Wren's Birth Story: A Tiny Overlord is Born

April 1, 2015 boasted my favorite kind of weather. It was warm and stormy and perfect. At the time I was already a week overdue, cranky and uncomfortable. I was expecting to go in for an induction the following week, but everyone kept telling me tonight would be the night on account of the storm. Of all the old wives tales this one ended up being correct. At about 10:30 PM I went to the bathroom, and that is when my water (partially) broke. Because I was GBS positive, I knew I had to go right in to get hooked up to an IV, so on shaky knees I went downstairs to tell Bjorn it was time. On the way to the hospital we talked about video games and kept things surprisingly normal. I couldn't get over how calm he was, but this sense of normalcy helped. By 11 PM I was checked into the triage room.

By this time I was starting to have some mild contractions. They were so mild I had the false impression that this was something I could handle and subsequently went into labor and delivery with a cocky attitude. In triage, I got my blood pressure checked, as well as the confirmation of amniotic fluid. It was a busy night, so I had to wait for a room to open. Once one did, I was able to walk myself into my labor room. That would be the last time I felt comfortable during the birthing process.

The following timeline is fuzzy. This is because the back labor kicked in and the pain I was in was pretty indescribable. If you have ever had a kidney stone, take this pain and multiple it by 100. Granted I have a fairly low pain tolerance, but I thought if I could handle a kidney stone, I could handle anything. How very wrong I was. Sometime within an hour of being admitted to my labor and delivery room, I was hooked up to my IV, which at the the time was what I dreaded the most. I am completely needle phobic. The guy was awesome though. He was able to use ultrasound technology to locate a vein and it was relatively painless. About an hour in, I asked for pain medication. This made me sleepy and took the edge off, but the back pain prevailed. As the contractions got closer and closer together, I broke down and asked for the epidural. I had to wait awhile for the anesthesiologist, but figured once he did his magic everything would be o.k.

By this time  the contractions were pretty close together. This was when the screaming and swearing started. At one point I pulled Bjorn's hair and was inventing new obscenities I'm pretty sure the whole maternity ward could hear. I had also developed the pregnancy shakes, a hormonal reaction that creates uncontrollable shaking. Not the best thing when a guy is about to stick a giant needle in your back.

The anesthesiologist arrives and my back gets prepped for the epidural. When the time came I was told to arch my back and remain perfectly still. Keep in mind my stomach is huge, I am having intense contractions and the pregnancy shakes. The needle goes in and he admonishes me for not holding still. He also told me I would feel pressure, but it shouldn't hurt. I felt like my whole back back was filling with air and about to explode. That eventually went away, but the pain of the contractions didn't. After about an hour of intense contractions, the nurse concluded the epidural didn't work and I was administered another bolus. When that didn't work, the anesthesiologist tried replacing the epidural, which also didn't work. At this point I was ready to push and was not medicated.

As a last pain management attempt the doctor administered a shot into my vagina called a pudendal block. At this point, my water was completely broken by the doctor to prepare for the pushing. The pudendal block worked for about an hour, but wore off after about an hour. At some point after it wore off, the doctor decided I needed a catheter placed, without any medication. I think this was the only time I actually begged the doctor. The experience was horrible, and ultimately unnecessary as my bladder had already been emptied. Also at this point, I was getting regular cervical exams which were excruciating giving the posterior placement of my cervix.

I am a modest person, but my hours of labor, contractions and pushing took away any dignity I ever thought I possessed. I screamed bloody murder, I cried, and I begged for it to just end. At one point I found myself completely naked trying to squat her out, a prospect I would have normally found horrifying. It was a very humbling experience.

After three hours of pushing there was no progress and the doctor determined a c-section would be best. At this point I was disappointed, but given the options on the table I agree it was the best way to go. I truly think it was unavoidable. No doula, midwife or Bradley Method would have saved me from this c-section and I've come to peace with that. On April 2 at 10:22am Wren Lauren Watland was born at 9 lbs, 5 ounces. She was a big baby, but perfect, acing her Apgar scores.

Going into this labor, I had a birth plan. I had planned on getting an epidural and chilling with my Gameboy until push time came. I learned that ultimately a birth plan doesn't matter when the health of your baby is at stake. A birth is a very intimate experience, and like a wedding, many women go into it with certain expectations. It breaks my heart when a woman feels like a failure for opting for pain medication, or is unable to give birth vaginally. It doesn't make us weak and it doesn't make us any less of a woman. It certainly doesn't make us a bad mother. No matter how we birth, the difficult and sometimes painful decisions  we make before and after labor are our initiations into motherhood.

Happy Pills: Misconceptions of SSRIs

Those that suffer from anxiety, depression or any other mental health disorder can tell you how debilitating it can be. Since I've been 16, I've fallen victim to depression and anxiety, which fell away to manic depression and sever OCD in my adult years. For me at least, I don't know where I'd be without my medication.  I know I wouldn't be where I am today, that is for damn sure.

My disorders, like many others, arise from a mixture of unfortunate life events and a chemical imbalance in the brain. Common medicinal treatment comes in the form of a SSRI or Selective Serotonin Reuptake Inhibitor.  Basically, it balances out neurotransmitters in the brain, especially serotonin, the "happy" chemical.  This balancing act in turn, helps the brain act somewhat normally.

Before I begin, I want to be clear that I don't believe that medication is always the answer. Therapy can sometimes be all the medication one may need.  For those of us that need more, therapy should compliment medication, not supplement it.  I've never been a fan of of psychotherapy, but it has improved my coping mechanisms and has helped me communicate in a more efficient fashion. However, I'm in the group where therapy just doesn't do it for me.  I need my drugs, and they come at a price.

I don't necessarily like the physical effects that my SSRIs have had on me.  I've felt like a zombie.  I've gained ridiculous amounts of weight, and my sex life has suffered. However, the trade off is that I'm able to function normally in society; I can order my own food in a long line, I can place phone calls, I can develop meaningful relationships. With my manic depression, I go through phases of depression, coupled with longer stretches where I may only sleep one or two hours a night. All this because my brain simply refuses to work the way that I want it to.

