My Wall-E-esque Life: Part 1

“Fat Acceptance” has been a catch-phrase for at least 40 of the years I have been alive. In 2 parts, I share my experiences and lessons learnt being a part of the…

Fat Acceptance Movement.

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I’ve been fat ever since I got my tonsils out when I was 7-years old.

Fat kid, teen, adult and now a “mature” adult.

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Trials (and Errors)

I’ve done dozens of diets, been prescribed Black Beauties & other speed (starting at age 8), belonged to many gyms, taken Phen-Fen (with success, but with heart valve damage), tried Topamax (fail), used Wellbutrin (fail), had a Roux en Y Gastric Bypass (with fabulous success, then epic failure), done hypnosis & acupuncture (fail & fail), become a daily Mindfulness Meditation fanatic (fail for weight loss/huge win for pain relief), have tried to have anorexia, then bulimia, hand-written hundreds of thousands of journal pages, letting them “hold” my pain, shame, revulsion, self-hate, wishes, fears, hopes &, eventually, resolution with my size.

I remain in resolution.

I will never diet or take diet drugs again. Ever.

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Time & Money

Thinking about the masses of time and money I’ve spent trying to lose weight makes my head spin.

Time

  • Going to the gym
  • Writing out menus
  • Researching rules and techniques for success
  • Real life or online support group meetings, including social networks talking about losing/gaining weight
  • Shopping slower to read labels and make sure food is “appropriate”
  • Learning new cooking methods
  • Fighting with family about the change in foods in the fridge and cupboards
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artist: Sapphire4723

Money

  • Gym membership
  • New cookbooks
  • Membership fees & apps
  • Tools for success (exercise equipment, pedometer, walking/running shoes, gym clothes, etc.)
  • Tossing all the “bad” food in the garbage
  • Buying all the “good” food
  • Probably eventually buying more “bad” food for my family because they whined so much about foisting my diet on them
  • $28,000 cash for RNY gastric bypass (GB)

Can I include the time and money (including the taxpayer’s) for the years of therapy discussing and crying about all of this?

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Positive?

I was a Fat Activist in the mid-late 80’s, mostly in the lesbian community. I’ve written about being fat-positive for almost 3 decades.

In the beginning, when I was in my 20’s and early 30’s, I was healthy… labs were fine, no diabetes, my joints or feet didn’t hurt. I crowed (bragged, was arrogant) about how it was the fat-hating that made fat people sick and die, not the fat itself.

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Reality

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Now, at 56-years old, I see how delusional I was. I am well on the road to dying before most people in my family did, and they all had diabetes, too. My future resides in my memories of my Cuban relatives & the diabetes complications they endured before dying. Heart attacks, going blind, having toes, then feet cut off, eventually dying in a coma because the body just gave up.

I see it coming as if it was a roaring train heading right for me.

Litany of Pain

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Here are my fat-related illnesses and issues:

  • Type 2 Diabetes (diagnosed at 34 years old), now on 2 insulins and metformin
  • I heal terribly because of the diabetes, often needing antibiotics for residual infections
  • Stage 3 Kidney Disease from the diabetes
  • Pain with every step I take
  • Osteoporosis and arthritis in my feet, which have broken 3 times just from walking for exercise, and one foot breaking while swimming
  • Broke one foot falling off the Wii Fit Board trying to exercise… needed 3 surgeries to repair
  • Arthritis in my lower back, was on opioids for 8+ years for the back pain, becoming incredibly addicted, finally getting clean 3 years ago (yay me!) Now I use Mindfulness Meditation for pain relief, though many times I wish for some Norco.
  • It took me years to find surgeons I felt safe with to get my 4 hernias repaired (one surgery) and then my gallbladder out (a separate surgery, with 3 hospital visits afterwards because of infection)… several turning me away because of my enormous belly size (blessedly, I found the docs and those issues are resolved)
  • Bone loss from possibly 2 main sources: lack of exercise & the GB
  • Walking with a walker, but should be in an electric wheelchair, my feet hurting so badly
  • Using an electric wheelchair when I shop

Nautilus

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My world has gradually become smaller and smaller. After 32 years in birth work (where I hurt daily as well), I am now a sedentary Phone Sex Operator. I live in a small space and leave the house only for doctor appointments, physical therapy, shopping and seeing my doggies at mom’s house.

Writing that makes me sad.

