Tuesday, February 22, 2011

Bring Out Yer Dead

It's Tuesday and I'm still alive. Two visits to Urgent Care later, on antibiotic number 3 with an inhaler. Superbug, supernerd. Praying to the Nipple Gods I don't get thrush. Please, Nipple Gods. No thrush.

Toiling away to get work wrapped up. Taking sick time around the boluses of work, to reclaim whatever is left of my lungs and the sinus holes in my face. Where the bacteria made such a hospitable home. Fuck you, bacteria. Hope you like your housewarming present: erythromycin. Enjoy, assholes.

Focusing on what comes next: more time at home, more time with this guy:

Friday, February 18, 2011

Order 66

It is done. But first, my day yesterday.

I went to Urgent Care to find out if I could maybe please ohgawdhurryup get some elephant-strength antibiotics for my deathcold. After an unnecessary x-ray (they asked me if I was maybe pregnant, and I chortled and mumbled something under my breath about needing eggs and sperm for that), explaining to my ditzy doctor what mastitis is (it is not, as she suspected, an infection of the mastoid bone -- I was stunned by her presumption and in my daze just pointed to my boob and gave her a what-the-fuck look) as well as spelling the name of the drug I was taking for it (blah-blah-blah-acillin), and waiting and waiting and waiting, she told me what I already knew: sinusitis and bronchitis. Augmentin twice daily for about two weeks. Two doses in and I still have a raging fever. I am so tired, y'all. Almost ready for a dirt nap. Oh, and the doctor has a 4-month-old and delighted in telling me how her baby sleeps through the night for 10 hours, and how was mine? Not as much, I said, but getting there. She then asked me (hold back my punching fist, please) if I've started him on rice cereal, because then he'll sleep more. And then she gave me the greatest assvice-ish statement I've been gifted to date: maybe he's nursing at night because he's hungry. Wow. Did you learn that in medical school?

Then last night, while washing/wiping my ass with/spit-shining/sterilizing my pump parts, a little yellow valve went flying and the dog ran in to investigate whether the Meat Fairy or French Fry Fairy might have just dropped in to spread some canine culinary joy. Cause in the dog world, on-the-ground equals fair game, whether edible or not. You see where this is going. KB and I were on our hands and knees looking for this thing and could only conclude...that the dog ate it. Neither KB or I felt great, so I decided I would schlep out to le Target to buy a replacement. Let's just say, there is nothing dignified about standing in line at the checkout counter, face red from a 102-temp, hair a disaster of hobo proportions, sniffling, having uncontrollable spastic coughing fits and furiously ripping open the bag of cough drops hastily grabbed from the checkout-counter-temptation-rack, and then being asked cheerily by the clerk, "How are you this evening?" I felt like busting out in a raucous and rousing rendition of "I Feel Pretty," but I just stared blankly at her with my puffy dead eyes, and she knew I did not want to be offered a Target credit card and did not care if I could save 15% on my first purchase. That was the fastest sale in history. And with the warm weather and melting snow, I'm now kinda tempted to go scour the yard for yellow valve-shaped protrusions in the dog turds. Okay, not really. But wouldn't that make a great story for the next time (if there is a next time, which gods-willing there won't be) I get mastitis? Well, I do steam sterilize the parts, but this one time I fished a valve out of some dog dookie...I think, if the occasion unfortunately arises again, I will say that. For grins.

And then. Today. I gave my two-week notice and emailed a letter of resignation. I feel a weight lifted. They have two more weeks to squeeze blood from this rock and then they can consider themselves taken, and shoved. I feel some uncertainty, but mostly hope that I can start taking better care of myself at no one's expense. I am looking forward to more time with Jackson, working out, maybe rekindling my intimate relationship with my therapist (for a tune-up, since I'm in that mode), and spending some actual quality time with KB, which we both sorely miss and deserve and need. Glory be. Hallelujah.

Wednesday, February 16, 2011

Bad to Worse to Better

Stick a fork in me. I'm done.

After being up all night unable to breathe, with painful coughing fits and fever and chills, I conceded to KB that I CANNOT DO THIS. THIS being working full-time, sending Jackson to daycare full-time, pumping to facilitate all the full-times, and trying to live in between. Cause I'm not, really. I'm just barely, barely surviving. He admitted that he's been really worried about me having post-partum depression*, and that he wants me to quit my job and worry about the details of finding freelance work later. I am relieved, and yet still feel like a failure. Mostly relieved. I'm gonna go with that.

I'm taking some sick days at work because, well, shit, I'm really fucking sick, and have been for two months, and I'm spending my awake time (when not pumping, cause there's always THAT) hunting online for part-time contract medical writing jobs. I'm just going to pepper the interwebs with my resume and online applications and see who bites. I'm also going to compose an email to our daycare/school principal to formally request rates for downgrading to part-time, either 3 or 4 days per week. My preference would be 3 days, maybe Monday-Wednesday, giving us four-day weekends together. If no job materializes and the money gets tight over the next several months, I will pull him out of daycare and stay at home full-time for a while. Anything is better that where I am at this moment. And I might surprise myself -- I might really like that. You just never know.