Due to the stigma placed around medication, I've gone without it before. I've been told that medication is just a crutch and the only reason I can't function without it is weakness. In the days when I believed in such nonsense, I stopped taking the pills, causing me to engage in inappropriate behavior, and to lay (almost literally) paralyzed with anxiety. I went back, and for a long while I hated myself for it. I hated myself until I started looking at the issue from an objective position. I started coming up with my own conclusions, not those posed on my from peer pressure, but from a basic understanding of how the brain works (or in my case, doesn't).

My first conclusion is that I hate, HATE, when people refer to the SSRI group as happy pills.  I don't feel "happy" when I take these, I feel normal, balanced. I don't experience any form of elation, and they don't make you "high".  Please stop calling these happy pills.  It makes them sound illicit, which adds to the stigma around them.

My second, and most important conclusion is that everyone has to do what is right for them. If you need pills, please take them.  If you feel like you can function without them (while keeping yourself safe), go off of them.  However, you should make this decision with the help of a trained professional.  I've fallen into the trap to, and I totally get it.  You feel back to normal, so you go off your meds. When you have a problem, and you go off medication you aren't your best judge.  So, if you make this decision, I implore you to continue going to therapy, and trust others when they tell you something is wrong.

My last conclusion falls in line with religion.  Don't preach your views.  You may talk about your views, your personal experiences, but don't tell others what is right for them.  What is right for you,is not always what is right for them. Telling someone that medication is a "crutch" is unbelievable dangerous and frankly, quite rude. For those of you who are fortunate enough to go off your medication successfully, don't advocate that for everyone. I know there is a trade off (feel physically great, or feel mentally great). It sucks, but don't tell someone they can have both when they can't. 

Finally, I give the advice that is true for every facet of life. Don't be an ass.  When you see someone acting inappropriately (think attention seeking behavior), or simply not themselves, don't judge. Be their friend, talk with them, but just know, you are by no means better then them.      

Penis Pictures and How They are Ruining the World

I'm going through some major Game of Thrones withdrawal. Season 4 doesn't start until April and Winds of Winter will come out who knows when.  So while I was waiting for a class to begin, I went on a Game of Thrones chat room on a lark. Bjorn is only on book 2 and I'm eager to discuss theories (I won't list them here as anything at this point can be a spoiler). Also, I'm looking for an outlet to discuss how much I really do hate Bran.  I created a cute little avatar of Olenna Tyrell (a powerful female character) and begin.  This is what happened.  For reference, my handle is HatetheplayernottheGame.

Winteriscumming (seriously dude?): How r U?
HatetheplayernottheGame: Anxious for WoW to come out
Winteriscumming: I'm horny
HatetheplayernottheGame: I'm sorry to hear that
Winteriscumming: Want me to fuck u with my long sword?
HatetheplayernottheGame: Why is this a thing you are asking me?

PENIS PICTURE!!!!!!!!!

HatetheplayernottheGame (after a 20 second pause):  What am I supposed to do with this information?

Second PENIS PICTURE!!!!!!!

What do I get for wanting to discuss who  Jaqen H'ghar really is?  I picture of a penis.  A picture of a stupid erect penis. Stupid, stupid stupid.

Stupid

First off,  I'm Olenna fucking Tyrell.  This is one bad ass lady, but in no way exudes a sexuality or any note of desire for one's long sword. Olenna Tyrell means business, something Winteriscumming clearly does not understand. Everything in the realm is accomplished with scheming and betrayal, not penis pictures.

Let's forget the GoT analogies for a second though and break this down.  Really, this is just a story about one girl getting a picture of one penis.

My initial thoughts were those of anger.  I've received many a penis pic in my day, but today I reached my tipping point.  For the record, nudity does not offend me.  I'm not adverse to pornography, but it has to be consensual.  This was NOT consensual.  I did not ask for said penis picture, nor did I say "please sir, can I have another?"  I  was so unnerved by this, I had to step away and break down my feelings.  What I've concluded is that I'm angry because I don't like rude people.  It is a carry over from my retail days.  Rude people are a particular pet peeve of mine.  What Winteriscumming did was rude.  Very rude.  He didn't know where I was.  I could have been at school, on my lunch break, on the bus, watching my kids.  If he would have asked first, I'd be far less angry. I also made no indication that I wanted to talk about anything other than GoT.  Instead, I just get penis, and this makes me sad.

Then, the rationalist in me, had to break this down further.  I mean, there has to be a reason for one's actions, even if I don't agree with them. There are reasons people believe in god.  I may think they are silly, but they are reasons nonetheless.  What I figured was that in general, men tend to be visual creatures.  Yes, this is a generalization, but my 29 years of life experience has led me to this very general conclusion.  I'm assuming this fellow is one that enjoys to see pictures of nakedness and debauchery.  So in turn, he assumes I want it. This is very, very wrong.  This doesn't look good to me.  In fact, it looks sad, the same way I feel sad when I see a polar bear stuck on an ice cap.  It then leaves me to figure out what to do with this information.  I should have confronted him, told him that this is not an o.k. thing to do.  Instead, I freeze and click out of the entire chat room.  Now I feel like shit for not standing up for women everywhere who do not enjoy this type of thing.  This leaves me feeling powerless and ashamed.

This leads me to another thought.  Somewhere out there, some women must like this, right? I mean, not every woman is the same by any means, and obviously if this keeps happening, there must be some response prompting the penis pictures to keep on coming. Is it supposed to be a form of flattery?  Am I supposed to be impressed?  I just can't think of a situation where this would be the kind and courteous thing to do, unless you have a long established relationship with the person and have confirmed, unsolicited, that the receiving end welcomes this sort of thing.

