This time, baby, I'll be rabbit poops

This is going to be one of those scatological posts.

I remember the principal trainer for my group in Peace Corps, whose name was Prudence—Pru for short—talking to us about dehydration.

And on a side bar, I would really like an em-dash button on my keyboard. I always have to go googling and copying, because otherwise I just get the double dash, which I don't enjoy the look of, functional as it may be.

So Pru.

For the most part, I quite liked her.

But every once in a while she'd do somethings like try to force our van of tired selves to sing camp-type songs on the road back from a training exercise.

We were all adults in our 20s and 30s, and we wanted to sit quietly, or chat with the person sitting next to us.

We'd been busy all day. We didn't want to sing songs all the way home.

Another time, we had to write an essay or something. Pru wanted us all to sit quietly until everyone finished writing. Not to discuss. Just so she could dismiss us all together.

I asked why we couldn't just leave when we were done.

And she asked me if I was an only child.

So.

But I remember clearly this story she told us, which has stuck in my mind lo these many years.

She started out talking about a long bus trip. 

I was going to say "the thing about buses in Ecuador"—but there were many things. 

The most concerning issue was that you took it as a good sign when the brakes squealed, because then at least you knew they were working as you rounded tight curves on steep Andean roads carved just deeply enough into the side of the mountain for one lane of cars each direction.

Sometimes you'd sit and hold your breath as your driver and another met in opposing directions on a tight turn, and had to take turns backing up by inches so they could pass each other.

It was always more comforting to be on the inside of the turn in those situations.

I remember sitting by the window, looking at the 3,000-foot drop we'd plummet down if our driver backed up a wee bit too far.

The drivers always seemed pretty cavalier with the loud music and constant flirting with the girlfriend they brought along and such, but they must've been really, really skilled.

Anyway, the  other thing about these busses was that stopping for a bathroom break was at the whim of the bus driver. I remember begging, pleading with a drive to stop, just for 30 seconds, so I could pee on the side of the road next to the bus.

It's super weird to think of that here. You definitely couldn't do this with the Peter Pan bus on the New Jersey Turnpike.

But I've also never seen livestock or grain sacks on an American bus.

Aanyway, the safest thing to do for a 12-hour bus ride was not to drink water. Or drink a little but also eat salty snacks.

One of my fellow volunteers wound up with a kidney infection. Your body needs to be processing liquid.

So, in Pru's story, being a seasoned bus rider, our trainer had taken this no-water approach, and arrived home utterly exhausted. And then the next day she had these tiny rabbit poops.

Which wasn't surprising to talk about, because we talked about our poop all the time. Because nobody's bowel movements were normal. 

We got all kinds of parasites.

My exquisitely beautiful friend Neeta kept getting worms. The lesson she had to learn more than once was not to buy tripe from the street vendor. 

True fact. 

Me, I got giardia, and because it is a smell you never forget, I was able to correctly identify Jordan's case and insist the pediatrician get him tested.

IYKYK.

So back to Pru's story. The lesson of which was that dehydration, particularly at altitude, was dangerous.

And among the symptoms were exhaustion and rabbit poops.

Should this happen, you knew you needed to hydrate.

This was an excellent bit of teaching, at least for me, as it made a big impression and stuck with me way longer than any factual historical information ever has.

And every time that happens to me, I think of Pru.

Which is to say, Pru popped into my mind this morning.

The truth is, I was warned by multiple people that Zofran can make you constipated.

I had a telehealth visit with the oncology NP yesterday, who I really liked when I was talking to her directly. 

Because I'd been quite offended when the nurses reported her saying that it would be highly unusual to be nauseated on anastrozole. As if I couldn't be trusted to report my symptoms.

Or like she was saying I shouldn't be feeling the way I was in fact feeling.

When she repeated that yesterday, it was clearly in a caring manner. Like, they pretty much never have people with nausea to the point of needing medication.

The fact that I was taking Zofran more than once a day was concerning. I'm to message her on Monday about my symptoms to see if we need to change meds.

