Hello I'am Meggan Welcome to my website.
It has been a few days since I posted and I must apologize, seems we have ALL come down with some sort of illness and all movement at my house came to an abrupt stop with the exception of hands going towards Kleenex boxes. I was on point taking care of everyone when I was struck down. No good. It has been MISERABLE in the House of Ick! It was all very snotty, drainy, and dramatic with yours truly ending up in the ER last night at 2:00 a.m. with a raging ear infection. With the exception of a few self induced cruel tequilla hangovers in my early 20′s I had never had so much pain in my head. I honestly thought I might be having a stroke. 36 and a victim of a stroke…maybe I could get on Oprah after all. Sick I know, but it always goes back to Oprah.
An Oprah show appearance will have to wait, it was not a stroke, just a crushing ear infection. I think my ear drum burst, because I was fine and then a tearing sound and extreme ear pain. I thought to myself that I must of pissed some one off. It was/is still soooo painful. Was Jesus mad that I called the tomato a slut? I meant it in the most endearing way. Just trying to get people to be interested in reading about produce eating vegetables. Don’t hate…appreciate.
Numbing ear drops, antibiotics, and some pain killers later (which I HATE to take) I am on the mend. Just in time for flu season….
P.S. Jesus if you are reading this, my next video is on the onion and there is nothing sluttly about the onion. I will keep it “G.”
Vagina vagina vagina. It needs to be said. My vagina is the thing that got this whole process started for me, including this website. My vagina was amazing in delivering my son, but she and I took a royal ass whipping in the process and we are ready to tell the story. I originally posted these vagina entries long ago and then took them down, but I am ready to share my story again. The three entries are in chronological order from deliver (Your Vagina Is Healing Kind of Funny), to the vagina surgery to repair the birth stitch line (Time To Carve The Thanksgiving Vagina), to finally the dramatic and painful road to vagina surgery recovery (As The Vagina Turns). Read ahead, you’ll laugh…you’ll cry…you’ll cross you legs….I did all three…often at the same time.
Hold on to your panties ladies, it was a wild ride!
Music to my ears. What girl wouldn’t want to hear that about her vagina, that it’s healing “kinda funny”. This is what my Ob/Gyn says to me on my post birth visit about three months after my son’s delivery.
Vagina healing funny…NOT SO GOOD.
A little back story is a must. My son Lucas was 9lbs. 11 0z upon arrival. He was a BIG healthy boy…and I got him out in five pushes. After two pushes I had a three minute contraction and his heart rate went down and didn’t come back up. The nurse ran out of the room and yelled CODE. Suddenly the birthing room was FULL of doctors and nurses…
All of them looking like the cast of doctors from Grey’s Anatomy.
I kid you not, the doctors and nurses were all georgeous. Side bar, the female doctors and nurses at Kaiser Morse in Sacramento got it going on, they looked like they took a break from shooting at Seattle Grace Hospital to deliver my baby. Out of nowhere, Dr. Meredith Grey’s look-a-like was staring at me between my legs. After a brief second of, “gosh they all look like Dr.s from Grey’s Anatomy,” we got back to saving my baby’s life. “Dr. Grey” told me I had three pushes to get Lucas out or it was an emergency C-section.
I think I went to the other mental place that Mothers go when you hear your baby is in trouble. I felt the room go still, it was like there was no one there, and it was suddenly completely quiet as I pushed my baby out in exactly three pushes! YEAH! Three pushes and a lot of tearing later, my son Lucas was born. He didn’t even stop for his shoulders. I went from crowning to crying in three pushes flat. My vagina was amazing, a hero, a warrior and she had the battle scars to prove her courage on the battlefied.
So after my son was safe and ten fingers and toes had been counted, I watched as Dr. Grey tugged and sewed me up. It was killing me, not the sewing (thank you epidural) the fact that they all looked like television stars. I had to say something….
Me: (While looking between my legs), “Is Mc Dreamy” on rounds today?”
