My amazing stomach
So I’ll be having my operation this Thursday, and I’m told I’ll be so tired/sore that I won’t even be up to sitting in an armchair and writing on my laptop (or, as I call it, “Being Awake”) for three weeks.
Chris is somewhat absent-minded, but I’ve asked him to post on my personal facebook page just to say, “Yeah, op’s done. Felicity’s resting” or some such, but I’m not sure he’ll remember.
So don’t worry I guess? If you don’t hear from me for a few weeks?
One side effect of my anxiety disorder is worrying about people worrying about me. So just don’t, mmkay? Promise?
Right now I’m writing a chapter about giant squid, so that’s good.
My feelings swing wildly hither and thither regarding the operation. There are three main axes (okay, four):
- I will be able to fit human-shaped clothes again… after nearly seven fucking years of maternity clothes! I might even be able to wear jeans again. But I’m super extremely giddily excited about wearing all my dresses (the ones that fit my overweight self)! It took me way too long to realise that every dress ever will exaggerate a big belly. And maybe I’ll fit into seatbelts properly again! And NOT get congratulated on my pregnancy (which I don’t have) every time I go to a party or run into an old friend. That will certainly help with social anxiety.
- Maybe, someday soon, I won’t actually be disabled any more. Maybe I’ll be able to do crazy stuff like walk to the shops or go to a playground that’s more than fifty metres from the car park. Maybe I’ll be able to just get rid of my wheelchair forever, and trust myself to travel solo again, and be… you know, capable and independent and stuff, without fighting so hard for the basics? And not so afraid of everything, because everything won’t hurt so much? Maybe? Surely, at the very least, my back and neck (and maybe migraines) will be a lot less of an issue due to not having an extra chunk of stomach pulling my whole body out of alignment. [Shout-out to all my chronically ill and/or disabled peeps out there… I don’t have anything good to say except I see you and I hope I do right by you in my life and in my stories.]
- What if all this is wrong and I just fail at everything and get fatter than ever and all those people who supported me financially and emotionally about this operation were just wrong and my body is just as useless and awful next year as it is right now? What if I go through all this only to end up just as unhealthy but twice as hopeless?
- I’m not good with pain, the kids aren’t good at boundaries, and Chris isn’t good at remembering minutiae (like taking Louisette’s leftover lunch out of her bag rather than leaving it to be discovered in February). This recovery period is going to be all kinds of torture. And then when I get to the “kinda okay” part of my recovery Chris will be gone and it’ll still be school holidays and it’s going to be even worse with kids present 24-7.
So I guess I’m a bit stressed out. Mostly about my own imperfect self re:immediate family members, and also trying to do everything that needs doing this year in the next three days. (Christmas is sorted, plus a bunch of other stuff including most of my writing gigs. I just need to write 7000 more words of a giant squid attack and then I can relax. Theoretically.)
I had Chris take some pre-op pics of me for comparison purposes:
“I just need to write 7000 more words of a giant squid attack and then I can relax.”
Story of my life.
Christmas Letter
Each year I make a calendar (using Vistaprint) for the following year, in which the photos roughly correlate with the same months of the previous year.
I sure hope that sentence makes sense.
For example, this was taken in March, during which Canberra hosts a massive international hot air balloon festival every year.
So, what did we get up to this year?
In very early January we went camping with some of our Hong Kong relatives, which the kids were desperate to do. Those relatives became first-time parents this year, so we have another cousin now!
Lots of health dramas this year for both Louisette (inattentive ADD) and myself (lots of things, some of which have improved or been fixed—and I’m finally getting my stomach stitched together this month!)
Also lots of sleepovers with cousins.
Lots of AWESOME writing stuff happening. In fact there are two Very Big Things I can’t talk about yet!
CHOICES THAT MATTER: AND THEIR SOULS WERE EATEN has had more than half a million downloads, and most people love it (there are loads of reviews on Google Play and not so many on itunes, despite the fact there are actually more sales on itunes). And next year I’ll finish the ANTIPODEAN QUEEN Australian steampunk trilogy of novels (strange, since I wrote HEART OF BRASS before Louisette was born), and start releasing my middle grade Heest trilogy. Plus I’ll release MURDER IN THE MAIL: A BLOODY BIRTHDAY, which is so ridiculously fun and different. And probably do more stuff I don’t know about yet!
