When life takes a dump on your chest

Mmmm. What a ladylike title, right?

It’s how I’ve been feeling lately. Because trying to raise a toddler when your co-parent has Stage IV cancer isn’t bad enough, I was fired from a job I actually liked for literally no publishable reason on Friday.

Pluses: My boss offered to be a reference and write a letter of recommendation. I now can party with Ronan more. I can be with Andy all mornings before his call. I can wear yoga pants more regularly.

Minuses: Oh, you know, just, like, a lack money and healthcare and security and meaning and purpose and structure. Just those things.

I had a mini-piphany the other day. This is when you have an epiphany that shifts your perspective just a little so you don’t end up having to travel to Italy, India, and Indonesia to find meaning.

I have been telling the religious among me to pray for peace for us. We have strength, we could use some peace and calm.

But, what if this is actually just my normal?

What if the plan for my one small life is to bring me immense challenges and force me to navigate them? What if I do this so others can learn about their own strength or so they can develop a road map for themselves? What if it teaches me how to find calm in a storm or peace in a war? What if all of this is so Ronan can see what it’s like to do good work in a world full of trials so he can do something incredible like be the best damn chairlift operator in all of Washington?

Who am I kidding, he’s totally going to go the East Coast and swear the snow is better like a weirdo.

But truly, what if this is it?

Maybe if I stop hoping for a break, I’ll be less thrown for a loop when the hits keep coming. And maybe then the moments of respite will seem sweeter.

So I’m going to try that. It means expanding my capacity for turmoil a little more and I’ll have to change some things in my physical environment and the systems I use, but we all know I’m a willing and able prototyper.

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A letter

Dear Congressional Representative,

I am so tired today, aren’t you? I’m fighting a cold and my 18 month old is sick and my husband is having a hard time with his chemo treatments. I started a new job last week and I’m managing the stress of getting the kiddo off to his grandparents or his nanny share every morning and all the different logistics and checklists for myself, my baby, and my husband are kind of overwhelming.

My son got really sick on Monday. We ended up having to go to urgent care for his first ear infection, which, because us Willhelms do everything to the extreme, turned out to be in both ears, plus an acute viral infection in his throat. No wonder he wasn’t drinking any fluids. I had to leave him at home on Tuesday, which was so hard because I both wanted to be with him and desperately wanted to work at my new job so I could have some respite from the constant onslaught of logistics and management all day long.

See my husband, he’s 47, was diagnosed with Stage IV Colon Cancer in November. It was really sudden. He had no symptoms and it’s a type of cancer that can’t be detected through the annual colonoscopies or CT scans he was getting to monitor his Crohn’s Disease. Hell, we had been saying that it was best he had felt in the 10 years we had known each other. What a kick in the ass to find out it was Stage IV cancer.

But anyway, he was home with the baby on Tuesday and I had to keep saying silent prayers and checking in to see if he was doing ok because he’s immunocompromised. And a cold, which was already tricky because of his Crohn’s, could be devastating with the chemo.

But we had no other options, right? He couldn’t go to his nanny share. We didn’t want to get her kid sick, too. Grandparents, while they are amazing, we try to use them judiciously and a sick baby for a whole day is a lot to deal with. So he stayed home, fatigued from the chemo with a fragile immune system that I hope holds up to this bacterial and viral onslaught.

So in addition to the sickness of the baby, we’ve been managing the cancer: the treatment, the grief, the upset to work. Thank God he has an employer who actually cares about him and is making our lives less hellish by actually making it easy for him to work. He’s the Master Electrician at the Seattle Repertory Theatre, a big regional non-profit theatre that he’s worked at for 20 years. He LOVES his job. Like in a way that tells you someone has been paired up with their true calling.

But I write today not about his healthcare (thank God for his union’s good coverage) or the lack of affordable daycare, or the difficulty I had finding work with two Bachelor degrees and a Master’s degree and the crushing amount of student loan debt I got following the advice to “get more education” so I could get a good job. Today I want to write to you about guns.

