Today is my 200th post. That’s right. Two hundred. In some ways, it feels like 200 years since I’ve started this blog, but in reality, it’s only been a little less than nine months. Nine months. Sound like a familiar figure to anyone out there?
Today is also my best friend’s blogiversary. She’s been posting for a year. She took the plunge a year ago, and introduced me to blogging soon after that. Her blog is a great success and she writes about her parents, her husband, her stepdaughter, and her struggle to have a baby eloquently. Go over to Canape’s place and celebrate with her today too, would you?
Back to my 200th post. I’ve been feeling contemplative lately, and it’s been so nice to have this space to think out loud, to reflect, and to bounce ideas off you folks. I’ve come such a long way. A year ago, I was a happy, newly pregnant mother of a young toddler. I had recently quit my job, and I was loving being a stay-at-home-mom. I was a faithful board member of my local Moms Club, a morning exerciser (5 miles with the stroller, baby!), a cute dresser, and a pretty well put-together individual.
Then, my world collapsed.
Such drastic words! What I went through was nothing compared to my dear friends Robbin and Bon, but it was significant to me. A back injury, combined with what we’d learn later was symphasis pubis dysfunction, crippled me for 7.5 months. At about this time last year, I began having pain in my very low abdomen, low back, and hip in the evenings. Then in the morning. Then it became painful to climb stairs. Then to climb out of bed. Then to walk. Then to stand. Finally, I was in grotesque amounts of pain just sitting up.
I could only relieve the pain by lying on my left side, taking all the weight off my right hip.
I could not bend over to put my own shoes on.
Or my child’s.
I walked slowly, carefully, mind-numbingly slow, when I absolutely had to walk, with the aid of a cane that my grandmother used. My husband lifted me out of bed in the morning and into the car when absolutely necessary.
I saw a doctor. Then another. Then an orthopedic specialist. A physical therapist. My OB. A pain management specialist. No one could help me identify the pain with the baby still inside me. No one wanted to take the risk. And neither did I.
So there I lay. Day after day after day. For seven and a half months I lay in bed or on the couch, in excrutiating pain, except when I took the odd pain pill to give myself some relief from the relentless hurt and despair. It was miserable.
At about month 4 of the pregnancy and week 5 of the pain, Canape introduced me to blogging. I read for a while, and then started my own blog, mostly to have “an identity” to use when commenting on everyone else’s.
Nine months later, this space has matured, and I am grateful.
You, my friends, have helped me through so very many hard days during my convalescence, recovery from my son’s birth, the subsequent baby allergy saga, and amazingly, you’re still with me now as I move forward on my journey back to becoming a whole, active person again.
I’ve begun to walk again. To exercise, a bit. To go to playdates, and museums, and business dinners. I’ve thrown out my pregnancy clothes and bought cute new ones that flatter my new shape. I’m up and around and trying to get back into the swing of things.
But I’m not the same person I was. I’m not cheery. I’m not even particularly good-natured these days. I’m exhausted, and my hip is hurting again. A lot. I’m in pain, and pain hurts in more than one place. I’m angry that I’ve had to go through this. Angry that I’m not done with it as all the doctors had predicted and as I had hoped. Angry that I’ve missed so much time cavorting outdoors and downtown with my child, my husband, and our friends.
But I’m trying.
And I’m posting. And even though not all my posts are cheery, upbeat, things-to-do kinds of posts, I appreciate you all coming back here day after day to read, to comment, and to offer encouragement.
It means more to me than you could possibly know.