This story began with part 1, and is continued with part 2.

After being discharged, Brock and I left for home with unease.  There were still no real answers as to where all of that terrible pain was coming from, or if it was really gone for good.  Also, there was the added trouble of being on bed rest, and not being able to work meant not being able to save up as much money for time off.  I had a really hard time letting Brock do EVERYTHING for me.  I found it very frustrating.  I wasn’t afraid that I was going to deliver soon, and I wasn’t hurting, so why the bed rest?  The doctors put me on Procardia, which is another tocolytic and I didn’t like taking it; it made me feel loopy and queazy.   So I got permission to only take it when I felt like the contractions where getting troublesome.  I was also on the anti-spasmodic, that seemed to be helping.

Until around 8pm.  I had another attack.  It hit me just like all the other ones, a sudden on-rush of overwhelming, mind-crushing pain.  I couldn’t find a position to ease the hurting, and I was crying too hard to talk to Brock about what we should do.  He took control and packed the car back up with all of our hospital stuff, brought me out to the car, and we headed back in to the hospital.  This time, something changed. It was a whole different experience.  It felt almost as though they didn’t believe anything was wrong.  This time, no pain medication.  This time, we spent over 4 hours in triage before they decided to admit me.  This time, I didn’t hear from a doctor until the next day.

Once I was finally admitted, I was told they wanted to do a CT scan.  I don’t know which doctor ordered it, or what their indication was.  I was in so much pain, I didn’t care.  To my logic, if they ended up delivering the baby at 27 weeks, he would have so many chest x-rays, it would probably be equal to a CT scan, so I consented.  (I found out much later that my assumption was incredibly, completely wrong.)  I was brought down to radiology for an abdomen-pelvis CT.  I sat in the hallway for about 20 minutes while I waited for the Tech.  This, being my business, didn’t upset me.  I know how things work, and what it’s like to do exams in the middle of the night.  I tried to be as pleasant as I could be, despite my pain and lack of meds.  Once my scan was completed, I waited another fifteen minutes for someone to come and get me.  Finally, back in my room where Brock was waiting for me, I got to lay down.  Most of the pain had started to pass, and I fell asleep.

The next morning, I was woken by Dr. Imseis again at 7 am.  He came in to tell me that the CT was normal, and they had no idea what was wrong.  ”We want to do a GI consult,” he said, ” just in case it’s something like an ulcer.  But if the GI doctor can’t find anything wrong, we only have two options left.  Exploratory surgery, and delivering the baby.  You can’t stay in this much pain for the rest of your pregnancy.”

Brock and I spent the rest of the day on edge, our minds spinning wheels of what could possibly be wrong.  We imagined every single bad outcome.  At one point, I broke down in tears again and said, “I wish it was just something stupid like constipation.  I wish it was nothing at all.”  We waited, and waited.  Evidently, our GI consult wasn’t very high up on the priority list.  We saw a Nurse Practitioner for the GI office that came and asked a bunch of questions, and said the doctor would be in to see us that day.  He didn’t show up until 7pm, after we’d waited 12 hours to find out what the next scary step would be on this terrible journey.

The GI doctor was a thin, dark haired man with glasses that dominated his face.  His Dr’s coat looked well worn, and he walked into the room with a smirk.  He introduced himself, shook my hand, then Brock’s, and began a little speech.

“I took a look at your CT from last night, just to be safe.  I know they told you it was negative.  The funny thing is, I’m a poop doctor.  And poop doctors look at different things than Radiologists do.  So even though the radiologist didn’t notice anything wrong with your CT, I found something very interesting.” He paused, smirked again.  ”I noticed that it looked like you probably haven’t” … pause… “had a bowel movement” … pause… “in at least a month.  Maybe longer.”

I blinked.

And then I smiled.

And then I laughed.

And then I threw my head back with a sigh of relief, and asked, “You’re serious?  That’s what this is?  Constipation??”

The doctor nodded, laughed, and came over to sit down and talk to me about the situation.  He told me that all of the tocolytics and anti-spasmodics I was put on stopped the pain because they stopped the bowels from trying to move.  He said that they were, in effect, making the problem worse.  He also said that even though I felt like I was having normal bowel movements, I was probably not fully emptying my colon each time, causing a slow but inevitable back-up.  He told me that at that point, my entire large bowel was full and had become impacted, as well as most of the small bowel.  He also said that it wouldn’t have been much longer before I had gotten toxically sick from the over-load.