Chris switched jobs due to his previous job getting automated. He’s naturally content and handles such things much more gracefully than I do.
Louisette is close to finishing her first year of Kindy. Other than the ADD-related stuff, she’s had a great year. She has some really excellent friends, and is taking more responsibility for things like packing her own school bag. It’s crazy how quickly kids learn to read, considering how complex it is. In the moment, of course, every word feels like it takes a million years (especially when the kid has ADD and the parents have either ADD or various other mental problems). Louisette also lost her first tooth, and won a school prize for the house-car-plane model we made together.
Her kindness and/or cleverness sometimes takes my breath away. Talking to her or sharing ideas with her is sheer pleasure.
TJ turned 3 (we went to the zoo in a big group of cousins and friends), and became deeply obsessed with puzzles. He’s unusually good with letters and numbers, in part because he’s a smart kid and in part because Louisette loves teaching him (consciously preparing him for Kindy, which is two years away) and he adores her.
The kids continue to get on really well (most of the time).
Also, trains.
TJ is full of newfound imaginative skills (‘Tiggy’ was his first imaginary friend) and spends a lot of his time being the absolute perfect ideal of a happy and funny 3-year old boy. His laugh is so infectious.
Um… what else?
Horseriding and cat-patting.
We (that is, the kids and I) also went to Telstra Tower twice this year, which TJ in particular enjoys talking about every time we see it (so, pretty much whenever we step outdoors).
We all had birthdays, and we’ll be having Christmas soon.
So that was our year, as far as I can remember it: Doctors and writing for me, job change for Chris, Kindy and maniacal laughter for/from the kids.
And the inevitable Christmas pic:
And this is why digital cameras are awesome: because we get to keep all the truly terrible pictures taken along the way.
Santa’s been into the egg nog, it seems.
Santa get on the sauce and punched an angel. Allegedly.
No paparazzi!
Murder in the Mail
I wrote a guest post here about how I fell in love with steampunk. And it’s part of a series by a bunch of steampunky types.
I’m working on a new story called “Murder in the Mail: A Bloody Birthday” which will be released by Publisher Obscura, Odyssey’s imprint for “beautiful and unusual novelty and gift books by Australian and New Zealand authors and artists”.
The fundamental concept is that it’s a cozy murder mystery that is told entirely through letters, postcards, objects, and art prints—all of which are physically posted to the reader through the mail. There are seven writers altogether (one for each character, including the victim) and six artists (five from Canberra, one from Obscura who lives in Brisbane). The story runs for about eight weeks, and I chose (or in some cases commissioned) art that was both beautiful AND something that helped tell the story.
Yes, some vital clues are hidden inside the artwork itself!
The objects are also clues about the murder (or other secrets), and chosen to be small enough to post but also to engage the senses—hearing, smell, touch, and even taste. Obviously the art is somewhat visual.
I’m deliriously excited about this project, which will probably come together bit by bit over the next 6-12 months.
Here’s one of the pictures that will be in the story (as a physical A4 print):
This is one of the pieces of art from the story, which means everyone who buys the story gets a high-quality print of this (and seven other pieces in a range of materials). In real life, the photographer is Adam Lee. His website is here.
Update: The tentative release date is August/September 2018, and before then we’ll run a Kickstarter (which will have lots of fun & unique items, and will increase the advance given to all the contributors). And there will be a forum for people to talk murder, mystery, and art. Stay tuned!
Update: The story is well and truly up and running, with the main details here.
There are also Magic in the Mail stories!
A stitch in mine
It’s November. I’m not counting the days until Christmas, but I am counting the days until I get to experience something far less common and more painful: An operation. Yay!
(This is a long entry, with a sprinkling of swear words. Feel free to skip to the bottom where there’s a link to donate money.)