So, guys, just don't do this.  The pictures of your junk are ruining the world.  They are gross. They are annoying, and you are making people mad. You are also selfish, and the world cannot thrive on selfish people. No good will come from doing this, I promise.

Waiting Room

She wakes up at the sound of the alarm clock.  I should get up, she thinks, It seems like the right thing to do.  The woman pulls herself out of bed to find the bathroom, where she washes her face and brushes her teeth.  She dares regard herself in the mirror, a daily mistake that veers all good intentions off course.  What she sees is dark, hollow eyes, horribly blemished skin, and hair that defies any reasonable convention.  She sees a failure.

The failure proceeds downstairs, where maybe she will have a cookie and a can of soda for "breakfast", maybe just the soda.  From here, she will watch episodes of The Simpsons, for what seems like a sensible amount of time to wake up.  When the guilty feeling of idleness catches up, the failure goes upstairs to work on odd projects on the computer.  She finds a way to keep herself busy for at least an hour or two, but if you were to ask here what she did during that time, it is doubtful she could recall.

When the morning activities have been exhausted, the failure returns downstairs for the most painful part of the day, the waiting part.  Here she sits in silence, with her phone on her lap, waiting for a call.  During this part of the day, the air is so heavy it is palatable.  Everything inside and out has a dull charge, a mild electric current that keeps her heart beating just fast enough to ward off fatigue, but  just slow enough to let in everything she so desperately wants to keep out.  During these moments, it is unclear even to her what she wants.  Uncertainty of a bleak future or the blissful ignorance just another day can offer.  The anticipation of change or the dread of having to face something new, something uncharted.  Whether the phone rings or not, there will be some level of disappointment.

At around the traditional lunch hour comes the period of anticipation.  This is where she starts looking forward to the time of night where no possible phone call can come and she is powerless to do anything about her current situation until the next alarm clock call.  During these hours she looks forward to crawling back into her bed, into her sanctuary, maybe with some pills, maybe just with the comfort of the escape of another day.  At night, she comes her closest to reuniting with the woman she used to be.

That isn't for some time  though.  For now, all she can do is wait.  Wait for something to inspire, wait for the assurances that this will all be temporary to come, wait for the phone ring, wait to live.  As she sits, the world continues to move, this world so oblivious to pain and pleasure, justice and fairness.  As she fights back the tears, a clock that doesn't exist ticks its sweet song into the silence.

Diagnosis-Neoplasm with Uncertain Behavior

Leading up to my Dermatology appointment I doing well.  With the help of drugs, my husband and a very dear friend I made it to the waiting room in one piece.

I don't know what I was expecting, but i wasn't expecting for things to be so...personal.  The nurse and the dermatologist were excellent.  If anyone finds themselves needing to see a dermatologist for any reason, Allina Bandana Square Clinic treated me very well.

I'm not a brave person.  I don't particularly enjoy being nude unless I'm really comfortable with the person.  I'm a person who likes being in control, and when I'm in an open gown with my boob out, I don't feel in control.  She started by doing a general mole check, which involved getting very up close and personable with every inch of my body. "The mole", the reason I was there in the first place came last.

"Now, what in particular brought you in here"
"I have a concerning mole on my left breast"

The microscope came back out and she was right up there.  My boob rarely gets paid this much attention.  My heart was pounding so fast I'm sure she could hear it.  Everything has come down to this.  All of my obsessive thoughts and compulsions have centered around this mole.

"It looks mostly benign, but I'm seeing some other stuff here that I'm just not sure of.  May I remove the mole?"

Several things raced through my head at that moment.  I was mainly struck with the polite way she asked.  I've come to both love and hate this mole, but I wanted it gone.  I just wasn't expecting it to be so soon.

"You can do that?  I mean like now"
"Oh sure.  Lie back"

She applied local anesthesia, which as a needle phobic I would normally pale at, but today was different.  After some slight pressure, the mole was gone and she was telling me I could sit up.  She told me the results should come back in two weeks.  Two weeks is a lot of time to wait.  Since my appointment my world has felt both very big and very small.  Big in that there are some things I can't control, no matter how much I try and small in how alone in this I sometimes feel.  The infinity of time itself and the finite nature of life.

I was left alone with the nurse, who was finishing up the notes, pulling my clothes together in a stumbled daze.  At the time, all I could remember was thinking "I never got a band aid".

We'll just have to see.

Just Say the Word

For several months I've triumphed over my OCD as much as someone with an anxiety order can do.  I've spent less time Googling, the thoughts on dying have been less persistent.  When I looked at the mole, the same one that drove me to an out of control state to begin with, I looked at it in a whole new light.  Instead of seeing a red, glaring lesion I saw the same ugly yet normal mole I've came to peace with long ago.  This all ended with a routine physical.  As a cruel twist of irony my nurse wanted to refer me to a dermatologist, and my downward spiral started all over again.

I really wish I could describe the anxiety I feel, and that is partly the reason I'm writing this.  I've always been better with the written word than the verbal.  Part of me also just feels better explaining my behavior.  I don't expect to gain any more fans, but part of me just wants people to know why I do the things I do.

It starts with the sleeping and the dreams.  This happens in the times where I can still gave a grasp on my conscious actions.  As much as I fight during the day to not be a total crazy person, my dreams remind me that I'm breakable. My favorite dreams are when I'm back at Snyder's Drug Store, and I'm trying to close up, but people just keep coming in.  Or the dreams where all my teeth fall out.  Or the dreams where I get a regrettable tattoo.

Then comes the obsessive searching.  I could probably have my own Cracked article on my Google searches.  In between search results like "REO Speedwagon tour dates MN" and "Winds of Winter release date" I have things like "What does metastatic cancer feel like" and " Melanoma staging pictures".  Bjorn finally disabled WedMD from my computer, which I told him he was silly for doing, but Google was just making me sicker.