Before the doctor left, I thanked him… and then asked him why he couldn’t have asked my husband to leave the room before giving me the news.  I knew I’d never live this down.

I was so thankful that the problem was something so simple.  I was incredibly grateful that the solution was so easy, and (though embarrassing,) relatively quick.  I spent another full day in the hospital being “de-pooped” and ended up having lost a full 10 pounds by the end.  I swore my husband and family to secrecy, but really, we all know how this ends.

Every time I say something remotely unbelievable, the inevitable response is, “Oh come on, Mandy.  We all know you’re full of shit.”

And just in case you don’t believe me, here is a picture of my belly at 27 weeks, and then a week later (post de-poop!) at 28 weeks.

Yes, that really is a before and after picture.

This story began yesterday with Part 1.

For Part 2, I must write a few things that I had forgotten to put in up to this point.

Within the first hour of my trip to the hospital, I was given a shot of Morphine.  The amount of pain I was in was unbearable, and they needed me to relax in order to find out if the contractions were going to slow down.  A few hours later, the Morphine had worn off, and I was given a second shot.  The Morphine masked the pain, but it wore off too quickly, and the pain came back just as it was before.  Also, all night long my nurse would come in and check my reflexes and bend my legs, every hour, to make sure the Magnesium wasn’t causing any adverse reactions.  Even though I was almost completely out of it, I didn’t get any sleep.  One of the many times she came to check on me, she shook her head at the IV pump.  ”What’s wrong?” I asked.  She said, “I can’t believe the dosage you’re on.  4mg of Magnesium is the dose for someone four times your size.  But every time I try to wean you down, your contractions start again.  I’m sorry.”  I had been telling her all night that Dr. Shaver wouldn’t want me to be on Magnesium, and he’d make them take out the foley catheter.  I said my doctors wouldn’t keep me like this.  She just nodded and went about her work.

After the second shot of Morphine wore off, and the pain was ramping back up again, they told me they couldn’t safely give me any more of that drug.  Instead, they gave Nubane.  I’d never heard of it before, but I was told it causes nausea.  They gave me a dose of Zofran in my IV to help prevent the nausea, and I remember it burning all the way up my arm, and feeling it go down into my heart.  Then they gave me the Nubane.  I’ve never had such an immediate, violent reaction to a drug before.  Within 10 seconds, I sat up and said, “I’m going to be sick.”  I had an extra second to catch a clear container that the nurse handed me before I spilled my cookies over and over.  Once the wretching stopped, I laid back down, exhausted, and fell asleep.  When the Nubane wore off, they came with more, and I cried.  My stomach was empty now, and they weren’t getting my pain under control, they were just covering it with narcotics, all of which were probably harmful to my baby.  They dosed me again, and I dry-heaved until I was crying with pain and fatigue.

Brock was sleeping on the pull-out, convertible recliner-slash-bed.  And by sleeping, of course, I mean sitting by, feeling useless and wishing he could take all of the pain away.  He was getting angry with the frustration of being unable to do anything to help.  I didn’t want him to touch me or try to make me feel better.  And I kept telling everyone it was “too hot in here,” so poor Brock froze all night while I roasted away on drugs.

Around this time, near morning, I figured out that my water hadn’t been broken or I would probably have kept leaking.  When the doctor checked my cervix in the Triage room, he used a large amount of lubricating jelly that melts when it raises to body temperature.  The gush I felt was all of the extra jelly exiting my body.  It was the first breath of relief I’d had in what felt like forever.

My next breath of relief came at 7am.  My doctors, all three of them, came in to check on me.  Even though I was still quite out of it, they managed to make me smile.  They asked the nurses a few questions, check my contraction strips, and Dr. Shaver told the nurse to take me off of the Magnesium.  He also said that I didn’t need a catheter.  I almost cried with gratitude.  Another nurse came in, and I heard her say to Dr. Imseis, “She refused the steroids!  She wouldn’t let us give them to her!”

“Good,” was his reply, “She didn’t need them.”

As Dr. Imseis was the hospital physician that day, he was the one that performed my actual consult.  I had an ultrasound done that confirmed that there was nothing wrong with my pregnancy or placenta, and that my cervix was still long and closed.  Despite the significant contractions I’d been having all night, my baby was not in danger of coming too early – or at least not yet.

