaced by Hubby's mate, Neil.

The dates picked span a massive 22 days – starting with Aunty Penny's pick on the 17^th of May (guess she didn't win since I'm sitting here with a belly full of baby still). She thought Tricky would take after me and be a week early, but he seems pretty happy swimming around in goo at the moment. For $150 I'm considering picking a date no one else has chosen (funnily enough, my official due date) and booking in for an induction!

I'm very ready for him to arrive. Even though it means actually having to go through the birth process - which is understandably a little daunting - it also means an end to the constant heartburn, the dodgy hip and top of Hubby's list... an end (or at least reduction) in the snoring! By day I'm your average, waddling preggo, but by night, watch out – I'm a chainsaw! It's similar to turning in to a werewolf, except I don't tear you limb from limb... I make you want to do it to yourself.

So for now I'll continue drinking my raspberry leaf tea and attending my pre-birth acupuncture and yoga sessions to get my body ready... and just wait.

Did your bub come on time?

Lacking wisdom

Whilst eating my lunch today I noticed that one of teeth felt a little sharp when I touched it with my tongue. So I did what any normal, non-dentist person would do – I shoved my finger back there to see what I could find. What I found was slightly disturbing – half my tooth was missing! When did this happen? There was no pain, so I don't know if it broke during lunch or weeks ago.

Of course I went straight to worse case scenario and figured that my tooth would need to be taken out without any anaesthetic due to being pregnant. Before anaesthetic you could take a swig of rum to numb the pain, but oh no, no such substances can touch this sacred vessel. A quick internet search (thank you, Google) and a call to my obstetrician's office to confirm, I found out you can have a local anaesthetic, which surprised me because you can't take plain old over the counter ibuprofen.

One phone call later and I had an appointment for 3pm down the road with a dentist I'd never met before. I was a little bit scared but figured since the tooth didn't hurt yet, I'd probably be able to wait a few weeks until Tricky is born and then go back to have the tooth taken out while under the influence of some hard core dental drugs.

I sat in the chair, pretending that I wasn't scared and the dentist, Steven, informed me that yes, my tooth had broken but luckily it was one of my wisdom teeth so it didn't need to be saved, he could just extract it. As lovely as he was I wanted to tell him that no matter how pretty he made it sound with words like 'extract' and 'remove' all I could hear was “I will GOUGE open your gums and YANK out this tooth whilst laughing at your PAIN”. He did make me feel better by telling me it wasn't my fault that the tooth had gone bad, the way it was shaped meant a toothbrush could never reach it. I bet he says that to all the heavily pregnant women though.

So I had a decision to make. Get it 'extracted' right then or leave it and wait for it to start hurting before I came back. I figured I might be really busy in a few weeks, what with an infant an all, so I decided to go ahead with it. The tooth was history.

I was draped in a very glamorous lead apron for a quick x-ray then numbed up and Steven got to work on my dodgy tooth. But that sucker just would not budge - it took 45 minutes of yanking to get it out, luckily all in one piece. By the end of it all I'd been in the chair for just over an hour and even though I wasn't in any pain I'd managed to carve half moon shapes in the palms of my hands with my fingernails, just from the tension of having to sit there. At the end he told they normally schedule a check up appointment for ten days after a wisdom tooth removal to make sure that everything is healing up properly but because my 'delicate condition' meant I couldn't be sure just how available I'd be, they'd call me at the seven day mark just to see what I wanted to do. But then it got even better, because Steven said that if I'd had the baby and was worried about my tooth (or lack there of) he would COME TO ME to check it out. How nice is that?! I have never heard of a dentist making house calls before.

The anaesthetic has worn off now and it's no where near as bad as I thought it would be. I'm left with a dull ache, a massive hole in my gum and my tooth in a little plastic bag. If I leave under my pillow I wonder if I'll get any money?

A pain in the ...

For the last couple of weeks my right hip has been really sore to the point where I limp when I walk. After a quick consult with a physiotherapist at the antenatal classes I decided to go and have it checked out properly since it didn't appear to be going away on its own accord. So today I toddled off to a physiotherapist that specialises in antenatal and postnatal issues, partly because the woman I spoke to at the antenatal class worked there and partly because these hips have a lot of work to do soon and I don't want anyone screwing them up any further!

My pain started in my sit bones... that's right people, its basically my bum. Typical. I would be the one to get bum pain. I'm reminded of Sharon Osborne who, after being diagnosed with colon cancer said “Why'd they have to find it in my bum, of all places? It's embarrassing. I mean, why couldn't I have a cute little heart shaped polyp on my vagina?” Not that I'm comparing hip pain to colon cancer, but you get my point – why there?!

The pain has been getting worse and has now moved around the front too, and instead of a dull ache its more of a sharp shooting pain that makes it look like I've just stepped on a piece of glass. On the upside, the limp disguises the waddle marvellously. It is also starting to aggravate my previously broken coccyx – broken, I might add, by Hubby's knee one night about two and a half years ago while he was having a particularly violent dream. To make it worse, he didn't even wake up when he did it!

The diagnosis?

Pelvic instability and more specifically a rotated Sacroiliac joint in turn causing Symphysis Pubis Dysfunction (whomever named that really liked the letter Y, I think). Which basically means my hips are moving in directions they shouldn't be.

The cause?

Well I have always had really lax ligaments (meaning that if they gave them out, I'd get a gold star at every yoga class for most resembling a pretzel) and if you combine that with the Relaxin hormone getting me ready for birth you have a pretty good chance of sore hips.

The treatment?

About half an hour of excruciating “massage” of my hip followed by the application of strapping tape. Yes, dear readers, my ass is taped up. It looks highly amusing, like I've accidentally sat down on someone's discarded ankle strapping. I'm tempted to drop my dacks just to show people how silly it looks. “Excuse me? Hi, you don't know me, but check out my butt, isn't it hilarious?!”

I go back in a few days time to have the whole thing done again, but until then I have some exercises to do and the instruction to not put my legs at a right angle to my body. This is simple to fix, I just sit on cushion to elevate my hips above my knees – but cushion sitting does make look like I've got haemorrhoids. I guess its the price I'll have to pay.

The prognosis?

A few sessions and taping is apparently all I'll need to get my hip in working order... funnily enough the lax ligaments that have caused the pain in the first place mean it will be quicker and easier to fix! Hooray for me.

Did you or your partner have any pregnancy ailments? Did you have to have your bum strapped too?