Rants in my Pants.

Wow, just got into a cyber argument with a kid who will probably be...

No, I'll stop. He could have potential. It is just hidden under veiled attempts at being rebellious by using grammatically poor, misspelled, and racially derogatory language. What gives anyone the right to speak in that manner. Where is the bridge between decency and self respect?

Anyways, I digress...bigger fish to fry, or some catchy phrase. Well actually I don't. I was going to write about ghosts in the house but I have lost all mojo for tonight. I blame the acute nasopharyngitis for this. I'll be better tomorrow.

Lithium

I'm so lonely. And that's OK.
I shaved my head. And I'm not sad, and just maybe
I'm to blame for all I've heard. And I'm not sure.
I'm so excited. I can't wait to meet you there.
And I don't care. I'm so horny. But that's OK. My will is good.
- Nirvana -

I am tired of being bipolar. I don't think I am bipolar. I don't like lithium. I am on my max out dose and am feeling no changes. I am labile in affect, altered in emotions, and on the verge of a massive panic attack/anger freak out at any second. I don't like it.

Spoken like a true bipolar patient.

I am tired of vascillating between hypomanic happiness and crushing depression. I have had situational depression before and was well controlled on an SSRI. Things got better, I went back to normal and life was grand. The way I feel right now is a whole new beast.

I think the lithium has minor efficacy. I am on BID dosing (twice daily) and I feel leveled for 2-3 hours after dosing. Then I get fatigued, then I get muscle weakness, and then I get numbingly depressed. Even though I labeled it "hypomanic happiness" I think it is merely the lithium wearing off. I get a surge of energy, want to go-go-go, and want to live and enjoy the day.

This is exhausting. Yet, I can't sleep.

This is really wearing on my ability to fix my relationship with Stephen, be a good mom to Conor, and appropriately manage my money, house, and time. I feel like I am adrift on the Bering Sea in 60 knot winds (I am watching Deadliest Catch currently).

I don't think I am bipolar. I think I am depressed

I know that depression isn't a normal reaction, but I think my body is depleted or norepinephrine and serotonin. I think I need an SSNRI and sleep. I think I need someone to talk to, but I don't know how to talk about myself without sounding foolish.

I want a kiss from my baby. He's asleep though.

I just want to be this girl again.

Lesson Learned

Sometimes all it takes is a day working on my floor.

I try not to get bogged down in minor maladies, try not to complain, but recently complaining has gotten the best of me. People get sick and feel like stepped on and wiped off doggy poo, but they aren't close to dying too young or dying with a pregnant wife.

Today on my floor: a teenager actively dying from newly found metastatic cancer, and a young couple battling cancer with a baby on the way.

Puts all my complaining, all my fussing, and all my grumpiness in a recycling bin on the way to Hades. It makes me forget the negative, forget my own sadness and live for what I have. It also makes me realize once again the lessons my mom's illness has taught me.

You never know what may come and you have to fight like only a Beany can.

"Uh-oh"

When you are Lauren, you are tired and grumpy all the time. You also can't complete a sentence without stuttering or mispronouncing words and are always on the verge of an ice cream meltdown.

You also care immensely about others and feel great personal guilt when things are not all happy and perfectly ordered.

I'm a fixer and a planner, but extremely artistic and inwardly disorganized. I follow the rules, even when driving, and put research and immense thought into all actions taken. But, that is all changing for me.

I can't fix and mend, can't be disorganized, and must think rationally and quickly. I am so tired of my anger at being used by others, so tired of selfless action, and so tired of getting cut off on the road, line, and life.

Enough of this self-loathing. It is time for quick action, self-protection, and a deliciously defiant GLASS OF KOOL-AID! Mmm...black cherry please.

At least Conor gets action and appreciates learning and thought. With a "whasthat" and a little chubby finger he learns and grows. Of course that little chubby finger is exploring nose gold which is hilarious and disgusting in the same moment.

This little man also is teaching me about trust. I know he trusts me when he grabs my hand to play, seeks comfort when he is crying, and gets so excited when I pick him up from his nap. I need to be more trusting and more loving like a 20 month old.

Wow, 20 months. And he still looks like a little cherub when he sleeps.

On occassions...

Some days you just step on poop...

Or if you are me, you do it once or twice a week. Stupid cats. This picture is homage to the next two weeks. I can make it through this gosh-for-saken semester with my wits intact and my waist not growing.