However, the problem of my pain had still not been addressed.  Dr. Imseis prescribed an anti-spasmodic, which assumed that there was some problem with my bowels.  After the first two doses, my pain had gone away and they felt comfortable letting me go home on bed rest.

I would return to the hospital in less than 24 hours.  This story will conclude tomorrow with Part 3.

I don’t know if I’ve ever blogged this story before.  I don’t think I have.  I guess now is as good a time as any.

Around 25 weeks in my pregnancy, I started feeling very strong, crampy pains at the top and sides of my belly.  I knew they weren’t contractions.  I’d been having fairly regular contractions since about 20 weeks, and had been checked multiple times.  My doctor told me I had an irritable uterus (evidently that wasn’t limited to my personality).  They said as long as my cervix didn’t start shortening, I was safe.  So we checked my cervix weekly for a while, and then every other week until we figured out that the contractions, while real, weren’t doing anything scary.

Back to the cramping.  I asked one of the doctors that I worked with what would cause me to ache so badly in the top of my belly, and curve around the sides.  He palpated, and it didn’t hurt.  He listened with a stethoscope and didn’t hear anything unusual.  He said he wasn’t sure what it could be, but to keep an eye on it and let him know.

A week later, I was having the cramping more severely.  Sometimes I couldn’t sit down.  They weren’t related to my contractions, and contracting didn’t make them worse, but I noticed when I started cramping, the contractions came more frequently.

Another week went by, and one evening, on December 5th, they became so painful I couldn’t move.  They would come and go in waves, and as soon as I was hit, I would start writhing and crying in agony.  We called the nurse line and was told we would be called back within an hour.  I was hit with another wave of cramping, and started screaming in pain.  I told Brock I couldn’t wait until they called back.  We were going to have to go to the emergency room.  He took my phone and called Dr. Shaver, and told him what was going on.  Dr. Shaver said to just go straight to OB Triage at the hospital, that he would call and let them know we were coming.

The car ride there was the longest I’ve ever taken in my life.  I was crying in pain the whole time, and Brock was trying to get me to calm down, to relax.  I was so scared, and so tense that I was making everything snowball into something so much worse.  We got to the hospital, and went up to the Maternity ward.  They brought me into the Triage area, had me change into a gown and leave a urine sample, and then hooked me up to the monitor.  A nurse came in to start asking me questions and stopped asking within the first three minutes.  Another nurse came in and started an IV, and then they said they were moving me to a room.  I was going to be admitted.  I had been contracting every minute, which panicked the nurses because of the amount of pain I was in.  They immediately assumed that I was in pre-mature labor, and they needed to get the contractions to STOP.

I was given a shot of Terbeutaline in the back of my arm.  Within a minute, I was shivering and shaking all over.  It’s a tocolyitic, which means it stops smooth muscle contractions.  One of the most common side effects is uncontrollable shaking.  The doctor came in to check me, and I was thrown unceremoniously up into stirrups so he could check my cervix.  ”Hmm…” he said as he evaluated my cervix while I writhed in pain on the table, “… your cervix feels long and closed.  Like a tree trunk, really.  I’m going to do a Fetal Fibronectin test, but we’re going to admit you and start you on Magnesium just in case.”  A fibronectin test, or FFN, as it’s abbreviated, is a test for fetal proteins in the vaginal secretions.  They can be present for many reasons, but if they are NOT present, there’s a 90% chance that delivery WONT occur within 2 weeks.  A positive result isn’t a very predictive indicator of outcomes, but a negative test is helpful for easing fears of early delivery.  They told me they wanted to give me steroids for the baby’s lungs, and I refused.  I told them I didn’t want the steroids until the FFN came back positive.  To my logic, as an employee of a High Risk Obstetric clinic, if my cervix was long and closed, and the FFN was negative, there was no reason to give steroids.  If we gave them now, and something actually did occur later in my pregnancy, I wouldn’t be able to get them again.  So I said no.

The next thing I knew, we were moved into a room in Labor and Delivery.  As they transferred me from the stretcher to the bed, I felt a gush of fluid between my legs, and I started crying uncontrollably.  I told Brock, “My water just broke!  They broke my water!”  I couldn’t calm down.  Before, what had just been pain and uncertainty became the realization that my baby was about to be born at only 27 weeks.  Panic had set in, and I couldn’t get myself together.  I cried until I exhausted myself.  My new nurse came in and told me they were going to have to put in a catheter while I was on the Magnesium because I wouldn’t be allowed to get up to use the restroom.  I screamed out once when she put in the catheter, and then apologized.  ”I bet you hate having to do that,” I said to her.  ”Why’s that?” she asked.  I said, “It probably sucks to have to hurt people all the time.”

