For real. It was that bad.

Alone and scared, I was up for five hours on the floor of my tiny bathroom that night. I was nauseous and sweating in places I didn’t even know could sweat. If I weren’t in such pain, the no sleep thing alone would have made me homicidal. Ultimately, I toughed it out and went to my doctor the next morning where I got a prescription and optimistically thought I’d feel better by the next day.

Nope! I couldn’t even stay at work that afternoon. And that night, I woke up and again debated a trip to the emergency room. The following morning-  three days into this new mystery illness- I was twisting and turning, unable to find any position for comfort while trying to rest on the couch at home when I suddenly overheard on the TV: “Imagine being pregnant for 60 years…it’s true and it happened in China. Coming up next.”

Ummm….weird medical sci-fi shit? Sold! 

This is also precisely when my mind- in its severly ILLNESS-CLOUDED AND SLEEP DEPRIVED state- began to question Google’s results for “extreme side pain.”

Sixty years…holy hell…how horrible…what does that even mean…seriously, that doesn’t even make any sense…damn I have to pee again…but I already tried…again…I wish I could sleep…but seriously, maybe I’m pregnant…or was and and, like, didn’t know it…yeah, maybe that’s what’s going on…ugh…what the hell.

By the time the show came back from commercial and the premise of the 60 year pregnancy was explained, I was doing leg lifts, actual leg lifts, in an attempt to “work out whatever kink” I may have somehow gotten my lower back into. Then, as I contorted my body into painful angles such as laying flat on my back and standing up straight, I learned that the poor woman being chronicled on the show actually knew she was pregnant all those years ago, but when her baby “went to sleep” before being born, she just went on with her life. Okay…

Pondering the likelihood of my own odd medical state, I took a break from stretching and moved onto lunges, alternating reps with guzzling water from a jug in an effort to combat the UN-FUCKING-CEASING urge to pee and my inability to successfully do so. Too much? Just wait.

By the end of the TV show, I had placed a call into my doctor and was laying in bed on my stomach sans pillow, phone in hand. When they finally called me back HOURS LATER, I was told to get there in 40 minutes or go to the ER. Cause that’s super affordable.

So I rushed to my doctor, who in turn sent me to the hospital for a CT scan, where I was diagnosed with a kidney stone. Immediately, I felt vindicated for the pain I was in and accepted everyone’s effusive sympathy rather than the scorn I felt sure to receive for overreacting. I was given vicodin and a sieve to strain my pee (i.e. drugs and “entertainment”). I can’t tell you how many times I Googled “what does a kidney stone look like” in order to know what I should be looking for- I won’t go into the details, but suffice to say there was some other nasty stuff showing up.

Five days after my ordeal began, I was pain-free at last and no longer “panning for gold.” I can hardly convey the absolute elation I felt when I passed that damn thing except to say I wanted to celebrate with champagne. I felt actual pride in myself for toughing it out and successfully passing a sizable stone. Coral-like and spiky (“agony” in the picture above is a dead ringer), I placed it in a plastic snack bag and studied it (I was asked by the doctor to save it just in case they needed to analyze it- apparently I’m now 75% more likely to get another one!). Sadly, while it seemed massive at first,  I swear the ornery bastard has steadily shrunk ever since.  

For such a small thing, it proved incredibly costly. All told, my kidney stone set me back $897 after insurance (which luckily covered the other $2687 due), as well as three of my five sick days. Given that it is now one of the most expensive things I own, I keep it on my microwave. A physically and financially painful daily reminder to drink more water.

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Which is when my friend’s husband asked if I was “ready to have one of my own.” Right, because holding someone else’s child instantly kicks my ovaries into hyper-drive. Uh, no. But ever since that moment I’ve been thinking about how scary the prospect actually is to me.

I don’t know what it is…that sudden instinct to reproduce. Whatever it is and wherever it’s supposed to come from, that part of me has gone vacant. Rather than want a child more as I get older, the opposite has proven true for me. Whereas I always assumed growing up I’d have a couple in my twenties (because where I come from that’s what you do), now I just don’t feel the need. But, I’m 30 years old- GASP- and I better “get to it” I’m reminded by Interested Parties who have taken the most unoriginal and clichéd approaches in broaching The Baby Subject with me. What these Interested Parties don’t know is the fear that underlies what they deem The Most Natural Thing in The World.

