24 weeks: in it to win it (and the one time I was an actual tri-fat-hlete)

Back in 2008, I decided to sign up for a triathlon. I really don’t know why, or what made me think I could go from couch-hero to tri-zero in just a few weeks, other than I was bored one day and thought it might be a good way to lose weight (I actually gained around 7lbs by the end of it all – and it wasn’t muscle). Once I announced this idea to the general public, it was met with the usual disbelief and some fairly loud guffaws, so I set out to prove the cynics wrong. Plus, there was a $100 bet on the line, and there’s really not much I wouldn’t do for $100.

Knowing the high probability of failure were I to go it alone, I signed up with an all-women’s training group. With some new shoes, a wetsuit (that never saw the light of day ever again), and a fancy $75(!!!) team tank top, I set out to conquer a sprint distance tri at the end of 6 weeks. The distances for a sprint are: ½ mile swim, 12-mile bike ride, and 5k (3.1 miles) --- to be completed in the same day. Preferably in the shortest amount of time possible. I’m talking one activity right after the other as fast as you can. Seriously, who comes up with this shit?

Anyway, the only thing I didn’t buy right away was a bike, because I already had one: my trusty, sturdy, heavy as a German WW2 tank mountain bike.  It didn’t even faze me that everyone else in my group had a skinny little road bike. After hearing horror stories of flat tires that would require some kind of quick fix-a-tube maneuver that I was sure I’d never be able to pull off during a race, I decided “Eh – a bike’s a bike.”  This thinking was NOT CORRECT.

Well, the training camp was helpful because it taught me how to physically approach each portion of the race in an efficient manner. It made me realize what my strengths and weaknesses were (and by God, there were so many more weaknesses than strengths). Before we started, I figured that swimming would be the most difficult part of it all. Never once did I think the 12-mile ride would be a big deal due to my gargantuan leg muscles. Oh, and the 5k?  It wasn’t even a blip on my radar because I could walk at that point if I needed to. Yeah, no. WRONG AGAIN. It was the bike portion that I 

struggled with the most, the 2^nd part of the triathlon.

During our many practice sessions, we’d ride around Back Bay, which was about a 10-mile journey.  It was a group of around 20 women, with the oldest being 65 years of age. Guess who always, always, always took up the rear position. It wasn’t the 65-year old.

See, the thing is – no matter how strong my legs are – the combined weight of my body and a 500lb mountain bike is NOT an efficient way to complete this portion of a triathlon. I finally broke down and decided to buy a road bike when during one of our rides, someone behind me kept ringing their little bicycle bell in a fast and furious manner. The metallic, high-pitched ching-ching made me want to throw myself and my bike into the bay, but I politely let the person pass. Sonofabitch! It was 102-year old man on a 10-speed who looked at me in pity as he pedaled on by in his dapper newsboy cap.

I struggled the whole time. Like, a lot.

Finally, after 6 long weeks, the day of the race was upon us. I was ready! Well…until I hit the water and immediately paused to ask myself “What in the fuck am I doing here?” Looking for the quickest way to exit without drawing any sort of attention to myself, I started to panic. Suddenly, in all my flailing about, I realized I had dog paddled to my first flag. By this point, I was far from any inconspicuous way out, so I decided to follow Dory’s advice and just keep swimming.

Overcoming an intense desire to drown a woman who kept telling me I was kicking her in the face, I decided to press on.  I knew the bike was next and that there were many ways to exit at that point if I got too tired. After successfully completing the swim and getting to the transition station, I peeled my tight as hell wetsuit off, threw my $75 tank top on, and took off on my new road bike.

Now, this was a much bigger improvement over the mountain bike, but I still wasn’t very fast. Lance Armstrong, that one-balled lying wonder, need never have worried about this girl. Again, I questioned myself, wondering if I could ride to Sea World since it was only just down the street (except I was still wet and had no money). I constantly worried about getting a flat tire, thinking that if it happened, I would leave that shit on the side of the road and just hitchhike to Tijuana for some tacos. And then!!! It was over. I finished the course even through all that mental garbage.