“Doesn’t bother me,” she said, “I’m not the one that it hurts.”

I was a little thrown by that, but didn’t have a chance to think on it.  At this point, they started me on the Magnesium.  For the next 12 hours, my life was a blur, a haze of events that I can’t clearly remember or distinguish real from dream.  I remember a nurse coming at me with a needle.  I asked her, “What is that?”  She said, “Steroids, for the baby’s lungs.”  I was angry, and said, “No!  I don’t want the steroids until the FFN is back!”  I could tell she was disgusted with me, but she went away.  About 20 minutes later, another nurse came in with a needle.  ”What do you have?” I asked again.  This time, the nurse said, “It’s Betamethasone.”  Unfortunately, none of these nurses know who I was or with whom I was employed.  Betamethasone is the medical name for fetal steroids.  I yelled, “I DON’T WANT THE STEROIDS!” and the nurse shook her head and walked away.

Two hours later, my FFN came back negative.  My chances of early delivery were significantly reduced, and I felt vindicated in my choice to refuse the unnecessary drug.

This is a VERY long story.  We’ll call this Part One, and I’ll continue it tomorrow.

I had a good weekend at work.

Not only because there was a time change that meant my 12 hour shift was actually only 11, and not only because I had a great book that I thoroughly enjoyed, and not even only because I met some great new friends… because I also had the pleasure of meeting some amazing patients.

I scanned a patient this weekend that was sweet as could be, looked to be probably 42 or 43, and enjoyed talking.  I spent probably more time than I should have out in the hallway with her, talking about life and how we perceive it.  We talked about not knowing the true trials other people are going through, and only being concerned with our own.  I told her about Layla Grace, and how it opened my eyes to the difficulties that other people face, and how they can touch our lives if we let them in.  She told me about her children, and her grand children, and her work.  She also told me she was 58, and it blew me away.  She looked AMAZING.  Our conversation really got me thinking.  I really enjoyed meeting her.

I scanned another lady that had had multiple previous exams, and made another snap judgement.  She was overweight, covered in tattoos and I figured she was probably a drug seeker.  Then we started talking.  She asked me about the picture of Ronan on my badge, and we talked about kids.  She told me that she was told she would never be able to have kids, and her little boy is her miracle babe.  We talked about the love of parenting, and how it’s the truest, purest form of love.  We talked about people who don’t want kids, and how we wished we could fully show them how amazing it is to be a parent.  We talked about family size, and infertility, and the joys of pregnancy.  We talked for much longer than the elapsed time of the exam and when she left to go back to the Emergency Department, I was a little sad to see her go.  I told her it was really great to have met her, and I had enjoyed talking to her.  She said the same, and to take good care of my sweet little boy.  I smiled for quite a while after the exchange.

I scanned a sweet old lady that was deaf as a post.  She couldn’t have been more than 60 pounds, and I all but lifted her from the wheelchair to the bed.  She would ask me questions loudly, and, unable to hear the answer, just assume I had said what she wanted.  ”How longs it gonna be?”  ”ABOUT 15 MINUTES,” I told her.  ”Oh okay.”  ”Help me burp,” she asked me.  So I stood there, patting her back while she curled up, trying to burp.  Her ribs protruded out so far, I felt like I was abusing her.  ”I just can’t get it out!” Later on, she’d ask me, “Are we about done?” every two or three minutes during the exam.  When she was all finished, I sat her up and told her we were going to move back to her wheelchair.  She said, “Just let me sit a minute!  They’re going to take me back up right away, right?…” She paused for a moment, then held her arms wide open.  ”…Give me a hug.”  I gave her a hug, and she squeezed me tighter than her frail frame suggested was possible.  She patted me on the back, and said “You’re sweet.  Ok, lets go.”  She was confused and suffering from dementia, but she was sweet as could be.  Her hug made my day.

I also had caffeine.  It really made a huge difference in my night shift.  For the first time, I had just as much energy at 4am as I did at 8pm.  I even danced around when a good song came on.  I don’t know how I’ve lived without it for so long.  I know so many people who have multiple, several caffeinated drinks a night… I was flying off of half a Coke.