I’ve dealt with chronic depression since I was 8 or 9 years old and was finally able to seek treatment in my twenties. I now take a medication every day, and if I miss even three days of the dosage, I can tell. That nagging “what’s the point of anything” mentality runs amok and I swing from utter emotional detachment to being on the verge of tears at any given moment. Don’t honk your horn at me; I’ll fall to pieces. And, why do I need to get out of bed, let alone shower, anyway?

Depression taps on my shoulder every chance it gets and it’s up to me to stay one step ahead. Knowing that and knowing I have every reason to be happy, the best I can do most days is avoid questioning what happiness is too closely. The best I can do is accept that a part of me doesn’t function the way it was intended to, that it’s okay to take a pill to keep myself afloat, and that it’s also okay to talk and even write about.

Some of you know me in real life and this confession, if that’s what it is, may come as a surprise. You see me smiling and making jokes, but this is what’s underneath. Most people never see it because I’m of the mindset that you don’t burden people with things like this. I grew up hiding what was really going on: from my family, friends, boyfriends, and teachers and I just…kept going. When things have spiraled out of control, I’ve always managed to activate some sort of “emergency survival button” on my own behalf. I’m a functioning depressive.

So what happens if someday I do have a baby? If I’m pregnant and I can’t take my medication because the only one that seems to work for me causes birth defects and passes through breast milk? What happens then? Is it more important to have a baby than to be healthy- both physically and emotionally- as a mother? Is a depressive still capable of being a “good” mother? What if I become a danger to myself or worse? What kind of mother would I be then?

These are the things I think about when people bring up my name and having a baby in the same sentence. My mom shrugs it off with a wave of her hand, telling me I’m being ridiculous, that once a baby shows up all you want to do is take care of it and love it to pieces. Maybe, but I’m staring down the barrel of depression already and it’s real whether she wants to ever acknowledge it or not. So is postpartum.

I can’t imagine what it is like for women who are expecting, who have dealt or are dealing with depression while pregnant, and who fear the possibility of experiencing postpartum first hand. I can’t imagine what the reality of facing that is like; I’m petrified at the mere idea.

Something inside me says don’t do it, it’s a ticking time bomb for you, an inevitability. Maybe it’d be selfish of me to choose never to have a baby because of that fear, but ultimately it isn’t just about me. I’m afraid not only of what could happen to me but also to those around me, and most of all to a child who’d subsequently suffer as well.

It’s no accident that I’m reading Dooce’s memoir, It Sucked and Then I Cried: How I Had a Baby, a Breakdown, and a Much Needed Margarita.

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Our phone conversation last night began innocuously enough. How’s work, what did you do this weekend, how was the movie, let’s plan Mother’s Day, and the like. She went on to share her annoyance after attending my cousin’s birthday party earlier that day. Annoyance at feeling obligated to spend time with her family- her brother and sister and their spouses, her parents, her other nieces and nephews. Annoyance at being smothered and stifled and forced to “get with the program” after spending the past 27 years living four to 19 hours away from all of them. Now, suddenly she and my dad are back in the very town they grew up in, the same neighborhood even, and it’s weird. While listening, I thought I’d sympathize (empathize) with her, offer my apologies for how very annoying that must be.

I regret that now.

She acknowledged that “Yes, it IS weird,” we talked a bit more about it, and then we hung up. I got ready for bed in anticipation of another week working the equivalent of three jobs. I’ve been feeling overwhelmed and stressed. Having finally done laundry after a month, I was just thinking what a blessing it was going to be to get dressed in the morning and not have to dig through the laundry bin for a “clean enough” pair of jeans when the phone rang again. She must have forgotten to tell me something, I naively thought.

No. Instead, my mom was calling me back to launch what amounted to the world’s most ironic argument. She informed me that she was “bothered” and “hurt” by my words. What words were those, I wondered. She threw out accusations while I sat stunned into silence; things like “I feel like a throw-away mother,” “you won’t let me call you every day or even every other day anymore,” “I never see you and you’re so close,” and “you’re cutting me out of your life.” She had the audacity to punctuate her claims by using my boyfriend as a catalyst for my apparent bad behavior, saying “you’re dating someone who doesn’t care about family and now you’re…”

And that’s when I cut her off. I love my mother, but hell no. While I had hitherto been preparing to decline the invitation to fight and hang up the phone, instead I got mad and retaliated like the truly resentful 29 year old daughter that I am.