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Part 2 On Its Way

In Part 2 of My Wall-E-esque Life, I will talk about the place the Fat Advocacy Movement does have in our lives. While it might not be health (despite the incessant refrain that it does), it is most assuredly have an enormous place in our physical and emotional world.

More soon!

Broken

 

Conflict

My wonderful submissive, my (Muslim) cublet, and I had some conflict this week about stuff going on in Europe (Freedom of the Press, Turkey, Netherlands, etc.) and he was feeling badly about how he responded to the discussion. Very badly. He felt that he’d let his Mistress (me) down.

After we worked things out, he asked me if, when I was a submissive, I ever disappointed Zack (my Dom) over and over and how did I deal with that.

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Endless Failures

I’m not sure where it bubbled up from, certainly from the recesses of my psyche, but I began talking, almost trance-like, about how Zack and I tried new diets every few weeks. It wasn’t a direct order to follow the regimen, but it was implied. I am able to follow the rhythm of these attempts in my Facebook Memories each day and, as I see each new diet, each new pledge to “Stick to this one!”, I wince knowing that I failed. Again. And again. And again.

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I’ve written about how I snuck food, hiding it, eating in the car and throwing away the evidence before I got home… how I still hoard food even though I have no need to whatsoever. Old habits and all.

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1 of about 6 hiding (hoarding) places.

When Zack and I learned about a new diet (always the Famous-Diet-of-the-Moment), it was up to me to research and make menus (which I despised doing). Then I would school Zack, we’d set a date to begin within the next couple of days and, once the sun rose on that date, we were off and running.

I knew as soon as the diet was brought up what was going to happen. Promises of “This Time!” and “I’m going to the gym every day.” Vowing, even to myself, that I would not cheat.

Yet within a few hours of the new diet, my stomach (mind) was rumbling and I needed food. Not healthy salads, which I could eat as much of as I wanted. Not the vegetable soup that I could serve myself every half hour if I desired. But food. Carbs, mostly. Bread. Tortillas. Potatoes. Burgers, fries, candy, cake… that endless list of Forbidden Fruit (yeah, fruit?!)

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I would fly through this entire cycle in about 4 hours.

I became a demon in search of the poison that (never) filled me up. I would sit thinking, “Where can I get money to go buy food? What excuse can I make to get out of the house? Where can I hide the other half of the burger I can’t eat while in the car?” Looking at me, you’d think I was merely watching TV. Inside my head, I was a military officer strategizing the next battle, down to the last marching step. Obsession does not begin to describe the experience.

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I always found food. Even if I had to steal it from my sister-in-law. Or sneak money out of Zack’s wallet to buy it. Or sell something for the few coins I received; candy is pretty cheap.

There it was. I was a failure. Again. A crushing failure, doomed to disappoint Zack. Again.
When he realized what was going on (how he didn’t know within hours is beyond me), usually after the second week’s weigh-in and he’d lost gobs of weight and… lookie there! I’d gained 5 pounds! That he believed in me each time, that he trusted me to tell the truth “this time,” (which is how he didn’t see me cheating – he trusted me) made my failure all the more bitter.

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Clinging Together

So when my cub asked if I’d been a serial disappointment, I don’t think he expected an entire post to fall out of my fingers about it.

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So, he and I met online almost 18 months ago, both of us traversing different worlds, surely never to meet in real life, but here we are, my cublet and I, both sharing those same shame feelings.

Curious. Do you think everyone has them? If we all talked to each other long enough would we all find we had this deep place inside that feels we disappoint the ones we love most?

I know people really well… human nature really well. But I cannot recall others feeling broken the way he and I described to each other.

And how do 2 broken people find each other anyway? Is it a psychic connection that says, “Join and you shall begin to glue each other back together?”

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Does the mere airing of the pain begin the healing? (Provided we are in therapy, of course. I am aware that 2 dysfunctional people will not spontaneously heal the hurt.) This phenomenon really is quite baffling.

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Be-ing With the Pain

I spent several days deep inside, remembering these horrid feelings of shame and disappointment, actually worried I was getting depressed and might need a med change. Instead, I just sat with the feelings. Allowing them to curl around me, reminding me that, even if I don’t remember them, they do still exist and have an effect on my life.

Writing this has been an exercise of sitting with the pain, crying at times, really deeply sad other times and now that the post is winding down, I think I am finally finding some peace.

I hope it lasts.

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artist, calmdownchristina

My Navelgazing Midwife Goodbye

Weaning is complete.