You totally knew that, though. The little form online made me tell you that. So, spoiler alert, I’m feeling mad about the recent shooting in Parkland, FL.

I grew up in South Florida and moved to Seattle in 2008 after college. My sister in law is a teacher, my brother’s best friend and his wife are teachers. I don’t fear for their safety every day, because statistics means that it’s unlikely that the shooting will happen at their schools. But, what about when statistics catches up with me? What happens when my son, who isn’t in school yet but will be eventually, because we believe in the public school system, what happens when his school is the site of something like this? How on earth could I live with myself if I didn’t do my due diligence to make my fear and anger known to those who actually have the power to do something?

But then I pause and think, “What the hell is the point? The Dems did their one sit in and nothing happened.”

And now you have so much you are fighting for: healthcare, taxes, Dreamers, general nonsense from fellow lawmakers who seem to have forgotten they are governing people and not faceless voting blocks or donors. How can I, in good conscience, add to your list of struggles?

But really, how can I not? My son’s life is on the line.

My son’s life is on the line.

Do you have kids? I think you do. So, you must know this fear. The fear of motherhood where you let a piece of your heart walk around outside and the strings of worry and love and strength stretch from you to them in a way you didn’t know about until you had your child. I didn’t know the vulnerability I would feel until I held my son in my hands (he was 5 weeks early so he was little) and realized just how vulnerable I would be for the rest of my life. I could be made to do anything for him.

My husband’s mortality is something we are dealing with every day. We don’t know if he will kick the cancer and survive or die a young death, but his mortality that is literally in question right now does not feel as fragile as that of my son’s and his future classmates.

Please, for the love of God, do something.

I listen to NPR and watch CNN and read the New York Times and listen to Pod Save America like a good liberal does. I work very hard to break down internal bias and fight for equity and help my husband and those I can affect learn more about sexism and racism and ableism and fatphobia, but you have got to help me here. I need to take something off my list of things to worry about and fight for and my son’s safety in his school really needs to be one of them. Please.

So, what do you need from me? I’m joining a local mom’s group to be an activist for change in firearm legislation. I support local government and vote in every election. I donate to campaigns when I can and to charities and the odd GoFundMe for people who can’t afford medical care or need to send their kiddo to a once-in-a-lifetime ballet camp. What else can I do to make our country safer and better and less hard to live in?

Thank you for your guidance. I promise I will take the information you give me and be a constituent you will be proud of. Just don’t send me something like “donate to the blah blah blah.” I can’t do that anymore.

Thank you,

Verhanika Willhelm

I am an emotional shamwow

I’m a little brain fried today. We’ve had a few days of battling some illnesses and my body and brain are tired from logistics of a slightly under the weather baby, husband, and self. But, I’ve been getting a lot of private messages and texts asking about how am.

And we all know I love to talk about myself, so here’s an update.

Things are…ok. Stable-ish.

Andy is coming to the end of the second round of chemo. We’ve found a rhythm. Ronan and I are back in the swing of coworking and grandparent daycare and hanging out together.

I no longer have to lay down for all of Ronan’s nap time to feel human again. I actually got everything lined up for my business taxes, which is a pretty sizable undertaking.

The fog of grief and depression are lifting and things feel…normal. Breakfast, activities, lunch, nap time, errands, dinner, bed. The rhythm has emerged again.

But I still get slammed regularly by a reminder of the non-normality of it all. Andy has a pump on and can’t turn easily in his sleep. Ronan is being a baby and kicks Andy in the chest and Andy’s immobilized with pain because Ronan, of course, found his chest port. A list of everything we need for chemo day for ourselves and Ronan sits on the kitchen table. The cards and presents from loved ones sit in our living room as a reminder that we are loved and that love is coming in strong, hard waves because of something as devastating as Stage IV cancer. Someone posts in a Facebook caregiving group about how their loved one had a symptom like Andy and it turned out to be even worse cancer than they thought. Someone has entered hospice care. Someone has died.

Those ones are particularly hard to read and I usually have to walk away from that part of Facebook for a few days.

But never Facebook as a whole because sometimes reading about other people’s stuff is the only way I feel connected.