Than comes the physical symptoms.  Sometimes I get a sudden fear reaction.  My heart starts racing, I get hot and I literally (and not the hyperbole form of literally) feel like I'm being hunted with seconds to live.  That is how I would describe a classic panic attack.  Other times it is a feeling of pressure, like I'm I have an elephant sitting on my check.  I've named this pressure Roger, and call them my Roger days.

The obsessive thoughts are the most irrational of my behaviors, a hit on the rationality I try to pride myself on.  On these days I can convince myself that not only do I have a specific illness, but a life span to go with it.  On these days I'm prone to crying spells and anger.  In my head, I'm as certain that I have cancer than I am that the earth isn't 6,000 years old.

When I'm like this I'm not fun to be around.  I hurt the relationships I have with those close to me.  I wouldn't want to be my friend.  When I'm my old rational self though, I tell myself that illnesses never happen my kind of people.  Until they do, or at least of the potential.

In my obsessive state, I rarely come to terms with the actual words but think about them in the abstract.  Though I fixate on a certain illness, in my head I'm thinking "I have cancer and I'm going to die before the year is out". Thinking in this way artificially distances myself from any actual problem I may have.  Now that a real medical professional and not the internet is guiding me to see a dermatologist, and going to put on my big girl pants and say the words, even the dreaded "M" word.  I have OCD.  I have hypochondria.  I am going to see a dermatologist for a worry some mole that could very possibly be benign, but also has the potential to be Melanoma.  
   

Small Triumph

Every life has mile stones and triumphs that should be celebrated in their own way.  Mine has been that I've stayed away from "Google Death" for 2 months.

So what is Google Death?  It is a phrase I made up to describe what I did every time I experienced a new symptom, or heard of another passing.  Every time my cough worsened, or my armpit felt tender, I would hole myself up in my room, not eating, not sleeping.  When I found out that someone died, I researched that death extensively, comparing my odds to theirs, studying their journey from onset of illness to ending.

Heart attacks were always comforting.  Hear me out, I know this sounds horrible, but I can live with a heart attack.  I can make peace with a car accident.  It is cancer that gets me every time.  There was a point where I had to leave the room if the word was even mentioned.  Then those around me started getting cancer, and my world started closing in around me, pressing, until I literally couldn't breath.  As the weights on my chest grew heavier and heavier, it was all I could do to keep from suffocating.

I grew depressed.  I was anxious, but I could never express myself.  Every time I tried to talk about it, my throat closed off.  I drank a little to often, mostly with friends.  The times I had wine (often too much) were the times the weight lifted, and my airways opened up and I could talk freely.  This freedom came with a price, and I ended up distancing myself from those I cared about.  I've never fully redeemed myself, and I'm still incredibly saddened when I see the life I once had continue on around me.  I'd like to continue bridging these gaps, but for now it is one step in front of the other.

I'd like to say I did it all on my own, but that is really a nonsense statement.  Anyone that says that mental illness can be conquered completely without medication is dangerous.  That isn't to say that medication should be relayed on.  I try to do as much without drugs, but I can only control the chemicals transmitted so much.  I haven't gotten drunk (though I still enjoy a wine or two) in a very long time, and I've been working really hard on putting my energy back on others (the ones that will have me).

It was my small triumph I had just recently that made me smile.  I just found out that another in my life is gone, and for the first time in a long time, I didn't care why.  I am finally able to mourn appropriately.  More importantly, I can celebrate life the way it was meant to be celebrated.  I know my struggle isn't over, but it is these small things that keep the walls from caving in.

My Bucket List

I just got back from a two week stay at Camp Quest of Minnesota.  During that time, I wrote a bucket list of personal growth and development.  What I came up with was this:

1) Be more trusting

2) Make a positive impact in some one's life

3) Write more

4) Be happy

All of these are going to be difficult, but if I can follow through with all of them, it will result in #4 of my list.  I've grown painfully aware that life is short and I'm not going to be around forever.  By making a positive impact in some one's life, and by writing more, I'm hopeful that that part of me will stick around, long after I have died, an atheist's version of the after life.  I started my bucket list that night by writing of the simplicity of before my life as it is now.

Simplicity

Sometimes it is hard to remember

The times I felt a prayer

The nights I spoke with god

Just to have someone to talk to

When the sky was more than the sky

When hope came in the form

Of simple coincidences

When the stars couldn't be beautiful

For the sake of being beautiful

And happiness

Was the product of

Beautiful naivety. 

On OCD, Roger and the Crazy in All of Us.

I am candid about my anxiety.  I am neither ashamed nor proud of it. It is just there.  It is  a part of me.

Like right now.  I haven't taken my meds.  As I was going up the stairs my heart beat skipped a little.  Today was one of the days I was able to beat my urges "holistically", sans my Lorazepam.  Other days I'm not so lucky.

It starts with a fluctuation.  Has this bump on my neck always been there?  Has this mole always been this dark?  Has this cough lingered too long?  Once this thought enters my head, it typically resides until I take my medication or slowly incapacitate myself.  I become consumed with Web MD.  I prepare for the worst.  Sometimes I can't eat.  Sometimes I can't breath.  Sometimes I drink a little too much.  Sometimes I talk about it a little too much.  I reach out for help.  I try to find that person who will reassure me I'm not dying.  I don't care if they think I'm crazy, because sometimes I think I am.

The thing is I know that I'm not being rational, even when my heart sinks when I read a worst case scenario on some online forum, and this just angers me.  I know it is a chemical in balance, but sometimes I get so frustrated that I can't do much else besides curse my misfiring brain.

My OCD has impacted my personal relationships.  I realize I'm not the easiest to deal with.  I also realize that I've become "that girl" and that my behavior is construed as attention seeking.  In a way it is.  Like the rest of us, I just need someone to tell me that I'll be o.k.  I just need it more than the average person.

