I'm currently sitting in a hotel room in San Francisco, dreading having to walk over to the Moscone Convention Center. You see, I'm here for this year's American Diabetes Association's Annual Meeting, which means I get to look at slides explaining incretin mimetics, beta-cell preservation, and dyslipidemia over and over and over. Usually, these slides are presented by a low-level academic hoping to get tenure, and usually, the slides are read word... for... word... It's like nobody actually knows how to present anything anymore.
But I digress...
This will likely be the last time I'm away from Kristen until the arrival of the prince, and it's certainly the longest I've been away in years (I arrived yesterday, Friday, and won't return until Wednesday evening, just in time for our...)
Getting Ready for Baby Class!
Kristen and I signed up for a birthing preparation class, and the first session was last Wednesday. It was interesting to say the least. There were about a dozen couples there, and we learned such exciting things about the different phases of labor, how large Kristen's cervix is going to dilate (10 cm is a lot larger than you think, my friend), and some relaxation techniques (including massaging, which Kristen quite enjoyed).
We also watched a film about the different stages of natural labor, meaning that without drugs. Now, I've tried recently to be less judgmental about people. I'm trying to give them the benefit of the doubt. No more snarky comments about people's characters.
Except for in this case.
Why in all that's holy would you want to go through something so incredibly painful if you didn't have to? I mean, it's like saying, "Doctor, when you're extracting those 4 wisdom teeth, could you do it without any Novocaine or not allow me to take any Tylenol for the next 3 days." Why would you do that?
Of all the couples in the room, only one said that she's going to do it au naturale, but frankly, after that movie, I hope she changes her mind. If not, I'm allowing myself to judge and, after our final class, I'm likely to go up to her and yell, "You fool! It's the 21st century! Get with the program!"
And then run, because her husband's a big guy.
Showing posts with label Health. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Health. Show all posts
Saturday, June 7, 2008
Thursday, June 5, 2008
Gut Check
There's a new Mexican restaurant close to our neighborhood that we checked out the other night. Many non-Chicagoans don't realize this, but Chicago has a) one of the largest Mexican populations in the country (second only to LA, according to the 2000 US Census) and b) one of the best restaurant scenes as well, including a ton of great Mexican places. These range from super high-end meals (like Topolobampo) where you're likely to spend $400-plus on a meal for 2, to great taquerias (like La Pasadita, with 3 locations within 100 feet of each other) where you can get stuffed for under $5.
The place we went to the other night was called Mixteco Grill, a small place which served really fresh, tasty food. I had the pork; Kristen had the grouper.
And this interests you how, you ask...
Well, one of the sauces that came with my pork was habanero-based, and I have to say that it could possibly have been the hottest thing I've ever put in my mouth. I drooled. I cried. I smothered my poor tongue with refried beans. Nothing worked, and I just had to grin and bear it as the pain eventually (although not quickly) subsided.
While I thoroughly enjoyed the rest of the meal, I knew that later that evening, I would be in some discomfort. How much, however, I couldn't have guessed.
That night -- after I carried up an air conditioner and a new (used) television, and carried down our old television -- I found myself in a prone position on the couch, moaning and groaning. (That lifting of appliances only exacerbated my stomach pain.) I could hardly breathe. I was sweating uncontrollably. It was not a pretty sight.
Kristen, however, had little sympathy. She checked in on me a couple of times, but every time I let out a wail of "ohhh, my poor stomach", she merely shot me a look and then pointed to her own stomach which has grown quite large over the past seven months.
You see, dear readers, you cannot get stomach sympathy from a woman who is pregnant. It's just not going to happen. And I should've realized this. Kristen has had gastrointestinal issues practically from day 1 of the pregnancy, and it's only gotten worse as the weeks and months go on. She pops Tums like they're going out of style, she's started to get heartburn (forcing her to stand upright for a while after eating), and she burps. A lot.
Kristen is what I like to call a delicate flower. At least she was. Now, we'll be walking down the street, and she'll be burping like a sailor. At first, I used to comment on them: "Nice one!" or "That was loud!". But now, it's old hat.
(The only time I do comment is when Kristen makes her burps come out of her body sounding like the word "burp." That really annoys me. I mean, when I sneeze, I don't yell out "sneeze," do I?)
So what's the moral of the story here? Certainly beware of hot sauces at Mexican restaurants. But also, if you're suffering from a physical malady -- whether it is headaches, back aches, or stomach aches -- your 7-months-pregnant wife likely doesn't care as much about it as you'd like her to.
And rightly so.
The place we went to the other night was called Mixteco Grill, a small place which served really fresh, tasty food. I had the pork; Kristen had the grouper.