Lauren's Clinical Guidelines

Seasonal Allergies

1. Zyrtec (cetirizine) 10 mg 1 tab by mouth daily or Claritin (loratadine) 10 mg 1 tab by mouth daily
2. Neti-Pot or nasal saline wash daily. Start hypertonic as tolerated and progress to a neutral solution.
3. Flonase (fluticasone proprionate) 50 mcg 2 sprays each nostril daily (RX only)
4. Increase fluids as increasing water increasing expulsion of the junk
5. Benadryl 25 mg as needed for sleep.

Boy Problems

1. Grow a "proverbial pair"
   
2. Realize I am not the person to ask for advice
3. Don't choose based on: tattoos, hair color, music likes or dislikes, IPhone, or friends
4. Don't wait by the phone for the call that won't come

Breaking Caffeine Addiction

1. Go to Starbucks
2. Invariably piss off an employee you genuinely care about
3. Get decaf without realizing

The first one is a true guideline and one that I have prescribed to numerous people. The fun thing is you can play with the prescriptions and see how much the insurance companies love you for it.

The other two are for pure enjoyment.

I find it humorous I get asked love and dating advice. I never really dated. A few dates and "boyfriends" here and there, all dispensable due to inherent douchebaggery. Stephen is my only one, and the only person I have truly loved. It just happened.

The other guideline is just ridiculous. Those age 30 and less and petty fools who passive aggressiveness stems from impatience and a society of excess. We lost our decency. I get reminded every Tuesday and Wednesday what America used to be. We are missing out.

I don't want to miss out on the goodness of people.

A Letter

Dear Conor

You know me as mama, but others call me Lauren, Lowie, daughter, nurse, and even friend. I portray many different characters, but behind the glasses you so love pulling off and putting on my face, I am none of these.

I feel abandoned in my ineptitude and confused about the sincerity of others. I am immensely guarded and admittedly ashamed of the selfish tendencies of those I often consider close. I am so alone in a shapeless shell of a person, that I cannot be nor feel anything except my love for you.

You Conor are my reason.

The reason I couldn't jump April 30, 2009. I still have the note as a reminder why I couldn't leave you. You are the reason I stopped cutting and why the scars have finally healed. I'm always a moment away, I will never let my fears envelop you.

My impetus for writing this letter was watching you sleep; encased in the white railing of your crib you breath in a slow rhythm of trust and security. I created that trust and out of love created you.

I look at you now as I did the day we brought you home. I am overwhelmed with love and baffled at the beauty of perfection in the sparkle of your eyes.

Love, Mama

One year ago, I was diagnosed bipolar by an MD typing feverishly on a computer. He seemed nice, doted on his family, and even had a MacBook. Yet, one year later I feel my diagnosis wrong. I have tried several medications, changed my diet, exercised, lost weight. Yet, I still feel the same as I did one year ago. I am not as labile in affect, without the hormones, and more well rested.

Recently my life crashed around me: Stephen admitted a drinking problem, our finances were in shambles, and apathy caused a rift in a marriage threatening infidelity. Somehow, I feel I cannot adequately grieve this event. Reasons are varied and leave me angry and seeking support. Yet, the needs of others must always be managed and followed explicitly before support.

This angers me and leaves me with that same empty depressive shell. Anger makes me want to shout, hopelessness makes me want to circumvent or cry, and reality means I subvert my needs to help others.

I can't pretend this life anymore. I can't help when I need help. I'm not sleeping because I lay in wait for the trials and management of others. I'm not sleeping because I lay waiting for my mom to be sick again. I lay waiting for it all to end. I lay waiting for a break. I lay waiting for the day I don't have to help.

Maybe it will be tomorrow. Maybe it will be May 25. Maybe it will be never.

At least I know I have my life ring sleeping soundly in his crib right now. I will say it a million times then say it a million more, I am so proud Conor is my son and that I am his mom.

One. Two. THREE!!!

One big belly...

Two stinky feet...

Three people to make a family right...


Conor is learning to count. At least I think he is learning to count. Sometimes I don't know what the kid is doing besides being 100% purely, unadulterated insane bananas happy. I gave him a little juice box today and he spent 30 minutes enjoying every last little drop.

He has also termed cars/trucks/vehicles "gottago" as in "got to go". Makes sense.


Wow, I'm tired. This going to bed at 1100, waking between 200-400, and getting up with my angel at before 730 is really getting to me. School, work, and baby paradoxically make for poor sleep.