On 30 November (moved from 7 November) I’ll be getting the 9-cm gap in my stomach muscles stitched back together. It’s 100% normal for stomach muscles to separate during pregnancy, and to gradually close over the six months post-pregnancy (one of several excellent reasons to never ever ask a lady if she’s pregnant, especially if she has young children). Most women wind up with a permanent stomach gap of a centimetre or so. If the gap doesn’t close on its own, no amount of exercise or weight loss will fix it.
Similar injuries caused by sport or accidents are covered under the public health system in Australia. Pregnancy injury is not. The excellent Waleed Aly once did a segment on the inherent sexism in not assisting women like me. Louisette turns six in January and TJ is three and a half, so I’ve had the unwieldy annoyance and pain of a pregnancy-style belly for more than six years, and have been trying to get the necessary surgery for three years.
Here’s the awkward bit: Because re-attaching stomach muscles involves dealing with skin, it’s plastic surgery. It also makes women look less pregnant. I imagine this is why male politicians refuse to fund it. Women could take advantage of the system just to restore their exhausted parasite-hosting bodies to their previous appearance! Women who’ve had an improbably large object rip its way out of their most sensitive organs might have one aspect of their horrifically violating journey to motherhood erased! Women might have one less complaint that needs to have, “But of course I wouldn’t change a thing! I’m just so thrilled to have a child!” tacked onto the end.
I’m one of the lucky ones, psychologically. Both of my pregnancy experiences were awful awful awful, but they’re over now. My births went pretty well. I noticed and suffered from various problems the medical industry could have done a lot better, and I hope that makes me a useful advocate for other pregnant people in future.
But.
Becoming a mother gave me a long list of permanent chronic conditions that ultimately made me unable to care for my own children (and also cost me my job in childcare, which I loved). This year I’ve gotten to the point where I can mind both kids solo for about three hours fairly consistently, or one for a full day. My kids are pretty great—healthy, happy, and fundamentally decent human beings. But I’m disabled now, because of having them, and that—well, it just sucks.
(Pause for cuteness.)
It’s very clear that not everything that’s wrong with me can be fixed. I realised that a long time ago, and the writer and advocate in me is glad, because I know that I can now write some types of disabled characters really well. My pain is fodder for better stories—the kind that can give hope to people who need it, and a bit of empathy to everyone else.
I still have hope that one day I won’t feel afraid of my children any more. Right now it hurts to stand, to make a sandwich, to pick them up, to buckle them into the car, to walk with them to the shops (or to the front door of the school), to get down on the floor and play with them, and so on. Sometimes I don’t care, and I pretend nothing hurts. Other days it feels like my kids are torturing me on purpose. Most days I plan carefully: How much strength do I have? Is today a good day or a bad day? How can I make the kid/s feel loved without risking long-term injury to myself? What corners can I cut without hating myself or neglecting the kids? How do I manage my stupid body so it lasts until bed time today?
I’ve had a few wins along the way. With TJ I had daily migraines (mostly “silent” migraines that are mainly aura with not much pain) for the whole pregnancy, and then they just… didn’t stop. I now take a medication that has 90% solved the migraine issue (although I haven’t yet recovered from the brain damage that resulted from two years of daily migraines). I had a minor operation a few years ago that improved some other stuff, and I have a third major problem that can also be treated with pills. (The second and third conditions in this list are a bit too personal for a blog.)
(Pause for cuteness.)
Here are some things that will definitely/probably be improved by my stomach surgery:
-vertebrae and disc spinal injuries (the pain will be eased after the surgery because there won’t be a giant stomach pulling my spine out of alignment) causing significant pain and disability.
-prolapsed uterus (hopefully all my misplaced organs will slot neatly back into place)
-abdominal diastasis (that’s what the surgery is actually for)
-umbilical hernia (which will definitely be fixed by the surgery)
-pain-related depression and anxiety (which will be improved by surgery)
I’m also looking forward to seatbelts working properly again. At the moment, they slide up my stomach and cut into my neck (literally; I have a lovely connection of skin tags on each side of my neck; half from driving and half from being the passenger).
And I might just be able to wear pants again, which would be awfully convenient. And swimmers. Technically I can and do wear swimmers, but my stomach is so disproportionate that they’re really uncomfortable.
Lotsa nausea will be reduced or eliminated, which will be nice.
