Category Archives: Family

The Waffle

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I don’t even know how to start this.

I had a miscarriage. And it sucked. Still does. More than you’d even expect. It’s so horrible, in fact, that the internet won’t even tell you about it. If you googled “experiencing a miscarriage” you would find various websites telling you scientific facts: miscarriage commonly occurs before 12 weeks. More prevalent in “older” women. You will have some cramping and bleeding. You’ll get your next period in 4-8 weeks.

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December 2, 6am.

But what they aren’t telling you, is what I wish I had known, and I would love for every woman that comes after me will know. It’s the truth.

Miscarriage is the messiest and grossest and most physically uncomfortable as well as most emotionally uncomfortable event you’ll ever experience, aside from what I imagine a full-term birth to be like. I said full-term birth, instead of just “giving birth” because that’s exactly what you are doing, in the worst sort of way. You will have horrible cramps. You will bleed for weeks on end, coming and going, and presenting itself in colors you didn’t know could come out of you. Your baby gets flushed down the toilet. It got so gruesome and intolerable for me, I would make Jon come sit with me when I went to the bathroom so I wouldn’t have to experience it alone. And when you aren’t busy sitting on the toilet, you are living your day-to-day life in the weirdest way. Oh, just in the grocery store, but also having a miscarriage. Enjoying a nice dinner out with the in-laws while passing large clots of fetal tissue. I remember thinking to myself “I can’t believe how normal this is, and how normal I am feeling, I can do this. Ain’t no thing. We got pregnant quickly and it’ll happen again in no time.”

And then the bleeding slows, and stops, and then you are left behind. Alone. Where you were once pregnant, just a few days ago, you are now a lone person, empty, missing something so important to you that you can’t get back. It really hurt my heart and stomach to process what had just happened to me. And then it begins. The darkness sinks in. What happens next? After the storm is over? Can you just pick up where you left off? I thought I could.

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Christmas Eve, after we shared the good news.

I don’t even know when or where or how it began, but slowly as the days, weeks, and now months went on, I sunk into a pit of despair that is impossible to climb out of. In January we missed my “fertile cycle” because Jon was in Florida for work. In February I got my “period” 3 days after having just ovulated. March, we will see, but I have a feeling we aren’t in the clear yet as far as my body goes. In the middle of all of this, my right hip has started behaving like a little bitch, making me second-guess my decision to get pregnant and toying with the idea of getting the hip fixed, which breaks my heart every time I think about it.

This wasn’t supposed to be what happened! I had my plan! We got pregnant right away on our Belgium trip, and I felt relieved and like I deserved this, after what a crappy year it had been for me otherwise. We would have a bouncing baby waffle arriving on August 11. It would be the best thing we’d ever done. But the lingering thought of miscarriage was ALWAYS on my mind.

At this point there seem to be more good days than bad, but when they’re bad, they are debilitating. Nothing I do can take the thought out of my mind of what (I believe) SHOULD have been. I should have been X weeks pregnant (I’ve stopped counting). I should be feeling the amazing movements everyone talks about. I should be decorating our nursery. I should be excited about talking to and seeing my best friend who is two weeks less pregnant than me and taking the bump pictures we had always dreamed of. It stings. It burns. I start sobbing out of no where. I can’t function. I can’t sleep. I can’t eat. I can hardly breathe, which how large a lump i always have in my throat. I certainly can’t form words to talk about it. Everything seems so unfair, it feels like my body is against me and the world doesn’t want me to be happy. Everything makes me annoyed and irritable and pissed off. The kids selling lemonade on our street? GTFO my yard. My dog barking to go outside? Who do you think you are, you selfish asshole. My husband who didn’t wipe the counters after he cleaned up the dinner dishes? Oh HELL NO you did NOT. My computer that dares take 3 second to load? I will pound my fists on the keyboard because clearly you’re against me too. I just can’t do it. How am I supposed to go on and just LIVE MY LIFE? And how are other people just going on and living theirs? I feel forgotten and left behind and sad all the time. Those words don’t even seem heavy enough for what I feel. It is physically exhausting to try to survive during a bad day.

My body still doesn’t seem to have recovered, because it just keeps bleeding whenever it wants to. It doesn’t help that my OB doesn’t seem to be much help. In fact, I haven’t seen her at all since before I got pregnant. I only saw and talked to the nurses while I was pregnant and miscarrying. Again, I feel like I got forgotten about and no one cared enough to talk to me.

What do i do next? Where do I go from here? HOW do I go from here? I am just supposed to… wait and see? Doesn’t anyone realize how difficult and disappointing that answer is? I shouldn’t HAVE to wait, I should be pregnant! Or at least, my body should be back to normal so I can get pregnant again! I don’t have a lot of time. My hips don’t have months or years to just… wait.