I do not remember the last time I got more than 6-7 hours sleep. I am averaging 4-6 hours and the last time I had a normal sleep was sometime in December or January.

I do not remember the last time I slept in late. Stephen let me sleep in one day last weekend. I woke at 830.

This sleep deprivation is making me so judgmental and grumpy. Since about March 2007, sleep has been a dream and myth. I love it, I treated it well, but it left me without a note or a good-bye.

Let's calculate...3 hours less sleep than I should be getting per night for 3 months (90 days)...that means I am down 270 hours of sleep. 270 hours that is 11.25 days! No wonder I look pale, have bags under my eyes, and have a wack-a-doodle thyroid.

I'm getting in a gallon of water, eating my veggies, being social, and walking...4 out of 5 isn't bad. At least I have Deadliest Catch to lull me to sleep. And those pesky papers (one down!).

Awesome

According to the practice FNP exam I took, I am 92% awesome. According to my level of comfort and general ability to speak coherently in clinical I am 29% awesome. I am proud of my score, but a good test taker and a reader of journals does not make you a competent professional.

Maybe a killer pair of heels and a sweet dress will make me competent. Oh poop, that whole tattoo thing. Hmmm, maybe a killer pair of knee-high boots, a dress, a cardigan, a scarf, a lab coat, and a good coat of polyurethane...

I like how my blogs go. Nonsense, complain, school, and then BABY AWESOME TIME. What can I say, this could rules way harder than any other baby I have ever had. Today, he was doing donuts in the kitchen, stomping like and elephant, eating peanut butter and jelly, and general rocking his yellow and black Nike dunks.

He is really beginning to talk, and sometime strings together coherent and complex sentences. Such as this gem, "dada bye-bye got to go ousides". Heartbreaking and adorable.

...or...when he "talked" on the phone at Lowe's today when he heard the PA ringing. Precious.

Being a mom doesn't get any better than that. I cannot wait to see him tomorrow morning.

A phoenix, a Beany, and a beach.

April 4, 2010
Sullivan's Island at Station 18
Conor falls in love with the ocean and waves

My neighbor and friend Gillian brought up an interesting dichotomy of life/death in several heart-felt and passionate stories of her family. This idea that "with life comes death, and with death come life" resonates very strongly in my heart and will. In honor of my mom I have a phoenix holding an ovarian cancer ribbon tattooed on my right calf (done beautifully by Jason Eisenberg). She is the most vibrant, beautiful, and toughest person I know.

Conor is in large part a gift to her (and to his Gabba whom treasures every breath, every curl, and every hug as much as I do). He was a gift of the right and wrong time...

The day after my son was born, my mom went under the knife again for ovarian cancer tumor debulking and partial pancreatectomy. As we waited on the 6th floor of the hospital for discharge, my mom had surgery on the 4th floor and was recovering on the 10th floor and MICU. I worried myself sick over my newborn son and my fragile mom. I have stated before, my mom is the queen of complications.

I watched her stop breathing as bilateral pulmonary emboli raced through her heart and into her lungs. I watched her stop breathing after a tension pneumothorax (and subsequent improper placement of a chest tube).

Yet, this time I couldn't watch over her.

Sitting patiently as she slept, waiting to see what the doctors didn't. I had my beautiful son, postpartum depression, and an extremely sore body to take care of. As minutes turned to hours turned to days, she healed well and was discharged 2 weeks after surgery on oxygen and antibiotics for nosocomial pneumonia.

Something miraculous happened as Conor was born and as my mom battled for her life. I saw this miracle yesterday.

He is his Beany at the beach. She takes the water on with such passion and true joy. She may be almost 60, but she turns into a wide-eyed and excited child in the water. Yesterday, Conor ran to the water and didn't look back or regret a second. The water was cold, the waves knocked him down, and the saltwater got in his eyes but he

NEVER STOPPED SMILING.

He has the smile of an innocent, a sparkle in his eyes that creates an infectious joy and guiltless abandonment. His Beany does this, so Conor does this. I kept my composure, but it brought me to tears. Somehow, somewhere, and for some reason he and Beany share a love, a love unknown. It makes no sense to me. This blog probably is incoherent babble, but yesterday was perfectly right. It is how my mom will live in Conor.

I cannot wait to see that connection with Gabba.

I love my son more and more each day. He is developing character, spunk, and a joy for life that makes me want to do and be better. Even if he is shushing his dad for talking during Olivia, or if he has two skinned elbows, or even if he is throwing a temper tantrum the size of Manitoba, he will

always be the greatest gift I give and receive.

