It was three a.m. and my pager awakened me, like fingernails down a blackboard. It was the emergency room, again. I rounded up the gaggle of medical students (a.k.a. the EBUs ─ ego building units) for an educational experience, because that’s what medical school memories are made of: late night trips to the E.R. with a bitchy resident. Conveniently, all three were named Steve (OK, I named them that, so convenient for me). Off I went, the Steve’s trailing after me like a comet tail.

“She said she’ll only see the gynecologist,” the emergency room attending smirked. The Steves quaked. What kind of patient would have that bravado, to raise the chief resident from her slumber? Like waking the Kraken. I rolled my eyes and grabbed the chart.

As I performed the exam one of the Steves hit the ground. I couldn’t tell if it was because he saw his first real-live vagina or because of what I’d pulled out of it: a cucumber, a peeled cucumber. Not an English cucumber of course (now that would be something), more like a pickled cuke. 

I stepped over Steve # 3 and moved closer to the bedside. It is always a delicate situation. Do you go about your business and make like you haven’t just pulled a peeled cucumber out of some girl’s vagina, or do you ask, “Was it peeled when it went in?”

Perhaps there is a special skill involved, like tying a cherry stem into a knot with your tongue?

Most doctors would say nothing. but it is three a.m., and I am not like most doctors.

And so, the discussion began. . . 

By Jennifer Gunter

Labels: bitchy resident, cherry stem, cucumber, cumumber, E.R., emergency room, English cucumber, Jennifer Gunter, peeled cucumber

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Dear Steve,

I am writing to profess my love.  No, not in a carnal way, you are nice looking and all, but are not my type.  I am also happily married, or as happily married as any 40-ish mother of two small children can be.  This also isn’t one of those Mac vs. PC things.  I must apologize in advance when I tell you that apart from the fact that my MacBook has no right click and the key to the universe is not CTRL-ALT-DELETE, I do not have the foggiest idea about the difference between the two.  As long as the screen comes on and my documents are where I left them, I am happy.

No, I love you because you invented the iPhone.  And not because I talk on my cell very much, or listen to music, watch videos, or play games (although I do admit that light saber applet is way cool!).  I love you because the iPhone is helping me lose weight, and before you even ask the question, yes, for every 40-ish mother of two it all boils down to the muffin top.

With a few swipes and taps I can track calories, exercise, and chart my progress (oh yes, there has been progress!).  Sure, I am the one lugging my ass out of bed three mornings a week to hit the gym, but until you came along my efforts at tracking food consumption usually ended around 10 am.  I have known all along that journaling is one of the keys to weight loss, but those little pieces of paper were so conveniently easy to loose.   Studies (and I am a doctor, so I read the studies) show dieters consume 1,000 more calories a day when they don’t write everything down; it is easy to eyeball incorrectly (sure, that’s only a half a cup of pasta) and “forget” the handful of chocolate kisses.  However, my iPhone not only demands precision, but entering the data is easy, and trust me, I am not going to loose it.

The iPhone has also helped me in ways your probably did not foresee.  Let me give you a backstage pass to the world of the overweight.  We don’t eat because we are hungry, if we actually got hungry we probably wouldn’t be fat.  No, for most of us eating is an interjection.  A thin person views emotions like this: Happy! Sad! Mad! And those of us with muffin tops see this: Happy (donut). Sad (chips). Mad (chocolate).  Pausing to reflect on why you are actually eating is the Holy Grail of weight loss. And Steve, stay with me here, because this where your iPhone really delivers.  To check my calories I have to get past the little black screen, which doubles as a great mirror.  It forces me to look deep into my soul, or at least at that hint of a double chin, and think just a little about what I am doing and why. 

And then, of course, there is the piece-de-resistance, the nifty little camera.  I took a picture of my muffin top on day one and when I really get the urge to stray I whip that baby out for good measure.  It is hard to believe, but it looks worse on the screen.

You have helped me so much I want to let you in on a little business secret; although I think you do pretty well for yourself (I hear you own, like, half of Disney).  The money we mothers drop to keep the little darlings happy with Disney and Pixar toys is nothing compared to what we will pay to lose weight. 

So please keep those wheels-a-turning.  I will check in with an update from time to time.  Here’s to a long relationship!

Warmly,

Jennifer Gunter

Labels: Apple, iPhone, Jennifer Gunter, MacBook, Steve Jobs

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Nothing says political extremism more than a full muff.  

Ladies supporting the au natural look were high school mathletes or members of the Jesus Crew.  Now that they are all grown up they are waving placards at each other about abortion on the steps of Capitol Hill. 

The ladies to the left don’t trim because it smacks of misogyny and are worried that hair care products contribute to global warming and our dependence on fossil fuel.  The radical right only has sex 2.2 times after marriage and they expect their husbands to close their eyes, so what’s the point? 

At first blush they seem polar opposites, but if they would just pull down their Hanes Her Way briefs instead of arguing over whose uterus is closer to God they might realize they have more in common than they think.