I do try.  I've gone to therapy and have learned some tools, other than medication.  I write (see poem below) , I take a walk, or I throw myself into my work.  Sometimes they are successful, sometimes they aren't. I let myself down every time I reach for the Ativan bottle.  Sometimes it is the only thing that will get rid of Roger, that elephant that sits on my chest.  Sometimes it is the only thing that will allow me to breath.

I've been told that anxiety is just an excuse to take medication, and that by succumbing to it I am weak, and I feel weak.  I know this is wrong, and the science backs me up on this, and it is my sincere wish that no one struggling with anxiety were to feel like this.  Yes, there is a problem of over diagnosis and over medication. However, just like taking too much medication is dangerous, not taking it when necessary is dangerous too. I have the battle wounds to prove it.  I think I have permanently damaged the lymph nodes in my neck.  My breasts hurt so much from the constant checks.  My weight fluctuates to the point my metabolism is shot.  This is all because I tried doing it alone.

I admit that I can be irrational , but you know what?  We all are.  We all have vices and life style choices others will deem crazy.  Some people drink too much, and some people take not drinking at all to an extreme evangelism. Some of us hoard, some of us conserve to a point of obsession, and some of us are obsessed with minimalism. I'm not going to apologize that my brain happens to make more Serotonin than average.  Humans are never 100% rational.  That is what makes us human. Sometimes being human just comes with excess ivory.


Ivory-An ode to Anxiety
They like to explain away the pressure
I know really
It is only Roger
The small elephant who keeps me company
Whispering helpful reminders
You forgot to lock the front door
He says
Repetitions will turn the oven off.
Are you sure it isn't cancer?
But one night poachers came
And took his trunk
So that he could no longer speak.
His presence lingered
Reminding me to breath
With his formless urgency.
The next night his ears
His feet
Until finally one day Roger was gone.
I'm pretty sure
My doorknobs are made from his teeth.

Vaccines are stealing all your money (and are kicking puppies and kittens in the face).

Paul Offit.  More like Paul “Proffit”. This is a mantra of sorts for anti-vaxxers.  Part of their deal is that they think vaccine manufacturers and the scientists that develop them are making big bucks off of vaccines, while slowly killing their customers. Sometimes when an argument is so stupid I’m just rendered speechless.  I’d really like to buy the next person that sincerely thinks that vaccines are a huge money making conspiracy a beer and just pick their brain.  Unfortunately, we can rarely get to the point of reasonable conversation with these people.

First I’d like to say that there is money to be made with vaccines., just from the other side.  This world is riddled with charlatans that are willing to make big bucks off the masses that refuse to become inoculated.  Mr Andrew Wakefield of the Lancet fame himself was commissioned by Richard Barr, a lawyer profiting off of families with autistic children, to conduct research linking autism with the MMR vaccine.  He ended up making roughly $750,000 dollars(Deer,2010).  He earned this money by conducting fraudulent studies and conducting some ethically questionable research(which included giving kids $50 for blood at a birthday party).  Furthermore, he was intending to start a company that would make testing kits for autism, which would eventually lead to a complete cure.  Andrew Wakefield is kind of an asshole.

I shouldn’t pick on just him though.  I could go on and on about the alternative “cures” for autism and homeopaths, but that is a rant for another day.  I would however, like to talk about secretin. Secretin is a hormone from pigs that has been said to improve the symptoms of autism. Parents against the MMR vaccine willingly will inject this substance into their children.  By scanning the Internet, I’ve seen people on forums talking about spending up to $800 on these injections or for the oral variety, $60 every two weeks.  This is for a drug that has been all but found ineffective by studies (Molloy, 2012).  If that isn’t making money, I don’t know what is.  The funny thing is that the research on secretin isn’t even complete.  From the couple of studies done, it has been shown to just probably not work.  If someone was so worried about what was being injected into their child’s body that they opted to not vaccinate them, you’d think they’d want to wait until a more conclusive study comes out.  However”secretin” was marketed as being a natural alternative, so I guess we are good to go.

The thing is, from what I’ve heard, the money isn’t in vaccinations .I'm not saying that drug companies are giving them away, but drugs are far more profitable for them.  If drug companies were wanting to profit off of vaccines, why would they pump them full of so many ingredients?  Couldn’t they just inject snake oil and call it a day? That is why there are more and more multiple use vaccines.  Furthermore, it doesn’t seem like good business practice to give your customers something that will kill them if you are trying to make some money.  You kind of want them to keep coming back.  All good drug dealers know this. You give them something to keep coming back for. If it was proven that one of the main ingredients of vaccines is crack cocaine, I'd be a little less skeptical.


I've also heard that the profit actually comes from vaccine mandates. With the population being mandated to receive vaccinations, the vaccine makers are rolling in dough. It couldn't be that maybe vaccines are being mandated because they are good for herd immunity. Maybe the government shouldn't be mandating them. Maybe they should let us go back to the days of polio and small pox in peace.
In an FB argument someone said “fuck the scientific community that profits off the deaths of millions”.  I’d really like this explained to me.  The offer of a free beer and the promise to not call you crazy (to your face) remains on the table.

Sources Cited (a lazy bibliography):
Deer B. Wakefield's "autistic enterocolitis" under the microscope. BMJ: British Medical Journal (overseas & retired Doctors Edition).  April 17,2010.  (I got a lot of information from Deer's reporting, but the majority of the investigative work on Wakefield's enterprises came from Brian Deer).