So, Zofran, she told me, they don't like you on it for long. It can make you constipated.

And I was all, ohh yeah. Checked that box already.

Because it happens to me whenever I travel, I thought I knew constipation. But this is industrial strength.

This particular flavor of constipation is resistant to Smooth Move tea, prune juice, gallons of water, raw carrots, lots of walking, yoga, and hot water with lemon first thing in the morning.

It's making me long for the days of foraging in the woods for poop sticks.

I have to say, though, I'm kind of impressed.

Perimenopause and the jaunty bra-scarf

Can we just talk about perimenopause for a minute?

Because I don't feel like enough people are talking about it. My ducking auto-correct doesn't even know what it is.

The other night I told Nick that I bet a lot of couples get divorced while a woman is in perimenopause.

And Nick said, "I bet you're right."

To which I responded, through clenched teeth, "But if they just stuck it out for a decade, it would surely get better."

He hastily agreed.

Anyway, one of the things that happens to me now is that when I get hot, I get unbearably hot. Not in the summer, when I'm scantily clad and just hot because heat.

I am cold most of the time, and would always rather be hot than cold.

But now this weird thing happens when I'm working out, or when it's cold and my body heats up.I get to a heat point and I cannot bear it.

Like, when I'm bundled in 54 layers because oh my hell this winter. And I walk really fast (really fast). In fact, sometimes I start out my walking commute by running because I hate being cold so much.

But at a certain point in my walk, my body heats up. Sometimes this is fine. And sometimes suddenly it is eleventy billion degrees inside my jacket.

Oh, and I am a sheep, because I own the Amazon jacket that apparently all moms everywhere now own. And I love it.

It is warm and has six pockets and a giant hood that blocks the wind. I have no peripheral vision and I've been told that I look like a South Park character. I don't care.

If you know me, you know I will do anything to avoid the cold.

But when I hit some particular internal temperature, I'm all, I MUST REMOVE ALL MY CLOTHES AND PLUNGE INTO ICE WATER OR I AM GOING TO DIE.

(I don't know what this temperature is, but I'm considering carrying a thermometer to pop into my armpit the next time this happens.)

Anyway, this happened to me on the way to work the other day. Partway to work I took off my scarf. Then my hat (which I wear under my hood). Then my jacket.

I was wearing a thick wool turtleneck sweater. Underneath that was a stretchy undershirt. It's flesh colored and kind of like a very thin sports bra that's a whole tank top. It's great for warmth and blocking the wind.

So I'd removed as much as I could before I got to the office. I have a high shame limit, but even so, I wasn't going to mince down K Street in a flesh-colored bra-tank.

Still, it wasn't enough.

I got to my office, and because I didn't have a moment to waste before I tragically perished of overheatedness, I mostly closed my door, because you can't really hide behind the door entirely because there's a full-length window next to it.

I pulled my arms into my turtleneck sleeves, and then took each of them out of the undershirt. I figured this was the fastest and most discreet way.

I also pulled my sweater up as much as I dared and fanned myself.

Then I scooted the tank up my body and pulled it out through the turtleneck hole.

What I hadn't counted on was this very tiny, delicate lucky necklace that my friend Jane gave me. It's a wee gold wishbone on a thin chain that's just barely larger than my neck.

Basically, I managed to pull the tank straight through the necklace just enough to get it stuck halfway.

I put my arms back through the sweater armholes and pulled, gently. It wouldn't go up. And it wouldn't go down.

And I panicked. I was so hot I couldn't think rationally. I had a fight or flight reaction, but wasn't sure where to go.

I had a large flesh-colored protrusion perched on the top of the neck of my turtleneck, right next to my ear.

I fumbled for the clasp. I kept not quite getting it. I didn't want to break my new necklace. I didn't want to have to cut my sweater off.

Like I said, I wasn't thinking clearly.

Just as I was like, oh, god, I'm going to have to stroll casually through the office with this obviously-an-undergarment protrusion sticking out near the side of my head, I finally managed it. The clasp opened.