I began my Navelgazing Midwife Facebook Page (NgM FB Page) in 2009 and will be closing the door on it Monday, March 13, 2017.

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I took this photo and used it for 10 years on my business card and in correspondence. One of my favorite clients, Silvia Frank, was killed by her husband after she left him for Domestic Violence. Her 5 daughters are amazing.

I became the Navelgazing Midwife (NgM) right around 2003 or so. The first blog I had was on Blogger, but when they snatched pages from it and censored me because I had nude women (birthing and breastfeeding!), I moved to Squarespace after making sure they would not be censoring.

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One of the favorite photographs I’ve ever taken. Jenna was nearing the end of her labor and we watched, mesmerized, as her uterus crested outside the water during contractions, then her belly sinking completely under the water after the wave. This picture was the header for my Navelgazing Midwife Blog for several years.

My first post on the Navelgazing Midwife Blog was July 3, 2004 and the last post I put there was July 31, 2016, directing folks to my new blog, the Navelgazing Writer (NgW). I’ve debated closing the NgM blog, but know there are still wondrous birth stories there and some midwifery history we would be good to remember as time passes.

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Katie birthing Uma while her mother supports and loves her. Katie’s mom has passed; looking at this, my heart soars. I took this photo.

My NgM FB Page holds much history as well, including the moment-by-moment births of my grandbabies Gabriella and Preston… and included the postpartum hemorrhage that nearly killed Meghann 36 hours after Preston’s birth. The news of my angel grandbaby Eliott is also enclosed within these pages. My newest granddaughter Alexandra’s early cesarean birth was announced there a mere 3 months ago.

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Gabriella, 5 – Preston, 2.5 – Alexandra, 1 month (my grandbabies!)

If you’re reading this on the NgM FB Page, you already know I have been weaning for a while. I left birth completely 2.5 years ago (except for my grandbabies), having left midwifery 5 years before that. News has gradually lessened; my commentary barely audible anymore.

I’ve turned to chronicling my life for my kids and their kids, sharing my knowledge of and inclusion in the early LGBT communities in Orlando, Florida, Frankfurt, Germany & San Diego, California. I have barely begun to share the story of my 2+ decade-long relationship with Zack (previously known as Sarah) and the impact of his transitioning on our lives.

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Zack (before his transition) nursing his son and my daughter Aimee. We co-nursed for 2.5 years, often saying all families should have 4 lactating breasts in the home. I took this picture, circa 1986.

Interspersed will have to be birthy stories… I just wrote 2 about the immigrant populations I worked with in San Diego and El Paso, Texas. Birth has been an integral part of my life since January 1983… I could not write my autobiography without including it. I just have a different viewpoint now that I am above and far away from the stories that once affected every aspect of my spirit, emotions, relationships and friendships.

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Shayla and her then-husband. Shayla had one of the most horrific hospital births I attended in 32 years. Exhibit A demonstrating blatant racism in maternity care.

I’ve had a sort of hidden life for a long time… one of intense sexuality and BDSM. I was a lifestyle submissive with my former partner Zack and am writing about these things as well.

My life since puberty has been colored with mental illness. Bipolar Disorder and Depression and are well-represented in the NgW blog. Much more to come as the blog is still fairly new.

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I was addicted to opiates for 8 years, it sliding through my sister’s dying of an accidental overdose on opiates, Fentanyl being the actual cause of her death. I am now 2.5 years clean and share that story in my new blog as well.

My body, at almost 56-years old, is tired, disabled and in a lot of pain; Mindfulness Meditation and 800 mg. ibuprofen are my pain relief. I struggle with a plethora of issues, most fat-related. It is crucial for me to write about my life as a fat woman, someone who’s tried a hundred times to not be fat anymore, but still fat after trying it all. My feet have arthritis and keep breaking just from walking. I have osteoporosis (from the gastric bypass). My diabetes, while okay at the moment with a HgbA1c of 5.9, that is with 2 insulins on board.

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Since leaving birth, I’ve become a sex worker. I’m not writing a lot about it at the moment, but it colors my life tremendously. Amazingly, all the years of birth work and therapy have armed me adequately for caring for the men, women and transfolks I work with every single day. There is not one day when my birth experiences do not figure prominently in the interactions with others.

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Because of the state of the United States right now, I explored different topics about which to write, but quickly saw that, not only did some topics affect my mental state, but a zillion different ones joined the list every day. I needed to focus my attention and have chosen Freedom of Speech and Freedom of the Press as my main demonstration issues against 45.