Also, y’all are good fodder for blogs for Willhelm Consulting. I can take a societal temperature via social media.

I’m still sometimes overwhelmed with the concern about how to pay our bills. Or more accurately, how to buy groceries, gas, diapers, and the crazy non-essentials like a take out meal when our baby has fallen asleep in the back of the car and we want to keep driving so he gets a decent nap. I’ve been told over and over that help will come and people won’t let us go without help. And yet, there is no structure or rules around how and when to ask for money in these situations. And, call me crazy, but out of all the things I’m managing, finding the courage to ASK for money is not something I’m really going to work up the energy for. The human brain can only handle so many open loops and some are bigger than others. My brain hit its capacity 58 enormous loops ago.

At some point I’ll update the GoFundMe with a new amount if Andy is out of work during the HIPEC procedure (God willing that happens. I’m so superstitious about it.), but for now I’ll just check into Mint every day and be very, very judicious about how and where I buy groceries.

You know, the fun stuff that a family in existential crisis should be dealing with.

And even if I wanted a full time job (I don’t) it’s not like the offers are rolling in. That’s not true, exactly. I did get an offer for a slightly less than part time job that comes with childcare for a company I care deeply about. It’s not consulting work (yet), but I can do my back end stuff if things are quiet, so that’s a positive development I need to keep in mind. The start date is fuzzy, which is why I’m not treating it like a done deal yet. A lot can change.

I’m using some consulting dollars to hire a resume coach to help, but I’m sort of mad that I have to do that.

I’m just mad a lot right now.

I’m mad that people can’t keep their shit together or get help so their crazy doesn’t spill out sideways.

I’m mad that the richest country in the world has no safety net for those of us managing serious illness or caretaking those who do.

I’m mad that a group of very wealthy people thought donning black designer dresses would be helpful to those of us who can’t pay for health insurance AND still deal with discrimination and harassment. Or maybe they weren’t thinking about us. Thoughts for another time.

I’m mad that I’m highly educated and smart, sensitive, compassionate, and funny as a banana peel, but I can’t find a way to make a living at 31 that can sustain my family. It’s just not what I had pictured at this age.

I’m mad, so so so mad that our lawmakers don’t just make single payer healthcare a thing. It’s fucking inevitable, let’s just do it now.

And I’m still mad at all the usual stuff like our President and mansplaining and fatphobia and the diet industry playing on new mom’s tenderness to make a buck and a lack of affordable, cute shoes in size 12.

So, yeah, the initial fog is gone and I still feel wildly helpless. Andy still has cancer, we are still stuck in this shitty shitty situation with not a lot of options or ideas beside the course we’ve been set on.

I wake up every day scared that I’m about to lose him. It sucks to go to bed on New Year’s Eve and wonder if this is the last time you will see the calendar change over together.

Will Ronan grow up without a father? Will I have to raise a teenager on my own? Were we poised to raise a well-adjusted, happy, healthy, adaptable boy who could actually be a part of the change in our culture we desperately need, but now that will all fall apart because he won’t have his papa?

Fuck.

It’s probably because I’m tired and listening to music that is making me sad, but I still can’t quite see the light. I still can’t plan more than 4 days in advance. Some days I can’t think about more than what Andy and Ronan need in the moment and completely forget my own needs until I’m dehydrated or hungry or have a bladder that’s about to burst. My body aches all the time from a lack of good movement. It just all sucks.

The shining light in all of this is that Ronan is still a smiley, happy baby and Andy seems to be managing everything very, very well. These Willhelm boys are mighty resilient and I hope that this resilience is working its way through the mucousal membranes of Andy’s body to kick the shit out of cancer.

I am their emotional shamwow and after all of this I’ll need someone to wring me out.

 

Meh

So after my last post I got a lot of messages and texts checking in. My post was very representative of the place I was (am) in and I remain committed to trying to keep this process more transparent for the sake of global education.

Also, I like to whine to a lot of people at once.