Sweating profusely, I crammed my tank top into my backpack and headed to the kitchen for a glass of water.

I think maybe I need more wicking?

So now let us speak of something awkward

You know how I wind up writing about stuff that most people don't talk about in polite company because I really need to talk about it?

Now I need to talk about perimenopause. I do

I hate it.

There are going to be words like boobs and period and such.

And now you've been warned.

Perimenopause, which I guess is also called premenopause, for those who don't know, and until recently I didn't, is the period (heh) of time leading up to menopause during which your reproductive hormones begin to decline. This can be a short number of years or a decade, as I understand it.

Hormones are tricksy, and everything affects everything, and you might have very few symptoms or your experience might be extreme. You just don't know until you're in it.

And even when you're in it, month to month you don't necessarily know. Which, for me, makes it not unlike depression.

Several months ago, I thought my antidepressant wasn't working, or that maybe the dosage needed tweaking. Because I couldn't stand anyone in my family.

Nick would walk toward me and I'd think, "Come closer. SO I CAN KICK YOU."

The kids and my mom would do things that my kids and my mom do. Like eat breakfast. And I would think, "OH MY GOD THEY'RE SO ANNOYING."

I snapped and snarled at all of them. I had no patience.

This continued for some days and I was about to reach out to my shrink and ask him for help. And then I got my period. Immediately, much like Dorothy landing in Oz, the world became bright and happy again.

In retrospect, I have always reacted extremely to hormones. What can I say? I'm a delicate flower.

I was raised believing condoms were the answer to most of the world's problems. Not everyone is in agreement, and I had several stints on hormonal birth control. I turned into a raging lunatic. Crying easily, angry, completely irrational. All the time.

Basically when I think about it, it combined all the difficult parts of being me, but taken to extremes.

Like pregnancy. I was a crazypants during pregnancy.

Now it's moot. (Snip snip!)

For years, coasting on my own hormones, I've had a pretty even cycle. Sometimes I'd have PMS and my boobs would get very sore, and I would get mad at them. But still, it didn't last. But it was generally brief, as were my periods.

And on a related note, India calls it my pyramid. "Do you have your pyramid, Mama?"

She also learned about period undies when one day she said, "Don't put those on! They're dirty!" I know, I know, this is a horrifying topic. I told you.

I do have some fear that she's taken this information to school, but what are you doing to do? Her mama has pyramid undies. At least it's true. (Unlike the time she told her class that for time out we put her in the bathroom after Nick poops.)

But now. Now I have PMS on steroids. My boobs are so sore. I extra hate everyone. I eat so much sugar and junk food.

After the kids went to bed last night, this is what I had for dinner. Gelato and Cheez-Its.

Horror. I know.

And I know it doesn't help. In fact, I know it does the opposite of helping. I KNOW.

What I don't know is when this annoying ride it will end. It's not consistent month to month.

It's kind of like being in one of those horrible carnival mirror houses where this one makes you short and wide and this one makes you taller and this one makes you upside down and this one makes three of you but there's only actually half of each of you so I guess one-point-five and where the fuck is the exit?

And this misery could end in a minute, or tomorrow, or next Friday. Your guess is as good as mine.

This morning Nick called and I guess I snapped at him because he said, "I really wish your period would start."

And I snarled, "Just imagine BEING ME right now."

Also, hand me those Cheez-Its and come over here so I can kick you.

From the Ministry of What the F*cks

Right. So here's the story.

It make you go, "Are you f*cking kidding me?" Or maybe, "What the hell?"

If so, well, join the club.

I'm going to get right to the point. Until Tuesday, I was pregnant, just over seven weeks so. Then my doctor determined that it had stopped heading in any direction except miscarriage.

And so that night I took the little get-the-miscarriage-party-started pills. And it was a truly hellish night. And now things are better.

But here's the real crazy. I'm 46.