Dr. Grey: “Excuse me?”
Me: “This is cheesy, and maybe not the most appropriate time to bring this up, but you know you all look like you belong on Grey’s Anatomy.”
Dr. Grey: (Sigh) “Yeah, we get that sometimes.”
Me: “It’s kinda cool…..Dr. Grey?”
Dr. Grey: “Yeah.”
Me: “Can I ask you something? Before you were saving lives at Seattle Grace, did you study Home Economics?”
Dr.Grey: (Playing along), “Um, why?”
Me: “Because I am watching you sew up my vagina, and I hope you’ve at least made a pillow or shirt before this.”
Dr. Grey: (Lauging out loud), “Yes, I have done this before, but we might need to do some repair work after you heal.”
That is how the whole vagina chronicles got started. The story of how my vagina had to be repaired and how my vagina ”healed funny”.
I know, I know, a lot of vagina talk right off the bat, but it has been a big part of my goings on as of late. Most of the time I am happy when we (my vagina and I) are in a silent state of bliss. Sort of a zen silence is golden understanding…I make sure nothings leaking, creaking, or cracking down there and my vagina leaves me alone (i.e. no protesting with a yeast infection). I make sure I don’t go filling her up with scented tampons or God forbid a douche (shudder). I also make sure she is not a hotel with different visitors every night, leaving their STD luggage behind. My husband is the only guest checking in, and I had his bags screened at the airport before he ever boarded my plane. So you can see that I felt horribly guilty offering up my vagina to the chopping block to get all my stitches repaired from my son’s birth. She did such a good job of getting him out, that my vagina didn’t see it coming.
I lied to my vagina. I told her it wouldn’t hurt…it did!
I told her it would be over quick…it took an hour!
I told her there would be only one shot, there were SIX bulleyes right between my legs!
This all went down the week before Thanksgiving. I teased my OB/GYN that he was getting practice for carving the Thanksgiving turkey. He dryly replied, “turkeys aren’t vaginas.” I am such a sicko, with my legs in the air getting ready to be carved up my mind started to wander. Do turkeys even have vaginas? If a vagina WAS a turkey, what would you serve it with? Ha ha. (Now I am amusing myself). Wouldn’t you stuff the turkey vagina with penis stuffing? (Now I am actually laughing). All this turkey vagina talk was doing a wonderful job of distracting me until that first needle pierced that first layer of oh so sensitive skin. All of the sudden there was NO FUCKING WAY A TURKEY WAS A VAGINA BECAUSE IT WAS MY VAGINA AND I AM NOT A TURKEY AND IT FUCKING HURT!
I thought, my son had better never do drugs, never jaywalk, never speed in his car, never get a bad grade, never be mean to me. I have earned points in his good behavior bank the hard way. Of course that is only “slightly” unrealistic, but as my legs started trembling and the shots started going in and my doctor looked for his glasses (that were on his nose) I felt I had earned points in the bank of YOUR CHILDREN ARE ALWAYS WELL BEHAVED…opening a branch near you. Listen, it is late lovies, I will write more later. Vagina drama to be continued.
My vagina has more drama than the afternoon soap operas. Lots of you have asked how my vagina is doing. After my vagina surgery and subsequent horrible recovery there seems to be an enormous interest in what’s going on “down there.” My friend Monica’s husband even asked for a “Toolee” update when I went underground for a few days. I wish there was as much interest in my vagina when I was in my 20′s, back then I couldn’t buy an inquiry. It’s the truth, it was so bad that when I was approaching thirty my Mother asked, very tenderly, if I was a lesbian. She also went on to include that she would unconditionally accept me and my “friends.” It was all very sweet, but I had to disappoint her and tell her I wasn’t gay, neither men nor women were interested in dating me. I was just a single woman, approaching thirty. I think my Mom was just trying to double her odds of getting a grandchild out of me. It didn’t matter, she wanted me married and pregnant. If a tree could of married me and got me pregnant she would of asked if I liked bark, and accepted us both, splinters and all.