Finally, I had made it to the 5k! I hit an emotional high at that point and figured a second wind was just about to hit, so I started to run. NOPE! Couldn’t do it! Not one bit! So I walked, like a baby horse just learning how for the first time, and I eventually made it to the finish line.

All in all, I finished DEAD LAST in my age group, but I did it…and I never want to do it again.

Because split into 3 trimesters (if you’re lucky, and let’s assume this time I’m lucky) – pregnancy is the longest, most freaking exhausting triathlon EVER. The first trimester – those first 12-13 weeks are like that swim. You just keep going because there’s not really anything else you can do except hope and pray that you make it through those uncertain waters.

The 2^nd trimester – the one I’m currently in, is so very, very hard – just like my biking experience, but a million times worse. Dr. Google seems to have taken up a permanent position on my handlebars, and has done nothing but fill my mind with uncertainty. There are so many stories – so many terrible things that can happen.  There is also so much good, but once you’ve been burned it’s really hard to see past that. I’m finally starting to understand that suffering is a choice though, and that I really just need to shut my fucking computer and phone down when overthinking starts to get out of hand. 

I just keep going.

I am now in my 24^th week - viability. This is the week we lost Ligaya four years ago. Getting here has felt like an infinite amount of Back Bay loops on my old mountain bike with a 5-ton bag of rocks on my back. We’re still not out of the 2^nd trimester, so around and around and around I go until I get to 28 weeks. 24 weeks was my first goal and we’ve made it! This should feel like a victory, and in some ways it does, but it tastes just as bitter as it does sweet. Still – I am so thankful to be here.

28 is the next target, where we enter final stage of this race. I’m hoping that if I can just get through the next 4 weeks, I will start to feel more confident. I’ll be able to see the finish line and find my second wind. I’ll be able to breathe easier. She'll be able to breathe. We’re so close. So close. We just have to get there.

Around and around and around I go. 

I did it! And there is absolutely no amount of money that would make me want to do this again

23 weeks: A little bird gives the bird to incompetent cervix

When I was a freshman in high school, I had this piano teacher that decided to stick me in a competition. Never having competed before, I had no idea what to expect – certainly not kids my own age who were light years ahead of me in their instruction.  Seriously! These people probably had pianos waiting for them in the delivery room when they were born. Pretty sure they just shot right out of those vaginas ready to tackle some Mozart while the doctor worked on cutting their cord.

I’d been playing for several years by that point, but didn’t have a teacher who really pushed my technique to lofty heights. I was painfully and pitifully average (and lazy).

The day of the competition, I warmed up in one of the practice rooms while listening to the flurry of notes coming from beyond the surrounding walls. To say that a cold peach pit of dread fell into place where my bowels once were is an understatement. I wanted to run away, hide, set fire to the building or myself – anything so I wouldn’t have to play my baby piece in front of anyone.

After profusely sweating through the first 5 prodigies and executing what is perhaps the world’s longest single held kegel, it was finally my turn to play my song, which essentially could be described as “Chopsticks”. I adjusted the bench for approximately 2 minutes trying to stall for time. Finally, I flexed my fat fingers to play and proceeded to stumble my way through a piece that any of those students could’ve played during naptime at 0-6 months old.

Looking back, I wish I had owned that piece that day. Just said “fuck it” and played my heart out no matter how easy it was in comparison to everyone else. Maybe even finished it off with a curtsy while giving everyone the bird or something. I wish I’d just ignored one of the other kids’ teachers who pulled out a mystery novel and started to read. But no – I let it all get to me and I failed miserably, completely losing my focus and stopping more than midway through. I’m fairly certain I even started making up my own shit somewhere along the way. Mozart would not have approved. The judges’ comments were pretty sad:

“That was nice.”

“Keep improving.”

“You must practice.”

It was pathetic! I vowed never to be put in that position again.