The longer I wait the harder and worse I feel. Nothing is good right now. I am just so sad.

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December 28. Baby’s first (and only) picture.

It’s been a solid 8 weeks since I last edited this post. That lonely, dark Sunday was a turning point for me, when I decided I couldn’t do this alone anymore. The next day I called a therapist, and met with her a few days later (February 18). I cried while telling her how dark everything felt, how I felt the world was against me, but left relieved knowing there was somebody else on my team. It also helped (in a twisted way) that she experienced her own miscarriage a few years ago and was currently pregnant with her long-awaited rainbow baby.

At her suggestion, I reached out to my OB for more help and to check in. I made a list of all my symptoms: Constant sadness. Tearfulness. Easily agitated. Anxiety about future pregnancies. Feeling numb. Panic attacks. Seeing it written down made it seem so real, so sad, and made me realize that I really had a serious problem. When I handed that list over (because no way I could say those words out loud), she validated all of my concerns and reassured me that everything will be ok. We created a game-plan for future pregnancies to ease my anxiety. She gave me a script for some antidepressants that I was originally hesitant about, and now wish I had gotten them months ago. I almost immediately felt stable, level-headed, and able to make rational decisions.

It is now April 12. I have been on antidepressants for 4 weeks, and have visited a therapist 5 times. Both things combined have made me feel whole again. I feel like I am waking up to life again – I am looking forward to the weekends once again. I seek out the company of my friends. I honestly answer “I’m doing fine, thanks” when asked. I am at a point where I can’t remember the last time I cried (down from crying – sobbing – many times a day). I can see the goodness in tomorrow.

The day my life changed.

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We arrived at the hospital at 10am on a bright, sunny Monday morning. I hopped and skipped all the way to the hospital, knowing that it would be my last chance to do so for quite some time. It was easy enough to find surgery registration, where we signed my life away and took a seat in an enormous, cavernous waiting room filled with waiting families. 10ish minutes later, my time was up.

We were taken back to a semi-private gurney area where I changed my clothes, took a urine sample (surprise! not pregnant), got stuck 3 times before they finally got an IV going (I normally have excellent veins, but today they were not cooperating), answered “What are you here for?” more times than I could count, and gave my husbands’ hand the death grip. I was so nervous and on the brink of tears the whole time. Finally, Clohisy and his resident came by to verify everything and signed my hip and that was that. They stuck some anxiety meds into my IV and I don’t remember anything after that. I wish I remembered giving mangosquash a goodbye kiss.

Before I knew it, I was awake in recovery and feeling okay. The only semi-funny thing I remember exclaiming was “it doesn’t hurt very much!”, and then I remember being annoyed because they kept telling me it would be 2 hours until my husband could visit. Then 1:45 until he could visit. Then 1:30 until he could visit. DUDE BRING ME MY HUSBAND I’M SCARED AND ALONE AND SO COLD. I also remember they made me arch my back so they could shove an x-ray screen behind my hips and I though “you’re letting me do this myself? after you just chopped my hips in half?!”, and then I demanded they make me a copy of the X-ray so I could show everyone. I am glad for high, pushy Lydia because otherwise I wouldn’t have gotten to see the X-ray at all. So proud.

After what felt like forever. my dear husband came back and I was soooooo relieved. He showed me all the text conversations he’d been having with my loved ones (thank you to everyone for your prayers and and care and concern and good vibes and juju and everything! I know it helped get Jon through while he was waiting) and I tried responding, but every single word had a spelling error (full disclosure – so did every single word of the previous two blog posts I posted. It took me a VERY long time to have to backspace and correct every. single. word. I wish I was kidding. Don’t blog high, kids.) so I took some selfies instead.

From recovery, they took me up to my room. I don’t remember much of the transfer but I do remember asking many, many times if I would have my own room (thank you again, high Lydia, for being my advocate). The nurse said “technically it’s a shared room, but we aren’t very busy so 90% chance it’ll be all yours”. And I got lucky, which meant Jon could stay both nights with me. I can’t imagine sharing a room, with all the midnight wake-ups and people coming and going for me AND another person, I never would have slept!

That first night, my pain never got above a 6 or 7, and that was only when I had to move around. When I was stationary, it was a comfortable 3 or 4. I had a pain pump (AMAAAAZING!) and a catheter (ALSO amaaaazing!) so I had a constant flow of relief AND I didn’t have to get up to use the bathroom. Seriously, if you have an option to get a catheter during surgery or any hospital stay, DO IT. It seems awkward and uncomfortable, but it saves you from having to get up at all. I wish I had one now for pure laziness reasons…..

