Milking the Bear

July 11, 2013


This morning I had a conversation with a good friend about whether or not I needed to obtain a state ID for my infant before we travel. She assured me that his birth certificate would be plenty of ID and I replied that this was a relief because the idea of taking an infant to the DMV sounds like about as much fun as trying to milk a bear. At the time, the imagery was a touch amusing and incredible appropriate. As the day as developed, however, it’s become more of a tragic summary of the rest of my morning.

Doing anything during a flare up of a neurological disorder: Difficulty: Milking a Bear.

First bear of the day came when I went to my doctor’s appointment to address the aforementioned neurological disorder. The short version: Over the past couple of days, my entire body has been in excruciating pain that does not respond to pain medication at all. Imagine sticking a fork in an electrical outlet... all day... while exclusively breastfeeding a ravenous 4 month old... and trying to relaunch your business... while you’re dieting. I had good reason to want a solution for the pain. Unfortunately, because I’m exclusively breastfeeding, my options are few. Temporary plan: Draw blood. Test urine. Pray surgery isn’t needed. Okay. Fine. Let’s do this.

Having blood drawn by a new (and nervous) phlebotomist when you have a rare blood disorder: Pain Level: Milking an Angry Bear.

The line for the blood lab was long, but not new to me. Having a rare blood disorder means getting used to lines for labs. It’s pretty common. I called my mother (who was kind enough to watch my children - thus saving me from having to wrangle monkeys while dealing with bears) to tell her to go ahead and use some of the frozen breastmilk in the freezer because I was going to be stuck waiting for awhile. When I was called back, I sat down, exposed my arm, explained that the largest vein rolls to the right and the details of my blood disorder. The poor girl almost started crying. I could tell it wasn’t just me - her day had been full of bears, too. Cranky, hungry bears. I told her I was used to needles and I’d be fine. No worries. Except that her nerves led her to jab a needle into two of my nerves and then to push through the vein, miss the vein, and dig around before finally finding a vein that would work. I didn’t want to make her day worse, so I tried to meditate my way through it. I think I would have been convincing if tears hadn’t started silently running down my face after she hit the second nerve.

Accidentally driving past a major PTSD trigger: Stress Level: Trying not to Remember a Previous Day Full of Bears.

Someday I’ll elaborate on this. Not today. Someday. For today, I’ve already thought about it too much.

Picking up restricted medication without your ID: Difficulty: Trying to Find an Invisible Bear.

I got to the grocery and dropped off my prescription. I set about picking up a few groceries while I waited for it to be filled and felt like death as someone else’s baby screamed for 15 minutes in the check out. Let me be clear: I have no problems with babies crying. But when you’re breastfeeding and you should have been home an hour ago for a feeding? Not good. Any baby cries and BOOM. You’ve got a shirt covered in milk and a small amount of pain while you try to make it stop. After checkout, I thought I was home free. Got to the rx pick up window and... no drivers license. I realized my husband has been holding it for me since Tuesday.

Driving home during a PTSD-related anxiety attack without the medication you were supposed to pick up and without your drivers license: Difficulty: Trying to Avoid Police (or, as truckers tend to call them over the CB, Bears).

Long story short, I made it. I nearly burst into tears upon entering my house, but I made it.

On days like this, I miss Xanax and weekly therapy.

Long Live Motherhood! (I wouldn’t trade it for anything in the world.)