We found another teacher soon after – one who saw that I could be pushed and molded into a Terminator of sorts. She scared the hell out of me, but she brought out the best in me. Within a few years I was almost playing at the level of those I had first competed against. That’s what 6 hours of practice a day - almost every day - will get you.

Once I felt confident enough to compete again, I started winning. In my most memorable experience, I recognized the teacher who read her book while I was playing, and the very same judges from that first competition. I took home 3rd place that day. The judges’ comments were far different than the first time we’d met. I know they didn’t remember me, but I wish they had.

And then I quit shortly after because vengeance was mine -  like Sansa Stark in last night’s episode of Game of Thrones!!! Ok, no. Because…boys became a new obsession. Well, A boy, who at the time thought I was a stalker, but later went on to marry me and father my children. That's what 6 hours of drawing pictures and writing notes to someone a day - almost every day - will label and eventually get you.

Anyway, I approached this pregnancy in the same way, vowing that I would never go into another one unprepared. This was possible because we knew what the root cause was. I was so, so, so unlucky in that it happened, but fortunate to learn that there was a way to prevent it for next time.  Many people who have suffered losses late in their pregnancies don’t always have an answer.  

So, by opting for a surgical procedure that most OB’s don’t recommend because it’s “too extreme”, we fixed the biggest and baddest obstacle that took us down with Ligaya. Because seriously, losing 1, 2, 3 babies - as many women with incompetent cervixes have -  is what I find to be “too extreme”, damn it. 

The TAC (transabdominal cerclage) keeps my cervix from opening and so far it’s doing its job at 23 weeks. At this point 4 years ago, we were nearing the end of our journey with Ligaya because I had barely any cervix left. The circumstances are different now, although anxiety continues to be an issue, especially since we are coming up on the week of our first loss.

It is a herculean effort, but I’m doing my best not to give in to the mental demons that threaten to cut my courage down with every ache and growing pain. I have to keep practicing to keep a positive outlook and stay calm in order to keep my body in optimal condition. The doctors have already ordered me off my feet for most of the day, which gives me ample time to train my mind as I once trained my fingers to tackle some of the hardest, but most beautiful music of all time. It was worth it then, and it will be more than worth it now. I may stumble (A LOT) in life, but on this particular journey - I’m going to finish the song.

 Play on, playa.

Take that, incompetent cervix! God, I love this girl.

22 weeks and 22 years - Happy anniversary to my best half!

The other night I forced Nate to watch Pioneer Quest, a reality/documentary show about two couples living the 1870’s settler life in Manitoba, Canada in the year 2000 (yes, it’s old). I asked him if he thought we would’ve lasted a full 365 days out there on the prairie (pre-pregnancy, of course). You know – doing stuff like plowing fields, planting crops, taking care of farm animals, building our own log cabin, and surviving the winter with just a few pairs of woolen underwear. I’m sure you know what his answer was.

Nate: You can’t even use a public bathroom.

Me: That’s not true! I shat in a plastic bucket toilet in the desert of Morocco.

Nate: You cried the whole time….and then you made me dump it.

Me: I have a phobia!

Ok, so maybe I wouldn’t make the best pioneer partner. Heck, I don’t even think I make the best partner living a life out here in sunny SoCal these days, but add that to the list of things I’m working on.

During the show, Nate’s thoughts turned to the growing mountain of mail piled up in various areas of the house.  Inspired by my current condition of basically doing nothing other than sitting around watching a lot of crap TV, he proceeded to pick it all up and deposit it in my lap.

Me: You want me to do WHAT with this, exactly?

Nate: Separate into piles based on the month.

Me: Can’t you see I’m busy growing our human? I told you I never wanted a mailbox in the first place.

Nate: You're crazy. Everybody has a mailbox. It’s just sticking them into piles. You don’t even have to get up. You don’t even have to really move. Stop being lazy, dude.

Cue shock, awe, and righteous indignation!