With my nurses help, I was able to get up and take a little journey around my room with a walker. It was a shock to my system, for SURE, plus I was battling super low blood pressure for the duration of my hospital stay, so I ended up getting sick not too long after. I started drinking sugary juice with every med time and drinking lots of water, and I was luckily fine for the rest of my stay.

Sleeping ended up not being as horrible as I anticipated, either, one of my drugs (Vistaril) ended up KNOCKING ME OUT, like falling asleep with my eyes open and jolting myself awake kind of knocking out. My surgeon had requested I sleep in a CPM machine (continuous passive motion) to keep my hip flexing throughout the night. When the CPM delivery man came in to fit me is when I had my one and only hospital breakdown. The machine is the length of a leg, with a leg cradle attached to a motorized base. There was a metal bar that sits parallel to the bed right under the thigh, but because of the angle at which I had my bed positioned at the time, it ended up about 2 inches off the bed and right underneath my butt (RIGHT where I just had some bones rearranged). The CPM man was NOT a medical professional at all, and just kind of grabbed my leg and plopped it in the cradle with no regards to my broken hip, so that was shocking and painful. He started babbling on to me about how it works and I’m sitting there overwhelmed and in pain from his actions and this stupid metal bar under my butt, and he kept saying “oh you’ll get used to it” and finally, through tears, I managed to tell him “NO I WILL NOT THERE IS A BAR UNDER MY BUTT THIS IS NOT OKAY, you need to fix it!”. He still didn’t quite understand and finally my nurse came in and she realized what I meant. We just needed to flatten my bed almost all the way and then it was fine. I am still mad at Mr. CPM machine. I wish I could fill out a customer service survey on my experience with him. Luckily, it ended up being ok, and sleeping was more comfortable with the CPM machine because it kept me from getting stiff, and also kept me from wanting to roll onto my sides, my usual sleeping position.

Tuesday was an overall amazing day. I had a physical therapist come visit me to teach me strengthening exercises and get me up walking. Because of how well my surgery had gone, Clohisy had released me to 50% weight bearing (normal is 20%!) so moving around was a lot easier because I could actually use my bum leg for more than just balance. I quickly decided that my crutches would be my main means of transportation, mostly because our house is too small for a walker, and also they’re just easier to maneuver. My PT was amazed with the ease at which I could move around which made me feel GREAT. Honestly, I had expected everything to be WAY more difficult and MUCH more painful than it was. The only thing that really caused me any excruciating pain was swinging my legs off the bed. I have figured out that I can slide up from the bottom of the bed and crawl my way back to avoid this, though, so that’s great. I also had a visit from the occupational therapist to teach me how to use tools to put on my pants and underwear and socks and shoes. That visit wasn’t very exciting, honestly.

The two days at the hospital flew by. I tried out some different pain meds before finding a combo that would work at home. I found that my brain was extremely fuzzy, making it so hard to focus on anything, including watching a simple TV show, so I sat and colored and went on Facebook and talked to Jon and the nurses. Speaking of nurses, I had three AMAZING nurses and one nurse I didn’t see much of the day of my release. Shout out to Annie, Marie, and Michael! My dear friends Lindsey and Maria came to visit, along with a pastor from our church and Jon’s parents. It was nice to see some outside faces, but MAN did it wipe me out.

Finally, on Wednesday, I got to go home!

“So what do you do?”

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As an introverted young adult with still no idea what I want to be when I grow up and a job that I’m not particularly fond of, this question causes me more anxiety than being asked “so when will you have babies?”.

Why does it matter what I do?

I feel like this question has become a basis on which I am judged. That whatever my answer is, will provide the asker with a quick synopsis of my education, skills, and financial situation, 3 things that don’t define who I am. This quick judgment makes me feel uncomfortable and like the person asking doesn’t really want to know about ME.

I am so much more than my seemingly dead-end job.

I am an aspiring chef!

I am a dog lover and cat snuggler.

I am a wannabe half-marathoner.

I am a lazy person.

I am a former soccer, softball, tennis, and volleyball player and dutch dancer.

I am a good listener.

I am an avid reader.

I’m the best aunt to my BFF’s little Leah.

I love spending time kissing my husband.

I love spending my summers driving to Michigan as much as possible.

I’m a pretty good sister.

I enjoy drinking beer and talking for hours.

I hate spending too much time in large groups.

I was made to be a mom.

When I get asked what I do (which happens more and more frequently as I get older), I cringe before I give a quick answer of “Oh, I’m a social worker.” I hate the response I get for that: “oh you must see such sad things!” “oh you are so selfless and patient and kind” (spoiler- I’m not really. I often tell my husband I’m a princess) “Oh that must be hard” “Do you take children out of their families?” While yes, I do see sad things, and yes, it can be challenging, my job is not my passion or life and it doesn’t define who I am at all. I’ve come to just saying “I work at LFCS” and leave it open ended and vague (I love vague and hate giving personal details about anything).