As the weekend has passed and I’ve watched Andy just get stronger and stronger each day, the acute sense of anxiety has passed. I’m still so, so deep in planning. There are so many plates I’m spinning and I’m just tired all the time. When people are taking care of Ronan for me, I find I have little energy for more than just scrolling Facebook. I’m not ashamed to say I rely heavily on long drives with the kiddo in the car seat so I can get a break from the pressure of the house, which has so many things that need to be addressed and is in a new state of upheaval.

Our bathroom is really hard for me to walk into.

We had to remove a bunch of things from shelves because toddler. But now we have new shelves that house stoma supplies and are at a good height for emptying a stoma bag. The wedge pillow for Andy lives on the couch and the leftover dishes from delivered dinners linger.

I’m reminded everywhere of the state of deep transition we are in.

I’m trying to do a lot right now.

I’m still trying to secure clients, apply to jobs, write regularly for our family, communicate with everyone, update calendars, track all the pieces, and still do some self-care. I get angry and sad when I think about how much more of this we have ahead of ourselves and how I desperately need a self-care routine to solidify and actually work.

I added exercise back into the mix. We went to the YMCA yesterday and I did a really straightforward 30 minutes on the elliptical. Nothing fancy, just pushed myself cardiovascularly so I can start to get my endurance back. I think we’ll go tomorrow morning so I can lift some weights. My arms are still like steel cords thanks to baby bench presses, but I can feel my back and core and pelvic floor slackening as even long walks have become difficult to work in.

I’m inundated with the sheer number of people who are constantly asking me questions. Some of them are good like, “Can I include olives in the meal I’m delivering next week?” Good question. (The answer is yes.)

But  have like 3 too many people asking for personalized updates that I just don’t have the bandwidth for right now. As I told Andy, a surprising number of people feel entitled to these sorts of updates. I appreciate the notes of encouragement, the cards in the mail, the texts that say “I’m thinking of you,” but I just can’t tell this story one more time to one more person when I have several outlets to collect this information.

Let’s face it, I’m tired.

I’m anxious about my ability to keep up with everything if I should eventually be a single parent. I’m doing research and asking questions about how to set us up for that (“us” includes Andy who is rightfully worried about it). Some people have told me not to think like that. SOME PEOPLE.

It relieves me to know that if I need house projects done that I have friends who have already committed to it. It relieves me to know that Andy is writing a house calendar for me of all the things he does around the house to keep it functional so I can follow it if he’s not around to direct that work. It relives me to know who exactly has my back right now, even if it all changes.

It abates my anxiety to do this ultimate Willhelm Planning. This whole supporting a family through the hard times is a contact sport. This is why we asked those present at our wedding to take a vow themselves to support us in times like this. Though I had always envisioned our marriage being tested because of boredom or something, not through an illness this serious.

His mortality scares me. Andy was always invincible to me. I knew that someday I would live without him, but I didn’t expect to have to reckon with that for another 20 years at least. We know so little at this point about what we can expect with regard to that, but the idea of being a widow in my 30s, losing My Person when we are just getting going…it’s unfair that we have to do this.

And yet, I think about moms who have to do this when they are sick themselves with kids and no family. Or people who go through this with literally no one. We are so lucky to be as supported and resourced as we are.

And yet, I don’t care. I want the guarantee that I (and Ronan) have more time with him.

Will someone clean up this word vomit please?

You know most Thanksgivings I can come up with a substantial list of things I am grateful for. Everyday I can come up with at least 10. I live a pretty beautiful life.

But yesterday I was incapable of looking for things I am grateful for. Yesterday I was mad and scared and sad. Everyday I go through many cycles of grief. I come around to acceptance several times until I am faced with yet a new reality of this whole situation that requires a new cycle of grief.

Some examples:

Listening to Moana in the morning and thinking back on our trip to Maui in 2015 and how we likely won’t be able to explore all the Hawaiian islands together.

Watching Ronan dance to Moana and wondering if there will be a point where I won’t be able to listen to the music, not because my toddler has worn it out, but because of the other thing.