It’s easy to blame my bad behavior on pregnancy hormones and a never ending sense of anxiety. These days I’ll cry and rage and laugh at the weirdest things, sometimes doing all three at once. Nate tends to get the brunt of it. I’d say 95% of this can be attributed to the hormones. The rest of it is probably due to the fact that I have an annoying tendency to be selfish and lazy.

And something else, because there is always something else floating around in the poop soup that is my brain….

He’s right, of course. It wouldn’t take much effort at all to deal with the stupid mail. Nate has been wonderful during this whole experience. He does the laundry, tidies up the house, and does all of the grocery shopping, even if I give him a list of four different places to hit. He gets up in the middle of the night when I suddenly feel the need for some string cheese or emergency GasX. He’s the best half of this team and I am so fortunate to have him by my side.

So what is that “something else”?  It's anger. No, not at him of course…but at myself. I act out in fear. Fear in that I not only failed Ligaya, but him. That because of my body, I couldn’t bring our daughter into the world safe and sound. I’m ashamed of what I couldn’t do, and I’m scared it will happen again. Sometimes I look at him and wonder, "How can this guy not hate me?" I don’t quite understand it.  

I’ve talked to him about this many times, and never once has he made me feel that I’m to blame for what happened. He holds no resentment, always pointing out that we are a team and that he is so thankful and so proud of me.

Cue guilt, tears, and a shaken raised fist at pelvic rest!

I may not be able to exert much physical effort these days, but there are things I can do from a reclined position: I can definitely sort through the mail. I can fold the clothes that he’s been washing, and straighten up my little corner by the window so that he doesn’t have to worry about that stuff when he gets home from work. 

After all, I may be a mom and I may be growing a human inside of me, but I am also one half of a team. I’m his best friend and wife. He’s doing his best as he always does, so I should too – in all areas of my life.  He is SO excited to meet our girl, and I am learning not to hate myself for what I couldn’t control.

Today marks a year since our wedding. It’s gone so fast (why can’t pregnancy feel that way?!?). One of my favorite memories of that planning period is when we won a free photo shoot for the ceremony and reception based on an essay I wrote. Before being selected as the winners, we were interviewed by the photographers (Bowtie & Bloom). They asked how we still managed to be happy after being together since 1994. My now-husband said that in the awesome adventure book of our life together, it still felt like chapter one – 21 - now 22 years later.

Cue love.

Happy anniversary to the man who never reads what I write!

 And hello to 22 weeks, baby girl.

Being whole with half a heart

Nate asked me if focusing so much on our loss meant I was not fully appreciating this new experience. Conversely, does fully appreciating this experience mean I no longer feel the loss? No, it doesn't.

I do know this is a different pregnancy, but sometimes…

In that slippery middle space between sleep and wakefulness, I call this child by a name I used to call her sister and am immediately overcome with guilt. Guilt for both the girl that once was but never grew up to be, and guilt for the girl who now lives inside of me.  I believe this happens more often than not – that the blurred lines of a life gone and a life given are a result of my mind trying to deal with both the heartbreak and hope-filled possibility of a long awaited dream come true.

I once likened my “new normal” to a delicate tightrope walk – an attempt at balancing a life of simultaneously occurring contradictions while desperately inching my way forward: happiness and grief, hope and despair, denial and acceptance - and now, life and death. 

Having another baby doesn’t mean that you forget the one you lost. It doesn’t mean that the one who is here will make everything all better. It is not her job to heal me. It is my job to let her know how very much she is loved, valued, and wanted. At the end of this journey I will be cradling this baby girl in my arms while also carrying her sister in my heart. I will carry them both for always.

I have two. There will always be two. 

Adventures in Bedresting: Hair, there, and everywhere - 21 weeks

Last week, as I sat in the waiting room of my OB’s office, I came to a decision about something. Surrounded by other preggos in their cute maternity dresses, jeans with pretty sandals and perfectly pedicured toes, tidy hair and carefully applied makeup – I decided that maybe, just maybe, it wouldn’t hurt to make more of an effort with my appearance before leaving the house (and by “more of an effort” I really mean “ANY type of effort”).