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Illustrator, Eric Drooker

It’s been an interesting shift in my thought process, from birth to politics. I’m observing my Self intently, monitoring my emotions, mental state, my body’s physical responses and lastly, what those around me have to say about what I’ve written. The NgW Blog is still really small, very few readers with each post, but it took about 2 years for the NgM Blog to pick up steam, so I’m not sweating it. Also, I really am writing for myself, giving flight to my thoughts and experiences, and if others find what I write helpful or creates a visceral response, all the better.

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There were only a couple of posts in the NgM Blog that were written with the reader in mind and whenever I did that, I regretted it. Of all the posts, only one was removed and edited because of the backlash I got from my licensing organization. (I cannot tell you how freeing it is to be completely unrestrained now, writing writing writing without someone threatening my livelihood. There really are nasty, ugly parts to midwifery politics in the US.)

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I know many of you reading have followed me for a long time. I cannot thank you enough for considering my views and listening to my thoughts, even when you disagreed with me. Thank you for challenging me, making me think… allowing me to shift and change and grow. I am not the same woman who created the nom de plume “Navelgazing Midwife,” but you are not the same either. Isn’t it amazing to witness our own growth and transformations?

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Endless gratitude to all of you and may your lives and the lives of those around you be filled with boundless love and light. You will never be forgotten.

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Fat Girl Stories: My Clitoris

So this is a basic explanation of one very fat female’s clitoris (which I suspect will be a series regarding the sexual and reproductive parts of a fat woman). It goes without saying, your body is different than mine. Your experiences might be the polar opposite of mine. However, I do hope this opens discussion between you, friends, lovers, sex partners, and if they are old enough, even your kids. There is never enough information shared!

If you want more information than I have here, Google “Female Reproductive System” and “Female Sexual Responses” and you will get a good start with the details. Planned Parenthood, of course, also has amazing overview.

The Clitoris

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For real, it wasn’t until 1998 that all of the clitoris was “discovered” (by researchers; I knew it was there!). See the light pink on the picture above? Those are called “the legs” of the clit. And fuck, do they feel good to stimulate. I like my right leg, near the apex where the red and pink meet, stimulated, either with a tongue or fingers. I do not like the clit head actually swiped or licked… it is far too sensitive and feels painful.

My (Precious) Vibe

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Do you hear the angels singing as I show you my vibrator?

The Hitachi Magic Wand is my masturbation addiction. I keep two handy just in case one flickers out. I’ve used the HMW for about 15 years. I recently used a cordless one and it was even more powerful than the corded one. It is next on my list of toys to buy.

The vibe can lower sensitivity if over-used, but all I have to do is not masturbate for 3-4 days and the lusciousness comes right back.

And as I said above, the right side is where I put my vibe.

There have only been a few times in my life that I have been able to orgasm without machinery, not including learning with the powerful faucet/shower massage as a teen. I can orgasm while being fucked, but not with G-Spot stimulation.

Accessibility

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As I said, I am pretty darned fat… right about 330 pounds. Even if I could orgasm with my hand, it is challenging to reach my clit because of my belly. The Hitachi is the perfect extension/reach. I recently wrote a new vibrator company telling them their vibrators were too short for fat men and women to use. They sent me back a nice note saying they hadn’t even thought of that, thanking me for bringing it to their attention.

When I’ve lost weight, my clit became more prominent and even more sensitive if you can imagine. I remember being 150 pounds and wearing blue jeans and feeling my clit rubbing up against the zipper seam. Good goddess, that was a delight. I always wondered if the thinner girls enjoyed continuous stimulation that way.

But, most of my life, sexual and otherwise, I have been super-fat and the fat can pad the area. I’ve always had lovers who found their way around my adipose tissue, knowing how to lift and pull to get where they wanted to go, all while reminding me how deliciously sexy I was. It takes some creative positions sometimes, hips high on pillows or a wedge like the Liberator (below), but who cares? Whatever allows for easier access to the clitoris, right?

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The Liberator!

Tell Me About YOUR Clitoris!

I would love to hear from others… fat, thin, differently-abled, transgender… any wondrous variation of bodies… tell us all about your body’s clitoris. I look forward to this being more a dialog than a one-sided post. There are too many of us that do not match my experiences. Please share yours!

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There Will Be Blood

I zippity-doo-dah around Google Images every day, collecting a variety of things that catch my eye, many of which are not anything I was initially searching for or associated with it. So when I stumbled across an antique Sanitary Belt pic, I had a head-rush of memories from when I was a teen just starting my period.