The international standards for pubic hair, as laid out by the Rio accord of 2004, define the thigh trim as “clearing enough hair to prevent any creep from under a pair of Calvin Klein bikini briefs.”  This is the little black dress of pubic hair and the favorite style of ex-preps everywhere. 

Ladies who sport the thigh trim are prone to lapsing when they need an excuse not to wear a bathing suit at a pool party (note: only bitches throw pool parties, see Mohawk, below).  It is much easier to show up in a pair of madras plaid shorts and a crisp polo and blame your lack of swimming attire on thigh creep than accept the truth that no strategically placed spandex panel or ruffle can make your ass acceptable for public viewing.

The origins of the mullet (business on top and party down below) can be traced to the 1980s and the girls of the Alabama high-school rodeo association and their quest to decrease saddle sweat.   Since then its popularity has exploded, exhibiting unforeseen cross over potential and is now the favorite coiffure of ex-cheerleaders everywhere.  At first blush that inverted triangle of pubic hair demurely suggests, “But sir, I’m a lady.” However, on closer inspection, the mullet girl is rarin’ to go!  Now a days the mullet shows you are a multi-tasker, a good hostess and are just trying to make it easier for him to do the right thing.

The Mohawk, also known as the Racing Stripe, sported by women everywhere with smoking hot bodies not afraid to show what God (or a scalpel) gave them.  In high school these girls sat on the front steps and smoked.  The Mohawk exudes the mantra: it’s all about me baby, and has one purpose: to showcase that body in a bathing suit cut to kingdom come.  The sultry stripe of hair down the middle screams, “You should be so lucky to pick one of my pubic hairs out of your teeth,” and keeps your man (or woman) right where they belong, squarely on their knees.  Nothing says I’m in charge quite like The Mohawk.

Women who go for the completely undressed look claim that removing all of their pubic hair makes them feel fresh as a daisy, but secretly they think it makes them naughty.  These are the girls who desperately wanted to sit on the front steps and smoke, and now that their braces are off and Proactive is available with three easy payments of $29.95, they finally have their chance.  

Going buck-naked is the tobacco of the 21st Century.  Sure, Hollywood makes it look cool now, but in another fifty years we will all appreciate the health consequences and accept the reality that the absence of pubic hair is not an evolutionary advantage but makes a woman’s genitalia look like a hairless cat.

By Jennifer Gunter

Labels: Jennifer Gunter, Pubic Hair

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After much reflection I have finally deduced that my mother may have affected my decision to become a gynecologist.  

I suppose if I were so inclined I would have previously spent a lot of money on psychoanalysis, but I can’t bear the thought.  It is not that I am a Scientologist; I just think a lot of problems can be solved in the shoe department at Nordstrom’s.  

Your shoes will always be there for you.  So I had this revelation while meditating on the latest Kate Spades.

At first I was aghast at the thought. How could that be?  Kate, I wondered, are you leading me astray?

But then, as if in slow motion, the truth burst from my subconscious.  My family is vedy British.  But not the England of Tony Blair, or Posh and Becks, or Borat, but rather The Empire in Her glory days, only somewhat askew.  Think equal parts Queen Victoria and Monty Python.  It’s a no-sex-please -we’re-British screamfest with everyone yelling about who had it worse in the war.  

But trust me, a Monty Python skit isn’t so funny when you live it every day.

The word vagina was never mentioned in my house: it was like garlic to a vampire.  

I grew up firmly entrenched in the notion that my parents had sex exactly twice (I have an older brother).  And then the very epicenter of my existence was rocked in my early forties when my mother confided that she had a miscarriage after my older brother was born.  It was like trying to assimilate a whole new dimension.  

As comfortable as I am talking about sexuality at work, when conversation veers to The Empire, I worry that I will have a seizure.  It is like trying to load a PC program on a Mac, my neural circuits are simply not equipped to handle it.  I am not sure what prompted her to drop that emotional bombshell, but all I could think about for days was, “Wow, I was almost never born."  

After all there is only so much one can do for Queen and Country.

So aghast at the mere mention of the word vagina -- none of my mothers friends know what I do for a living. I am a generic doctor to the church and cardigan set.  I remember distinctly telling my mother about my work when she replied, “Why can’t you do something for women’s health?"

Over cucumber sandwiches (you know the little ones with the crusts cut off) I asked, “Pray mother, what is tending to women’s health?”  

“Why reading mammograms of course,” she replied. 

That’s when I finally realized it was all about the vagina.  Having a daughter who was up to her elbows in them every day, well, really. . . 

How do you explain that one over bridge?

By Jennifer Gunter

Labels: Jennifer Gunter, Vaginas

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October is breast cancer awareness month, and rightly so; in the U.S. this cancer affects 250,000 women every year.  To increase screening and raise money for a cure there are pink ribbons and wristbands to wear, pink products to buy, and pink races to run.  But you may not know that is October is also domestic violence awareness month and purple is the color representing the 1.5 million women victimized every year. 

Purple, like a bruise.

For me, all this pink highlights the absence of purple.  Domestic violence gets very little public recognition and I want to know why? 