Last, but not least, I read an amazing book this weekend.  The whole thing.  I couldn’t put it down.  I’d love to write a review on it, so I’m not going to get into too much depth here.  But it was Tales from the Trips, by John Cave Osborne.  Fantastic read.  One of the best parts of my whole weekend.  More on this later.

So nice to write a positive post about work.

You know you have those days.

The ones where you’re so preoccupied with something that you cant get it out of your head?  The ones where you get so caught up in your own life that you can’t find the way to pull yourself out?

I’ve been having one of those weeks.  I didn’t blog TWO entire days this week.  Every time I sat down and started thinking about what I would write, I felt sick to my stomach.  I haven’t cleaned my house, I haven’t done any laundry, I haven’t even been able to make it to the public library, which was my goal for the week.

Three lovely ladies came to my rescue yesterday, and invited me out of my house and out of my head.  I couldn’t have needed it more, and we had such a great time at the mall.  I probably wouldn’t have left the lair if it weren’t for you, Steph, and I appreciate it so much.  Thank you.

I guess I’ll give some news.

In Ronan-land, we started signing “Please” this week.  It’s very adorable.  He rubs himself from shoulder to belly button.  More like “PLEASE!”… but we get the point, and it seems he does too.

Also, Ronan woke six times last night.  Things seem to be getting better, and then they just jump off a cliff, all the way down to the bottom again.  He hasn’t woken six times in a night in so long, and it’s very discouraging.  We have him in his own bedroom now, on a mattress on the floor.  One of us sleeps with him, as we thought it would a little traumatic to suddenly throw him into a different room and leave him alone when he’s been co-slept for the last 12 months.

I really don’t know what else to say.  This hasn’t been a good week.  I have my fingers crossed that next week turns out better.  Eternally optimistic.

There you have it.  Another long, awful weekend behind me.

My life is the series of weeks that happen between weekends.  I feel like time goes by so quickly when I realize that there are only 52 weekends in the year, and I feel like I’m always working.

I’m thinking of doing a new Monday feature, because I have such a hard time getting up and going in the morning.  I have lots of lovely bloggers that I follow, and would love to know more about, as well as share with all of my readers.  I think I’m going to create an interview, and send it to all of my favorite blogs, and post one of the interviews every Monday.  That way, you’d get to know some of my bloggers and why I love them – and I would always have some great Monday content.  Sounds win-win to me.

Work was super-crazy-busy this weekend.  I hardly had a moment to breathe.  I’m glad it’s over.

I just found a stain on one of my favorite shirts.  That makes me really mad.

My contacts are dry, and I want to take them out, but the day is just barely started. (For me, anyways.)

It’s GORGEOUS out, and I want to take Ronan out when he gets up from his nap.  Who knows what we’ll do.  I can’t wait for the pool to open.

I am dangerously addicted to Sprite lately.

I’m thinking of re-naming my cat “Cuddles.”  He’s been sitting on my lap as often as possible for the last 2 weeks.

Need to do LAUNDRY!  And vacuum.

I still have a head ache.  I’ll never look at romantic candlelight the same way again.

Seriously, kid, are you ever going to wake up?

That is my thought-stream of the day.  About all I’ve got.  On to writing an interview!

Brock and I had a date night last night.

We got a sitter so we could be BABY FREE and tried to go to a movie, only there was absolutely nothing that either of us wanted to see.  So instead, we went over to hang out with our friends, Chris and KJ.  We were there for 3 whole hours, and it really felt like 20 minutes.  We had SO much fun!

What do two tired, overworked parents want to do when they get a date night?  Why, play video games of course.

Brock started out the night by trying out a God of War rip-off where you play as one of the four horsemen, and you have to kill demons and angels alike.  It looked pretty cool, albeit a little silly.  Then KJ got irritated because we were all watching instead of playing.  So we put on Mario for the Wii!

That game is designed to make people hate each other, I swear!  My throat was sore by the end of the night from yelling at everyone.  I couldn’t believe how fast the time went, or how relaxing it was to let loose and not worry about waking up the baby.  We played Halli Galli, which is a counting fruit card game.  Yeah, I know, it sounds stupid, but it was actually really fun.  We were yelling, and laughing and slapping – it was crazy.  We got to see KJ’s ninja hands and how lightening fast she was, winning two times in a row.