So, Interweb Bloggy Friends, fingers crossed that I haven't spat in the universe's eye too much and that things work out for the best in all this. Time to set my life on track and thoroughly enjoy this delicious little bundle of joy we worked so hard to have.

*I don't think I do, but I'd bet at least a couple of acres of the farm on situational depression. Since antidepressants aren't indicated for that anyway, I'm just gonna go with the behavioral modification approach -- that behavior being, taking this job and shoving it.

Monday, February 14, 2011

It's a Guaranteed Bestseller

"A Tale of Two Titties."

"The Tell-Tale Tit."

"Oliver Tit."

"Tits of d'Urbervilles."

"The Fall of the House of Udder."

(But, wait! I've got a million of 'em!)

Three doses of antibiotics and extra-super-strength ibuprofen and my boob feels nearly normal again. I think it just needed a good feeling up by the doctor today, and the threat of a needle poke should the duct blockage prove to be an abscess. I was advised to clean my pump equipment as thoroughly as possible, considering the frequency at which it's used (and how the recent increase in use correlates with the onset of perpetual mastitis). So I guess that means no more letting the dog lick the breast shields or spit-shining the screw cap adapters. Perhaps I'll install an autoclave in the basement.

Third Time's the Charm?

Mastitis. Again. Bollocks.

Saturday, February 12, 2011

Big Boy

I bought this outfit when Jackson was a newborn, because it was too stinking cute to pass up. The tag read "6-12 months" and so I snickered, "well, it'll be a long while before he can wear it, but it'll be so cute when he does -- in about a year* from now!" Here is my almost-5-month-old wearing The Outfit:
Proud milk belly bulging out, casual death-grip on the rocking chair arm. He talks (kind of), he sits up (sort of), he laughs at our jokes (in his way), he thinks kicking my face** as I sing "Boom Boom Pow" to him is hilarious. Mah boy is growing up, y'all. Time stops for no one.

*Being a noob, I didn't understand the laws governing baby clothing sizing. Always assume it's too small and you'll choose correctly.

**The only appropriate reaction to this song.

Monday, February 7, 2011

I Coulda Been a Contender

My ambivalence about work has turned to sour. I just don't like doing it. It doesn't like me right back.

Here's a history lesson: once upon a time, I had a very promising career in academic science ahead of me. I landed a prestigious postdoc at a top-tier institution, where Nobel laureates teach medicine and my would-be advisor has Howard Hughes money. I would have worked like a dog had I taken the job, as such labs are known to be postdoc factories where they crank them out like widgets, but I would have had a nearly-limitless budget to do whatever floated my boat for research and probably would have had several Nature or Science publications and a grant or two and then an academic position somewhere. To miss on getting a tenure-track assistant professorship after that kind of experience, I would have needed to show up to the interview in an SS uniform and lipstick smeared crazily all over my face, wielding a carving knife. But, I passed. I took a postdoc position at my graduate institution working for a middle-of-the-road guy, doing middle-of-the-road research. I wanted to stay close to KB because I thought (correctly) that we would soon get married and have a family. I got a couple of papers out of the deal, but walked away from it as well to pursue a different career path as a medical writer. Why? I was super good at teaching, pretty good at bench research, and very good at writing papers and grants and presenting my research. But I saw the women around me struggling to balance academic work and family, and I didn't want to go that route. I didn't want the lifelong struggle. So I bailed. I don't think of it as "giving up" something to be with KB, and ultimately with Jackson, but I suppose that's what it was. I gave up something to get something. I don't regret it, but I do sometimes fantasize about what my life would be like if I had continued down that path. I might have my own lab by now. I would be a few years away from a tenure decision. I would have students (labslaves!) and postdocs (minions!) and would teach classes in my field of expertise. I would be The Shit, giving seminars and speaking at conferences on Very Important Topics and mesmerizing students the world over. I would have been great, I think. But I chose differently and try not to look back. It's not productive to do so, and I don't feel like I made any mistakes. Not yet, anyway. I don't think. Well...

So, you can take the girl out of the overachievement but you can't take the overachievement out of the girl. When I began a new career as a medical writer, I was quickly rewarded with promotions and responsibilities and promises of fast-tracking to the top. Let's make a long story short and say that some things transpired between the senior management of that company and me and I decided they could go fuck themselves, and got myself a new job. Also, I was about to start IVF cycling and I couldn't continue to do the mandatory travel for business meetings and marketing that they demanded. So I changed courses again. I found my present job, where I do the same work, sans management, and I get to work from home. There's an inherent amount of flexibility when working from home, but the volume of work is still high, sometimes staggering. The company has been undergoing massive changes on an almost non-stop basis for over a year now, and each new thing brings renewed stress and uncertainty. During the last few months of pregnancy, I was miserable from the physical discomforts of pregnancy and the 10-12-hour days that were becoming common due to the project load I carried. I complained, tactfully, to my boss, and was thoroughly ignored. (Of all the managers, he is the standout ignoranus, and I am just lucky enough to get to work for him -- yay for me.) I put in a full day of work on the day I went into labor and ended up in the hospital to have the baby -- not by choice, but because my boss was so not on-the-ball with helping me create a transition plan. I had to do it myself at the last minute and actually held "knowledge transfer" meetings while in active labor. So, you can imagine how excited I was to return to work for this same nincompoop. Not much has changed. Except everything.