I know I’m not the only person who feels this way. My friend is in a job rut right now, too, and was instructed not to tell his Grandmother for fear of her response.

WHY?

Well, 1., because Grandma is a (wonderful) crazy person and you don’t want to hear her abrasive opinions,
and 2., because to her, your job and well-being defines success. I don’t like that.

My success will come from raising my children to be kind, gentle, and God-loving creatures.

My success comes from my AWESOME marriage.

My success comes from my friendships and relationships with my family.

My success will be once I finally cross that finish line of the half marathon I so desperately want to run.

My success comes when I try a new recipe that turns out fantastic.

My success will come from providing for my family, sure, but only so I can do the things that actually make me, me.

Don’t ask me what I “do”.

Ask me about who I am.

And then help me find a new job 😉

Letters.

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My dear sweet husband,

Cheers to two years of marriage! We did it. Things haven’t always been easy, but they haven’t really been hard, either. Life is easy with you. It’s nice to do life with you. To have you to make me laugh and dance in the kitchen with. To have you to drive me to Michigan because I hate driving myself. To have you to lay on the couch and giggle with. To have someone to plan the next steps of our path with. Here’s to the next two, two dozen, two hundred years. You are just right for me. 

Do you guys believe in soul mates? When I was a kid, the thought appealed to me. The idea that there is a person out there that was made for just you, and you had to find that person. Like in a fairytale. Well I’m not sure if soul mates are a real thing or not, but I do know that my sweet mangosquash is one of a kind. He is kind, but fierce in the way he loves his friends and family. He is extremely humorous, but poised and articulate in the way he speaks about something he believes in. He is goofy, yet sweet and honest and would never hurt anyone. I know that I am the luckiest that he loves ME and that he has promised to be my mine forever. Blah blah blah mushy stuff. Love you, sweetheart. Let’s do this thing.

What the f*!$ is wrong with your leg? Part 2

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Day 1, Friday:

Once I got back home, everything that happened the rest of the day was a slight blur (thanks, Percy). I was in a decent amount of pain and just generally uncomfortable. My sweet in-laws brought mexican for us for dinner and I could hardly eat any. I later realized (after a few freak vomit sessions) that my antibiotic was super strong and left me extremely nauseous and light-headed. Luckily I was only on those for 3 days.

I had never felt more helpless and pathetic. I physically and mentally felt fine, I just couldn’t walk and do things I wanted to. I felt like a spoiled brat every time I asked for a glass of water or a snack or for someone to help me take off my pants before bed (sorry for the extreme romance, mangosquash, you are a lucky man). I tried walking a bit because the doctor said I should be able to, but hobbling around with 2 crutches around my tiny house proved pretty difficult. I did figure out a way to make it down to the basement (where the comfiest couch and biggest tv are) by hopping on one leg all the way down.

Iced leg

Sleep eluded me for the first few days. I was stuck in a strange in-between spot where my brain couldn’t seem to fully commit to falling into actual REM sleep. I can only compare it to the mind of someone who is experiencing extreme anxiety (of which I also suffer at times, fun stuff man); thinking so many thoughts and scenarios and ideas all at once and there doesn’t seem to be any sense or order to it. I blame Percy.

Day 2, Saturday:

Saturday was a BEAUTIFUL 70 degree day. My dad and husband went and bought us some new patio chairs, because I broke one of our directors-style chairs as soon as I sat down. Wah. My dad also went to pick up St. Louis-style BBQ for us for lunch from Bogart’s, the greatest place in the world. If you haven’t been and you’re from St. Louis, you are really missing out. We spent most of the day outside which pleased my dog to no end.

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Still in a good deal of pain, and more residual pain seemed to set in. My back hurt from sitting with my leg propped up, my knee hurt from being bent all night, my foot hurt from being so swollen. I’d rate it a 7/10. This is the day when the swelling and bruising really started to set in. Also, whenever I bent over or stretched my leg really at all, I’d get some tingly nerves shooting from my knee area straight down through my toes. Later, my doctor told me that it was because they had to move my nerve out of the way during surgery.

Day 3, Sunday:

My parents flew back to Michigan after spending 4 days with us and I can’t thank them enough for being here with us. I think my poor husband would have killed me. But first, my mother washed my hair for me. What a cutie-cutie-bonding-moment, as she would call it.

mom washing hair

My BFF Samantha also drove in that night to spend the next few days with me while mangosquash went back to work. Having her here was so fantastic; I can’t remember the last time we got to spend so much quality time together. I hadn’t seen her since finding out she was pregnant several weeks before, so it was excellent to chat all things baby. I got to take her 11-week bump shot with our chalkboard. Can’t even wait to be an aunt!

