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| Top left: with Maddox. Top right: with Felix. Above "My belly now" |
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Skinny Minnie, toothpick, anorexic, skin and bones, these are what
you call me. These are the names given to me out of jealousy and
ignorance. This is my form, this is my belly, this is my belly story.
From
a young age my petite figure has been a coveted object to people
perhaps not genetically predisposed to have so. I have always been this
way. I have never been anorexic. Hell, you can't keep me away from
food. When I was in 6th grade a few friends banded together in concern
for me. They confronted our guidance councilor, they told her that I
was anorexic. They said they were scared for me. My guidance councilor
told my parents. I was not anorexic. I am not anorexic. My parents came
to me knowing this not to be true and asked if it was. I had to
continue to go to school with these girls who had jealousy in their
hearts toward me. I could not help it. This is my belly, this is they
way my body is. I was shameful, I was self conscious, I was all things I
never should have been.
In high school, a breeding
ground for self awareness, I became displeased with my abdomen. It
happened when I least expected it to, but when most experience it. In
the locker room. There was a girl, she was so beautiful. She had these
amazing aqua shining eyes surrounded with luscious lashes. You could
tell she spent a lot of time out doors, or in a tanning booth, her
golden skin so fresh and clean. We were all getting dressed for track
practice and she took off her shirt, and there it was...her belly. I
was transfixed and was trying to look away. I didnt want her or any of
the other girls to see my momentary obsession. She had an abdomen of
extreme form. It was an eight pack for lack of better terminology. I
went home after practice, showered, and stood, naked, in front of the
full length mirror in my bedroom with the door locked. I stared at my
belly, flat as it may have been, it was not like her's. I moved on from
that day, never forgetting how that made me feel. Is that how my
friends in middle school felt?
Time passed, not a thing
about my belly ever wavering from the day prior. Then September 26,
2006, I found out I was pregnant. I had never loved my belly more than I
did that day. I had never cared less about having a slim figure as I
did then. As my tummy became swollen with my growing son, I became more
and more please with it's roundness. Feeling the tumbles and the
squirms of his little body engulfed in mine. Regardless of how glad I
was, I was still issued the occasional, "You don't look that pregnant"
or the "from the back you'd never be able to tell". With each comment
that was handed to me, the more was taken away from my joy.
At
the end of my pregnancy, I became ill. Four weeks prior to having my
son, Maddox, I had literal gut wrenching pain, diarrhea, and aversion
to eating. I became depressed. Unable to maintain a weight that pleased
my midwife I was forcing myself to eat. Luckily, this time passed
quickly for me and he was born, with an epidural, four days early,
healthy. Six lbs, fifteen oz. I continued to have bowel pain and
troubles, sometimes unable to control it. Bending down, picking things
up, sneezing hard, I'd loose control and shamefully I'd go tot he
bathroom to change my underwear. After about 8 months this all subsided
and things were relatively normal again.
In the
interim of all this I took a mommy core fitness class. I worked hard
and got my flat tummy back in no time. This was actually not my goal in
taking this class. I felt happier when I was exercising. In that it
was a "mommy" fitness class I was surrounded with women older than me
that perhaps were fortunate to gain a reasonable , healthy amount of
weight during their pregnancy. The looked at me with side ways glances.
Jealous. Am I safe no where? Surely they must be joking. But week
after week they were there, with their humorous sarcastic comments. It
was rude, it was painful. But I just smiled on. I was beginning to
think I was not genetically predisposed to be skinny, more so I was
predisposed to have a think skin.
Time passed, as it
does, and I met a man. Stephen. Beautiful, wonderful, caring,
masculine, Stephen. Oh, man do I love this Stephen. We got married. He
loves my belly. In all its forms. We got pregnant. I was excited at
first. Again, like my first son, I looked forward to my belly growing
with my new son. But I got sick. I got really sick. My first trimester
was hard, nausea, vomiting, the flu, a horrible virus that left me
bedridden for a week, unable to eat. It was awful. My husband took care
of me. Then my second trimester was nice, happy, hungry. I felt great.
Still the comments came, you should eat more, when are you going to
start showing? All the same as before. And I wondered, could this same
dialogue be used with some one who is over weight? Never. I would never
imagine saying these things to any one.
Every one is fighting their own battle with them selves. Its a spectrum we are all on and its all about perspective.
The
happiness ended in August. After Stephen and I had our wedding
celebration. I hadn't been able to eat for a couple weeks prior to that
day and had had diarrhea for weeks. I called out of work, I was in the
hospital. I was severely dehydrated and my potassium was lower than
ever. I wasn't eating, no surprise my electrolytes were so out of whack.
I couldn't work any more. That killed me. My stomach, intestines, and
rectum waged war on me day and night. I hated my belly. I hated my
child. I would have traded him in for relief. I was not granted either,
trading, or relief. The days pressed on and I became friends with the
couch and only the couch. I couldn't tolerate my friends, my Stephen,
my son Maddox. I was in hell. I was taking several pills several times a
day, treating the symptoms, never finding a cause. I was in the
bathroom 10 times during the daylight hours, waking every few hours to
sit on my porcelain throne. I saw Dr. Potash, I saw my PCP, weekly
visits to my OB. I hated every thing between my neck and my knees. No
one could help me. I cried in hospital rooms while the potassium
coursed through my veins painfully, while nurse after nurse after nurse
missed my veins for IVs. My arms were a war scene. I hated my belly.
After
a few visits to Dartmouth I had a diagnosis. Finally. Intrahepatic
Cholestasis of Pregnancy. A rare high risk pregnancy related illness.
Turns out that what happened at the end of my pregnancy with Maddox.
And with each pregnancy the chances are higher that it will come back,
stronger, more lethal, and more dangerous. The only cure? To have the
baby. I found this out on a Tuesday. I had Felix that same week two
days later. Spontaneous, beautiful, natural, vaginal birth. Six weeks
early, six lbs 9 oz. Healthy, happy, baby. That baby is three months
old now and my belly is small again, not toned like that girl in the
locker room, and it may never be like her's.
I am
learning to care for my belly. What's inside. The things I eat, the way
I eat, what I do. It has become an obsession. I had a 5 week break
after I had Felix from the diarrhea and the pain. Then it came back.
But I am learning. I am thankful for my healthy sons, my adoring
Stephen, and my knowledgeable friends.
And cliche as
it may be....Its not whats on the outside that counts. Its the inside
that matters. So with that in the forefront of my mind, I will let the
comments fall to the wayside, I will smile, and I will say Thank you,
I'm a lucky lady.
I love my belly now. I want to care for it and do what is right for it. Think before you open your mouth, for food, for words.