It is certainly an epidemic of grave proportion. It weakens the fabric of society. Not only does it kill, wound, and demoralize, but also it teaches children that violence is normal and that angry words and hurtful actions bring power.  The cost is also born in sick days; the need for more police, social workers, and jail cells; and higher costs of health insurance.  We are all paying in one-way or another.  As violence begets violence, we collectively give birth to the next generation of batterers, ensuring the perpetuation of the cycle of violence.

So why can we talk so freely about breast cancer, while domestic violence generates innuendo and hushed conversations?

Is it because domestic violence is ugly and scary?

Well, so is breast cancer, but because of hundred of thousands of women who have walked and advocated we have become became aware.  And when they were silenced by their cancer the voices of their families and friends continued, screaming to ALL who would listen, “Get screened!” So breast cancer survivors have been empowered, and in turn have empowered us all.

How has society empowered victims of domestic violence?

After years of demoralization many victims cannot see the danger or have simply resigned themselves to their fate because they simply can no longer visualize a different life.  Some are financially dependent on their batters and children make a complete separation almost impossible.  Many more simply have nowhere to go.   But all are afraid to leave.  Holes in the wall serve as a potent punctuation to what might await those who try.

Our attitude towards domestic violence is not just a crime of omission.  If we were to really hold up the mirror we would also see that we assign blame to the victim, sometimes subtle and other times not so much.  “Why can’t she just leave?” “Didn’t she know?” or “She went back to him, again?”

If we heard that someone we loved had breast cancer we would probably say, “I am so sorry, are you OK?”  “Can I help you in anyway?”  We might also silently offer a prayer, both for her and for ourselves, and then quickly book our own long overdue mammogram.  We would never ask our friend how her gene malfunctioned, why she didn’t get screened sooner, or if she likes a drink or two.

So who will start this empowerment? Who among us will break the silence and chip away at the cycle of violence? Does domestic violence only happen to other people?

We must remember few victims are able to raise the standard, to speak up and be heard.  Never mind shouldering the sordid societal connotations, but victims, past and current, are afraid to speak out, because of what that attention might bring.  It is hard to do a 5k while you are looking over your shoulder.

We remind our sisters, mothers, daughters, and friends to get their mammograms.  Can we not turn that same light on their relationships?  Can we not routinely ask, “Are you safe?” “You seen stressed, tell me about things at home,” or “I am concerned how your were spoken to.”

This weekend I was amazed and empowered by the wall of pink at the grocery store.  On Monday I booked my overdue mammogram.  But it also made me cry, because I wondered if there had been a sea of purple when I needed it if I would have left sooner?

By Jennifer Gunter

Labels: breast cancer, domestic abuse, Jennifer Gunter, pink, purple

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My boys are breathless as we burst into my mother’s house after a day of travel.  Every five minutes the question was the same. “Were you a little girl at grandma’s house?” Their faces almost split with delight when they hear the same answer over and over.  They are incredulous at the thought. 

They race up the stairs and I am hot on their heels.  We survey my old bedroom as if it is an architectural find of monumental significance.  Little voices squeal with excitement like archeologists discovering new species. “Was this your bed, Momma?” “Did you play here?” “Where are your toys?” 

As we tour I see nothing familiar remains except my matching white little-girl chest of drawers and bedside table. I slowly run my fingers over the wood and am startled by the familiar roughness of the chipped paint.  It is only then I notice the walls are white; the wallpaper with the yellow stripes and flowers is gone.

My mother wanted new wallpaper with tiny purple flowers and I did not.  I was eleven and her choice looked like the kind of paper that belonged in the parlor of a Victorian mansion, the type of place where children were seen and most definitely not heard. 

I poured over the sample book bursting with mesmerizing patterns and colors and settled on the perfect one, a yellow stripe alternating with yellow flowers.  As a child, my father called me his little yellow canary -- I chattered non-stop and only wore yellow.  Those days were long gone, but that phrase stayed with me as an echo from a time when I imagined a new baby brought smiles and happiness to everyone.

Thinking back I am amazed I had the aplomb to stand up to Her.  I was the only one.  Everyone was afraid: my father, brother, even our minister had to tread lightly.  There was screaming and yelling and I can still remember the flash of hatred across her face as she snarled, “You’ll have to live with it, no matter how ugly it is, you’re sleeping in there not me.”  I was shaking inside, but I was observant and had learned from my father’s and brother’s mistakes – the smell of fear fed the enemy, so I met her stare and held my ground.

So up went the yellow stripes and flowers.  She only agreed to it to prove me wrong.  I am sure it would have brought her some kind of macabre pleasure to point out my error every day, especially to my friends.  But it was beautiful. The small room at the back of the house sprang to life, like there were real flowers on the walls.  And in the morning the light reflected off the yellow as if the sun had slipped in at night and whispered in my ear, “I am sorry for your troubles my dear, but here is small ray of light just for you and it will shine for you always.” 

Even she had to agree it was perfect, but somehow over the years it became her idea to go with the yellow.  But it didn’t matter because my victory was up on the wall.  She was right about one thing: living with the decision.  All these years later as I sit in the room with its’ neat, white, proper coat of paint I can still see those yellow stripes and flowers that set me free.