Watching Andy hold his niece at dinner, seeing how her beautiful red plaid taffeta dress spreads over his lap and thinking how, despite feeling like we achieved perfection the first time around and won’t have another kid, he will likely never be a father to a daughter. Or father in law to a daughter in law (or son in law).

How many more Thanksgivings do we have? I have a part of me that thinks someone has this answer, but isn’t giving it to me.

♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥

The grief is triggering. I spend most of the day managing my anxiety about abandonment, unsteady attachment figures, a need to be more competent, more intelligent, more charming to get what I want, which is my husband whole, healthy, happy.

But, my full planner and overworked to do lists are not good coping mechanisms. In this time, I think I need coping mechanisms that balance the need to be ordered and the need to feel. I feel like I’m spinning 12 plates at once, but what I really need is a good workout or an orgasm.

Also, I need people to stop suggesting more things for me to do. I’m not going to seek out more doctors right now. I’m not going to suggest Andy try on essential oils or new diet. I do not want your suggestions unless you are someone who deals with cancer patients or have been part of the inner circle of someone battling cancer. Stop projecting your shit onto me.

I also need coffee shops to stop playing moody music. And I need a little break from movies where people who love each other lose each other.

I definitely would not be able to watch the opening scene of Up right now.

This time reminds me of when I was a new mom and I lacked the words to adequately describe just how fucking hard it was. Except now instead of balancing the feelings and work of welcoming a very wanted family member into the fold, we are trying to figure out how to keep one who is already in the family happy and healthy.

Health is so fickle, right? I hear a lot of language about how if people are just trying to be healthy then they can be whatever size they want and that’s the price of admission to being part of our society. But Andy went from presenting the healthiest he’s felt in the last 15 years to fucking Stage IV cancer. If that doesn’t highlight the reason why heath-ism is bullshit, I don’t know what will.

♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥

Also, I’ve lost God.

I mean, we were never really tight to begin with. I sort of believed in the Universe or a collective unconscious. Last year I started playing with the idea of reclaiming some version of a Christian God.

Now, I can’t reconcile a lot of the language Christian religions use to describe God and God’s role in everything with what is happening.

Did God give Andy cancer? Does God really think we need to be tested this way? Are we less blessed because of this? Were we blessed to begin with? What is achieved by shortening Andy’s already shortened lifespan? How does this help me or Ronan or any of the other people who are clearly deeply affected by this?

God works in mysterious ways.

He sounds vindictive to me if this is how he chooses to be mysterious. Like the coworker who keeps using your half and half you’ve clearly labelled in the fridge as yours.

What if he’s the variety of God who stopped meddling? What if this is just a product of what he put into motion early on and we have to live with the outcomes? Then praying seems useless.

I’ve stopped praying. To a God anyway. I will sometimes have parts of me who will need to say out loud, “Please just let this all be ok.” I recognize these are parts of me who are young children afraid of losing the most protective, loving person they have had in their lives.

I don’t feel reliable. To myself, to my husband, to my son. If this all blows up, can I keep it together? I’m barely keeping it together. People keep commenting on how we seem to be handling this well. For sure I can present a version of myself that needs to be informative and accurate. I’m aware that there are over two hundred other people in the world watching all of this go down. (I didn’t even realize I knew that many people.)

I am aware of how many people want a silver lining in this.

Is it wrong if I can’t find a silver lining? I can’t find hope right now. I think in the whole large arc of the grief, I’m in Depression right now. (Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression, Acceptance–not necessarily in that order or with finality in any of the stages. Grief is not linear. Acceptance is not permanent.)

Ok, enough of this for now.

 

Just some thoughts I’ve been having

To say a lot has happened since my last post would be a serious understatement. Right now we’re 2 days out from a very sudden surgery for my husband, which is part of the treatment he is now receiving for colorectal cancer. The news, meeting doctors, coming up with a plan, arranging the surgery, all came on very fast. You can read about it on our CaringBridge site, but basically from first blush to surgery scheduled was all of 3 weeks.

Now I am sitting in my office, overwhelmed with things to do. But actually there is nothing to do. I have done everything I need to do in reality. My son’s care is accounted for for the next week, I have a lengthy list of caretakers if something happens to one of them, meals are planned and ready to go, all the final bills and mail and chores that have to get done are done. Now we are just waiting.

