Surgery

Three weeks ago today I had surgery.

I had a 7+cm gap between my abdominal muscles. So instead of the muscles being joined, I had empty space, the size of a peach or a baseball running the entire length of my torso. 

The space filled with fascia and scar tissue and an umbilical hernia occurred, leaving me pained and achey, and my tummy distended - forever pregnant. 

Since 2018, after I gave birth to my son,  I was essentially led to believe from my doctor at the time that I “just had weight to lose.” And I “really needed to stop worrying and start exercising more.” 

Only now, on the other side of this surgery am I really starting to process the effect of those words on my psyche. You think, “Well. She’s a doctor; she knows.” 

She did not know. 

And I was left defeated, self-conscious, confused, hurting and had about a dime’s worth of self-worth. 

I think healthcare workers are amazing - stoic in their mission. 

But sometimes, like anything, you get a not so great one. 

I’ve had better doctors since then, who treated me with tenderness and care. Pregnant with my daughter, I had nurses who sat and listened to me. Who actually turned the computer screen towards me and explained what each graph and beep and buzz meant.

Eventually, after succumbing to every postpartum marketing scheme under the sun, 

I picked myself up by the bootstraps. 

And I figured it out. On my own. 

I did the reading. I did the research. I talked to friends. I met with surgeons. I asked my questions. 

I documented everything. All four surgeons unanimously agreed the only option to fix my broken body was through surgery. And so I had the surgery that insurance deems “elective” and only covered a small fraction of the cost. 

I am angry, but I am also grateful. Joyful. Relieved. HAPPY. So happy. 

There is a lesson in here. 

I used to believe if I asked questions the doctors would get irritated and think I was being combative. I didn’t want to give the impression I was challenging their knowledge. Didn’t want to appear disrespectful or defensive. But somewhere between my two pregnancies I figured it out. 

You are allowed to be your own advocate. You have permission to Speak up and out when something doesn’t feel right. It is okay to Reach deep into your soul and grab your voice and empower yourself to ask your questions. You can do this with kindness and good intention and with grace and respect.

You GOT this. 

You can DO this!

 Let’s make a gentler and more transparent experience for women moving forward. Especially underserved and underrepresented women. 

I’ll see you out there. 💪🏼💪🏽💪🏾💪🏿

On Becoming a Mom, again.

I wrote about how I felt during my last few days of maternity leave with Wolfie, and so I only thought it fair to write something similar for Poppy. 

What a strange, beautiful first few months with my daughter. My daughter!

It was a pregnancy and maternity leave like no other, smack in the center of global pandemic, horrible wildfires and brutal heat waves, all of which persist to this day. The morning sickness was relentless,

the sleepless nights steady. The only similarity between the two postpartum time periods is that both involved a supreme court justice confirmation hearing (weird) and the fact that I have not made a baby book for either child, never scheduled a newborn or family photoshoot, and you guessed it, I still have not made a wedding album. Oh well. 

Early on during the pregnancy, I confessed to Dean that I didn't feel like I was bonding as much with the baby as I did when I was pregnant with my son. I admitted feeling guilty - already the second child was

drawing the short straw.

How wrong I was.

Poppy. My bond with you is unworldly. Two star souls gently bobbing around the cosmos. You are so snuggly; always want to be held. Never fussy and rarely do you have trouble settling yourself to sleep. 

It's impossible, but...sometimes I think, on some other level, you are aware of your demeanor. And it's as if you are making up for the stressful and scary pregnancy. 

It was around week 29, when  I finally stopped throwing up everyday, that we had a big scare that sent us to the ER. I was loaded up with steroids to help you grow, but never really had a definitive answer as to what sent me there. Shortly after that first trip to the hospital, I returned for an extended stay. Because of the pandemic and the restrictions enforced to minimize risk exposure, it was just me. No visitors but lots of doctors and specialists coming and going, explaining scenarios to me without enough context.

Lots of information and worries pinging around in my brain without my husband there to navigate the conversations and discuss follow up questions with me. 

I wasn't lonely. 

I met so many nice nurses who spent time talking with me and reassuring me. 

But I was sad. 

I missed Wolfie. I couldn't walk the halls because of the pandemic, and I had

to be connected to a heart monitor 24 hrs a day. Confined to my bed. It was boring and tedious, but I did what I had to do. 