By Jennifer Gunter 

Labels: childhood memories, Jennifer Gunter

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I have just returned from the seventh layer of hell. Winnipeg, Canada. It would not be so bad except the devil herself lives there, my mother.

When people ask if she is still alive I respond with a smile, “Yes, evil never dies.” I am too harsh you suggest. Well, as I struggled in the door with two exhausted five-year-olds and a suitcase of epic proportions, I was greeted with the always welcome dissecting look and the ever familiar one-two of, “You look less heavy,” and “Is that hair on your top lip?”

There is no real physical contact, God forbid. I mean we are British: the air kiss will suffice thank-you-very-much. My mother is a perfect combination of Ursula the sea witch and Miss Havisham.

While she has never murdered (although her glance has be known to wither many an unwitting victim) she is the female embodiment of Dorian Gray. She was once beautiful on the outside, but her bitterness and vitriol have finally seeped to the surface and are now permanently etched, like acid on stone across her face.

We visit my brother who has married the horse-head nebula. Not only does she have an uncharacteristically large, horse-like head, but she is also an internationally known expert on everything: a veritable black hole of knowledge. The Winnipeg School of Cosmetology must be one hell-of-a place for higher learning.

For example, on my trip I learned that Miguel is Mexican for Michael. She tells this to my husband whose last name is Garza and who had rapidly, and I might say uncharacteristically, developed a keen interest in hands-on-parenting.

Moments later I see him in the backyard two-fisting Moosehead beer. I silently work on my testimony for the jury; surely I can get one mother to agree that strangling him with the diaper bag was justifiable.

Then there are the mosquitoes so large they are fondly known as the provincial bird. So while my mother asks if I should really eat that cake and I learn conversational Spanish, I am loosing the war against the Kamikaze fighters of the hemo-armada. Apparently no one sprays anymore: West Nile virus and western equine encephalitis being preferable to DEET.

When I was little we used to ride our bikes behind the trucks that fogged this winged plague, daring each other to see who could breathe in the vapors the longest. It was far less toxic than anything I could breathe at home.

We finally escape Satis House and make it to the airport. I rush my children and husband through immigration and warn them not to look back. No good can come of it. We can all learn from Lot’s wife.

But the fates are not done with us.

Landing in Denver in the Tonka-toy excuse for a jet we are rebuked minutes from landing. The plane stalls and drops, as does my heart. “In case you were wondering,” the captain nervously jokes, “That’s wind-shear.” So we circle and come around again. Not more than fifty feet above the tarmac the aircraft stalls again and precipitously lurches nose down causing inappropriately large carry-ons surreptitious sowed beneath legs to fly around the cabin.

I forget that I am now back among Americans, so the clearly the rules apply to NO ONE on this plane. The pilot manages to pull up again and we circle for one more kick at the can. Even the seasoned business travelers and the burly fishermen back from their man-spa-week-long-fish-in-a-barrel-pike-fest in the waters of Northern Manitoba look queasy.

I close my eyes.

Seriously, after all this I am going to die coming home? Stop the boat, river man; I am going to walk the rest of the way.

By Jennifer Gunter

Labels: Canada, Home, Jennifer Gunter, Mother from Hell

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Sometimes I dream that I am falling.

There is never any bottom to this well.

I am falling into blackness.  In slow motion down the rabbit hole but instead of jars of marmalade and lovely tins -- there are flashes of a life that was supposed to be.

When I lost my son I thought I would die. 

It felt as if my chest was griped in a vice and every breath was torture.  How could one be expected to live like this? I thought about jumping off a bridge.  I am fearful of heights, and there was no bridge high enough to give me anything but a broken leg, but jumping just seemed right. 

I was falling… into despair and depression, and my life seemed like it was coming undone.

I was offered antidepressants, but the cure I wanted was my son returned to me. 

Somehow, I managed to keep going, though the thought of killing myself was strangely comforting. 

Like there was a Plan B, an exit route from the well of grief, that there could be an end to my descent.  There were probably a million reasons and no reason at all why I never went past those dark thoughts. 

I wouldn’t say that I am whole again, but I am mended, like a china cup that slips from soapy hands.  I have been glued back together -- but the cracks remain.

I think about the time I wanted to jump off a bridge almost every day as I drive across one that accounts for so many tragic ends to broken lives. 

I wonder if those people were falling, too.

By Jennifer Gunter

 

Labels: a child's death, Jennifer Gunter, moving forward

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Thump, thump, kerthump.  Thump, thump, kerthump.

There is a strange sound emanating from the hallway.  More like a series of thuds punctuated by an odd, louder noise.  It is a narrow hallway, not a lot of room for a five-year old to create too much havoc.  I close my eyes and try to visualize the responsible sequence of events when the rhythm is interrupted by a much louder sound.  Kersplat!  I feel the house shake – a child has fallen against the wall.  I listen intently but no one is crying.  After a brief pause the sounds continue.