I am reminded that when I was in high school I had a habit of writing in all my homework very diligently in my planner. I was in an intensive international baccalaureate program and there was a lot of homework always. The closest TV experience to the one I had was Rory in Gilmore Girls. Except instead of writing for a paper, it was singing in my school chorus and every elite chorus I could audition for.

At the same time, my dad was at rock bottom in his journey with alcoholism so I spent a lot of time alone in my room, trying to deal with all the feelings of school pressure and my family being a source of constant, overwhelming tension.

To cope, I would write and rewrite to do lists and spend time looking in my planner at all the things I had to do without actually doing any of it. It’s like the act of making lists would soothe the part of me that couldn’t handle all the disorganization.

I’m feeling that very intensely these days. I write the same to do list in 4 places, often adding and removing things that have nothing to do with what is happening. Or creating lists upon lists that don’t really need to be figured out yet.

I feel the need to write in my journal when there’s really nothing else to say. I stare at blank pages thinking something has to come out because I feel such pressure right now, but I’m just tapped out.

But also, I’m not sleeping well. I’m exhausted every day, but I wake up early and find that I have to lay down partway through the day while my son naps just so I won’t get a migraine. I’m constantly on the verge of a migraine, which is kind of unacceptable right now.

People are worried about me in a way that feels equivalent to the way they are worried about Andy and that is a problem. I get worried that somehow I am coming across as weak, in need of help, unable to cope. Do these people who are worried about me think I need more help because I am not handling this well?

They likely see that care taking a sick person is a difficulty in and of itself, but I feel remarkably selfish being the center of this kind of attention when it is my husband who is ultimately dealing with the mutilation of his body and the lost time with his son. He’s on a lifting restriction for 6 weeks after the surgery and I just can’t imagine my life where I can’t hold my son. I’m trying to brainstorm ways to make this easier for Andy, but I’m stuck.

And then I get mad. I’m mad at the fucking cancer. I’m mad at a healthcare system that doesn’t just support people in these times. (Btw, in the middle of all this we got the notice for the premium increase for mine and Ronan’s health insurance. It went up 50% for 2018. What the hell are we even doing anymore?) I’m mad that we had a moment of gratitude that this was happening at the end of the year and his out of pocket max had already been reached, so we’re effectively getting free surgery. I’m mad that instead of spending time with him and Ronan, I’m freaking out about money. Andy will be missing a huge tech so the normal pay bump we get during the time won’t be happening. We have a GoFundMe to cover some of those expenses, but I’m pissed that I live in the richest country in the world and have to worry about paying our mortgage.

I’m mad that out of all the things I can do, all the skills I can offer, all the experiences I have, I can’t seem to make this less uncomfortable. Andy will still have to have major abdominal surgery. Ronan still won’t be able to be picked up by his Papa for over a month, and I still have to hold all the strings together when I don’t feel remotely qualified or prepared for this. (False, says a voice in me, you are the most qualified and prepared for this.)

When the surgeon gave us a worst case scenario of the cancer having already spread and said that the cancer might be “incurable” and it “would be more about prolonging your life,” I almost died right in that moment. The blood all rushed to my head and I felt the room spin.

How can I have found this man who loves me so much, a man who I could spend almost every waking moment with and not get tired of him, a man who makes me feel special and loved and appreciated and beautiful in all the ways that matter, and have him ultimately taken from me in this way?

We have a long way to go before we know if this is even a thing, but I’m already mourning his loss. I watch him at night when he turns away from me to turn off the light before bed and think, how will I survive without him? I don’t want to be a single mom. I don’t want to have this giant bed all to myself. I don’t want another person, I want him.

And then I bargain. Right? Because there is always bargaining. What do I have to do? If I keep all the details perfect, will it go away? If I promise to stay on top of the housework and find a job and stop running my own business, will this be the magical equation the universe needs to keep him alive?

And we aren’t even sure if this is the thing yet. But I’m already going through the 5 stages of grief with this.