Just the opposite is true now, seems everyone wants a peek at the action. Especially if you are a doctor, wear a white coat, and work at Kaiser. You see after my vaginal surgery to repair the stitch line and tearing due to my son’s birth, something went VERY awry. I was not healing normally. I was bruised, had intense itching, constant throbbing, and an entire week after the procedure my vagina was still so swollen it looked like I was baking bread in my underwear. I couldn’t sleep, pick up Lucas, or sit. Wooden chairs were an ENEMY.
I became a frequent “spreader and scoot on downer” at Kaiser. The doctors tried everything: vicodin, codeine, numbing cream so I could pee, antibiotics, steroid foam, yeast infection treatments, ice packs, nothing worked. They could not figure out why I was in agony and not healing properly. I was in so much pain, I even went to the ER on a SUNDAY. This is where a Dr. Dakota (sounds pornish) complimented me on my smile before he examined my vagina. I thought to myself, “Dr. Dakota, you naive man. You spoke too soon…just wait till you see my OTHER pair of lips.” Turns out Dr. Dakota thought it might be a fistula. Curious what a fistula is? Me too…and I asked.
Me: “What’s a fistula, sounds terrible.”
Dr. Dakota: “Basically it is a hole between your rectal and vaginal wall.”
Me: (Already getting suspicious of where this was going). ”How do you check for a fistula?”
Dr. Dakota: ”basically…..”
Dr. Dakota: “basically I put my finger up your butt and press against your vaginal and rectal wall, AND if your vagina poops poop you have a fistula.”
Me: (sigh) “Let me guess….scoot on down.”
So that is exactly what I did. I scooted and he inserted. One gloved finger pressed aganist my vaginal and rectal wall later…no leaky faucet. My vagina, in fact, did NOT poop poop. No big surprise, no fistula, and still no correct diagnosis. He told me to see my OB/GYN in the morning. I felt cheap. This guy basically hits on me and then five minutes later shoves his finger up my butt and not so much as a cocktail first. In some countries we would be married. My sore vagina and now my sore ass beat a quick retreat from Kaiser, no better than we entered.
It wasn’t until the next day that I found salvation in the form of a kind little doctor whom I had never met before. I began to think I was having an allergic reaction to the stitches. I mentioned that to the doctor and that sweet angel of a woman agreed and she very carefully took my stitches out!!!!! Within 15 minutes I was feeling so much better, and an hour later it was as if Jesus (or Oprah) performed a miracle and healed me on the spot. Release the doves, I thought. Sound the trumpets, alert the media, I WAS HEALED!!!! I thought at any moment I was going to start talking in tongue, that is how quickly I felt better and how relieved I was.
An update to today. ALL the stitches are now out. I had to go back and have one more taken out that had surfaced. I am still a little sore, but I can sit without wincing and seem to be on the mend. Thank you all for your support and kind words. “Kitty” and I both appreciate it.
There are many combinations that seem to go hand in hand. Chips and guacomole, hot dogs and ketchup, to name a few.
One combination that is not as fluid…knee surgery and a one year old baby that can walk.
Oh my gosh, these last two weeks have been a struggle. I am so frustrated and feel like I can’t do anything. I know I had to get the surgery, my knee was killing me and actually I had fallen several times when my knee just gave out, but the healing process is very slow and my son is very fast. I of course feel guilty. MOTHER GUILT! Guilty that I can’t play with Lucas like I used to, guilty that we can’t go on long walks, guilty that I can’t be as active with my step-sons, guilty that we have hired someone to come in and help take care of Lucas. The nanny is great and Lucas loves her, but I feel terrible that I can’t do it all myself. I feel like all I do is say,
“Do you mind if…”
“Can you please…”
“Will you do me a favor by…”
“I’m sorry to ask, but…”
I am so used to doing everything for others that it is very difficult to be dependent. When I went back to Doctor Hottie to have my knee drained (it is a fun as it sounds), the nurse took one look at me and said, “you have Mother guilt.” How did she know? I laughed because I was just talking to our nanny saying the same thing. The nurse said she has it too, no matter what she does, all mothers do. I was somewhat comforted. Comfort in guilty numbers. Regardless I am healing slowly and doing to best I can to make this time as easy on Lucas, and the rest of the family as possible. Besides being a little too delighted that I can no longer catch him when he puts something in his mouth, I don’t think Lucas knows the difference.