Thump, thump, kerthump.  Thump, thump, kerthump. Thump, thump, kersplat -- he has hit the wall again.

I want to give him space, but my curiosity is getting the better of me.  What are these noises?  His twin brother is outside with his Dad, so it can’t be some crazy new game of slam-each–other-against-the-wall.  The house shakes again.  I hear his tiny voice call out with the slightest hint of a tremor, as if to reassure both of us, “I’m OK, Mom.”

The sounds continue.

Thump, thump, kerthump.  Thump, thump, kerthump.

I tiptoe to the hallway and stealthily peer around the corner.  As soon as I see him I feel the hot sting of my tears and quickly put my hand over my mouth.  I know what he is doing.

He is hopping on his left foot, his better leg. He is very unsteady, teetering as if he is riding an invisible unicycle, with his arms spread like wings.  I see that they are serving double-duty, not only helping him balance but if he leans too much to one side or the other he can also right himself by pushing against the wall.  I marvel at his ingenuity – our hallway is the perfect place for a five-year old to practice hopscotch. 

One foot, one foot, both feet.  Thump, thump, kerthump. 

But then he falls -- his left leg and both his arms have failed him.  Kersplat.  In an instant he is up and the cycle starts again. 

He has been at it for a while and he will keep plugging away until he is satisfied.  That is his style.  Victor does not know that two words, cerebral palsy, hang around his neck like offset ballast.  His arms and legs are stiff and his balance is precarious at best.  He falls a lot, has to sit to get dressed, and is much slower than the other kids on the playground.  You can see on his face that every movement is a carefully constructed orchestration.

Born at twenty-six weeks, almost four months early, he and his twin have already endured more than a lifetime of hardship.  But it was Victor who came home from the intensive care unit with a twisted right side.  He has struggled to do everything that we take for granted.

However, what really separates him from everyone else is his sheer determination.  He doesn’t understand can’t, only try harder.  And so he will practice, and practice, and practice, long after I can feign interest in continuing.  His therapists shake their heads and smile in disbelief, but the credit lies with Victor.  In the beginning I helped out a lot more, but now I am only allowed to show him once and then he will take it from there thank-you-very-much.  If we are running late I can try and speed up the process, but it will be to no avail. 

“I want to do it,” he says with surprising force for such a small body and snatches his sneakers from my hand.  And God forbid I manage to distract him long enough to sneak on his socks or shoes – time will have to stand still while he takes them off and puts them on again – by himself.  And so we are often late.  There are some things that you just have to accept.

I wonder if Victor knows he is different, although given his absolute persistence what physically separates him from his peers is now getting harder and harder for the untrained eye to see.  Is his tenacity a reflection of his stubborn personality (no idea where that came from) or born from his own observation of his limitations?  Regardless, when Victor decides that he will do something, he simply does not give up until he has mastered the task, or at least a close semblance.  And today he wants to play hopscotch.  He saw some older girls playing at the schoolyard and he loves older girls so he will be in the hallway for as long as it takes.  Last year he spent weeks launching himself from our front steps so he could learn to land on both feet like the other kids.  He is now the undisputed frog-king.

Thump. Thump. Kerthump.  Thump, thump, kerthump.

I feel it in my chest as if it my heart beat depends on each tentative hop.      

To sit on your hands while your child falls, and then falls again, is torture, but I cannot look away.  I am his mother and it is my job to bear witness.  Simultaneously, I am transfixed, awe struck, and filled with pride by both his effort and his success.

I hear his voice again and I am whisked back from my short reverie and the hallway slides into focus.  He doesn’t stop to speak; there is no time for that.  Thump. “Mom, look.”  Thump. “I can.” Kerthump. “Hopscotch!”

I smile and fight back the tears. “Great job,” I manage to squeak before hurrying back to the kitchen where I dissolve on the spot.  His spirit and will power never cease to amaze me and I understand that I am a better person for knowing him.

The next day we are down at the school yard and for an hour that could have lasted all day he hopped up and down the playground on his left foot, both of us with smiles of sheer joy and my heart bursting at the seams.

Thump, thump, kerthump.  Thump, thump, kerthump.

A week later the noises start again.  I sneak over to the hallway.  He is now working on his right leg.

Victor may have cerebral palsy, but cerebral palsy does not have Victor.

By Jennifer Gunter

 

 

Labels: Cerebral Palsy, Independent Child, Jennifer Gunter

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It is very difficult for other people to understand your grief when you lose a baby from a multiple pregnancy. 

Family, friends, and even physicians somehow think that the pain of the loss is somehow softened by the fact that there is still one or more babies that remain: like some kind of consolation prize. 

The thing is, you bond with your babies, not some generic pregnancy.  I could tell there were three distinct personalities almost as soon I could feel them move and correctly identified my troublemaker at only twenty-two weeks!

Around the time I was pregnant, I heard of a local women with quintuplets. She made it farther along than I did in her pregnancy, but sadly also lost one of her children. When my boys were about a year old we saw them at a street fair. The site of her four beautiful children paralyzed me.  I was so jealous and angry that she had managed to get four -- I felt I had fought harder and scraped by only to go home with two.