And now I’m back to thinking how selfish I am that I even have grief over this. I’m not the one with the cancer. How can I think of myself at a time like this? How? How? How?

…just some thoughts I’ve been having.

NO I’M NOT ON MY PERIOD

Y’all don’t need me to tell you this, but imma say it anyway for those who need it repeated: misogyny is just everywhere.

The most prominent way I’ve seen it lately is blaming women’s intuition about themselves on “hormones.”

I’ve been going down a bit of a black hole on hormones lately. Postpartum hormones are no fucking joke and now that I’m almost 13 months postpartum, I figured it was time to do something about the hormonal symptoms I was experiencing.

Some examples of legitimate hormonal symptoms (courtesy of the book Woman Code): insomnia, waking up during sleep, headaches, low libido, facial/body hair, hyperthyroidism, metabolic syndrome, oily skin, bloating and water retention, acne, eczema, constipation, diarrhea, body odor, night sweats, mood swings, PMS, irregular cycle, ovarian cysts, breast tenderness, PCOS, unexplained infertility, cramps, heavy periods, painful periods, missing periods, migraines, and depression.

Things that are not a product of hormones: Clinical depression or anxiety, divorce, seizures, stress, a desire to be treated well, aversions to sexual harassment, mental load.

And yet, in the last year I’ve heard all of these things be blamed on “hormones.”

When I went in for my 6 week postpartum appointment, the one where they give you the clearance to start exercising again (ha…hahahaha), I mentioned feeling “off.” Andy pointed out to my doctor that I felt angry sometimes, and while this was true, this was not what I was referring to. I felt overwhelmed, out of control, or on the verge of tears all the time. My sanity felt like a very precariously balanced thing and I did my best to describe this. But, I was told it was likely postpartum hormones and to give myself some time to recover.

I went to my therapist and said the same thing and she echoed the sentiment that motherhood was hard and not getting enough sleep was hard. Yeah…but it was something else.

My second visit to my therapist was where shit got real and I used the D word: depression. I ultimately was diagnosed with mild PPD, but the amount of convincing it took that Something Was Up was kind of insane.

I have a dear friend who regaled my mommy support group with the tale of how she was having eclamptic seizures a few days postpartum. When she called 911, the paramedics arrived and took her pulse and blood pressure, both of which were really high, and instead of treating her for, you know, a medical condition, told her “Being a new mom is hard.” This woman is a nurse and she was like “yah, no shit, now get me to a hospital.” They got her there and after more patronizing and gas lighting from male doctors, she was eventually seen by an OB who knew immediately what was going on and got her treated immediately.

Yesterday a mom in one of my mom FB groups posted about how she has felt distant from her husband for over a year and really wants to ask for a divorce. But, every time she tries to get some support in the process of leaving him from a friend or family member, she gets told that it’s just her hormones that are making her feel off about him and that eventually she’ll like him again.  When I said it’s not hormones this is what it feels like to have legitimate and scary feelings, she explained, “But I’m breastfeeding.” Sure. Pregnancy hormones and postpartum hormones are fucking insane. But they make you want to get a burrito (and a muffin and a smoothie and an ice cream sundae and a block of cheese…you eat a lot while breastfeeding), not a divorce.

This systemic gas lighting of women and their experiences is ridiculous. When someone says covertly or overtly that what they’re experiencing is a product of woman-ness, aka hormones, instability because of hormones, or a lack of mental clarity bc hormones, it’s misogyny.

Let’s try on something new and just believe women when they say something that involves a fair bit of intuition and soul-searching. It is likely because of our ability to be deeply intuitive thanks to our hormones that has helped us to draw this conclusion. Ok so yeah it’s because of hormones, but it’s not because HORMONES. Our biology is something to be celebrated, not in the least because we produce literal life, but also because it is precisely our ability to find deep meaning and connection in tough moments and tough decisions that helps the world keep from being a burning pile of garbage.

I’m sure I’ll have more of these stories and more rage about the way women are treated. I promise my rage is not because I’m PMSing. I’m just mad.