We were sad when it was time to go.  Date nights come so few and far between, and it felt like we had just walked out the door.  I texted our sweet and wonderful nanny to see if the baby was sleeping.  She said that he was ALMOST out, and would probably be asleep by the time we got home.  We came in very quietly, and I texted her again to see if she wanted me to come relieve her in the bedroom.  After she responded ‘Yes,’ I went in and was greeted with a happily  chattering, wide-awake little boy.  April said that he was nearly sound asleep, and when she tried to move him, he woke up and started talking.  Typical Ronan behavior.  Sleep is for the weak.

About half an hour later, I finally got Ronan back down.  Brock and I had planned on a little grown up time in the bedroom, if you know what I mean.  We were in the guest bedroom, kissing and being all romantical and sweet.  I was laying on the bed watching as Brock lit candles and set them on the ledge above the bed.  I don’t remember what we were talking about but I was focused on how Brock was holding the large glass jar candle upside down and putting the lighter all the way up inside of it to light, when one of the candles fell off the ledge and landed on the top of my head.

Wow.

I clutched the top of my head, moaning “OW OW OW ow ow ow ow ow ow!” until my ow’s turned into sobs, and I couldn’t stop crying.  Brock felt horrible, and held me while I cried telling me, “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry!”  He ran downstairs and got me some ice and Tylenol.  It took me about that long to calm myself down and get my crying under control.  I did that silly thing where I pulled my hands really slowly away from my head to make sure there was no bleeding.  (There was no bleeding.)  Brock kept telling me he was sorry, and I laughed and said that it was okay, it was an accident!  He told me I wasn’t allowed to smile and be happy, because I was the one that got hurt.

So, instead of sweet-happy-love-time, we sat on the couch together and watched House while I iced my noggin.  The lump on my head grew in the shape of a C right behind my hairline, and stuck out of my head by a fingersbreadth.  Probably not the most romantic night we’ve ever had, but at least it was memorable!

A wise man once asked me:

dig deep and figure out why you’re writing. b/c i don’t think it’s JUST for yourself. and guess what? there’s nothing wrong with that. i don’t write just for myself. i write to be read. i write b/c i think it’s one of my gifts.

so tell me, my friend, WHY do you write? holla.

I have thought about it every day since then.  This is not a simple question.

I know why I write.  I write because I love to write.  I love the feeling I get when I put thoughts down, I love the struggle of finding the right word, the right phrase, of creating the right rhythm.  I delight in challenging myself to write something better than last time.  It is a constant endeavor, always wishing to improve on what I say and how I say it; always trying to be better than I was before.  There are few things I enjoy more than writing.

Why I blog, though… that is a different story all together.

Blogging is an ideal format for me.  I love to write, but I’m not entirely creative enough to come up with fictional stories.  Believe me, I have tried.  I do, however, love to recount the tales of things that I’ve done and things that have mattered to me.  I love to share in my days, and my experiences.  I enjoy helping others to see what I’ve seen and to feel what I’ve felt.  I share things most people wouldn’t dream of talking about, wouldn’t dream of sharing, because it’s important to me to be real.  I am not perfect.  I have bad days, and self doubts and second thoughts.  I get lonely, sad, down on myself;  all of those moments are the truth, and I need to share them exactly as they are, exactly as I feel them.  The amazing days, the amazing moments; I share those with the same passion.  I pass on my wonder and awe, my hurt and confusion at the world around me – the life I live – all with equal honesty.

And the single most satisfying thing I have derived from blogging is the realization that I am not alone.  Not in ANY of it.

Somewhere out there, there is someone that is thinking the same way, feeling the same way, and wondering the same things as I am.  Never in my life have I felt more connected to people that can reach out and help each other cope.  I blog because I crave that connection, with friends and family members or strangers and acquaintances, with anyone willing to read and relate.  I don’t want to write something that you can look at and say, “Wow, that was really well written.”  I want to write something that pulls at you, that makes you realize a little something more about yourself, and causes you to remark, “I know exactly what you mean.”

THAT is why I blog.

That is why I love it.

And that is why I will continue.

Ok.