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My pain level was leveling off by this point; still on Percy, but down to 1 pill instead of 2 at a time. Super sore and stiff. About a 6/10 resting, 7/10 when I tried to walk around.

Day 4, Monday:

Spent the entire day outside reading magazines, eating snacks, and chatting about pregnancy and baby names. My in-laws’ wonderful best friend, Maria, came over to pay a visit and brought delicious food and beautiful flowers.

I finally got the guts to take the wrapping off my leg and inspect my stitches. Woah man, SO UGLY. Like a member of the Blue Man Group barfed all over my leg. I was pleasantly surprised with the size of my incisions, though; less than 2 inches in length each. Don’t scroll down if you have a weak stomach.

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Pain the same as before; wavering at about a 6 depending on my activity level. My ankle started hurting a ton from trying to walk more. Because of the swelling and muscle tightness, my foot wasn’t able to bend to a neutral 90 degree angle. Still having lots of tingly shooting fireballs down my leg, though they are getting better.

Day 5, Day 6, Day 7:

These days kind of blend together. Samantha left, and I was left to fend for myself. I also took my first bath/shower in several days. My poor husband. I watched a lot of bad TV and crappy Netflix movies, slept in until noon, and snuggled with my precious cat.

My pain level came down to about a 4 and 5, just super sore and tender.

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Yes. That IS a plate on my bathroom floor. I ate breakfast while I was in the bathtub. It’s fine, I was on vacation.

Day 8, Friday: One week post-surgery

My stitches came out on this day! I can’t believe they were ready to come out; my incisions didn’t look like they had healed at all. Nonetheless, out they came. I was still hobbling on two crutches at this point, sometimes using both feet, but usually just one foot.

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My doctor said everything looked great and instructed me to start physical therapy as soon as possible to build back up my muscle strength, range of motion, and get me back to running! Happy day! He also said I can go back to work whenever I feel strong enough.

Day 9, 10, 11:

Pain still about a 4. I only left the house a few times to visit with my in-laws and go out to eat, and I was starting to get a little antsy by this point! Still on two crutches.

Day 12, Tuesday:

I started physical therapy. My PT was SUPER great. She was a younger girl a year older than me, spunky, cute, really nice. She took measurements of my range of motion. My foot could move about 10 degrees total; not very much (normal range is about 60 degrees), and I couldn’t even get it to neutral (90 degree angle to the shin). I came in on two crutches and she had me walk around the office to observe my gait. I wasn’t able to pick my foot up comfortably; it hurt too much. She stretched out my muscles as much as she could and gave me some at-home stretches and exercises to do and sent me on my way.

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This was also the last FMLA day I was taking; I was returning to work the next day. I spent the rest of my day of vacation (Is that what it was? Sure was relaxing). I was in a fair bit of pain after working so hard at PT; maybe about a 5.

Day 13, Wednesday:

Back to work! I had a total of 8 (week)days off work, and 12 total days. This was a good amount for the surgery I had done. Had I had both legs done, I would certainly have been out at LEAST two weeks, probably more. I can’t imagine trying to walk around and be productive while hindered by two busted legs. One was annoying enough, but manageable.

While my doctor released me to go back to work, I was on “light duty” and unable to drive because my driving leg was the injured one. Oh well, I was lucky to have a chauffer (my sweet Mangosquash) for the next week!

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Work sucked. Flat out awful. It was difficult to get around with my two crutches, my leg wasn’t used to not being propped up and got super swollen causing more pain, I wasn’t in the work mindset (who is after almost two weeks off?), not to mention it was the end of the first quarter, and I had a stupid amount of work to do in the following two weeks. I felt awful, overwhelmed, annoyed, and generally cranky. I pathetically called Mangosquash at about 3 to pleaaaaseeee come get me. He obliged, being the wonderful man he is.

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My leg was so swollen and painful, I think I cried when I got home. Much icing was done and many pain pills were consumed and to bed I went.

Day 14, 15, 16, 17:

My second and third day back to work went better than the first. I weaned myself onto one crutch and was getting around easier, and was walking almost normally.

Two of my college BFFS arrived Friday night to visit for the weekend! They had never been to St. Louis before. We walked around the Arch grounds, did the Budweiser tour, and visited the City Museum. Yes, I did all those things on crutches, minus the City Museum, which was my debut to the crutch-free world! I took it easy and popped a few pain pills beforehand so I could fully enjoy it.

