not whispering about menopause

My last piece here was about breastfeeding. Interesting to look back and find new clarity and appreciation for what was, at the time, often frustrating and overwhelming.

But now I'm at the opposite end of the spectrum. Although smack in the middle of another hormonal shift.

Menopause. Or at least the time leading up to it.

My emotions have been shifting, my middle's been thickening, my boobs have been drooping. There are finally grey hairs on my head. The lines between my eyes never entirely go away. I see my mother's hands when I look at mine.

But, until this week, my period has been like clockwork. Perhaps a clock that runs a bit fast as for years now it arrives every 22/23 days. First day slow then bam: monster cramps and ridiculous flow for a day or so, then it tapers off for another two. Beforehand I feel swollen, sad, flirting at the edges of depression and despair at times. And then, everything lightens. That hormone shift, to me, is a bright light. A sense of relief. Comfort. Good will. I welcome my period and am grateful for the concrete sign that my body is working the way it should be.

This week, as I squeezed into pants and bemoaned the spotlight sized zit on my chin I realized it was just about that time. And then my period started, just a drip as if a faucet had been turned on but the water wasn't coming out full force yet.

This time though, the full flow never showed up. The cramps never hit. The relief and calm I invariably feel didn't happen. And so, days later, I'm sitting here still waiting. Knowing that this is it for now but still holding out hope that it was just a mistake, a glitch, that the blood will show up and I'll be back in my familiar cycle.

Hmmm.

Trying to find stability in these changes is unsettling. Reminds me of those early days of motherhood, when my body felt like it was betraying me and I didn't know that all would be fine in the end.

not whispering about breast feeding

Yesterday I found myself in the middle of a conversation about breast feeding. It's been a long time since I was an active participant. 10 plus years since the last time my younger one, with great disinterest, turned away from my left breast. He'd given up the right a month before which left me uncomfortably lopsided, forced to wear men's large sweaters to cover the imbalance.

The new mom I was talking to, who was just starting the process with her 4 month old, got me thinking about what breastfeeding meant to me. And to my kids.

Did it raise my children's IQ points? Did it boost their immune systems? Did we bond differently then we would have otherwise? I don't have answers to any of the above. But I know what it did for me.

I discovered a bravery I didn't know I had. Breastfeeding in public, at least for me, was a vulnerable experience bordering on terrifying. My child sobbing or screaming, my breasts swollen and aching, the nursing bra invariably getting caught in my shirt, I struggled trying to be discreet and private while trying to get a moving target latched on to my often raw nipple. I'd watch in awe at moms who casually slipped their mellow baby on while not skipping a beat. And then, one day, that was me.

It was at the MoMA, a Jackson Pollack exhibit. My older one was hungry and as I snuck behind a podium to nurse more privately a security guard rushed over to tell me I had to move. When I explained I was feeding my baby he blocked us from passing crowds making sure no one disturbed us.

I'd arrived as a comfortable breast feeder.

Which was a journey that almost didn't happen. My first time out had a rocky start. My daughter, born a month early, spent her first 5 days in the hospital, being pumped full of preventative antibiotics. She couldn't latch on at first - I was devastated they were giving her formula in bottles. Somehow failure at being able to breastfeeding meant failing as a mother. Days after she came home she started wailing uncontrollably, her little belly distended as my breasts burned, knives stabbing deep through my nipples. For three months our pediatrician told me I was just a nervous first time mother. In so much pain I had to pump just to keep the milk flowing.

Turns out she'd developed a yeast infection from all the antibiotics and had passed it to me. While telling my tale to a stranger on the street one morning she said she and her baby went through the same thing and told me what to do. A new pediatrician prescribed meds that afternoon and within two days the screaming and explosive gas stopped while I was able to go back to breastfeeding.

I was learning to trust my gut. And started advocating instead of accepting what the experts told me.

Back then I could barely whisper my breastfeeding concerns. Other mothers I met were incredibly judgmental - the opposite of what I'd expected. Some scoffed at me for abstaining formula while others judged me for not nursing, taking the bottles I had to resort to using as a sign I was incompetent.

In those first months I was often isolated. Frustrated. Lost. I'm sure plenty of other mothers struggled as well but I wasn't comfortable or confident enough to talk about it.

But, my daughter and I eventually settled into a comfortable routine. To know I was sustaining her as she grew and soon flourished helped me make peace with that dark time. And breastfeeding itself was so often sweet and delicious. Me and my baby connected again, sharing moments ours alone.

My first nursed until she was just over a year old. There were a couple of bouts of mastitis thrown in. Lettuce leaves and breast shaped gel packs got us back on track. Our last time was the morning she woke up with her first 4 teeth. We'd been down to once a day and when she bit down I knew we were done.