“She is so lucky to have four babies,” I said, more to myself than anyone else, but my voice did not reflect any of the happiness that should normally accompany such a statement. 

My husband replied, “Don’t you think she misses her other baby as much as we miss ours?” 

It was only then that it became clear. 

Up until that moment I could understand how someone with twins would feel losing a baby, but I could not grasp how someone who managed to get four babies out of a pregnancy could be anything but elated.

Drowning in my own sorrow, I could not lift myself beyond my own frame of reference.  That is when I really understood this kind of sorrow has nothing to do with numbers. 

Going from five to four feels as bad as going from three to two or from two to one.  All of us who have lost a baby feel the same pain and cannot be made whole again, not even by the love of our other children. 

By Jennifer Gunter

Labels: Jennifer Gunter

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Memories from my childhood are reinventing themselves and becoming an ever-increasing part of my life. What seems foremost in my mind right now is rubbing and kissing bumps and bruises, a ubiquitous action of motherhood. Wiping dirty faces with a spit-on tissue is right up there as well, but that’s another story.

As my two boys approach the age of five, I find they are increasingly in need of such expert care, and frequently (and proudly) present their war wounds for the prerequisite inspection and kiss.

When I was little I was amazed by the ability of a kiss or a kind touch to take away pain. As adults, we instinctively do the same thing for ourselves by rubbing our own injuries. Is this just a reflex from our childhood? Does the rubbing remind us of comforts of yore? Or is there a deeper reason still?

Yes. There is an explanation and there was a smart old wife behind this one. She was way a head of her time as I am quite certain the rubbing and kissing of boo-boos predates modern medicine by a millennium or so. I know this because in addition to Mom I am also a doctor, specifically one who specializes in Pain Medicine.

Pain, you see, travels along one set of nerve fibers while vibration and light touch, the sensations produced by rubbing or kissing, travel along another set. These different nerves are bundled together, like the lanes on a highway. Vibration gets the carpool lane and travels very fast, while pain plods along in the far right-hand lane. Because our brains are both amazingly complicated and incredibly simple when two signals, like pain and vibration, show up at the same time the faster signal wins and the brain basically shuts a gate blocking the slower pain.

Some skeptics might wonder if this is an emotional response to the nurturing or even a placebo. I only need to think back to my last bikini wax to know there is hard science behind this one. Upon ripping off the wax (and what feels like the top layer of flesh) a good esthetician places her hand directly on your freshly ripped skin, jumpstarting the nerves in the car pool lane. And in case you are wondering -- a painless wax is impossible. I am a pain doctor, not a miracle worker.

I implant nerve stimulators for pain: complex, computer equipment that inevitably draws a comparison with the bionic man or woman. These implants stimulate the nerves that vibrate, like the soothing rub from Mom, allowing the brain to exchange the slower pain signal for the faster vibration. It is a fair trade because vibration can quickly be dismissed into the background of life whereas pain cannot.

As I describe these devices I start with the analogy of a mother rubbing away her child’s pain because all of us, at some point, have had our pain expertly tended to by soothing hands or gently kissed better by caring lips. It is one of those few truly universal experiences. And I love this part of the conversation because I see long-dormant memories of youth jogged and a look of understanding appears. Faces long strained with pain soften ever so slightly because they all know the power of that soothing touch and how well it worked in days gone by.

When I rub and kiss bruised knees and elbows at home I feel like I am Doctor Mom. And when I talk about implants and memories from childhood to my patients I feel like Doctor Mom. I like knowing what mothers have instinctively done for generations is incorporated into state of the art medicine. It is wonderful to see such a simple principle at work in the front yard and the operating room.

Now if I could only figure out a medical reason for spitting on tissues…

By Jennifer Gunter

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I crave youth. The freedom, abandon and wanton selfishness.

I was reckless once. Fearless really. I was the girl that would do or say anything. I never backed down from a dare. Gutsy and ballsy were the adjectives used when I strode though the door.

I miss those days. The time before I was Mom, before I was Wife, before I was Doctor. I still harbor the inner wildcat only now she is chained by an overstuffed diaper bag, a job, and twenty pounds of muffin top.

As soon as I hit the Golden Gate Bridge on my way home from work I dream about the former me. I am not sure if it is brought on by the strength of the wind, the power of the Pacific, or just the joy that the day is over.

There is something about that short stretch of road that brings my youth front and center into my consciousness. The radio is turned up and the speakers are vibrating with bass power, the windows are rolled down, my hair whipping in the wind, and I am singing an eighties song at the top of my lungs for all to hear.

Recently, I was caught in this reverie, singing boldly to myself when two young men, barely twenty pulled up beside me in a Lotus and gave me the look.

A look I had perfected so well back in the day. Daring, abandon, and desire all rolled into one. The intent was clear. Since physical contact was out of the question a race would suffice.

I thought of my car. Fine German engineering and plenty of horsepower, but like myself she had also seen better days. Did both of us still have the speed and the moxie?