“None of this has anything to do with him- I don’t want you calling all the time because I’m busy with work and feeling overwhelmed and can’t talk. And when I’m not at work I’m trying to relax, trying to still have a social life, trying to get things done like the dishes or the laundry. I’m trying to EAT an actual meal or SLEEP without having to knock myself out with medication. And as far as not seeing me very often, just because your life has changed and brought you into closer geographic proximity doesn’t mean that my life has changed to suddenly accommodate your nearness or availability.”

“But you kids are all that I have and now I feel like I’m losing you,” she sobbed. “I don’t have anything else in my life- our house is in foreclosure; I have no job, no friends, no….”

“That’s all you have. Really? Your adult children,” I quipped.

“Well, what else is there? What do you think I have that I don’t?” she shot back. And with that, we were off and running.

“It’s not my job to point out what you have to be happy about; that’s your job and if you can’t figure it out on your own, then you need to find a therapist to help you,” I flung at her. And I didn’t stop there. “Also, telling me that my brothers and I are your only happiness doesn’t actually make me feel good. It puts a lot of pressure on me to make and keep you happy and sane and that’s not okay. It’s an inappropriate expectation and it’s a refusal to acknowledge and adhere to healthy parent/ child boundaries.”

Four years of sessions with my own therapist were then met with her “go to” maneuver: martyrdom.

“Well, I’m sorry,” she sniffed. “I didn’t mean to put pressure on you or make you upset. I’m not trying to be such a BAD mother…”

“You need help.” I repeated it five times as she tried to bar my words from entering her consciousness. “You’re depressed and unhappy with everything in your life and you’re pinning it on your daughter to make you feel better. I can’t fix your life for you.”

I’m fed up with these mind games and manipulations. I’m fed up with my parents and their problems and their refusal to act like adults, like parents, and be responsible for their own problems and feelings. I’m fed up with being my family’s scapegoat and outlet for all of their personal emotional turmoil. I. Am. Fed. Up.

And yet, while I’m unsurprised by my mother’s codependence, while I can anticipate her words and actions and understand what’s really going on beneath them; I am still deeply hurt and disappointed by her inability to act like the parent she ought to be. I am still hurt and disappointed that when I voice my own needs I am met with her victim mentality and guilt trips.

In response, she chose to cry.

Before the phone call ended, I questioned what she hoped to gain from the conversation. I’m not going to change, in fact cannot change, anything about my circumstances. I do not want, nor am I in a position, to sit on the phone for an hour each night while she tells me about what food she did or did not eat that day. And I cannot drop what I am doing to visit her for one to two weekends a month simply because she lives two hours away.

She may have been looking to be consoled and reassured, but unfortunately for her she came to the wrong person on the wrong day. I’m still a reliable “good” daughter, but I’m getting better at being a “good” individual.

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Like most women, I hate shaving my legs. I hate it for a lot of reasons, but mainly because I wake up really early to get ready and commute 90 minutes to work, which means I’m typically awake between 5 and 6 a.m. Shaving at that hour is next to impossible in that 1) my eyes are barely open, 2) I haven’t allotted myself enough time to do it adequately, and 3) I wind up cutting myself multiple times.

Adding insult to injury, as a Chicagoan shaving often proves to be an exercise in futility. The minute I catch a chill or step out into the COLD ASS pre-dawn air, goosebumps form and then it’s game over. Instant stubble. Why is that anyway?

But lately, although I may dislike the chore of shaving, I’ve been having a whole other slew of problems. For some reason, for five days after shaving my legs, my janky ass pores pitch a hissy fit. It’s not razor burn or dry skin, but my shins continue to itch horribly. I’ve tried organic products- shaving cream, oatmeal based lotions, sea salt exfoliating scrubs between shavings. I even went to a dermatologist last summer about it, though it proved entirely unhelpful (her answer was to “take a break” from shaving in the middle of August. I don’t know about you, but a leg full of hair isn’t exactly how I want to accessorize my cute strappy sandals and sundresses). All to no avail.   

So I finally caved. I decided to try waxing. Certainly, the idea of not having to worry about shaving and avoiding the reaction I’ve been suffering from seemed well worth the cost and pain. Or so I thought.

Walking into a local waxing establishment, I believed I had come prepared after a week of not shaving. But when I bared my legs, the motherly Korean lady began to study them and doubt. She pawed at my calves, craned her work lamp closer, interrogating the hairs into submission. She hemmed and she hawed, made odd guttural noises that you’d never want to hear in a hospital or a car repair shop. And then she was off. She vowed to “try.”

