Yes! Another post! But not at all fiber related so feel free to skip. I’m going to be separating these from the fiber content so people can spare themselves these lengthy diatribes and just get to the wooly stuff if they want.
My goal is to get to this blog far more often. Because if I go too too long, too too much happens and then I’m a blathering mess of nonsense and everything is all annoying to people who don’t want to read. I’m not sure why those people would be reading my blog, but nonetheless, that’s what I want to avoid.
In the two days since I last blogged, approximately zero kitchen things happened! Hooray! I cooked but I mean no planned work or anything, no one else was touching my stuff or drilling through anything. So I’ll take that as a win!
But. A big thing happened. A thing of all things. A thing I’ve been working towards for a few years now and it tastes soooo sweet. Yes, I went to the gym! No, this is not a weird post about muscles and I’m not trying to get buff or saunter around in a bikini claiming I have muscles when I really just don’t eat food and am emaciated with kidney damage from all my keto…oh wait..where was I? Ok. This isn’t about my appearance!
This is about healing.
I had many surgeries in 2004 and 2005 to fix ulcerative colitis that had gone undiagnosed and untreated because the doctors in South Bend, IN suck and treated me like it was all in my head. It wasn’t.
It was pretty firmly in my ass.
And everywhere else because it was out of control. So, thanks to the glories of modern surgery, I had my colon and almost all of my rectum removed at age 23. I had a bag for 8 months. It was a real bitch, and I also had a fistula and every complication known to mankind. So. Surgeries. Oh and I also had two c-sections later on. For fun. Cuz why not. It was basically just follow the lines and connect the dots for them anyway.
When someone cuts into your abdomen and your pelvis, you form some pretty wicked scar tissue. What happens when they keep doing it, and the first robotic awesome holes become giant lines of seriousness, is that those scars (adhesions) tend to find more places to stick. So, my insides got all glued together. Turns out this can cause pretty big issues down the road. Since my husband became a colorectal surgeon (no, we didn’t meet that way, that’s nasty, we grew up down the street from each other but didn’t start dating until after my surgeries) I can assure you that at least some of them will now warn you about this potential, should you ever find yourself in such a position. And they will now tell you to get pelvic floor physical therapy.
No one told me. Ever.
Not after my first surgery.
Or my second. Or the third or fourth.
No one told me when pregnant.
No one told me after the first c-section. Or the second.
My gastroenterologist never recommended it. Not at any of my annual scopes ever since.
Not even when it was so tight he couldn’t get the scope in.
My husband told me.
Because I took one Pilates reformer class from a different person than my regular fave, and she had us doing stupid heavy and fast things that are bound to tighten your everything.
So, I couldn’t pee. And I couldn’t poo. (Yes, I do that, they did reconnect me so I am mostly like y’all except with pretty badass scars) and it was torture and he was on call in the OR trying to talk me down because DO YOU KNOW HOW MUCH IT HURTS TO NOT BE ABLE TO PEE???????
Omg. It’s the worst.
So I found my way to a pelvic floor physical therapist just about 3 years ago, and I have been on a journey ever since. It required me to stop Pilates, and I got better and restarted and then the pandemic hit. And I was an epidemiologist and a nurse. I tried to help my local health department, but resigned over the political influence of the mayor in the decisions of the health department. And that went national, and the media came, and the public health page I’d been keeping on Facebook called “Public Health is Your Job, Too” became my online journal of how bad all the policies and politics and advice was, how twisted things were becoming, and how disappointed in public health at large I had become.
So, you know, some stress.
Everything locked up again and I’ve been working since January of 2021 on a weekly and then every other week (anyone else never clear on the definition of biweekly?) basis with the pelvic floor therapists to get through everything. I won’t go into detail about what they do, but yeah they’re internal everywhere. Though at this point, you’d better believe I have zero modesty left. But I’ll spare you all.
So, it’s taken a year of peeling back the layers of all the stuff to release all of this mess, and then I had to add in TMJ physical therapy because itsallconnected and that’s hella annoying. And expensive. None of this is covered by our terrible insurance. Yes, doctors have bad health insurance. Hospital system insurance is generally terrible unless it’s a giant system. So. This is where all of our money has gone.
So. Long story…long. This is me yesterday. I did some free weights, slowly. Breathing. I’m glad no one else was there to witness this, because I had to remember how to use machines and pay attention to every.little.angle. And then I ran/walked on the treadmill for 25 minutes. Here is me when I was about to start. That look is me terrified.
But the true test of whether I’m doing it right is after I stop. I stretched, for a long ass time. I did some yoga. And then I did what for me comes easily because I’m hyperflexible , but would not if my scars and pelvic floor were tight. See below.
Yep. I still can do it! Back bends are awesome, and this is the face of me realizing
So. Big success.
Today, I took it easy, did some push-ups and took one dog on a long walk around Butler University, while the other was at daycare.
Oh. And also. I got a haircut. And if you know anyone, especially women, that just makes their week.
Listen, that blonde streak is a birthmark and I finally grew into loving it. Which is good cuz it’s the only thing on my head not going gray. But because I LOVE ME, I’m embracing all of it.
Cuz I’m 40, and it’s the best age I’ve ever been.
Aging is the best! Love yourself just the way you are. You’re supposed to be every ounce like this. Own it!