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I woke up with some swelling and stiffness but nothing too bad. Maybe a 3.5 or 4/10. This was the first time I really felt like a productive member of society again.

Day 19, Tuesday:

My PT was pretty concerned with the extreme swelling I was having; she said that this much swelling wasn’t typical. She suggested a medical-grade compression sock (yep, like an old person). I called my doctor up and went in to see him that day. He said “yup!” and wrote me a script for some socks and another for a NSAID.

The socks definitely add a stylish touch to my spring outfits.

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On a brighter note, officially crutch-free! And I was released to resume full duty at work!

April 10, almost 5 weeks post-surgery:

Doctors appointment. Everything is healing well! He tells me I should get another month of PT, which I agree; I’m still so weak and stiff. I’m walking comfortably at this point and doing things with minimal difficulty. The socks were working extremely well; I was having minimal swelling, and my tingling was diminishing greatly.

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April 13:

I RAN! I was slow and walked a lot and rescued a dog (seriously, a tiny shih tzu was walking around a playground alone), but I RAN! And my leg didn’t even hurt! In fact, my left leg hurt more than my right! I went almost 1.5 miles, I’d say about half was a run. My pace while running was about 15 min/mile. I’m fine with that. I cried while running. It felt so gooooood and I was so proud of myself.  I solemnly swear to never take advantage of my working body again!

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Today, April 21:

I ran once more last week while walking the dog. Again, it was super slow, but I’m counting the small victories here.

I got my measurements re-taken at PT last Friday. They are almost exactly the same as my left foot! My ankle measured at +2 degrees, as opposed to -10 at my first appointment. Still feeling super still at times and I have to stretch a lot. It feels like I have a slight pulled calf muscle, and I’m still having some slight shooting tingly pains if I touch the area between my incisions. In general, I am feeling good and walking normal and really forget I even had surgery most of the time.

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I do, however, still have a bunch of numbness around my lower scar and around the big toe area. It’s coming back slowly. I’m coming back slowly. And I’ll be better than before.

 

What the f*!$ is wrong with your leg? Part 1

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Wow, what a great question. I have been asking myself that for about 6 months, since exactly September 20th. In my right leg, I have this wonderful happening called “chronic exertional compartment syndrome”. Lucky for me, it only affects 2 of 4 muscle compartments in my right leg, and none in my left. Most folks get it in both legs in all 4 compartments- YEOWCH.

CECS is a delightful syndrome that occurs most often while running/skiing/roller skating/other high-impact sports. For me, it started while I was running. I had been running since the New Year (2013) as the one resolution I actually stuck to. I was in the middle of training for a 5k, 10k, and half-marathon relay (just about 6.5 miles), and went out for a short run. Less than 5 minutes in, I got this terrible pain in my lower shin that felt like a pulled muscle. “What an odd place for a pulled muscle!” I said to myself. Then I looked down and saw that it was BULGING OUT OF MY LEG. Later I learned this is called a herniated muscle (yes, I’m basically a doctor after all my medical visits). I stopped running and the pain stopped almost immediately. Huh. I started back up, and so did the pain. What a dumb thing. I’d only run a half mile. I gave myself a week off and then tried to run again a week later while in Michigan for our anniversary. All i wanted was a beautiful 5-mile run on the lakefront! Is that so much to ask?!?!?!?!? YES. IT WAS.

Moving forward, I went to my PCP and she suggested CECS. She sent me to an orthopedic surgeon in Mercy Hospital. SURGEON?!?!?! THIS ESCALATED QUICKLY. I THOUGHT IT WAS A PULLED MUSCLE! Nah, that’d be too easy. If there’s one thing I learned in my life when it comes to my health, is that I am never lucky. The stomach flu that went around this winter? Yup. I got it twice.

Mr. Surgeon sends me for an MRI and X-rays just to rule out fun stuff like stress fractures. Again, that would have been too easy, and it wasn’t that, but he put me in a boot for 3 weeks anyway to see what happened (spoiler alert: nothing happened.). So I was told to take a month off running and then return to it slowly and see what happened.

Guess what?! The pain was still there. In January I called him and said “Yo doc, this isn’t going anywhere. Can I get that awful needle pressure test already?” and he said, “….sure… I need to find a place for you to do it first…. I’ll call ya.” He also used this opportunity to tell me that CECS is pretty uncommon, and was most prominent in young (me!) female (me!) runners (also me!). How delightful. He called me later that week when he found a place. Horray! And I could get the test done on Valentine’s Day. Excellent! Because nothing screams romance more than 4-inch long needles and forcing yourself to run until it hurts.