You arrived five and a half weeks early, but for me, you were right on time. 

The doctor on call wanted to administer medication to stop the contractions all together. "It's too early. We need to keep that baby in.  I'll be back in a bit to check in," she said. When she closed the door I told

the nurse I didn't want to do it. I politely, but sternly refused. I knew it was time for you. I felt so sure of it. I empathized with the doctor, and I told her so. I remember saying, "You seem conflicted about this. And I need you tell me why?" She couldn't decide what the next course of action should be. Finally, as if conceding, she dropped her hands to her lap and said, "Have you ever been in the NICU? It's so sad. You don't want to be there. It's too early." 

But still, even then, even after that conversation, I knew. 

And I wasn't scared. 

Finally the doctor said, "Let's just see if these slow down. Don't you want to go home? You don't want to be here another week like before." 

But you persisted. And I listened. I told the nurse I wanted to see how this played out. 

Afterwards Dean turned to me - his face in disbelief. 'You did it Em. You stood your ground.' What happened next was rapid, organized, chaos. I was carted into the OR for surgery

within 30 minutes of the discussion with the doctor.

You spent 5 or 6 days in the NICU, and when the time came, sooner than initially anticipated, the nurses didn't want you to leave. They had all fallen so in love with you, sweet Poppy. Dean and I had to take

turns visiting you every day; we weren't allowed into the NICU at the same time with Covid-19. Before I was discharged from the hospital and you were in the NICU, I felt so grateful. You were safe and cared for, and I was able to have a few precious nights of rest and recovery.

Wolfie was my first pregnancy. But you, Poppy, are my last. 

I am grateful beyond words to have been able to get pregnant and deliver two beautiful children. But pregnancy was hard on me. Hard on my mind and my body. I figured out the mental health piece about a year postpartum with Wolfie. And now I am getting consulted on how to repair my core - which has all but been replaced with scar tissue. Another surgery down the road awaits. Sigh. 

But I'd roll the dice and sacrifice it all again. I really would. 

Thank you for being the sweetest baby in the whole wide wild world. Thank you for gifting me a son and a daughter. And please know Poppy, that even though our extended days spent together are over for now, it's okay. Because you are my daughter. Forever!

Pregnancy During a Pandemic

In the beginning, I didn't think too much about being pregnant during this pandemic. The severity of the pandemic was changing daily, if not hourly, and the many consequences and parameters now set in place were not yet part of our lives.  Quickly though, the rules associated with quarantining and sheltering in place became more explicit, and the days stretched into weeks, and then months. 

It was earlier on, at the height of the daily news briefings, that a new realization started to sink in for me. There wouldn't be a trip home to show off my belly and accept a few days of doting from my parents and sisters. I was thinking about when I came home to see my family during my first pregnancy - my dad, adjusting the pillows on the couch as I napped, mom taking me shopping for my first maternity clothes so I'd be more comfortable. Gestures they would likely do anyway, but being pregnant and back home in my parent's house for the first time, they seemed more significant. 

 And more recently, I keep pestering my little sister about when she will be finished with a sewing project she is going for me. What she doesn't realize though, is the reason for the urgency. I keep thinking about when I receive the package, and how I will be able to touch the fabric she had touched before me. I honest to god think about it all the time. I picture myself smoothing my hand over the drapes she sewed, and it makes me feel closer to her. And I wish I could see my older sister. I wish I could hug her and let her know that I worry about her, living in a new state, not yet able to meet new friends or get a real feel for her town. 

Now, I prepare for the fact that my parents won't be able to fly across the country to see us when the baby is born - at least not safely, and certainly not without worry. But it hasn't been until recently that I feel an intense sadness - grief almost - when I consider it. Part of the sadness and panic relates to just how helpful they were when my son was born, and adjusting the plans and expectations we had all mapped out for the birth of my daughter. I'd had a very difficult recovery from the birth of my son. My mom essentially gained a newborn in me during those two weeks postpartum that she and my dad were staying with us. When my husband was busy attending to our son, it was my mom who helped me down to and up from the toilet, and in and out of the shower, wrapping my shocked and swollen body in its towel and helping me lift one leg at a time into my clothes to dress. It was my dad, tenderly arranging ice packs on my feet after I waddled, exhausted to the couch, and it was him who rubbed my back at the dinner table as I fought through fever chills and pain. 