I winked and floored the gas pedal. It was exhilarating. We sped across the bridge racing at a furious pace, but youth and the Lotus clearly had the advantage. And so I ceded pulling back, letting them fly with all their glory into the first tunnel on the Mommy side of the bridge.

Had I lost my moxie? My guts? My balls? I didn’t even have the diaper bag with me!

As I exited the tunnel at a respectable fifty five miles per hour, I waved at the two boys desperately trying to explain their speed to the uninterested highway patrol man.

A smile crept across my face. I was, and still am, ballsy but never stupid. There is always a cop on the other side of the bridge.

And then one of the chains loosened, just a bit.

By Jennifer Gunter

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My two sons were born four months prematurely. Every one calls them twins, but secretly I wince at the word because they are really triplets. Their oldest brother did not live long enough to even make it to the intensive care unit. It is such a long and complicated story that when a stranger approaches cooing, “What beautiful twins,” it is easier to respond with the appropriate niceties.

People ask which boy was born first and I want to shout, “Neither!” but I lie and point at the second eldest.

Before things went wrong I had mapped out scenes from our future. I think every parent does. Whether it is your baby’s first smile, how you will look walking down the street as a mom, or where your child will go to school. I suspect the image is different for everyone. I had a picture of what it would be like to be wheeled to the front doors of the hospital clutching three baby boys. How everyone would turn their heads and say, “Triplets!” I have always liked to watch this imagined scene unfold.

I am an OB/GYN so I see it a lot. The father or partner nervously sprints to the car and as the mother passes by cradling her precious bundle, almost everyone smiles and remarks on their baby. It is hard not to get caught up in the excitement of a newborn. The mothers are like beauty pageant winners, clutching a baby instead of roses, their faces beaming with excitement as they glide through the hallways as if they were taking their first turn on the stage before an adoring crowd.

No one looks at the mother without a baby. We are the invisible.

I had come to the hospital pregnant with three boys and I now had two, who had a tenuous grasp on life at best. Even as a doctor, I do not think that I understood the gravity of the situation until I left the building. The sound of the car door closing was like punctuation for all that pent-up emotion. I began to sob. I have never felt so completely devastated. I was crying for my son who died, for my boys who might not live, and for all the dreams that had vanished.

A mother should never have to leave the hospital without her baby.

As a doctor, I still come and go from a hospital daily, just as I have done for more than 20 years. To this day, I have to turn away when I see those smiling mothers as they glide in their wheelchairs toward the hospital doors as it reminds me of how I felt getting into our car so many years before.

I can never escape it.

It is a visceral reminder of all that was lost. These are wounds that cannot heal. I know it is not their fault that my pregnancy did not go as planned, that after months of intensive care I left the hospital with two critically ill boys instead of three healthy ones, but I cannot help it.

Seeing those happy, smiling parents is a reminder of all those original dreams long discarded, but never forgotten.

By Jennifer Gunter

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Sometimes I wonder if my husband and I are really meant to be. I suspect a lot of couples experience these ambiguous feelings from time to time. It is hard to concentrate on your love life when you are constantly juggling grocery shopping, cooking, and laundry (among other things), never mind a midlife crisis.

The other day I realized that I did not know what my husband wanted me to do with his ashes should he be the first to, uh, go. Was this a sign that our relationship was not on solid ground? We have been married for six years and I figured this is something I really should know.

So I asked.

“I don’t know,” he said looking at me when what he really meant was “where do you get these stupid questions?”

“How about the family ranch in Texas,” I answered smartly. An obvious choice as it has been in the family for generations.

“Uh, no.”

“Scattered into the Pacific?” I retorted, not to be deterred.

“Nope,” as a small smile crept into his voice.

“Mountains in Colorado,” I squeaked?

“No way,” he answered, getting engaged in spite of himself.

I thought about it for a minute. How well do I know my husband? I was ready to admit defeat when. . . gotcha. The perfect answer popped into my head.

“You want me to blow your ashes into the faces of everyone who has pissed you off so you can have the last word.”

“Perfect!” he said as he smiled that really big smile, you know, the one that only comes naturally.

Man, we are made for each other.

By Jennifer Gunter

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My son, Victor, loves to give nicknames and they usually stick. He is Fishy, his twin brother, Oliver, is “O-leach,” my husband is Lollipop, and I, sadly enough, am Momma Jumbo.

I know.

When he first heard it my husband smartly stifled the laugh when he saw the fierce look in my eyes.

“Shut up, you’re Lollipop,” I snarled.

Why Momma Jumbo? We watch every Disney movie and while female characters are less common, there are still plenty to pick from. I do not “fit” the traditional princess mold in appearance or attitude so I understand why I didn’t get Cinderella or Snow White (even though I have dark hair). If he was stuck on a cartoon character there was Jessie from “Toy Story 2," or heck, I’d even take Dory.

My son shook his head. “No,” he said. Those names were not right.

My four-year-old son does not know about my life-long pre-occupation with my weight and my crazy body image issues.