My step-sons are even more impatient with the healing than I am. They look at my knee like they are waiting for water to boil. Like at any moment I will throw the crutches to the side, announce that I am better, and immediately take us all skiing. It is funny. Every time I see them they ask, “are you healed yet?” “How much longer till you can go bike riding with us?” “This is the last surgery right?” I won’t even go into how I broke my arm mountain bike riding with Harrison three months after Lucas was born. Somewhere in my heart I think I am a twelve-year-old boy. The boys have been great about it all though, from “lady area” surgery to knee surgery, they wait their best to get me back outside with them. They ask very matter of factly, your “lady area” is better right…and now your knee will be better soon…right?” Right I tell them all, I just haven’t told them that instead of Tae Kwon Do, mountain biking, and skiing, we will all be a family of swimmers and knitters, my body can’t take any more family fun.
The staff was attentive and knowledgeable. The accommodations were relaxing and clean. The atmosphere calm and quiet. You would think I am talking about the latest plush spa getaway, but as a busy Mom the best I can do is the new surgery center for Kaiser Medical Center. Wow, what a place.
I finally did it. I had surgery on my right knee. My meniscus desperately needed repairing. It had been torn to shreds after falling in heels during a restaurant safety meeting that I was leading (note to others NEVER wear heals when working in a restaurant or leading a safety meeting). I then followed that injury up with some not so fancy footwork during my Tae Kwon Do martial arts workouts. I would love to say I tore my meniscus street fighting for justice with only my blackbelt and quick thinking to protect me, but I was a white belt with a quick wit and overactive imagination instead. One that got carried away during class in the not so rough suburbs of Sacramento.
Regardless it was time for the knife, or laser, or cell phone, whatever they use now, the technology is so advanced. Ettore was on business trip when I scheduled my surgery and my parents watched my baby. You know what that means, I was ALONE at the hospital. For some this would be a terrible and sad thing, but we have a two bedroom condo that, along with my two step-sons, we have five people living in! Not wanting to fall victim to keeping up with the Jones’, I am a big believer in grow where you are planted. Still I was happy for a little time (and room) to myself.
The sweet nurses kept asking me if I was all by myself and my only reply was, “yes, thank God.” Their confused faces expressed concern, but I was blissfully knee deep in the latest issue of Oprah and I didn’t have it in me to explain that this was actually by choice. I was happy as a clam to sit there by myself and pour over Oprah with no interruptions, phone calls, poopy diapers, or laundry. I was in heaven. The doctor was a hottie (see picture above – you’re welcome) and the nurses brought me ice chips, a warm blanket, and even asked if I needed an extra pillow. They were going to have to cart me out of there. I was sad I wasn’t having both knees done. The only time it got a little uncomfortable was when the nurses (again) felt bad that I was alone and wanted to move me closer to the other patients after they gave me what they considered “bad news”. My surgery was pushed back an hour. Music to my ears. I let out a firm (and bit desperate), “No, please don’t move me”, and I think I might of startled the nurse a bit. I was almost finished with Oprah’s personal column, “What I Know For Sure” and I couldn’t have that ruined with any, “sooooo what are you in for?” small talk.
Sure enough, three hours after checking in, the time for my surgey came and my stay at Spa Kaiser ended. As they rolled me in to the surgery room, the doctor asked if there was any music I prefered to be put to sleep to for my surgery. I took a deep sigh and muttered Nina Simone. As I drifted off to sleep, dreaming of my future Tae Kwon Do battles and four inch heels, I smiled knowing it will just be a matter of time…I’ll be back.