And I’ll be able to cut my own toenails without swallowing vomit (due to pressing down on an unprotected stomach in order to reach my feet). That’ll be nice too.
It will be awesome to be able to wear dresses again. It took me far too long to realise that dresses always exaggerate a big stomach, because they’re designed to show the nice straight lines of a body (which pregnant bodies don’t have).
Anyone who’s been pregnant knows the pain of picking things up from the floor. I’m really looking forward to that being less of a big deal.
And of course, I won’t look nearly as pregnant! I’m not expecting a bikini body—in fact I imagine I’ll still look a little bit pregnant—but it’ll be soooo much better than my current reality. When I’m faced with large social events I often have quite bad panic attacks beforehand due to knowing most of the people there will assume I’m pregnant. Did I mention I already had a social anxiety disorder?
Here’s a real story from literally less than a week ago:
Nice Lady, sympathetically: Oh, how are you doing?
Me, immediately realising what she’s getting at: I’m fine thanks.
Nice Lady: It’s such hard going when you’re so far along!
Me, thinking both, “Well this is an especially bad one” and “She’s old and I’ll probably never see her again. Let’s not correct her”: Thank you.
Nice Lady: So when are you due?
Me, thinking, “Fuck. Oh well here goes”: I’m not actually pregnant.
[Cue classic conversation in which I try to make someone feel better for making me feel like absolute shit.]
I once had a man I didn’t know approach me at a funeral and ask me my due date while rubbing my stomach.
Aaand I once went into a physio appointment at the hospital where I’d recently given birth, and seen that exact same physio a week earlier for a pre-birth appointment, and had the physio look at me and say, “Weren’t you going to be induced last Friday?”
Yes. In fact I was induced last Friday. The baby was out.
In her defence, this is what I looked like that day (and ever since):
If you want to be respected by a medical professional, be very careful not to tick any of the following boxes:
- Being female. Statistically, reports of female pain (and various other issues) are underestimated by medical professionals across the board.
- Being overweight. Were you in the healthy weight range before you began to suffer from [insert medical condition here]? It doesn’t matter. If you are fat, your medical condition is your fault, or at least made worse by you.
- Being mentally ill. Why should anyone listen to a crazy person? If you talk rationally, your mental illness isn’t serious and you’re probably just looking for attention. If you talk irrationally, you’re an irrational person and anything you say is suspect. (Fun Fact: Although “Violent offender was mentally ill” is a common theme in both fiction and real-life news reporting, mentally ill individuals are far more likely to be the victims of violence than the perpetrators. Because who listens to the mentally ill? Not doctors or police or reporters or writer, apparently!)
- Being pregnant, post-partum, or a mother. Women’s uteruses and hormones have been the ultimate go-to cause of all physical illnesses and pain since Ancient Greece. Not only can a doctor comfortably diagnose any disease as “women’s problems” (and therefore natural), but any women who continues to complain is violating the well-known fact that motherhood is a BEAUTIFUL and NATURAL thing, and all that pain and illness and childbirth and breastfeeding/bleeding and 17% lower wages and sexual harassment is because we’re just SPECIAL and PRECIOUS and PRIVILEGED to be the bearer of little health-destroying bundles of JOY. I couldn’t tell you how many times I was told that my pain levels were a normal part of pregnancy. Actually, I’d injured my spine and dislocated my hip, both of which still cause me pain today. Thanks, medical science!
For the record? There’s probably no high greater than the high of having a baby. I’ve been there, and it’s awesome. A lot of doctors are aware of their biases and are working on making things better. And let’s be clear: I have two kids, so all the shit I waded through evidently didn’t put me off motherhood. There are lots of precious and beautiful aspects to motherhood, but they tend to come at a high cost (higher than any man ever has to pay for fatherhood). Higher than usual, in my case—not just because nature is an asshole (although she is) but because our society as a whole still has quite a ways to go before women, especially sick women (or women of colour, which I am not) are treated with the respect they deserve.
Ultimately I was forced to go the private route for this surgery, which costs around $15,000. Super fun when I don’t have a normal job any more!
You can donate here, if you like.
Felicity Banks 