So I’ve been blogging for almost 5 years now.  I started out way back in my Xanga days.  It’s something I’ve always done for me, and always felt good about.  I didn’t, until just recently, care about the blogosphere, or making friends or networking.  Blogging has always been a way for me to indulge the writer in me, as well as being able to get things off my chest in the perfect forum.  I don’t think could have ever predicted accurately the drama my blogging would cause.

Let’s look back.

I used to work in an OB/GYN office near my house.  I worked there for over a year, and loved it.  I left, not because I didn’t want to work there any more, but because I was intensely interested in furthering my career and my knowledge of obstetric ultrasound.  A position had opened up in a high risk clinic, and I applied for it.  When I got the position, I was truly sad to be leaving my friends and co-workers.  Several months after I left, I logged into my Xanga and noticed I had several THOUSAND page views that day.  The very same day, one of my ex-co-workers called me and said there was some bad Juju going on at the office.  Evidently, someone had googled either me, or the clinic that I worked in, and found my blog (which was google indexed.)  This person hadn’t been able to keep their mouth shut, and gave the blog address to everyone else in the clinic.  So, instead of working for several days, all of the employees of this clinic spent hours trolling my blog, reading my private inner thoughts, and attempting to find something wrong with what I had done.  At that time, I had written a few blog entries similar to the “Ultrasound Resonates” posts that I write now, with names changed and privacy protected just like always.  I also had written several stories about incidents that had gone on in the clinic, ALL of which showed the clinic in a great light.

My co-worker told me that someone had given my blog to the manger of the office, and that there was going to be a big uproar over it, and I was in big trouble.  Interestingly, I never heard anything about it from anyone else, so it was all a much ado about nothing.  However, some people got all high and mighty and important, and decided to stick their business in my own.  (Yes, I know you did this.  Yes, I think it was shallow, petty and rude.  Yes, I continued to write in spite of it.)

Moving on.

From my OB clinic, I moved on to bigger and better things.  I started working at a high risk obstetrics clinic, and I absolutely loved it.  I also became pregnant within two weeks of starting at the clinic, so my time enjoyed there was overshadowed by my impending child.  First, let me say that I was told on no uncertain terms that none of my co-workers were happy about my pregnancy, having suffered infertility problems themselves, and that they wouldn’t be interested in hearing about my gravidity, so I should keep my mouth shut.  Being young, pregnant and quite excited about it, that was handed over as a slap in the face.  So I attempted to keep my mouth shut, my head down, and just work.  Despite my best intentions, and against my desire to keep working there, I left the clinic when Ronan was born.  I had wanted to continue in the high risk field, but was not offered a part-time position, and couldn’t fathom putting my son in daycare from such a tender young age.  This evidently caused some ruffled feathers with my co-workers, who were insulted by the fact that I didn’t return, and believed that I had mislead them into thinking that I would be coming back.  I had thought I had created valuable, lasting friendships with the woman that I was surrounded by, but after finding out how sore they were over my leaving, I couldn’t bring myself to go back and confront them, lest they snub me to my face.

Several weeks ago, I was informed by a remaining friend at the office that the ladies there were still reading my blog (even though it has been over a year since my employ.)  I was told that my blog was passed around, read, and then degraded and insulted.  My parenting efforts were poo-pooed, and my character questioned, all without having the ability to defend myself.  As far as I know, this practice continues: grown women read my public blog and deride me in order to make them feel better about themselves.  (Yes, I know you do this.  Yes, I think it’s shallow, petty and rude.  Yes, I continue to write in spite of it.  But I think you need to grow up, and find something else to entertain you.)

Again, moving on.

I found a position in a hospital where I could work weekends, so I could be home with my son all week.  Then, my husband would be with Ronan on the weekends, and the need for childcare had been eliminated.  Not only did we not WANT to leave our son in daycare, we couldn’t afford it; this allowed me to work without the extensive costs of having my son cared for.  I have worked at this hospital for nearly a year, and was told several months ago that someone had anonymously turned in my blog, pointing out that it’s against hospital policy to state that you work there, what you do, or talk about your position in general.  This alone didn’t bother me; I didn’t know there was any such rule in place, and it took just a few minutes for me to remove all references to my place of work.  However, the fact that someone saw fit to take my personal blog and turn it in to authorities, rather than simply mention to me that I was doing something wrong, rubbed me just awful.

Now, within the last few days, I was approached by my supervisor and told that my blog has come into question again.  Someone had printed off several pages of my posts and turned them in, again anonymously, stating that the timestamps showed that I had been working on it while I was on the clock.  I was told that this was a severe offense, and that if it happened again it could lead to dismissal.