My husband Ettore and I love each other very much. I think it is because we never have any idea what the other person is talking about. Ettore has lived all over Europe, has owned his own successful European bakery and restaurant for over 24 years, and speaks four languages. I graduated from a top university, worked in the media for years, and even interviewed the president of a country, but together we can’t seem to find our way out of a paper bag or manage to go from point A to point B without needing a Dr. Phil intervention. For some it is a simple tomato (tomayto) vs. tomato (tomahto), but for us it is more like tomato vs. steak sandwich. We are nowhere close.
I had to go back to Kaiser Hospital AGAIN. This time for an upcoming knee surgery, not my vagina. Even so, there I was AGAIN at Kaiser in my underwear and a paper gown. When the doctor asked me to lay back and relax I broke out in a cold sweat and locked my knees together. Understandably I was a bit nervous, thankfully Ettore was kind enough to drive me to my pre-op appointment. That is where the trouble started.
Both of us knowing our history of miscommunication, when Ettore dropped me off in front of the medical office building we looked directly at each other hoping to avert a catastrophe.
Me: “OK Love, here we go. I will be in THAT building on FIRST floor Orthopedics.”
Ettore: “OK Sweetheart, I got it. That building (points) first floor Orthopedics.”
Me: “Great Pookie! Just one more time, not Ob/Gyn I already had the baby, not Psychiatry, I already see a shrink, not Urology, I give up on trying not to sneeze and pee…Orthopedics on the first floor.”
Ettore: “Kitty, don’t worry I will be there when you get out of your appointment.”
Thirty minutes after my appointment……we have no idea where the other one is. Forty-five minutes after the appointment Ettore has asked the nurse if I actually had an appointment and I am freezing my ass of wandering the parking garage thinking my husband, who is twenty years older that me, is dead. We both want to strangle the other.
After frantic phone calls to Ettore and Ettore searching the halls, we bump into each other outside the building.
Ettore: “Where have you been?”
Me: “I thought you were dead!”
Ettore: “Who’s dead?”
Me: (Trying not to kill him) “No one, what happened?”
Ettore: “You tell me, I went to first floor Orthopedics.”
Me: “Impossible, I was at first floor Orthopedics.”
Ettore: “No, I was there, UP THERE…..on first floor Orthopedics.”
Now, despite the freezing cold, a stillness rests over Ettore and I. Neither one of us says a word. Like a detective, I think my suspect just coughed up a nugget big enough to crack the case. I don’t want to make any sudden moves and have him recant. My pulse is racing, palms sweaty, I think I got him. This could be it.
Me: (S-L-O-W-L-Y) “What…did…you…say?”
Ettore: (On to me, knowing I might be setting a trap) “I was up there (points up to the second story), first floor Orthopedics.”
Me: Breaking under the pressure. “There is no such thing as UP THERE for the FIRST FLOOR, there might be an OVER THERE, but the FIRST FLOOR IS NEVER UP ANYWHERE BECAUSE IT IS ALWAYS ON THE GROUND!”
Ettore: “Not in Europe. In Europe the first floor is the ground floor or level floor, and the second floor is the first floor.”
Me: “What? That makes no sense.” (It makes a little sense if you think about it long enough) “How long have you been in America?” I ask. ”We are not in Zurich, Switzerland. We are in Roseville, California. Kaiser is a long way from the Alps!”
Ettore: “Oops, sorry.”
Shit foiled again. What do they say, the road to hell is paved with good intentions. We call a truce, and decide the car is a way better place to be than outside in the cold. As we walk up the parking garage laughing at our mis-steps I realize that miscommunicating is better than not communicating and in a marriage you love each other no matter what floor you are on.