And this interests you how, you ask...
Well, one of the sauces that came with my pork was habanero-based, and I have to say that it could possibly have been the hottest thing I've ever put in my mouth. I drooled. I cried. I smothered my poor tongue with refried beans. Nothing worked, and I just had to grin and bear it as the pain eventually (although not quickly) subsided.
While I thoroughly enjoyed the rest of the meal, I knew that later that evening, I would be in some discomfort. How much, however, I couldn't have guessed.
That night -- after I carried up an air conditioner and a new (used) television, and carried down our old television -- I found myself in a prone position on the couch, moaning and groaning. (That lifting of appliances only exacerbated my stomach pain.) I could hardly breathe. I was sweating uncontrollably. It was not a pretty sight.
Kristen, however, had little sympathy. She checked in on me a couple of times, but every time I let out a wail of "ohhh, my poor stomach", she merely shot me a look and then pointed to her own stomach which has grown quite large over the past seven months.
You see, dear readers, you cannot get stomach sympathy from a woman who is pregnant. It's just not going to happen. And I should've realized this. Kristen has had gastrointestinal issues practically from day 1 of the pregnancy, and it's only gotten worse as the weeks and months go on. She pops Tums like they're going out of style, she's started to get heartburn (forcing her to stand upright for a while after eating), and she burps. A lot.
Kristen is what I like to call a delicate flower. At least she was. Now, we'll be walking down the street, and she'll be burping like a sailor. At first, I used to comment on them: "Nice one!" or "That was loud!". But now, it's old hat.
(The only time I do comment is when Kristen makes her burps come out of her body sounding like the word "burp." That really annoys me. I mean, when I sneeze, I don't yell out "sneeze," do I?)
So what's the moral of the story here? Certainly beware of hot sauces at Mexican restaurants. But also, if you're suffering from a physical malady -- whether it is headaches, back aches, or stomach aches -- your 7-months-pregnant wife likely doesn't care as much about it as you'd like her to.
And rightly so.
Thursday, May 22, 2008
Aches and Pains (and did I mention aches?)
I finished painting the new office/guest room combination, and I have to tell you, I'm quite sore. I was able to do the first coat last night, and I touched up the edges and some spots this morning before going to work. True dedication on my part, if I don't say so myself, although my knees are killing me from getting up and down the ladder and squatting.
(It's times like this that I wish I was 2 years old again. Have you ever seen the toddler squat? They do it so effortlessly. It's like they see a bug/plant/shard of sharp glass and they immediately settle into their squat to do a more thorough examination. For me, that squat would involve several groans, at least one "help me get up", and cracks and pops of my knee, back, and ankle joints. Which was what happened the last two nights.)
I stopped in to get an English muffin at a local sandwich shop for breakfast, and the woman took one look at my pathetic tiredness and told me that I should take a nap. It was 8:22 in the morning. Never before has a complete stranger known me so well.
(It's times like this that I wish I was 2 years old again. Have you ever seen the toddler squat? They do it so effortlessly. It's like they see a bug/plant/shard of sharp glass and they immediately settle into their squat to do a more thorough examination. For me, that squat would involve several groans, at least one "help me get up", and cracks and pops of my knee, back, and ankle joints. Which was what happened the last two nights.)
I stopped in to get an English muffin at a local sandwich shop for breakfast, and the woman took one look at my pathetic tiredness and told me that I should take a nap. It was 8:22 in the morning. Never before has a complete stranger known me so well.
Thursday, April 10, 2008
Biceps
I constantly worry. I keep myself up at night with worry. And with Barnabas coming on the scene, the worry has grown.
While some of my concern is legitimate (worsening economy, $8 gallons of gas, religious wars, sci-fi-style cities with revolting androids), much of it is irrational (sci-fi-style cities with attacking aliens). Unfortunately for me, I can do nothing about those issues. I am not going to change the economy or increase oil production on my own, and while I vow never to employ an android that will eventually turn on me and try to kill my family, I can't say that my neighbors will do the same. But there is one huge fear that I have that I can control.
I'm afraid I'm going to drop the baby.
He's not even born yet, and I'm already worried that after hauling him around for 5 or 10 minutes, my weak, puny arms will start to tremble and, with a spasm that paralyzes my entire body, I will drop him on the ground, breaking his delicate arm, causing him to forever hate me because he will be forced to throw like a girl and be picked last for Little League.
Now I'm not worried that I'll drop him when he's first born. He'll be 6 or 7 pounds. That is no problem. It's when he starts eating and growing and getting to be 15 or 20 or 25 pounds. That is heavy. And I am no he-man.