My son, from the beginning, was far easier and less interested. He only wanted to feed himself from the earliest of ages. There are countless photos of him, banana in his ears, peas splashed across his forehead. Nursing was too restricting, he always was twisting to see what be might be missing. Bottles and sippy cups were his path to freedom.

At one point I was addicted to pumping, producing so much milk the ice cube trays in my freezer were overflowing. I nursed on beaches, in restaurants, at a wedding while the bride and groom stopped by our table to say hello. On airplanes, at highway rest stops, deep in the night, early in the morning. At times I cherished the experience and others I exhaustedly resented that in the end it was all up to me.

And then, it was over.

Ending was bittersweet, as is so much of being a mom. While celebrating my kids' growing independence, that meant they were growing away from me.

Years later though, with a middle and a high schooler, our time together is different. But, it's still time together. My son asked me to watch every Knicks game with him this season. And my daughter can't wait to pass me in the aisles at Comic Con this fall. Entirely different experiences. But delicious nonetheless.

internal furnace

It's been a hellish week filled with severe anxiety, monstrous cramps, rampant nausea, intense mood swings. Fear. Panic. Scary thoughts. Oh and moments—more like 40 minutes stretches—when my internal temperature cranked up 100 degrees and I couldn't stop sweating. Lying in bed, sitting quietly at my desk, watching TV with the kids. That scared me even more.

And then I realized, I'm smack in the middle of perimenopause. All this time I've been thinking I'd be the person to sail through it with no symptoms, no discomfort, no issues whatsoever. Looking back though, for the past few years there have been more and more signs my body is changing and I just hadn't put the menstrual pieces together.

My period is coming more frequently. Ever 22/23 days. Cramps are getting more intense and last longer. My digestive system's become hijacked and I now lose my appetite for a few days before and during.

I've become remarkably forgetful, which is shocking and difficult as I'm detail oriented to an obsessive fault. I've left water boiling until the pot is empty, held keys in my hand while frantically tearing the apartment apart looking for them, gone to the supermarket and come back with nothing I'd planned to get.

There's been a sense of barely holding it together that's been growing over the past couple of years. This too, for someone who juggles like mad and keeps balls in the air at all times, has been far more than disconcerting.

I haven't said a word to anyone about any of this. I haven't really acknowledged any of it to myself. And it seems much of what I've been experiencing is typical. Average. To be expected.

I'll be 49 next month. And seems that in spite of my denial my body and systems are right on schedule.

Knowing helps. Reading, learning, researching, figuring it out, connecting the dots, researching. I spent yesterday sorting through books, articles, websites, making a list of more to explore.

And write about. Writing always helps. I haven't written, not really, in a long time. This is feeling like it could be my next big subject.

It's my reality. And that's always been my most powerful inspiration

kidney redux

This morning I had the unique opportunity of spending several hours with my brother, talking about our kidney transplant experience. We were asked to participate in a video our hospital is producing to educate potential donors, recipients and their families about the process.

We were one of 4 success stories that wanted to share.

That in itself is very cool.

I had no that was only the beginning.

Dave and I don't talk about the transplant anymore. While it was front and center for months, now its an occasional reference or offhand joke. Which is great. Life moves on.

And while we were in the middle of it we talked more about next blood test dates or messages from transplant coordinators or poster design (for our operating room signage). We spent almost no time looking back on how we got to this point, how it felt, where we'd end up.

We had the chance to do that today.

I got to tell him he was my hero, that his lifelong perseverance against chronic illness and challenges most of us will never know, is awe-inspiring.

We talked about getting to the point of needing a transplant. Of the realities of dialysis. Of how he'd never known what it was to feel healthy until now. He'd lost his first kidney to cancer at 9 months, the other was irreparably damaged by radiation and from then on his body was always comprised.

I knew that the gout he'd be suffering from for 20 or so years was gone. I found out today that the severe osteoporosis he'd had was significantly better.

Both thanks to his new kidney.

I watched the entire tech crew laugh and sometimes groan at his puns and swift comebacks. He also entertained them by wiggling his ears which is much harder than it sounds.

He learned that I'm a good speaker. It was nice to see my brother impressed with something I can do.

We discussed the tremendous differences we learned to navigate and accept in the months we spent constantly in touch. I'd forgotten how furious I'd become when he likened his surgical team to finding a good car mechanic. Fortunately I can laugh about that now.

And we acknowledged how sick he was.

He was really sick. So sick that I was terrified if the transplant didn't happen in a timely fashion it would've been too late. I couldn't say that out loud before. But now that it's part of the past it felt good to let it go.

We talked about how grateful I was that I was actually able to help after years of feeling increasingly helpless.

And we talked about miracles. Cynical as I can be, I will never stop considering transplants a miracle. That a life can be so dramatically, so positively, so immensely changed. That surgeons and doctors and nurses and coordinators can make this happen, that a kidney can be taken from one body, transplanted into another and make itself at home.