My day revolves around Jackson, as it should. I don't rush him to daycare; I take it slow with him in the morning, let him wake when he's ready, take my time nursing him, and then drop him at school. This usually happens by 9AM. I then have to rush home and cram in some work, pump, wash pump parts, cram in some more work and work meetings, take a shower (I sacrifice this in the morning to spend more time with Jackson), pump, wash pump parts again, do laundry or some other household task (I try not to leave this for the evening to have still more time with Jackson), then go pick him up from school around 4PM. He falls asleep in the car, so I drive around the neighborhood for half an hour or so to let him nap, then we come home and nurse, play, and wait for KB to come home. I have to pump several more times in the evening, during which I try to cram in some deferred work not completed during the day, and then I go to bed and get a couple of hours sleep before the nighttime awakenings begin. I struggle with the pumping because I have to do it ~5 times daily to get enough milk to send to daycare with him, yet pumping is so much less efficient than nursing at emptying my breasts that I've suffered mastitis twice already since returning to work, and usually have to manually express after pumping to try to empty (so I don't continue getting mastitis). We're on our third head cold in 6 weeks (which we can probably thank daycare for) -- oh, and being sick reduces milk supply, too. And part of the reason I take Jackson to daycare a little later and pick him up a little earlier is to avoid having to send even more milk with him -- I just can't pump that much. I could supplement with formula, but I'm stubborn and I make enough milk for him to nurse, so I am determined to keep giving him breast milk until he doesn't need it anymore. Just the name formula sounds like fake food. I don't judge others for their decision (or lack of choice in some cases) to use it. But I don't want to. Maybe I'm just clinging to some semblance of control, but I can breastfeed, so I will breastfeed, goddammit.

When you look at my weekday as a whole, I probably only spend about 3 hours during the day doing actual work for my employer (although another hour or two gets done at night and wee hours of the morning, while I pump). I have no time to work out, to try and tame this lumpy mass back into a healthy human form. KB and I hardly spend any time together, with all the Jackson-centric activity and my attempts to squeeze in work around the clock while I'm hooked up to the pump like a mama cow. I feel completely ineffective and as though no one is getting my undivided attention. I feel like I am failing at everything. All I want is to succeed as a wife and mother and make a little dough on the side. It's not asking too much. Is it? See, I don't even know how to answer my own rhetorical questions anymore. Cuh-razey.

I don't regret giving up an academic career in the slightest, but I am starting to resent this job for making all my life decisions seem moot by robbing me of the ability to fully enjoy anything I have, since I am constantly being pulled in some direction with no way to keep my balance. I wish like hell I had the option of going part-time, because that's what I need. I need a little time to do something intellectual, to use my neurons, but I also need time with my son. Time that I am currently stealing from my employer. I can't quit and not work at all, because if my financial contribution dries up and I can't afford any kind of help, ever, then I will surely lose my mind. I love my kid, but I know my limits, and I know that I need some time to myself once in a while. I also grew up dirt-ass poor, so I tend to over-worry about money and need the security of a comfortable income; KB and I have never sat down and budgeted as a one-income family, or with me going part-time as a freelancer, so I don't know how that would impact us economically. The plan was always for me to return to work full-time. So, I feel stuck. I feel like I have no choices. I feel like I am just spinning plates, waiting for one to escape my reach and come crashing down. It leaves me exhausted. Stressed. Maybe a little depressed. Leaving my job to freelance on a part-time basis is something that would (will?) take a lot of careful planning, and a long time to execute. I can't make it happen overnight; it might take months. I've talked to KB about it but don't get a very good read on whether he thinks it's a good idea or not. I think his version of the solution to all of this is for me to flip the happy switch and start loving my working mother status, and simply not feel bad about my fractured days and sub-par performance. Lordy, I wish I could do that, that it was so simple. While I can accept not being a World Famous Scientist (heh), I am struggling with being a shitty employee and part-time mom and nearly absent wife. None of these titles suits me. But right now, any of them could describe me.

I feel like this really should be simple, that I should be able to just say with conviction, I want to quit and find part-time work and only send Jackson to daycare part-time. There, I said it. But I feel like if I depart from the original plan, somehow I am letting everybody down. My inability to be superwoman is a giant FAIL. A black mark on my life's resume. A big fat demerit on my official record.

So, as with so many things in my life over the past few years, I take a wait-and-see approach. I hope the solution will reveal itself in good time. Before the nice men in the white jackets come to take me away. They're coming to take me away, ha-haaa...to live on the funny farm, where life is beautiful all the time...

Thursday, February 3, 2011