Conor at 12-14 months

Wishing for the Easter Beagle to Arrive.

I really enjoy the company of like-minded mommies. Moms who know nursing is a labor of love, food is to be enjoy and to be at its basic elements, and that time away is good but always in moderation.

I am judgmental and I do struggle with things other moms and dads do. I run amok at the playground, swinging, sliding, and feeling the absolute freedom on innocence. I choose babysitters who love my child and have a better day when they watch Conor. I don't send my child to daycare. I understand the necessity of a two-earner household, and one day Conor will be a part of that household. I will either find a nanny or work part-time. If I can pay the bills and save a little, time with my child beats a career, car, house, or haircut (although close) at anytime.

What I don't get is the backlash against intuitive parenting. The absolute despise of breastfeeding, the abhor at babywearing, and the shock when you say "co-sleeping".

Breastfeeding as we know is the gold standard of infant nutrition. Formulas will never mimic nor can they say "resemble" the dynamic nature of human milk. Even one suck, one ounce, one day is better than nothing. Breastfeeding saves premature babies, can decrease risk potential in developing breast and ovarian cancer, and leads to positive development for the child.

Baby-wearing when done safely is so necessary with a refluxer. Conor had horrible GERD through about 6-9 months of life. I feel that breastfeeding and babywearing allowed him to gain weight and decrease my perception of his pain. Baby-wearing lets a mom get chores done around the house, it was great insulation and warmth in winter, and the slings, wraps, soft carriers are fun to shop for.

Co-sleeping does not cause death, and research must be done to assure a safe sleep environment. Co-sleeping was a life saver for a boy who woke up every 45 minutes to 2 hours screaming in pain from reflux. I miss Conor in our bed. In those early morning hours when the world is soft and asleep, seeing an infant in the course of REM sleep is life-changing. You realize the power and beauty of creation, the innocence still present in life, and the overpowering sensation of protection and desire for the best.

Parenting is full of options and compromise. When a parent does not compromise their selfish needs and desires is when you get an eye-roll from me.

My struggling family is learning how to become a team of like-minded individuals. We see the path, we see the goals, and we see the change and compromise necessary.

I'm not religious and wouldn't even say spiritual. But on an absolutely beautiful Easter Sunday it is hard not to feel a presence, a presence who advocated doing the perceived best and always adapting to love, truth, and beauty.

Conor one year ago today.

Dear Dream Job

Hello Dream Job, my name is Lauren. Come in, sit down, and let me tell you a little bit about myself...

I will be graduating in August with my FNP from the Medical University of South Carolina. I have worked on a digestive disease floor since graduating in December 2007 with my BSN. Previously I worked for Starbucks and another small coffee shop and can make killer foam. I can also still draw from memory the entire metabolic cycle of the human body. I write legibly, bathe daily, and enjoy NPR. I look both ways before I cross the street, don't speed, and always use my turn signal. I leave notes and am good a wrapping presents. I make a mean chili and an even better guacamole. I am a Texan which means I am loyal and friendly to a fault. I care. I try. I cry at commercials often. I respect and value my parents and will drop everything to be at their side. My son is the single greatest thing that ever happened to me. He taught me selflessness and the value of breastfeeding and sleep. I would take a bullet for my dog and shoot my cats. I have tattoos but wear at least 4 shirts/camisoles at any one time. I despise laziness but wish secretly to take a 4-hour nap. I worry because I feel. I'm bipolar and can't save the world. I love and respect veterans and wish my generation had modesty and respect. I will make a loyal employee if you can get past my tattoos. I just want to help and to learn.

In return Dream Job, I ask this of you:

1. Flexibility in hours and understanding that nothing means more to me than family
2. Opportunity to educate at-risk youth
   
3. Opportunity to educate pregnant women about breastfeeding
4. Opportunity to medically manage veterans and grouchy grandmas on occasions
5. Enough money to pay my bills, start my nest egg, contribute to Conor's 529, and buy vinyl
6. Opportunity to stitch, lance, or biopsy someone on occasion
7. The ability to wear a dress shirt open a button, to throw out my turtlenecks and to say bye to my white coat
8. A working coffee maker or a Starbucks within walking distance
9. Health insurance
10. The ability prove myself useful and often humorous

Dear Dream Job, please knock on my door, window, email...I know you are out there, alone, unfufilled, and desperate. Right?