Case in point. We're combining our guest room and our office into one to allow Barnabas to have his own room. Our two computers are on 1950s Formica and chrome dining room tables co-opted into being desks, and while they're big and do the job, there are no drawers to put your pens and post-its and papers. So they're just sitting in piles on everything. It's quite the mess.
We've been searching forever for a desk, and last week Kristen won one on eBay and I went to pick it up yesterday. It's a giant (5' x 2 1/2'), old, Steelcase desk, one you'd see in a classroom or in the office the foreman of a factory. (We got a chair with it, too. You can see them here.) It was also heavy. Really heavy. Incredibly heavy.
So heavy, in fact, that it took me and one of the kids (kids, I say, but he's 22) who lives next door a good hour to get it up the three flights of stairs and into our place. And as I was struggling to push it up and over each step, as my shirt became more saturated with my sweat, and as Paul (the neighbor) laughed at my weakness more and more, I thought not of the pain that I'm likely to feel the next day (I'm extremely sore) but of how I'm going to have to get stronger if I'm going to be able to carry Barnabas without the threat of droppage.
Yes, yes, I know the desk was heavier. Probably by about 150 pounds. But that's not the point. The point is that after my body finally allows me to lift my arms above my shoulders and the pain in my back subsides, I'm going to start doing push-ups.
Really. Honest.
Stop laughing.
While some of my concern is legitimate (worsening economy, $8 gallons of gas, religious wars, sci-fi-style cities with revolting androids), much of it is irrational (sci-fi-style cities with attacking aliens). Unfortunately for me, I can do nothing about those issues. I am not going to change the economy or increase oil production on my own, and while I vow never to employ an android that will eventually turn on me and try to kill my family, I can't say that my neighbors will do the same. But there is one huge fear that I have that I can control.
I'm afraid I'm going to drop the baby.
He's not even born yet, and I'm already worried that after hauling him around for 5 or 10 minutes, my weak, puny arms will start to tremble and, with a spasm that paralyzes my entire body, I will drop him on the ground, breaking his delicate arm, causing him to forever hate me because he will be forced to throw like a girl and be picked last for Little League.
Now I'm not worried that I'll drop him when he's first born. He'll be 6 or 7 pounds. That is no problem. It's when he starts eating and growing and getting to be 15 or 20 or 25 pounds. That is heavy. And I am no he-man.
Case in point. We're combining our guest room and our office into one to allow Barnabas to have his own room. Our two computers are on 1950s Formica and chrome dining room tables co-opted into being desks, and while they're big and do the job, there are no drawers to put your pens and post-its and papers. So they're just sitting in piles on everything. It's quite the mess.
We've been searching forever for a desk, and last week Kristen won one on eBay and I went to pick it up yesterday. It's a giant (5' x 2 1/2'), old, Steelcase desk, one you'd see in a classroom or in the office the foreman of a factory. (We got a chair with it, too. You can see them here.) It was also heavy. Really heavy. Incredibly heavy.
So heavy, in fact, that it took me and one of the kids (kids, I say, but he's 22) who lives next door a good hour to get it up the three flights of stairs and into our place. And as I was struggling to push it up and over each step, as my shirt became more saturated with my sweat, and as Paul (the neighbor) laughed at my weakness more and more, I thought not of the pain that I'm likely to feel the next day (I'm extremely sore) but of how I'm going to have to get stronger if I'm going to be able to carry Barnabas without the threat of droppage.
Yes, yes, I know the desk was heavier. Probably by about 150 pounds. But that's not the point. The point is that after my body finally allows me to lift my arms above my shoulders and the pain in my back subsides, I'm going to start doing push-ups.
Really. Honest.
Stop laughing.
Wednesday, March 5, 2008
Aaaaahhhhhh-Choooo!
For the past three-and-a-half weeks Kristen has been coughing up a lung (she alternates between the two: right on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday; left on Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday; on Sunday she rests [naps]). It's a really terrible thing having the flu, and I can only imagine that it's about 100-times worse when you're pregnant as well.
She's doubly tired, is doubly queasy, and is doubly cranky. And the biggest problem is that so many of those really good drugs that we all love that will knock us out for days, allowing us to awake feeling 50% normal, are no-no's (although Kristen's doctor did give her a list of a few that she could safely take). But she continues on, the trouper that she is, and Barnabas will be the better for it.
She's doubly tired, is doubly queasy, and is doubly cranky. And the biggest problem is that so many of those really good drugs that we all love that will knock us out for days, allowing us to awake feeling 50% normal, are no-no's (although Kristen's doctor did give her a list of a few that she could safely take). But she continues on, the trouper that she is, and Barnabas will be the better for it.
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