The other part though - the larger, more looming part is the unanswerable.

I have the answers to the tactical. I know my husband will take care of me. He is inexplicably calm, resilient and focused when things are challenging. Despite his bravado, his tender heart is as big as his personality - and he will keep our ship on course. And I already know it will be 4 months later when he will finally allow his body to catch up on sleep, and his mind to rest. It breaks my heart, the sacrifices he will make. Breaks it, but in a good way. I also know our son's nanny will provide help and assistance to us that we will never be able to replicate or reproduce on the same level for her. We will hug her goodbye at night, close the door and shake our heads - how did we get so lucky? How can we ever extend back the same level of assistance and kindness she has given us? And I also know - at least I have to believe- that this time will be easier. That my mind and body are more prepared for what's to come.

So. It's the questions I don't have answers to that cause an instant, physical reflex, the kind right before a cry. My nose scrunches, my eyes squeeze shut and my throat closes briefly. 

When will my parents meet my daughter? When will they see my son again? 

Will they have the chance to develop a relationship with my children, like they do with my nephews who share the same coastline as them?

I don't know. 

Some nights, while my husband sits with my son in his room as he falls asleep, I'll push the screen door open and shuffle out to the back yard. I take a deep breath in, and stare across the valley and up into the twilight sky. I whisper into the air: I miss you. I miss you, I miss you. I. MISS.YOU. I miss you. 

And for a brief moment, I feel a cathartic sense of calm float over me. Another day has come to an end. Another day closer to giving birth. Another day with more insight into vaccines and restrictions lifted. Another day to come. 

On Becoming a Mom

It's the end of my maternity leave. Monday, I return to work after nearly 6 months of leave; 1 month prior to the birth of my son, and just shy of 5 months with him. Am I ready to go back to work? No. Not really. But I will be. I have been preparing myself these last few weeks, slowly getting reacquainted with the life of grown-ups and muni rides and noises of downtown. I've done practice runs of leaving my son with his caregiver, first for an hour or so, and most recently up to half a day, shoulders tensed and always stealing glances at my phone. Nervously clicking away in Google Translate to the nanny, "Is he awake yet? Did he eat? Has he pooped?" I've slowly wandered through department stores, attempting to find pants for work that button or zip to tuck away the soft, squishy parts of my body that remain after pregnancy. Armed with billowy blouses and 'transitional jeans,' from a clothing perspective, I'm ready. Mentally, I'm getting there. Friends and colleagues have told me the first 3-4 weeks after returning are a blur, but each day will become a little more gentle. "You'll get your groove back. You'll realize it's kinda nice to be able to walk out of the house without having to check your bag for the third time and ask, "Did I remember diapers, a bib, bottle and baby hat?" Admittedly, I'm looking forward to testing this theory. And I won't miss washing the endless tub of bottles that accumulate over the day. This, I can say with 100% confidence. 

In the very early days, when we were discharged from the hospital, I remember thinking to myself one morning, after 3 hours sleep and a 3rd round of pain medication: "Maybe Dean is better suited to do this. He's good at diapers and has more energy. I'll be the one to go back to work first." I was bleary eyed and in pain. So. Much. Pain. I could barely lift my baby, let alone my own legs from the bed to the floor. Nothing was comfortable. My whole pregnancy, I looked forward to the return of back sleeping and tucking my feet under my butt while sitting on the couch... silly me. These small joys would have to wait. Instead of peaceful moments with my son, gently rocking together in his nursery, Dean would guide me out to the couch and prop me up against a pile of pillows while my parents rubbed my feet and positioned ice packs around my swollen ankles. And so it went. Slowly and clumsily though, I found my footing.