I had to take Lucas to the Emergency room tonight. I will tell the outcome now, as to not panic everyone and have to have you jump to the end of the story. Stomach bug. Prescription, lots of hugs from Mom, Pedialyte, and Mylicon (THANK GOD FOR PEDIALYTE AND MYLICON…I AM IMMEDIATELY BUYING STOCK IN THE COMPANIES). Lucas was not feeling well the last couple of days, lots of crankiness, twisting and turning, and plenty Lucas’ most frequently visiting baby ailment – gas. Or as we say around here; air, motorboat, puffs, or tooties. Most of the time my step-sons keep the description old school with a battle cry yell of, “LUCAS FARTED!!” My husband on the otherhand, who is Swiss, and for which English is not his first language will announce rather formerly in his deep voice and Swiss accent, “Meggan, Lucas has some air.”
These last few days Lucas has not only had air, but today he started with spitting up his bottle about one hour after eating. We retreated home and after his afternoon nap, he woke up screaming. Not crying, screaming. He shoved away his toys and was just inconsolable. I knew right then I had to take him in….to the ER. It was 6:30p.m. Damn the pediatrician’s offices were closed. I scooped him up and called my neighbor Jill and off the three of us went. It wasn’t until half way to the hospital that I remembered that Jill has a fear of hospitals. I immediately asked her if it was ok, she said it was fine as long as we don’t go to the ER. I told her that is exactly where we were going. Big deep breath from Jill and she decided she would be fine. I amost cried for her when we pulled up to the hospital and there was a man carrying a woman into the ER. I felt Jill tense up and she let out with a muffled, “OH DEAR.” “Don’t worry”, I replied, as I diagnosed the woman from 100 feet away in the dark with my non-existant medical background; no blood – “broken foot.”
So into the ER the three of us go. Two of us feeling sick to our stomach, Lucas and now Jill. Jill is very helpful, but not making any sudden moves as her eyes tear up and she sits perfectly still next to me. Lucas is moaning a bit and squirming all over me. Finally, they call us into the room where the nurses check you in. As the nurses are cooing over Lucas, an emergency call comes from a nurse. A female has passed out in the lobby!! My first thought is Jill. I ask the nurse to check on my friend, if she is not the woman laying on the ground unconscious, she is the woman sitting perfectly still not breathing in the cute track suit. Either way she might need some checking in on. Turns out it was a diabetic patient and Jill is fine, if you call being terrified and motionless fine. She was being such a good friend and a wonderful and brave trooper!!!!
Lucas, even sick, charms the nurses. “I swear he was crying”, I tell the nurses. “Oh handsome boy”, “cutie pie” and when a sweet older Mexican nurse calls him “mijo”, we both melt. I let out a sigh of relief, I felt that we were ALL going to be ok with “Nana” here.
In the small non-descript room, I am holding Lucas, or trying to, as we do the waiting for the doctor dance. Bounce, bounce, kiss on the cheek. Bounce, bounce, look in the mirror with Lucas, smile, smile, kiss on check. Kiss on cheek, give Lucas paper towel, Lucas throws towel on ground, coo in Lucas’ ear, whisper I love you, bounce, bounce. Sit down on doctor’s stool and ride around the room, coo in Lucas’ ear, bounce, whisper I love you, bounce, bounce. The dance Moms have done in wating rooms across the world. No matter how long it takes, doesn’t it always seem to take forever? We finally opened up the room door for a fresh horizon and scan of the hallway. Nana came by for a smile, and the broken foot lady was wheeled in. Not bad on my diagnosis, turns out I was right.
The doctor arrived and after a quick scan, check of the ears (which Lucas held still for) and stethoscope to the tummy the diagnosis was reached. We quickly packed our things and went to see if Jill was admitted in our absence. There she was sitting out in the hallway patiently, and very calmly waiting for us.
I gave Lucas the Pedialyte and Mylicon and he seemed to get instantly better. He is sleeping now and I hope we both get some sleep tonight. Tomorrow is a rest at home day and we are ready.
Tip for Moms – Mylicon is amazing. We have tried other remedies for gas and this really worked for Lucas.
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