And then I thought, DAMN, these people must have a lot of energy to do that kind of stuff and I can’t really leave the house now anyway except to go to the doctor (who doesn’t care if I live a life without shame since she’s seen EVERYTHING), so what’s the point? I don’t even try to see my toes anymore.  I suppose the least I can do is attempt to run a brush through my hormone charged hair which is thick and curly to begin with but now resembles the bride of Frankenstein circa 1935.  Truthfully, I don’t much care how I dress because I’m not about impressing anybody these days (“or ever”, as my brother says when refusing to be seen in public with me while I’m wearing my favorite pair of fat yoga pants).

But a strange thing happened in the waiting room that day. A husband who was there with his wife kept staring at my legs. I was wearing a faded blue Old Navy t-shirt and a knee length fluorescent orange skirt with a super stretchy elastic waistband because the only things that fit these days are super stretchy skirts and my favorite pair of fat yoga pants (color coordination be damned!). Thinking this fella was impressed by the size of my calf musculature, I gasped when remembering that I hadn’t shaved in about 4 months. Luckily it was sparse (Asians don’t seem to be very hirsute), but it was quite long, if I’m to be completely honest.

I must admit that I did feel a momentary hot flash of embarrassment and started pondering why I didn’t take more care to present myself in a socially acceptable manner.  

 - Is it because I don’t love myself?

 - Is it because I have a misguided sense of self-confidence?

 - Is it because I don’t feel the need to conform to society’s ideals of what a woman should look like?

Maybe all the above and none of the above.  Maybe I’m just too tired from being worried all the time to care about the latest maternity fashion trends. Perhaps had things gone differently in my pregnancy with Ligaya, I would be more inclined to buy maternity clothes, or start making decisions about car seats, or think about what color to paint the guest room in case we can actually use it as a nursery this time.

I just don’t want to jinx anything. That fear of buying maternity jeans isn’t because I don’t understand how the hell they work with that long stretch of material at the top and odd length of denim at the bottom. It’s thinking that the second I plan for the future, something bad will happen. It’s worrying that the moment I allow myself to be excited about normal pregnancy rituals like choosing a name, or buying a stuffed bunny rabbit, or even looking at strollers - it’ll all be taken away.

I’ve said it a million times, but I’ll say it again. It’s hard. Being cautiously happy when all you want to do is just BE HAPPY is exhausting. At some point you want to stop dipping your toe in the water and just jump in. While I can’t completely do that yet, it helps me to break things down into smaller goals….like addressing the bride of Frankenstein hair situation, for example.

I’m not ready to buy maternity clothes, but I can certainly try to tame the tangled beast that lives on top of my head (hey, it’s easier than shaving my legs).  So...without further a-doo-doo...introducing the Asavea hair straightening brush! Thank you once again, Amazon!  

Maternity jeans will eventually run their course, but a good hair straightener is forever

Baby steps…one day, one tangle, one deep breath at a time.

21 weeks.

The things we do for love

If you’ve ever read any of my previous nonsense from the last few years, you would know I am a person who has an unnatural relationship with food. Unholy, even. An emotional eater for most of my life, one would think I’d use my pregnancy anxiety as an excuse to go hog wild since I pretty much use any excuse I can find to go hog wild. The sun is shining? FRIED CHICKEN. The Earth is round? CHEESEBURGER. I’m alive? BURRITO.  You’re alive? CAKE.

All you cant eat? Don't mind if I do!

But, no. I’m not using my pregnancy to stuff my face because a history of poor food choices has landed me in the category of “DUMB-DUMB: AT RISK FOR EVERY COMPLICATION”.

I’m actually doing well in this department, surprisingly enough. The desire to bring this girl home safe and sound is stronger than the pull of 1000 Twinkies hand delivered to me by a fully clothed Jon Snow with a half-nude Tyrion Lannister hoisted upon his shoulders.  I don’t want to make any bad decisions that could possibly hurt this little girl, so I’ve been really good about what I put into my body. I do it for her.