Molloy, C, Manning-Courtney P, Ulrich II C, Et Al.  Lack of Benefit of Intravenous Synthetic Human Secretin in the Treatment of Autism.  Journal of Austims & Developmental Disorders.  December, 2002 (Also check out Autsim's False Prophets, by Paul Offit)

How Oregano Oil Started a (Blog) Fire

If you know me, then you know the surest way to upset me is by telling me vaccines don’t work.  Recently I started an anti-vaccine flame war on my Facebook page that led to a sleepless night. It all started when I said that "natural antibiotics" shouldn't take the place of real medicine and vaccines.  I lay awake so angry at the willful ignorance of someone so immersed in a ridiculous conspiracy theory.  However, after thinking about it I realized that this FB “friend”, someone I vaguely remember going to highschool with, provided me with an anti-vaxxer gold mine.  Sure it may be crazy gold, but gold nevertheless. This person ended up de-friending me, which is disappointing in that I wanted to hear all the crazy he had to spew.  While frustrating as it may be, it is important to know your opposer’s side.  This is why I force myself to read Jenny Mccarthy and to engage in dialogue with someone I find to be a complete moron.  It is even more difficult to not call said moron a moron in a heated debate.  Because then you lose them forever.  Sure, they are probably already lost, but to personally attack them leads you to look weak.  I have a fortune from a fortune cookie on my desk that reads” Strong and bitter words indicate a weak cause”.  However, I feel like attacking their ideas is fair game and should be done so ruthlessly.  Sometimes it is hard to draw the distinction, but I encourage all of you to at least try.

In honor of the upcoming TAM, I want to share my findings with you all, and start (or at least try to) blogging all the arguments I’ve heard over the years, and to do my best to deconstruct them.  For the record, I am by no means an expert, but have done much study on the matter.  I started in college for a research paper, and have absorbed everything I can on the subject, especially after seeing children become ill due to a lack vaccines before my very eyes.  I’ll try my best to cite sources, but after years of accumulated data, I may slip and forget. Much of my research also comes from medical journals I no longer have access to, but I’ll try to dredge up any bibliography I can.  My main focus is to start dialogue and encourage critical thinking.  I encourage all those who disagree with what I say to pipe in.  As long as you can back up your ideas with reputable, science backed sources I feel you should be free to speak.  Just don’t post a link to a crazy anti-vaxx site that promotes colon cleansing, because I doubt they are peer reviewed.  Otherwise, be prepared to be ripped to shreds.

I’m not set out to be a famous blogger.  I don’t write controversial things and will never gain any kind of celebrity status.  However, I do encourage you to pass this along to all that you can, no matter where their opinions and beliefs lie. I’ll be starting with my favorite argument,which is on vaccines and profitability.  

My Grandpa

In November I lost my grandfather.  Tomorrow is his memorial service.  Tomorrow I'm really saying good-bye. I've been living these six months pretending that I'm not in grief but I think about him almost every day. It is the hardest at night.  I often wait until Bjorn has fallen asleep to really start crying, because I'm not dealing with this well.  I've had moments where I'm not ashamed to say I've bargained with a god I knew didn't exist.  To give me some message that my grandpa is listening to me and knows I love him.  I'm always disappointed.

Then I heard a song by George Hrab.  It is called "Small Comfort" and they lyrics go:
I’m glad I get to miss you
but that you can never miss me
Thinking you’ll wake up and see us
is your eternity…
small comfort.

My grandfather was one of the most selfless and generous people I've ever met.  Do I really want him see me in this much pain for eternity?  It is time I started repaying him. I don't believe in an afterlife, but I do believe someone can live forever as long as we keep their memory alive.  So now I'd like to celebrate my memories of Burton Loren Sorensen, my Grandpa Larry.

When I was little my grandparents watched me all the time.  My earliest memories are in my grandparent's backyard playing with Snuffy.  He used to put a ball in a tree and we'd spend hours watching that dog jump up and grab it.

We used to spend long hours in Veteran's Park and then eat at Perkins where he got irritated the puzzles in the place settings were too difficult to figure out.

As I got older my grandparent's were at every event in my life.  I don't remember one ceremony, karate tournament, piano recital or badminton match he wasn't at.  Even if I didn't do too well he always made sure to tell me he was proud of me.

He always encouraged my writing, and said that someday I'll be the next Jack Kerouac, without the crippling substance abuse.

I remember telling him once about the bullying I endured and he taught me a poem.  Every time I feel discouraged or down on my self I remember that I have "Miles to go before I sleep".

My brother played a lot of sports in the summer and my grandpa would always pick him up.  We'd spend long afternoons at the fountains waiting for him to finish practice.  We'd talk about anything and everything.  That is the same place my husband proposed to me.  The same place I'll take my kids.

My grandpa was always there when we needed something fixed.

My grandpa once took me home after a teeth extraction.  I had just woken up from general and I was leaning on him for support.  I said some ridiculous things he never wanted to talk about again.

When I was in high school I had to write a report on my personal hero.  I wrote it about my grandpa.

I used to sleep over at my cousin's and in the morning my grandpa would babysit and take us to McDonalds.  He would always hand the bag over to us and we'd always hide something.  Every time he got madder and madder until one day he threw the bag across the room.

Everything I watched the history channel I heard something I'd want to talk to my grandpa about.  I still get that urge.

I remember the comfort of his car and how it always smelled slightly of cigarettes, like the blue jacket he always wore.

I remember seeing my grandpa for the last time.  He looked so small and frail and being around him made me scared and sad, but he was still making jokes and smiling.

The last words I said to my grandpa over the phone were "I'll see you soon.  I love you".  He passed away peacefully later that afternoon.

I still think about my grandpa everyday.  I think about him every time I lose my temper.  I think about him every time I hear a poem or a Bob Dylan song.  I think about him every time I see an older man on the bus, or someone with the same lilting walk.  I think of him every time I'm at my desk. I have his wedding picture right by my keyboard.  My grandma looks so beautiful.  He looks so young.

I think about how unfair it is that the world had to lose someone so awesome.  I think about the time I lost being afraid.  I think of how he made me a better person, played a part in my life.  So you see, he won't ever really be gone.  Maybe living through memory is my version of heaven.  Or maybe I'm ultimately wrong and he's watching a World War 2 documentary with Bob Marley. It is useless to think of all the things I could have said or did.  It is a beautiful and warm May afternoon. I'm going to go outside and enjoy it as the photons and particles of countless loved ones lost float around me.