Now, 46 is a not a lot of years when you're talking about all of eternity. But! It is a lot of years when you're talking about pregnancy. Add to this that we've not exactly been burning up the sheets. So I was completely astounded, and so was Nick.

I realized it was not outside the realm of possibilities. But neither is winning the lottery or being hit by lightening.

What the hell? Exactly.

Since I went through this the year before last, I knew the odds were abysmal.  In fact, when you are this much older, they are this much abysmaller.

Miscarriage rates are 70%. Odds of chromosomal abnormality are like 1 in 16.

In fact, finding an outcome chart for pregnancy over age 45 was  hard. I googled "pregnancy at 46" and came up with Halle Berry and a bunch of fertility articles saying that even though you see celebrities doing it, what you don't know is that they're probably using donor eggs.

In other words: don't try this at home.

On a side bar, a friend said, "Are you kidding me? Good thing you didn't start having babies in your twenties! You could have like eight kids by now."

Anyway, I didn't exactly let myself get all hopeful. Which was good. Because at what would've been somewhere early in the seventh week, it just stopped being.

But first I thought: What if this works? Oh my hell. I'm going to be exhausted for the rest of my life. My back already hurts and it's only the size of a pea. We will need a goddamn minivan. How will I give my kids enough attention and deal with a newborn? How will we do this? And I will definitely need to buy me some boobs when this is all said and done.

I also thought: A new little human! A smooshy snuggly baby! Fortunately, Maude hasn't gotten around to giving my Ergo and sleep sacks to Syrian refugees. There's a reason we still have our monitor and stroller. Another sibling for my kids! Awwwww. Hooray!

Once again, though I believe in choice, I knew I personally couldn't terminate unless there was a chromosomal abnormality. If I got to 11 weeks, I'd have a CVS. If there was going to be something wrong, I wanted it to happen early and resolve itself.

And then it did.

So here's my soapbox. To start a miscarriage, you can take misoprostol, which is generic, and inexpensive (at least with insurance). The doctor had me stick four little pills in my vagina. As I understand it, you can also take them orally.

But in any case, it's four pills.

For an abortion, they apparently have you take a different pill beforehand to make your uterus inhospitable, and then you use these to open your cervix and start the cramping. And according to my research, if you are early enough in your pregnancy, apparently misoprostol can be sufficient.

I feel like abortion is sold to us as whole, pink, recognizably human babies being chopped up and dragged out of women's vaginas. The women could take them out and put them in Hannah Andersson. But no! They choose to murder them instead!

Now, given the choice, I'd have had this baby, and in November, somewhere approaching Election Day (which I found funny, considering how hostile some of the candidates are to reproductive freedom), I'd have wound up with a whole, pink, recognizably human baby coming out of my vagina.

A baby I wanted, a baby who would've had a loving home and family.

But let me tell you what expelling that seven-week-old-no-longer potential baby was like. It was (in the privacy of my own home) a lot of cramping, a decent amount of blood, and some tissue.

That was it.

The reality of terminating an very early pregnancy is nothing that would work on a poster. It's nothing that women should have to jump through hoops to beg for. It's definitely not something that should require a woman to go to a doctor once, then return two days later for.

It's four little pills. And some tremendously horrible cramps, and in my case three hours of the worst body-wracking chills I've ever had, although to be fair, I've never had malaria or dengue fever.

And then it was over. And my body immediately started feeling better. I stopped being so tired that I'd be unable to leap out of the way of a speeding truck. My back stopped hurting. I stopped feeling queasy all the time. I started feeling more like myself.

In other words, pregnancy stopped taking over my entire body.

It's not over emotionally, in that despite my best efforts, I'm still sad. I am really, really sad, even thought I keep telling myself it is for the best. Everything is easier this way.

But loss is never easy, whether you are voluntarily letting go or not.

But physically, it can be that easy, at least in the early weeks. And then it is over. No politician, no doctor, no objecting pharmacist should have any say-so in whether it is that easy or not.

Everything else is hard enough.