Unceremoniously, she slathered a random swath of wax across my shin. I wasn’t prepared for its heat, but in a moment the burn was covered with a canvas strip of cloth and she was smoothing it out. And then….RIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIPPPP!

I felt the pain shimmy all the way up to my forehead; the skin at my temples shivered, the sudden sting on my leg lingered. We both leaned in to examine the results.

Success. Partial success. As gross as the canvas strip now looked, there were stragglers. They mocked us. But, valiantly, she carried on and waxed despite her complaints of my hair being “Too thin! Your hair too thin!” Um, sorry lady. Believe me, I’m not enjoying this either, I thought.

In the end, the results yielded my looking akin to a hastily plucked chicken. We termed it, “much better,” though in reality I think we both we’re thinking, “good enough.” But before I could gather my things, she tried to force a bikini wax on me. She stood pointing to her own lady bits and said, “I have lot of hair here but it not hurt.” Not only did I want to laugh at the utter absurdity of the bold-faced lie she’d just told, but I was horrified that she had just grabbed her hoo-ha and described her pubic hair all before I’d had a chance to get coffee.

“No, thanks,” I told her. “Maybe next time.”

As for that next time, would I do it again? Yes, just not at the same place. This establishment had the wherewithal to classify some of its waxing options as a “Bikini Dance for Women.” That “dance” included (and I quote): Samba (Brazilian), Gogo (Regular), Hip Hop (Hip), and Cha-cha-cha (Anus). Yes, it says “anus.” GDF, Emo, and I all agree it should say “bung hole” instead. Even though it would still be a gross description, at least it would be funny because “bung hole” is definitely a funny word.

So yeah…I think I’d pony up for a more spa-like atmosphere. I’d also toss back a few shots before going in for any future waxings. And, as far as working my way up to a bikini wax, my thoughts are thus: go big, or go home. For me, it’d have to be a full on Brazilian, and at this juncture, I honestly don’t think I could both drink enough and not have to be carried into the place to successfully execute that one.

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I’ve been unwashed and covered in DEET. I’ve woken in a tent to the sounds of moose grazing through my camp site. I’ve gone for a walk in the woods that lasted eight days and covered 82 miles, crossed ice fields in June at elevations of 8,000 and above, backpacked to the summit of Triple Divide Pass where fallen precipitation heads in one of three directions- to the Pacific, Atlantic, or Arctic Ocean. I’ve carried bear spray and read their tracks in hopes of never seeing one. I’ve “made water” and a no-bake cheesecake in a tin can. I’ve run my fingers through the powder soft pollen of bear grass flowers. I’ve swam in glacier fed lakes, then sprinted out of them screaming from near frost bite. I’ve picked wild huckleberries along the trail, disbelieving the tales of backpackers’ huckleberry-stained fingers being eaten off by grizzlies.

All of these versions of “me” happened a long time ago now- fifteen years ago in fact. But while I may have put away my rain gear and hiking boots, I still bear the scar on my left shoulder from backpacking in Glacier National Park (carrying a 55 pound backpack 18 miles in one day will do that, I guess). I wear that scar proudly now; a token of one of my happiest memories.

From National Geographic- Grinell Glacier in Glacier National Park in 1940 and 2004.

Ever since, I’ve been telling myself I’ll go back. I always thought I had the luxury of going whenever I got tired of taking beach vacations or touring crowded cities. As it turns out, the real luxury is that I saw Glacier as it was nearly two decades ago.

So it comes as no surprise that I was saddened to read this article on Glacier* and its recent loss of two glaciers. I realize that it’s just melting ice and snow, that it’s not one of those poor polar bears swimming endlessly trying to find food and/or ice to rest on. But in some ways reading this news does feel like an irrevocable loss, almost as though something has suffered and died. 

It’s more than unsettling for me to know that a place in which I experienced beauty and happiness 15 years ago won’t be there in 15 more. Glacier will still be a beautiful park with the same mountains and trails, but its namesake will be gone.

*My time in Glacier National Park’s backcountry was organized and led by guides contracted through Glacier Guides in West Glacier, Montana. One of the men quoted in the article, Denny Gignoux, just so happens to be the guide of my first backpacking trip. Small world.