Getting a compartment pressure test might be on my list of top-10 things I would never wish upon my worst enemy. Maybe. It sucked, that’s for sure. FIRST- they make you wait in the waiting room for 50 minutes past your scheduled appointment (oh? that’s not part of it? just me? I digress.). THEN- they put some numbing agents in your muscles with baby needles so the big papa needles don’t hurt as much. Next, they take the “before” pressure readings. Normal pressures for un-aggravated muscle compartments are around 15-20ppi I was told. Mine were 19, 19, 20, and 21.

Finally, the fun part comes- RUNNING! What once was my favorite activity was now my worst enemy. He put me on a treadmill (which, by the way, are the worst. hate treadmills.) at an incline and told me to run until it was an 8/10 on the pain scale. Shit! Well, I was extremely out of shape by this point, having run only 2 or 3 times in 5 months. I got tired after about a mile, before I got to my 8/10 pain. That would have to do, he said.

Lucky for me, my pressure readings were high enough to be conclusive. My anterior and lateral compartments were 46 and 43 respectively! Anything over 30 they consider CECS. Wonderful (or something).

So my orthopedic surgeon calls me the following Tuesday and says “Hey Lydia! Want to come in March 7 to get your fascia sliced open?” and i said “Abso-f***ing-lutely.” at this point in writing my blog post, I have realized I haven’t even told you what chronic exertional compartment syndrome exactly is. Have I mentioned I have ADHD? 🙂

CECS is, according to the Academy of Orthopedic Surgeons, “a painful condition that occurs when pressure within the muscles builds to dangerous levels. This pressure can decrease blood flow, which prevents nourishment and oxygen from reaching nerve and muscle cells.” Basically, when I run, my muscles swell in those 2 compartments, and the fascia that covers and protects the muscle doesn’t stretch enough to let them swell like they want to. This pinches my nerves and blood vessels and stuff and causes the pain! So, to fix CECS, they go in and cut the fascia on the affected compartments from ankle to knee to allow the muscles to swell. Phew, now you know. Back to my story, how rude of you to interrupt!

March 7. Surgery day. My parents came in town to take care of me and give moral support to my wonderful husband, mangosquash. We all drive to the surgery center and go in the entrance on the second floor of the parking ramp, like they told us. i approach the desk and say “hello! I have a 10:30 appointment with Dr. Irvine?” and she said “…he doesn’t work in this office anymore.” WHAT! “excuse me? i am supposed to have surgery with him today at 10:30! i was told to come here!” “oh, the surgery center is on the 1st floor. take the elevator down.” Don’t worry, my luck isn’t THAT bad.

So I got signed in, pay the amount due (insert happy-dance for being double insured), read a Pure Michigan magazine, took some selfies with my mom, walked around the office a few times, and finally I got called back. I was given a locker for my belongings, a very stylish hospital gown, booties, a hairnet, and a pee cup to make sure I wasn’t pregnant (surprise: not pregnant). Then I climb in my hospital bed, get hooked up to an IV, kiss my family goodbye and off I am wheeled!

selfie

Selfies with Mom are the best.

 

preop

Pre-op with a thermometer on my forehead.

Surgery lasted about an hour, which was great, because my poor family had been sitting there for 3 hours already. Side note: this is a good place for me to talk about my darling husband. He is the kindest, funniest, most patient and wonderful man, and I am so beyond lucky he loves me. Luckily I’m still head over heels in love with him when I’m high; I was chatting the nurses ear off that was wheeling me to recovery nearly in tears about how good of a Dad he will be and how sweet he is and how happy I am that he always does the dishes. She called me out on it later when I was teasing him about something, saying “Hey! You be nice to him! Weren’t you just singing his praises?”.

postop

Post-op with my lovely nurse, Annie.

Once out of my groggy state, I woke up famished (hello, hadn’t eaten in like 18 hours), thirsty, and in 5/10 pain. She brought me a 7up (even though I had given it up for Lent. Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned), some CheezIts, and my new best friend, Percocet. I swear, you don’t need to call NA for me, but man. Percocet. I get the appeal. I really do. Kills the pain, makes you happy, gets you through it. Unfortunately, it kept me from sleeping well. I would lay awake for HOURS in some sort of in-between state. I thought the craziest things during these times; I might have cured world hunger, mentally organized my basement, and figured out what I’m naming all my kids.

They discharged me after an hour or so of recovery with a script for Percy (the Percocet, told you he was my new BFF) and some antibiotics. My sweet mangosquash ran in to Target for me while I laid in the car and thought about my life. It’s a weird moment to think “It’s a Friday, I’m not at work, I’m so close to my work right now, what if someone sees me?” And then realize, “oh yea, I just had MY LEG SLICED OPEN, I don’t have to work for 2 weeks.” Excellent. A vacation of sorts. Take me home, Percy!