Having spent 32 years in birth work, I have talked about first periods hundreds of times. I’ve always been fascinated by the vast differences between women’s experiences.

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the picture I randomly found

What the Heck?

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I went to The Period Movie in 6th grade, girls only, smashed into the cafeteria. I still am clueless what the boys did while we learned about “menstruation.” (The link takes you to the Disney-made menstruation movie that came out in 1946. I could pretty much guarantee it was the same movie I saw in 1972.)

Watching the movie was my first exposure to what a woman’s body was capable of. My mom was mute when it came to anything remotely sexual, even something as basic as body changes in adolescence.

After we girls watched and learned, we chitty-chatted a lot, each telling the other when they began wearing bras, shaving their legs or growing public hair. The pies de resistance, however, was who had started having periods. Sitting here 45 years later, I cannot figure out why, but you were elevated almost to Goddess stature when you did begin.

That Brown Paper Bag

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artist, Nadine Faraj

When I finally started at 12, a full year after the movie, I felt like I was one of the last ones out of the gate. Hardly, but self-centered me, that was what I thought.

I told my terribly prudish mother (who blessedly, has loosened up considerably over the decades) and within a couple of hours, I went into my room and there, on the end of the bed, was a brown paper bag. I dumped out the contents and had absolutely no idea what to do next.

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A white elastic belt & an enormous pad with long gauze arms on each end. What the fuck?

I sat down and read the directions, seeing how the gauze arms were to be threaded through the hooks on the belt. It looked like a geometry problem… and I suck at math.

I did figure out how to put the pad on, then saw how I was supposed to wear it, elastic on my hips, pad between my legs. But when I tried to put my legs through the make-shift holes, the pad twisted wildly. It took several periods before I got the clue to hold it with one hand while putting my legs through the holes.

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Up there, do you see those pokie triangles on the metal that holds the pad’s gauze? Well, I suspect they are uncomfortable on most women, but on a fat teenager, they stabbed my flesh. In my mons and in the crack of my ass, I would get indentations that imprinted my body and by the end of the day, I would have bloody spots where the metal prongs went right through my skin. An alternative to these hook thingies was using safety pins, but those were equally painful, especially if they opened during flight and stabbed me while walking to my next class. Or while playing my flute as I marched on the practice field a mile from the bathroom. (Yes, it happened.)

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A Loaf of Bread? Are You Kidding?

Pulling the elastic belt up, the pad was finally positioned between my legs. I can remember it now as if it was yesterday. Being fat, my thighs never had “the gap,” not even as a toddler, so wearing the thick cotton between my legs became an adventure in hands-off, nearly constant, re-positioning.

If you’re one of the youngsters who never had to wear the baguette-sized pads between your legs, how lucky you are. This picture demonstrates the very real situation we dealt with for 5 to 7 days, every. single. month.

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My belts never went up around my waist like this mannequin’s, but were more under my belly button, the elastic stretching to its maximum capacity, gouging me nearly as much as the metal pieces. But you get the idea of how bulky (understatement!) these things were.

That is, until my fat thighs squished it like so much Play-Doh, being more comfortable between my legs, but the hell if it was able to contain the blood.

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Through the Bathroom Door

It was less than a year before I began wearing tampons, urged on by my girlfriends, all of whom had pools or went to the Y with me, except when, during shark week (which is the best name EVER for having your period; it didn’t exist in the olden days), I stayed ashore.

I don’t know who donated the box of Tampax tampons, but I am sure my mom had nothing to do with it. So, I sat on my bed while my three best friends described to me how to put the tampon in. They might as well have been describing how to install an engine in a plane.

After I was equipped with verbal instructions, I went into the bathroom, alone. Just me, the full box of tampons, including the written directions and a small jar of Vaseline.

Trial & Error

I sat on the toilet reading the directions, it really all being so foreign; I’d never touched my vulva except with toilet paper after peeing… and most certainly never put my fingers inside myself.

I opened one of the paper-covered tampons, looked at it from all angles, totally confused how that was going to go inside me. And the actual tampon was inside the cardboard container?

This was my Riddle of the Sphinx.

My 3 girlfriends stood outside the bathroom door asking what was taking so long. I had no answer. The one who brought the tampon party favors with the side of Vaseline began coaching me.

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Did you put the Vaseline on the end? Not a lot.