Once again, someone has seen fit to shove their big, fat nose into my business.

I WRITE a BLOG.  It’s about my kid, and my family.  It’s rated G, and sweet, touching, personal, funny, and sometimes challenging or upset.  I’m not posting pornography, I’m not an anarchist trying to bring down the government, I don’t cuss or post inappropriate pictures, and I’m not even using the hospital internet system.  I write blogs in my spare time, and I post them, once a day, when I have a free moment.  I can do this from my phone while I’m sitting at a red light.  I can do it in the pumping room when I’m making FOOD for my CHILD.  I can log into the public computers on my lunch break and access my account.

Now, if I had brought in a note pad and written a story down with pen and paper, no one would get worked up.  But because it’s the internet, and it’s a public forum, someone thinks they have the right to police my activities and turn me in for perceived wrong doing.

First, it’s none of your damn business.  Second, where do you get off printing information from my blog?  Yes, it’s public, but it is MY intellectual property.  You do not have the RIGHT to do that without my express permission.  Third, WHY DO YOU CARE?  Who am I to you?  What does it matter what I do during my down time at work, or while I’m at home, or sitting at a damn red light?  If you have that much time and energy to spend on what I’m doing, perhaps you should take a moment and re-evaluate what YOU should be doing.  Fourth, you have permanently damaged my relationships with the people that I work with.  By not having the courage to show your face or come to me in person, I have to assume ANYONE could be the person that has sunk low enough to care about what I do.  I no longer have the luxury of trusting someone just because I like them.

Yes, I know that you did this.  Yes, I think it’s shallow, petty and STUPID.  YES, I will continue to write in spite of it, and in spite of you.  Grow up, get a life, and leave me alone.  I have done NOTHING that should affect you in ANY WAY, and your obsession with me is unhealthy.

Which leads me to question:  Could it possibly be me?  What am I doing to invite this type of attention and negative energy?  Is there something I need to do differently?  Or am I actually surrounded by childish, petty people who have a flair for dramatics?

I don’t want to stop blogging.  I don’t want to make my blog private.  I don’t want to pull punches or edit myself because I’m worried about who might be reading it.  I don’t have a problem.  If you have a problem, please un-invite yourself from sharing my life.  And thank you, each of you,  for trying to ruin everything.

My first real blog post in a few days.

This will be fun.  My keyboard is broken because I spilled water on it yesterday.  Go me.

I have all of these things that I want to write about, and yet none of them seem important enough to say.

All last week, I experienced something so wonderful, so amazing it’s difficult to put into words.  Ronan had settled himself into a schedule where he would go to bed between 8:30 and 9:00 pm, then sleep until 2 am without waking, eat, and then sleep again until morning.  I can’t even begin to describe what that week was like for me.

And then we had a Birthday party.  I’m not entirely sure what screwed up the whole thing – whether it was the cake, or the excitement, or the missing of a nap – but the whole thing is screwed up.  For the 3 days since the party, he’s been a bear to put to sleep, and woken nearly every hour.  It’s like we’ve taken seven or eight steps backwards.  I’m trying not to be too upset about it; we’ve dealt with it before, and we’ll deal with it again.  It was just so frustrating to see some light at the end of the tunnel (or SLEEP, as it were) only to have it blink off.  I always figure every day is a new chance for things to go well.

I also have been considering going to my doctor to have a talk about depression.

It’s a funny thing, trying to figure out what’s going on in your head, and whether or not it’s normal.  I feel like I’m normal.  But I also feel like I’m never really happy.  I write all these posts about being lonely, and trying to get things together, and then I have a day like Saturday.  My house is filled with so many wonderful people, all of whom love me or my husband or my son (or even all of us!) and I realize there is no reason for me to be lonely.  I shouldn’t ever be sad.  I just look around and know that I shouldn’t ever feel alone.

So then… why do I?

I don’t remember ever feeling like this when I was younger.  I’ve sort of always chalked it up to being homesick and missing my family, but that doesn’t seem to hit the nail on the head either.  I think that means it’s time to talk to someone else about it, and find out what ‘normal’ really should be.

Because there is no reason for me to be unhappy.  I’m NOT unhappy.  But I always feel sad, and I’d like that to go away now.  I love my life, and I want to enjoy it too.