Born to Live, Born to Die:Reflections on Life, Death, Change and Camp

I remember a therapy session I once had when I was sixteen.  I was worried my life wouldn't have meaning.  The therapist replied with a simple question:  What do you think meaning is?  To which I replied "To live and to die".  Of course this answer was the workings of a depressed teen and at the time it didn't have much meeting.  Flash forward 10 years and I'm sitting in a different office with a different woman complaining about the same thing, to which she replied "If you died tomorrow, would you say your life had meaning".  This time I could smile and say yes.

Sometimes I can't believe I'm the same girl in that office with the cut marks I couldn't follow through on and the suicide note in my pocket that I never really intended to use.  I did those things because I sought sympathy from others hoping that affection would give me the meaning I craved.  Well I lost a lot of friends and respect that way, but I've changed.  I hope for redemption, but will settle for less.  I'm zen with that.

What I'm about to write isn't a hello or good-bye. It isn't for sympathy or pity.  It isn't to make me feel superior or justified. At the core it is just reflection, my thoughts recorded.

It is also an introduction to the new me. Because I have acted foolish to gain sympathy.  Maybe it was because I've always been naturally emotional.  Or maybe it was the pressing feeling coming from inside my chest that alcohol gave me the courage to release. There are some things and details I've never shared with anyone.  I'll be careful when and to whom I share those things with, but I hope someday it will happen.

The new me has  so much more confidence.  While I still have personal insecurities I've come to embrace the beautiful things about me.  My smile, my eyes.  And I like my boobs. Those will stay as is.

There remains my core, who I am and what I've become and what I have learned.

I sleep with my blankie.  Always have and probably always will.
I listen to Justin Bieber and read Twilight without much shame.
I've encountered the malevolent  power of abuse.
I've seen beautiful people ruined and taken away by drugs and depression.  That could have easily been me.
I've learned that all actions have consequences.
I've been in the presence of intense love.  I've seen it burn hot, fade or be wiped clean far too early.
I've had people leave me long before they should have.
I once looked into the eyes of a child and was rendered speechless my the innocent and unjust suffering that looked back at me.  I made it my mission to make sure he never felt that way again.  After 3 years of silence one day he said my name and my world forever changed.  I left that school feeling complete.  He died years later from complications related to a seizure he had.  So yes, there have been times that I have wished prayer were comforting to me again.
I have had and currently have a handful of irreplaceable friends.  I've also had some not so good friends, but they only make me appreciate the ones that have stayed by my side even more.
I can be overly caring and accommodating to the point of being a pushover just to make sure someone is happy.
When I was 18 I wanted to go to NYU and pursue a career in creative writing.  I thought getting an SLHS degree at the University of Minnesota would be more practical.  I now work  in the mortgage industry and actually kind of like it.
I have always found more beauty in the written word than in nature, but have been brought to tears by the magnificence of the starry sky one summer night at 7000 County Road 15 with some of my best friends.
These are just some of the things that make me who I am. There are countless memories that have made me who I am but those are reserved for my memoir.

Then there is Camp Quest.

When I picked up a pamphlet for Camp Quest in 2007 I felt like throwing in the towel.  I was ready to resign to my current unsure fate.  Then I met these kids and my life changed forever.  It has kept me going, given me the strength to repair relationships and better myself.  I have met people I'm pretty sure I couldn't live without today.  They should know who they are by now.  I have never had a child of my own, but now I feel I have 50 of them.  I'd like to think I have helped make a difference in their lives, help make they know that they do have someone to lean on, just as they and some of the other adults have taught me.

I'm writing all this because I find it therapeutic. But also because our time here is limited.  I could die in minutes, hours, days, months years or decades. That isn't my decision.  What is my decision is how I want people to know me.  So whether I die tomorrow or in 70 years I can only hope that these words will imprint the legacy I wish to leave behind.  Though I can be emo and moody I'm  also so much more than that.

We were born to live and born to die.  What we do in between defines us.  I chose do do something with the path I'm on, because in the words of Robert Frost " I have promises to keep.  And miles to go before I sleep".

Music Woo

Part of being a good skeptic is looking at the evidence and being able to change your mind.  I don't see this as admitting you were wrong about something.  I feel it is more of a learning opportunity.  I once thought X, but I learned Y and now I believe  Z is correct.  You know...what adults do.

Recently my views have changed on the topic of teaching Music education in the schools.  I used to be against this.  Not because I found Music class to be painful and boring as a young lass, but because I feel that too many of our schools are lacking in the basics: Math, English and Science.  I really felt that those should be a priority.  I still do, but now I'm not so down on Music education.

I've been reading a book by Oliver Sacks "Musicophilia".  He makes an excellent argument for music education.  Remember when there was that whole "Baby Einstein" movement awhile back. The theory was that having a child listen to Mozart would make them smarter, particularly in math.  Well, it turns out there is some truth in this.  It turns out that exposure to music plays a part in stimulation.  However, it appears as if active participation in music is what really makes the difference.  Using magnetoencephalography, when a child as participates in music, certain parts of the brain are stimulated.  The areas that work together to listen or perform music have other functions as well.  Specifically the Corpus Callosum plays a big part in music, but it is also responsible for communications between the two hemispheres.  Studies have shown that musicians that are trained at an early age tend to have larger Corpus Callosums, which means more brain talking.  While this doesn't exactly prove anything, it makes me more inclined to support music in the schools.  So, break out those recorders and buy your kids their "Guitar Hero" video game systems.  It is for their education after all.

Holiday Reflections: Atheism, Reality TV and Sweet Hypocrisy

Today is the Fourth of July.  After sleeping in on my day off I grabbed a bad Mexican beer after the obligatory "it is after noon so I'm not a drunk" time and climbed into my hammock with a computer and a book.  It is beautiful outside.  There is a slight wind, the weather is perfect and I'm doing absolutely nothing.  I am at peace with that.