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There we sat, discussing a friend of a friend and the outlandish lengths she’s gone to in order to meet “someone,” expanding her geographic dating region rather than expanding her “requirements.” Apparently, she’s hit the jackpot because she found “someone,” has met him twice, and is set to move in with and marry him by year end. This is pretty much where my self-righteousness comes in. In fact, it made me go all Katie-Couric-Interviewing-Sarah-Palin up on my friend’s ass.

“Don’t you think that’s a bit ridiculous- literally expanding her Match demographic to include men ANYWHERE in the US?” I responded after noting the obvious safety risks of hasty decisions like hers.

“Well, that’s what you have to do when you’re in your 30′s and still unmarried. It gets really hard to find the kind of guy that my friends and I would marry,” she adamantly reminded me while conveniently forgetting that I am also unmarried and turning 30. GASP!

“Really? Why?” I asked with feigned confusion.

“Because. You know,” she sheepishly shrugged with a shake of her head and widening eyes.

“No, not really. Why is that? And what do you mean by ‘kind of guy’?” I pursued.

 ”You know. Another [insert race],” she whispered almost apologetically.

My friend and Ms. Friend-of-a-Friend have told me over the years that it’s important to them to date men of their own race because he’d “understand our culture better, our customs and holidays, food and religion.” I guess I can see the point of their argument, however, does their statement mean no other race is capable of or considerate enough to gain familiarity with their customs? Is “true love” based solely on one’s inherent knowledge of another’s cultural background? And if a girl limits her dating pool based upon race, doesn’t that fundamentally make her a racist?

Here’s the thing: maybe their take on the necessity of cultural similarities in dating doesn’t technically make them racists. Maybe there’s some loophole of cultural integrity that I’m not party to. But I simply cannot relate, and neither can Emo who reports to me that he personally “loves all colors of God’s sexy rainbow.”  

The truth is, I’m white bread through and through. I grew up in a racist and anti-Semitic household, embarrassed by the comments and attitudes I was surrounded by and couldn’t control. Now as an adult, I find it shocking to see a form of my family’s thinking perpetuated and paraded about in social circles of my own choosing. It makes me feel icky in the worst way. And hearing their complaints about how difficult it is to meet someone only exacerbates what I see as a racial affront.

I understand that we all have our dating requirements, our “demographic,” our “have-to-haves” and “won’t settles” and what have you, and hold certain traits to be more attractive than others. I have my own ideas with which I contend, but over the years those ideas have changed. I’ve matured. I’ve realized that what matters most in a healthy relationship is sharing common values, an instinctual attraction, and a mutual respect. Everything else can flourish from there.

So even though I view these women as friends, I also view them as in the wrong and refuse to show sympathy for their dating difficulties anymore. I cannot and will not agree with someone who dates a race and not a person. And ultimately, I can’t help but wonder if they intend to apply the (if not antiquated, heavily frowned upon) Caste system in their potential spousal evaluations as well.

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I once saw this girl on the sidewalk, walking all purposeful, with her arms wrapped around an ungainly pack of toilet paper. I was with my boyfriend and we were having brinner outside as she rushed past. In that moment, I saw the slight smirk on her face and the “caged animal eyes” and I knew.

“That girl is going home to take a massive dump,” I declared. We laughed because it was funny. But also because it was TRUE.

In retrospect though, I feel a certain kinship with that poor girl and her plight. Yes, she had to poop. Yes (sorry to burst your bubble, Emo), girls do poop. That’s what butts are for (despite what your porno tells you). And yes, that means that I poop too.

In fact, because I have had IBS for TWELVE FREAKING YEARS, I am known to be rushing to and fro quite often. Imagine knowing that every time you eat- no matter how good the restaurant or how healthy the food- there is a 65-80% chance (which jumps to 100% if I eat lettuce or other leafy greens) that you’ll experience what you would recognize as a cross between the stomach flu and food poisoning. That is my life. Awesome, no?

So yeah, I have to buy A LOT of toliet paper. Like all of the time. And because I live a block from the Jewel, I buy my own ungainly 12 pack of toilet paper, then haul the fucker home to the entertainment of many an omnipotent bystander. Unlike the girl on the sidewalk, however, I try to tuck it under an arm or pretend I’m wandering nonchalantly back to whence I came.

La la la… no one needs to poop here! What was I doing? Oh yeah, just picking up this totally useless chunk of plastic encased paper. Of course it’s not even for me!

In reality, I’m avoiding eye contact as I slink home, downtrodden and ashamed of my butt’s proclivities, of my “irritable bowels,” of my need for triple-ply quilting. Hello, My name is Nic and I poop.

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