Shit, I have a giant glob there. wiping some off with toilet paper

Now, use your left hand and open your lips.

My lips? Huh?

On your Down There.

I guess these are called lips, too?

I touched myself for the first time without toilet paper. scrunching up my face Hmmm, not bad.

Now take the tampon and slide it in a little, AIM FOR YOUR BACK! Don’t go straight in.

I pushed straight up and gashed my clitoris (that I didn’t know existed yet).

OW!

You pushed straight up, didn’t you! Don’t do that. Try again.

I took the offending object out and threw it angrily in the garbage can; it never occurred to me use the same one. I huffed reaching for another tampon, ripping the paper off, digging it into the Vaseline jar (with less goop this time) and breathed deep as I set out to find The Right Hole.

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I repeated this same scenario through at least 5 tampons, 3 of which before realizing I had to pull the cardboard applicator out. This was a freakin’ dexterity test! Thinking I had it in, I’d  walk to the door of the bathroom, ready to say, “I DID IT!” when, before I walked 4 steps, it either hurt like crap or fell out. Despaired, I went back to the toilet, only to begin again.

My friends would not let me leave that cubicle until I Got It.

Of course, I did eventually figure it out: AIM TOWARDS MY BACK. Wasn’t that the original advice? laughing, shaking my head

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The Midwife Who’s a Slow Learner

When I began working in birth, I sometimes thought back to my ignorance about my own body. As I figured out there were 3 holes on the perineum, that the clitoris brought enormous fun, that being fucked in the vagina is a really nice experience, I relished the position I held to teach others who, I found out, were as equally in the dark as I had been.

I send thoughts of thanks and gratitude to those three friends who taught me much more about my body in an hour than I had learned in 12 years.

I continue learning to this day.

 

Random Musings

This & That

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  • Sitting here, I am so livid and repulsed by that orange man I swear, if he was in front of me… well, let’s leave it at spit in his face for now. To attack Representative John Lewis, on this Martin Luther King Eve, is the most heinous thing that fucking pig has done so far… and he has done a LOT of stupid, cruel and repulsive things.
  • One of the best pieces of advice about the orange man is for people to daily insult him so he is so busy using his fingers to tweet, he won’t have any to push the nuclear release button.
  • Clearly, I am not in the hospital. My gallbladder decided to chill out and a blast of IV Levaquin overnight in the hospital brought me back to normal. I feel perfectly fine. I have an appointment with the surgeon I met while there, who not only takes my insurance (huge hurdle made!), but also has experience with super-big folks. He scoffed when I told him the GI Doc told me I would never find anyone to do my surgery and said I was hardly the biggest he has worked on. My appointment is Jan 23rd.

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  • I met a nurse while in the hospital who, upon introduction, seemed a jaded veteran. Surely because I wasn’t in pain, I could be my entertaining self and each time she came in, we talked about this and that… my meds… the stupid heart monitor they make you wear the whole time now… and she mentions that she hated the monitor, too, but she thought she was having a heart attack. Without lots of detail (for privacy), she lost a loved one at Thanksgiving and was struggling with mourning after having to go back to work right away. I listened and validated her pain and difficulty trying to take care of others. I said I knew it was she who should be the one being nurtured. She fought tears, but I went and held her for a couple of minutes… giving love and healing light to her. When I was discharged, she walked me down to my car (I invited her) and she said very kind words about my being a midwife and how she could see how loving I am and how lucky my clients were. I thanked her for such kind words and then hugged her again before turning to go. If you’re reading this, please send her some love.

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  • Note: When 30 Imodium AD and 12 Lomotil a day won’t stem the diarrhea, you might want to check for gallbladder issues, especially if a fever comes with it. Pain in your upper left abdomen is optional.
  • Redoing my Advanced Directive. Always so much fun talking about pulling the plug. I do NOT NOT NOT want to EVER live in a Nursing Home. Ever. I will find a way to die before anyone tries to stuff me into one of those horrid places. No life-extending bullshit. If there is a will she/won’t she live quandary… err on the side of letting me go. I AM A DNR! Everyone got the message now?

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  • I am still crazy in love with my Net cublet. How I can feel so much emotion for someone I will never meet is baffling. But it is just there. I’ve given up trying to figure it out and just enjoy myself.
  • I am learning that my youngest, Aimee, has burst forth and begun sharing her writings. She is SUCH an incredible writer! I had no idea. Was I not paying attention?!

I think that’s good for now!

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