Though I have been writing more I still feel as if I really haven't been doing anything.  It is really a venting mechanism and nothing more.  Because really, what will my lazy ass accomplish sitting in the comfort of my porch drinking a beer?  Absolutely nothing. But because I don't claim to be changing the world I can be o.k with that.  But I am not hypocrisy free.

I have been following this Facebook thread with the same tenacity as I would watch the Jersey Shore.  It is akin to The Situation and whoever the other guy is competing on who as the bigger muscles (I assume that is what they do.  I really am more of a Jerseylicious kind of gal).  It really isn't going anywhere, has no purpose and is really just irritating.  But I keep reading and growing more and more frustrated.  Don't these people see that their energy can be going to accomplishing something great?  I mean actually accomplishing something and not purporting to.  But here is where I'm a hypocrite.  It turns out I'm just as lazy as they are.

The latest debate has been on this AA banner flying business.  I've already said what I "think" should be done. But I haven't actually done anything about it.  Just as these people aren't really doing anything to support their cause.  This should be a wake up call for us all to grow up.  I mean look at me. I embody the vision of laziness and the sometimes self imposed lack of knowledge.  Because it really takes too much time to think of original arguments. I'd rather take a nap.  And I can because if I want to wake up and argue some more I don't really need to do any real research.  I just need to look at some treads and pick out the same tired talking points all the riled up atheists use when debating.  And really it doesn't matter what is being debated.  Right now the debate is the July 4th celebrations.  But it could just as easily be teaching creationism in the schools or fighting for gay rights. All you need to remember are these points.

1.  Atheists are the victims.  Each and every one of the Christians are against us.
2.  All the Christians indoctrinate their children.  We really need to stop this.
3. We need to make our presence known.
4. Christians lie.
5.  Don't forget about the fucking Crusades.

If you are feeling really gregarious you can improvise on some of these topics, but the same ones keep coming up.  There is really no need to be unique.  So why do we keep reading?  For the same reason people enjoy reality shows. These blogs make us feel superior to people that don't think as we do.  And there is always the troll.  Whether it is that Snookie character or someone like me or that unfortunate "Your Not Helping" fellow we all need someone to focus our anger on.  And I am no different.  Every troll has their troll.  Mine is PZ, Dawkins and the like.

Authors Note:  I realize I open myself open to the stone throwing by seeming to dismiss the above talking points.  I'm sorry to take the pleasure away from you, but I do agree that the above can often (though certainly not always) be a problem.  But they have their times and places.

So yeah we all sit around pissing in a circle trying to have the superior pedantry, but I've come to realize  we are really all the same.  We should embrace each other, but really what is the fun in that?

All these reflections have made me tired.  It is time to retire and  look up at the sky to see if I can see one of those damn banners, and maybe pat myself on the back for writing something world changing that probably only other atheists will read.  That is, if I have the energy.

My First Atheist Rant-Holiday Edition

I have never been a huge fan of the American Atheists.  I have never cared for their billboards or their behavior at conventions.  I have been in charge of PR for a non-profit organization for long enough to know that there is such thing as bad press.  However, that is their prerogative, and often I've found myself in the minority in regards to my opinion of them.  Because of this I was surprised to see so many atheists speak out against AA's new campaign.

For those not familiar with the campaign, AA is planning on flying banners over various cities citing phrases such as "God-LESS America".  They argue that atheism is patriotic.  There are atheists that feel we are seen as being less American and are tired of hearing politicians saying "God Bless America" and having a supposed monopoly on patriotism.  This campaign is to make the atheist voice heard.

For the record I am not a closet atheist and I don't promote closeted atheism.  I feel that we should not feel ashamed to speak our opinions and personal philosophies  however unpopular they may be.  My issue is with  how those things are spoken for, especially by an organization that seems to represent the atheist population, though that has never been explicitly stated.

My issue with this is that the banners make it seem as if patriotism applies only to the godless.  While this may not be the intent it certainly will seem that way to many people.  It makes it seem as if the whole country is and/or should be god-less.  It will also be perceived as a one way street.  The message many people will get from this is all atheists are patriotic and Christians are not.

I do understand that politics is riddled with Christianity.  I am myself guilty of rolling my eyes every time a politician says "God Bless America".  I am horrified by belief driven campaigns to rid the world of abortion, gay rights and other civil rights.  I think that religion in politics is often dangerous and scary.  However, do feel that political campaigns and the problems that arise from them are a separate issue.  This banner campaign is targeted at the Fourth of July holiday. This is a secular holiday.  Don't go around messing with that.  Leave religion or the lack there of out of it and focus on what the holiday represents.

I haven't done a lot of research on this, but from what I hear this campaign is going to cost roughly $22K.  This really, really bothers me.  I'm all for making a presence in the world, but if you have that kind of money don't blow it on something that will turn people away from organized atheism.  Use it for good.  I have often been crucified as being a bleeding heart hippie but seriously.  I hear atheists bitch all the time that money collected at church goes to pay the preachers and upkeep the building.  That money should be going for good they say.  How is this any different?  Instead of flying your inflammatory banners, make your presence known with a generous donation to veteran relief.  Help a family who has lost someone serving this country.  Help pay the medical bills of someone disabled fighting in the war.  The economic downfalls of serving in the military  or losing a family member is devastating.  You can even specify that money only go to atheist families if you must.  But instead of you know, actually HELPING someone with the money and making a positive presence, AA has blown a significant amount of money on a very expensive pissing contest.

One of the beautiful things about this country is the freedom of speech.  I can sit here in the comfort of my hammock and be a troll and others can do the same.  We often see and hear things we don't like but that is the consequence of this freedom.  So I can't sit here and tell them what to do (who would listen to a 26 year old, slightly tipsy hippie like myself anyway?).  I can however wish that if they bear the atheist name that they think a little more rationally about the consequences of their actions.  We all have the freedom of speech but we need to think of the responsibility that bears.