Only being at the halfway point of this pregnancy, I have a hell of a long way to go, so I’ve tried to break the time down into smaller epochs. “If I can just” is my theme song these days:

·   If I can just get to 24 weeks, that’s viability.

·   If I can just get to get to 28 weeks, she would have a 98% chance of survival.

·   If I can just get to 30 weeks, she’d still have a long NICU stay, but survival would pretty much be a mathematical certainty.

·   If I can just get to 37 weeks, we will be home free.

That’s days and days of wondering if we’ll make it through. Months, weeks – it may as well be 100 years. Time loses all sense of meaning and direction when you want something so bad, and you can sort of see the finish line, but also all the monsters that want to eat you along the way.

So what the hell is a food addict to do if she can’t turn to the one thing that’s always made life more manageable, albeit with a BMI that floats somewhere between obese and a category that has yet to be defined?  Since the usual suspects are no longer an option (chicken nuggets, fries, questionable Chinese food, a dozen donuts, etc.), I’ve found multiple ways to distract myself:

1. Folding cranes and selling them on Etsy - I’ve put a temporary hold on this as I was getting too nervous making cranes for people who wanted to pay me

2. Teaching myself how to knit using chopsticks – because chopsticks were all I had when the sudden urge struck to learn how to knit

3. Crocheting - except I pretty much only know one pattern and that’s just going straight until I have a long chain that extends 2 flights of stairs. I finally was able to come up with this, though!

Behold! A scarf that offers no protection against the cold because it's so small

4. Turning wooden dolls into my favorite fictional characters – and this is as far as I got before becoming paralyzed with fear over what to do with the remaining 48 blank wooden dolls I bought.

Claire and Jamie from Outlander need some work!

5. Faux calligraphy -  not real calligraphy because real calligraphy requires special pens. I bought a sketch pad to write down positive thoughts and quotes to help keep me motivated!  I focus so hard on practicing my letters that I don’t notice the time pass by, only the faint stirrings of tenosynovitis.

6. Adult coloring books - and by adult I don’t mean the sex kind. I quickly lost interest after the first page I didn’t finish coloring. It’s kinda hard.

7. And a crapload of Netflix – Oh Netflix, most of your content is so terrible! There is not one good horror movie in the bunch. NOT ONE. And beware – I got super mixed up between two shows both entitled “Love”. One is a comedy, the other is some straight up pornography. We’re talking penis coming directly through the screen at an alarming rate of speed and trajectory type pornography (it was shot in 3D according to IMDB).

Anyway, these are just some of my coping mechanisms: partially completed crafts and porn. Just kidding – that was a one, maybe two-time, mistake.  Most of this has amounted to an incredible sum of money spent on Amazon, for which the high of receiving these craft items was only temporary since I quickly realized I was pretty bad at crafts. But what else am I gonna do for the next 4, 8, 10, 17 weeks while on limited mobility?

Nate: What are you planning to do with all these boxes?

Me: You're going to build me a fort. There are more in the closet.

In all honesty, pregnancy is really, really hard on my body, not just my mind.  Clearly, based on my track record, I’m not very good at it. I wish I could be one of those crazies people who claims to love the experience, but what the hell?!  Between alternating bouts of crippling constipation, violent diarrhea, and more gas than a small Middle Eastern nation, where on earth does anyone find the energy to enjoy pregnancy?  

Oh, pardon my excessive flatulence - it's a pregnancy thing. Excuse me while I bottle it all up as a remembrance of things passed

But you know what? I'll put up with all of it – ALL OF IT – for as long as it takes in order to bring my girl home in the end. I would do anything for her.  Even if it means never being able to say “I love you, let’s run away together” to another slice of Tuxedo cheesecake from the Cheesecake Factory ever again.

HAVE MERCY