He does not know that I have always felt fat even when I was not (although in case you are wondering, I am actually leaning more towards the fat end of the spectrum so I am a bit more sensitive to the whole Jumbo moniker). He doesn’t see the look on my face when I step on the scale or when I try on a pair of pants hoping that the size 12 will fit and the utter look of devastation when I realize I need the 14’s instead.

He doesn’t know that even when I am thin as I am so tall I always feel large. He does not know that I have secretly longed to be petite like a Disney Princess, to be the type of woman who is easily swept into the arms of her lover.

When I jokingly ask my husband to pick me up I see the momentary look of panic on his face.

So Momma Jumbo is hitting a bit too close to home. Regardless of actual physical size, most women do not want to be analogous to an elephant, especially one called Jumbo.

I sigh and ask him, “Why Mama Jumbo?”

He looks me straight in the eye and says, “Because Mama Jumbo loves her baby more than anything in the world and that’s how you love me.”

I am speechless.

Momma Jumbo it is and I am proud of it!

By Jennifer Gunter

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I curse the fact that I can always eat. The average person when depressed or stressed loses weight, not me -- I gain it.

I do not blame my weight on a “slow metabolism,” rather I embrace the horror. I just love to eat. At the end of a bad day there is nothing like a treat, salty or sweet; I am fickle and can be tempted to go either way. Unfortunately this carnal desire has contributed to my life-long obsession with those 20 pounds that stand between me and a size 10.

I surmise that there is some evolutionary advantage to this wanton ability to eat. I tell my self it is some genetic vestige from the days when we hunted bison, and not a sign of gluttony. Sure there are fast food and grocery stores mere minutes away and my fridge is well stocked, but theoretically famine could happen and if it does -- I am prepared.

When my babies were born four months premature, one of the biggest challenges I was told was their ability to eat. While suckling is a reflex for babies born after a full nine months, premature babies lack the coordination and strength to eat and so are fed by a tube down their noses for months.

The stress of being so sick this early in life seems to slow the eating process down even longer and so many babies go home with these feeding tubes. So problematic is this inability to learn to eat that most babies in the neonatal intensive care unit do not get to even try a bottle until they are close to four pounds.

When I heard this, I laughed. “Nonsense,” I told the doctors. “I have raised eating to an art form and I am quite sure it is genetic.”

My husband also shares this ability, competitive or sport eating it is called in our dining room, so my boys would be doubly blessed I surmised. “My boys will eat,” I said. As I am a doctor, these physicians humored my long-winded anthropological theories, but I knew they secretly thought I was delusional from lack of sleep.

As I pestered everyone incessantly they gave in a week before they normally allow a baby to even try a bottle. Every nurse and doctor warned me not to be disappointed. “A few sips will be great progress,” they all agreed.

My heart was beating like a drum. Oliver was first and I held my breathe when he wasn’t quite sure what to do at first and then a look that I know so well, called chocolate euphoria, came over his face when the first drop of formula hit is tongue. “What were you waiting for?” he implored with his tiny features and promptly downed the bottle. His brother, Victor, as predicted, did exactly the same thing.

The others’ reactions were stunned disbelief. But I had known all along that my boys would out perform in this area.

Tonight Oliver raced into the kitchen screaming “yummy chicken!” when he heard the roast come out of the oven and after eating both drumsticks voiced his displeasure that chickens don’t have three legs.

The competition is getting stiff already.

By Jennifer Gunter

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I love to watch my boys breathe at night. I sometimes sit for an hour transfixed by the rhythmic rise and fall of their four-year-old chests. My husband does not know that I do this, my sons do not know, it is my secret.

I know that most mothers do this when they first bring their baby home, afraid that they will somehow stop this most reflexive of acts, but I suspect after a month or so of sleep deprivation this need succumbs to practicality and free moments are not spent sleeping.

I have never lost the drive to watch my boys breathe, and I suspect it is because it has been a hard-won battle. Born at twenty-six weeks, almost four months early, and weighing just over 1 ½ lbs, their very tiny lungs had not developed all the apparatus needed to get oxygen from the air and their nervous system could not coordinate the effort. For many days they had air pumped in and out of their lungs, and so I watched their chests rise and fall, more staccato than babies who didn’t require the help of a machine.

Time and medicine allowed them to graduate from machines, but left their lungs severely scarred; it is ironic that the very oxygen and equipment they needed to survive has contributed to the damage, but I do not dwell. It is what it is.

For a year after we came home from the hospital my boys needed oxygen to breathe and so our living room resembled some kind of surreal scuba shack with the Pack-n-Play and strollers filled with oxygen canisters in lieu of toys.

Their nervous systems could not be relied upon to be the metronome, and so they needed monitors when I wasn’t watching, so I could be alerted if breathing stopped and intervene. The monitor appropriately made an annoying noise and often falsely raised the alarm, so it became easier to watch than to sleep, and what I found was the more I watched, the better they breathed. So I watched more.

A year passed, lungs healed and nervous systems developed and so oxygen and monitors were dispensed, however at my age adaptation is more difficult. And so after a year of watching, I now find that I have trouble sleeping, but that is okay because I can watch them breathe.

By Jennifer Gunter

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