Maternity leave was Stormy Daniels and Kim Jung Un and the Thai soccer team rescued from the cave. Harvey Weinstein and Mark Zuckerberg and the Russia investigation. Oh. And Judge Kavanaugh. It was about 1 billion dollars spent on Amazon and Instacart and Good Eggs deliveries. Hours and hours and hours and hours of scrolling the Internet and Facebook mom groups in the quest to find the ideal baby bottle, the best play mat, and safest pacifier; the right time to 'size up' diapers, and the correct way to wear your baby in a carrier. This list is endless and continuous. Many, many, many texts logged to various friends. Calls to my sisters. Facetiming with my mom and dad. "Am I doing this right?" Exhaustive research on Diastisis Recti and the safest way to repair my broken, separated abs. Two cases of mastitis, including one with a trip to the ER. Oh, and a 5 day anxiety spiral when I convinced myself we had bed bugs or dust mites or fleas, and spent another billion dollars on experts and mite sniffing dogs to come to our house and basically tell me, "Lady, you're crazy. There's nothing here. That will be a billion dollars please."  An ocean's worth of water used already for laundering  piles and piles and piles of wash. A baby book I have yet to fill out, and while on the subject of keepsakes, a wedding album I haven't made either. All four hours of The Today Show, every day.  And The Good Place and Sweet Bitter and every season of Southern Charm, minus the back half of Season 4 which mysteriously disappeared from On Demand, leaving me left to wonder, "But how HOW did Katherine end up loosing custody of her children again?!" Only one rainy day. A trillion steps logged with the stroller, peering into the beautiful single family homes of Pacific Heights, daydreaming about which pacifier they deemed the safest. Which play mat they shelled out the big bucks for. Witnessing businesses opening and closing along Union Street. Figuring out which cross streets have sloped sidewalks for strollers, and which do not. And crying. Lots of crying. All types of crying. Multiple trips to the lactation consultant. The physical therapist. The cranial sacral therapist. The postpartum core experts. The pediatric ENT. So much mommy and me yoga. 

It would be disingenuous to say I'd do it all again in a heartbeat. I'd do it all again, but not as quickly as a heartbeat. Because it was really, really, really hard. And it will continue to be hard. What's easy, is finding the words to describe the stresses and uncertainties. What's harder - impossible really - is to articulate how I feel about my son. How I feel about my husband becoming a dad, and me a mom. What is the word to describe the feeling of having gone from a couple, to a family. It is an emotion so big, there is no word yet created to express it. Is the word love? I don't think so. Because I love Ozark. And red Gatorade and the smell of baby lotion. It doesn't really seem appropriate to try and sum up how I feel about my family with the same word I use to describe a Netflix show and a sports drink. I'll keep searching for the word. In the meantime, today I am going to take my son for a walk. I'll feed him his bottles and put him down for his naps. We will giggle and give each other neck nuzzles and I'll pepper him with kisses and thank him for his smiles. The same as everyday. 
Because what I am realizing is, maternity leave coming to a close doesn't mean time with my son is over. He's my son. Forever! So it's not the end of something. Not at all. It's the beginning of everything. 

(Except for washing bottles. It is definitely the end of washing bottles.) 

A Year Ago Today...

A year ago at this time, I reported to the San Francisco Hall of Justice for my first day of what would end up being nearly 2.5 months of jury duty. I served as juror #5 on a complicated and gruesome murder trial. A crime that took place years ago, but for many reasons, had only just gone to trial last year. The case was peppered with legal complexities and considerations - with an endless list of witnesses from both the prosecution and the defense. I sat in the courtroom four days a week, sandwiched between two older male jurors and listened. and watched. The information and testimony and images and evidence we were presented was sometimes confusing, highly graphic, emotionally charged and almost always horrific. I can't un-see or un-hear any of it. And I think about the trial and the people involved nearly every day. That is no exaggeration. 

During and following the trial, people often asked me: Sooo? Was it everything you thought it would be? It is a difficult question to answer. The experience ripped my guts out and shattered my heart. It put a strain on my relationship. It burdened my team at work. It consumed my every thought and made me feel jumpy and anxious and lonely. So lonely. 

I had always wanted to serve on a jury, which I know sounds completely ridiculous. I loved following high profile court cases profiled on the national news. It was my guilty, juicy pleasure, which I expressed quite openly. Now, I feel silly and ashamed for how gratuitous that was of me, how naive my obsession was with other people's pain splashed across the tabloids and displayed in a public forum. 

Law is complicated. Courtrooms are process heavy. People are.... strange. Being locked in a deliberation room with said strange people is bizarre and frustrating and tiresome. It is nearly impossible to remove emotion when reviewing the facts. Reasonable doubt is hard to define. And it's a very odd, sensational feeling to know the fate of a person's freedom rests squarely on 12 shoulders. 