My parents were the greatest that weekend (ok and always). My mother stocked our fridge and pantry, did our laundry, cleaned our kitchen, bought us toilet paper, and washed my hair for me when I couldn’t shower. She has a true servant’s heart and I can only hope to be half as great a mother as she is. My father was a huge help also, with keeping mangosquash company and buying us some new patio chairs. We were so lucky that it was 75 degrees in early March that I hobbled outside to catch some rays (and catch them I did- I ended up with sunburn). I was so sad to see my parents leave Sunday but so ready to get on with my recovery and back to running.

Part 2 is coming soon and will detail my recovery. Sorry this is so boring, but it’s something I want to document. While going through the process of getting my surgery finalized, I read tons of CECS recovery blogs and found them extremely helpful. Hopefully this brings somebody the same comfort I received from other blogs. No! You are not alone! Yes! It sucks! But it gets better!

Miching Missigan.

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I love Missouri. No, actually, I love St. Louis. Missouri is a strange place. But as much as I do love St. Louis, there are so many reasons I dislike living here. Most of them are just because I grew up in the greatest place on earth (West Michigan, guys, not Disneyland. They’ve been lying to you this whole time), and I miss it dearly. The other reasons I hate living here are because the summers are brutal (110 and humid, no thanks) and because there are an exorbitant amount of snakes (I haven’t actually seen one here, but I hear stories, and that’s enough for me).

Growing up in West Michigan, specifically Holland, was the greatest. The summers are magical, the beach is pristine (not to mention the water is clean and salt-free), the snow is beautiful, true nature is only ever less than a miles’ drive away. There are many festivals unique to the area, like Tulip Time and the Waterfront Film Festival and Coast Guard festival. There are no big-big cities nearby so it’s never extremely crowed, but it’s still big enough that most people know where you are talking about (which is usually followed by, “OMG you grew up there? I’ve been there/know someone who went to Hope/driven through and loved it/am jealous of your upbringing because it’s the greatest place on Earth, definitely in front of Disneyland.”).  Most people have vacationed in Michigan at least once (at least that’s what I’ve come to assume. Here in Missouri, Michigan is the place of choice for their summer vacas. But maybe I’ve been hanging out with too many Lutherans. They all go to Camp Arcadia [the second-most magical place on earth].) and have nothing but great things to say.

So Lydia, you would ask, since you love Michigan more than any place else in the world, why did you move to Misery? Well, I would answer, I fell in love during college, and my darling boyfriend-turned-fiancé-turned-husband moved back to his hometown of St. Louis before I graduated, so I moved here post-grad once I received a job offer. Coming up on 3 years of living here, I love it, I really do, but nothing can replace the spot in my heart for Michigan. I just miss it, and I hate being so far away.

My hometown of HollMich is a solid 6.5 hour drive from St. Louis, if you don’t get stuck in Chicago traffic. When I tell people that, most say “Oh that’s not too bad!” No. It’s terrible. It frustrates me to no end. It’s just a little TOO far for us to drive there for just a weekend without taking a few vacation hours, but also a little too close to justify spending money on airfare (which I have done, and always feel guilty about). Also, if you aren’t my parents with a very flexible schedule, nobody wants to come visit you. All our friends and siblings are low on the totem pole with their jobs, so we are their last priority when it comes to where to spend their precious vacation days. I get it. I really do. I’m in the same boat. But I miss them. Shout out to those of you who think we are important enough to visit. 🙂

As a result, we end up using all our vacation days to go there instead. Is it worth it? Absolutely. But I also want to take other trips with my new husband or maybe just take a vacation day to sit and rest around here, instead of spending them driving 14 hours (or 20 hours if we are going to Camp Arcadia. What can I say, we are Lutherans at heart.). But it also means we miss out on a lot of things going on there.

We split our Christmases and Thanksgiving between our parents, and it’s great, but I wish we could celebrate with everyone. We also often miss out on seeing my precious baby cousins who aren’t even babies anymore. My parents host everyone at their house on Thursday’s for seafood night, and I wish more than anything I could join. My brother recently got married to a hilarious girl I get along with really well, and I wish we could do young-couple things with them. My little sister is super funny and creative and a great cook and I wish I could get more fashion advice from her than I do via text. I wish I could have the late nights drinking beer and having bonfires on the beach with my childhood friends like the days of yore.

But, such is life. I am incredibly blessed to be where I am and I don’t mean to gripe. But I just miss my family, dang it. Thank goodness for group messaging on the iPhone and a mother who just signed up for Instagram, right?

 

And for good measure, here’s a cool picture of frozen Lake Michigan I took over Christmas. Seriously amazing.

frozen