The one thing I didn't say this morning that I wished I had: while this transplant changed his life immeasurably, it also changed mine.

instructions

I like knowing.

Being able to be prepared.

Having a sense, whenever possible about what to expect.

In life that's not always an option, but wouldn't it be nice if, for more run of the mill, mundane situations, instructions were available?

For example, this morning I went for a mammogram. I wish I'd known in advance that I'd be wearing a short hospital gown—I would've shaved. A quick aside: I'd also love to know why this is a no pants allowed procedure. Seriously, my breasts, and I assume this goes for most if not all women, are not below my waist. As long as I'm asking questions, why the short gown for mammograms? Both long and short were available, with a "mammograms" label above the short bin. Do bare legs garner a better test result?

A note posted in the dressing room about whether the gown opening should be in the front or back would be a nice touch. Out of 3 of us in the waiting room, 2 opted for the front, one chose ties to the back. I kept my boots on, as was instructed. The back tier opted for no shoes but stayed in her socks.

A simple notice in the waiting room about what the test actually entails is a good idea. Translated into several commonly used languages.

Also, a printout of what to do after the test is over would help. I discovered, from the technician of my bone density scan, that if a problem with the mammogram had shown up, they would've known right away and one no longer needs to wait in the waiting room for an all clear signal. Glad I asked, I could've still be sitting there in my short pink, tied in the front gown.

A little forethought could save minor anxiety and countless small questions. For me, it's a worthwhile endeavor.

extraordinary vs. everyday

I have been lucky enough to have done some extraordinary things in my life.

Become a writer.

Publish my lifelong dream book.

Donate a kidney.

I happily (painfully, enthusiastically, worriedly, nervously, animatedly, obsessively) wrote about all of the above. They were events, situations, circumstances that aren't run of the mill and it helped, when going through things I'd never imagined, that stretched and challenged me in ways I wouldn't have thought possible, to write through it all.

Writing helped me.

And sometimes my words helped others. Patients hoping for health. Creative souls who wanted to believe they could write but didn't have enough confidence to try. People struggling in one way or another with the messiness of life. Reading about my experiences put words to feelings and situations so many others grapple with.

I stopped writing. It didn't feel like what I've been doing warranted time and attention.

But maybe I was wrong.

Maybe small things can resonate as powerfully as the monumental.

Maybe instead of feeling lost and incomplete because I'm not accomplishing epic things, I can appreciate that every day, every single day, there are incredible, soul-nourishing moments.

And maybe that's what life is all about—not just the monumental accomplishments but everything there is.

Like seeing my mom looking better this Thanksgiving than she has in years.

Playing catch, as the sun set, in the pool with Jon, Iz, and Jack.

Having puppies head butt me with excitement when seeing me when I walked through the door.

Melting back into being home after being away.

Sitting with how much I love and appreciate my family.

I am grateful for the extraordinary. And learning to be even more so for the everyday.

Diving Into One Fish

Fun. Creative. Urban.

Three apt words One Fish creator/designer/owner Colin Cowley uses to describe the fresh take on fashion he explores in his new clothing company, which launches its inaugural line today.

I was lucky enough to talk to Colin about his vision, his plans, and his backstory right before the world discovers One Fish.

What was your inspiration for your designs?

Inspiration comes from all over. New York City. Fashion culture. Product design that I like but then think about what I’d change. I’ve always been obsessed with colors and shapes, contrast, brights and darks.

I don’t sit down and create on a regular schedule. Creativity comes in chunks. I start with one big shape and see what happens. One idea can turn into a series that can take a month to work through.

What’s the significance of the One Fish name/logo?

I did a huge 10-foot mural in college—and the only part that people talked about was the 2-inch fish in the corner. That fish earned his name and image as the company logo.

Who do you imagine wearing One Fish?

I originally planned to cater to the urban hipster, limited edition culture but after getting feedback from wearing One Fish t’s around the city I realized the appeal is much greater than I imagined.

What do you do besides creating cool shirts?

Anything athletic. I boxed in college. I ride my bike all over NYC. I also shoot video, for short projects, and music videos.

What’s your backstory?

I’ve lived in NYC my entire life. Drawing in my spare time has been the only consistent in my life. That and my interest in fashion. It’s exciting to join them into a new career.

How do you see the company and the products evolving?

There are so many things I want to do: sneakers, jeans, accessories. I have a specific progression in mind when I look at the greater whole. My goal is to have a fully functional line of clothing so someone can wear a One Fish outfit from head to toe.

What’s next for One Fish?

Along with the first line of t-shirts and hoodies, there’s a promo video in the works, a digital look book and a website that’s launching 11.11.12. The grand plan?  Incorporating video, photography, design and clothing into one unified vision.

Where can people find One Fish merch?

www.onefishclothing.com