But. 

But the experience made me consider things I never would have thought about. It taught me patience. Patience for people, and for process. Patience knowing you are at the mercy of the court - straight down to bathroom breaks. It tested my strength and called upon kindness. It tested willpower and empathy. It illuminated our criminal justice system. Yes, there are imperfections. And yes, there is privilege and power for some when others are silenced. But the system itself- although it is not without flaws- is, from my experience fair. I learned that there is no substitute for the feeling of being completely surprised and awe-struck by finally learning the opinions of the people you sat alongside for so many days. And I realized that you will never regret speaking openly and honestly both from the head and the heart, and I learned, that from every experience, we can find space to do something good. 

America, The Beautiful.

On Tuesday morning

from a hotel room in Denver,

when the country was still waking

and the energy at the polls was just starting to pulse,

I shared my thoughts about Election Day. 

 How I appreciated the camaraderie of the occasion 

regardless of political affiliation. 

I acknowledged the strains that accompanied the day.

Some people would feel victorious, 

others defeated.

I encouraged friends, no matter the results of the day

 to remember the good stuff. 

To remember the power behind

 our individual passions but also our shared privilege.

But I didn't anticipate the result. 

And I wasn't prepared for just how heartbreaking

'defeated' could actually feel.

And it's not just him over Her. 

I mean, it is but - 

- but it's more the overwhelming 

sadness and shame and guilt I feel that people in our country 

feel so broken and tired and angry and a lot of us 

didn't hear it. Or see it. 

Or worse we did, but... we didn't believe it.

I didn't at least.  

That's a tough pill to swallow today.

The fact that we let each other down.

I understand people feeling divided. 

And I support honoring our feelings 

as we make sense of all of this.

 I hope we can do this with kindness and with empathy.

 I said this Tuesday morning, and I'll say it again: 

The sunflowers will still turn towards the sun. 

The redwoods will still stretch to the sky. 

Rivers will run and birds will circle 

and we'll continue to take deep breaths and fill our lungs with air. 

Everyday the sun will set and it will rise again. 

And the stars will always be up there - even if clouded over.

And the best part is - 

Those things? 

Those beautiful things that make up America?

They belong to all of us. 

And no one can take that away.

xox

My Feelings Lately.

There are moments, every single day, that most people wished that they had behaved better. Perhaps exercised more patience, more restraint. 

Everyday instances that we are not as proud of our reaction or reflexes as we could've been, if we had just taken a deep breath and not allowed ourselves to get overwhelmed, or defensive, or prideful. We're human. Our natural born instincts are to demonstrate survival tactics and power. To protect ourselves and prove our worth on this planet. 
Moreover, history has taught us to defend our beliefs fiercely and passionately. 
But there's a difference between passionate dedication, and abrasive intimidation. 

I can forgive the instances I mentioned above. I can pardon those moments of weakness, or impatience when reacting to rejection or disappointment that we all experience. But what I cannot wrap my head around, what I cannot understand, and what I cannot rationalize, is the trend - seemingly sweeping the country - of cheering on grown adults whose tactics include strong-arming and name-calling and shutting out and putting down. 

When did this happen to us? When did we become a country that favors prospective leaders who preach exclusivity rather than inclusivity? When did people start equating kindness to weakness? It breaks my heart. 

The political race has become an atmosphere seeped in "gottchas" and one-upping, rather than solution searching and problem solving. 

I'm not trying to romanticize politics prior to this election year. Certainly, there has been no shortage of misgivings or mistakes throughout each presidential term. Unfortunately, corruption is a term long synonymous with politics... but bullying should not be. Stigmatizing should not be. Hate, should not be. 

I know I am a bit of a dreamer with my eyes towards the moon, but I am not naive. I think most people respond better to a smile than a smirk.

I want to raise a family in a country that encourages everyone to acknowledge there are differences in the world, and seek the beauty and the opportunity to learn from these differences. We need to do more listening and less fist clenching. More considering, and less insult-slinging. Teach the values of integrity and grace. 

And I know we can do it. 
I know we can. 

In my life, I choose to lead with love, and with kindness. Maybe I'd make a really lousy politician. But I think I make a decent human. 

xox