Experienced Relief

Last night I was too groggy to thank the woman helping me. I heard beeping in my resting chamber. There was light, and multiple people were present. She approached, stopped the beeping, said something, and left. 

I didn't thank her, I thought. 

That's okay, I reassured. You're the queen. 

The resting chamber was my bedchamber, which quickly evolved into a kingly balcony, concourses of presences viewing me, as I was, apparently, the queen, after all. 

And all of this felt rational and normal.

The drug began to clear my system, however, with the IV run out, and the conclusion that I was "the queen" tickled me, as I envisioned myself explaining this conclusion to others, and I "came to" with uncontrolled, quiet giggling. 

The nurses later checked back in, explaining they weren't sure if I was crying or laughing, as both explanations were completely plausible. Just last week, as I was going under, I heard a man in another room yelling in a frightful way. One of the anesthesiologists also told me a story of some blessed idiot who decided to listen to classic rock, while his IV was running, and when ACDC's Highway to Hell came on, he had quite a terrifying trip.

I listen to ocean waves. Sometimes the waves are overwhelming, and become static, but most of the time the waves meld into the flow of the scene just fine. It's far better than "river sounds," which are far too bubbly, for my taste, or simply the sound of the fan next to me, which promptly turned into the sound of upset people who were, naturally, spiraling down the red-lined, vertical tunnel to Hell, alongside me. 

You come to learn that you can change the scenes, and I was fortunate to escape this tunnel to Hell without difficulty - though the rest of the experience was littered with robots, crossing lines of black, red, and purple, with shooting lasers, and general discomfort. That day I was a little too stressed out.

I've been doing IV Ketamine Infusion Therapy. 

I've struggled with Depression since my High School years. For many years I went unmedicated, convinced I could "solve" Depression through sheer force of will. (You can't.) Over the course of many years I tried multiple medications, eventually maxing out the doses as I struggled to find relief. Medications would show some effect, then the effects would wear off. The dose would be raised, I would find positive effects, but then the effects would wear off, in a continuing cycle of maxing out dosages and switching to new medications.

It's called "Treatment Resistant Depression," and I have it. For literal years I've dealt with Depression, and the Oh-So-Helpful, naturally depressing conclusion I repeatedly came to that I might never find relief. I've dealt with guilt regarding my condition - guilt as I'm acutely aware of how Depression affects my mood, and the affects that that depressed mood has on those around me. My Depression makes me "prickly," and I respond sharply and with anger - things that have reared their ugly faces around my closest family members, most of all. I've hated myself, as I've seen myself snap at my children, dwell on the negative with my husband, and cycle endlessly in thoughts of helplessness, despair, and dread. 

Despite feeling able to manage being Depressed on my own, I've been torn with guilt that my Depression inevitably affects the ones I love in terrible ways. They haven't complained. They've been nothing but supportive. I am my harshest critic, but this fact drove me to continue the chase for relief from Depression for years, to no avail, resulting in profound familial guilt and frustration, on my part. 

This last year I began to seriously consider another option - an option advertised to help those suffering with Treatment Resistant Depression, like me. A couple years ago I went to a clinic that advertised offering Ketamine treatments. I sat in a room and interviewed with the director of the clinic, asking him my questions, about the "how"s of the treatment. I left feeling discouraged, however. I blame it entirely upon the decor. Their clinic was in the basement of a dingy multi-office facility, and was decorated with beanbags, colorful tapestries, and a fantastic mural of Ganesh in progress. It felt very "hippie," and while I appreciated the hippie vibe very much on a personal level, it was not what I was looking for in a medical procedure, and made me dubious regarding the efficacy of treatment. I wasn't altogether convinced these people weren't all just tripping for kicks and giggles. The director of the clinic had a bit of an "I've done LSD my whole life, and I can't stop this tremor anymore" vibe, too. Again, kudos for him, but not the treatment option I was looking for, and certainly not from HIM as my doctor.

But this year, a family member underwent Ketamine treatment for Depression, and swore by it, up and down. A friend of theirs had a daughter that went through the treatment, and SHE swore by it, up and down, as well. My family member claimed the treatment raised their baseline. They found themselves smiling more, sleeping better, and better able to cope with the inevitable frustrations of work and life in general. 

So I had my baby and finished that pesky "pregnancy" prohibitor, and signed up for Ketamine Infusion Therapy a couple weeks later. I went to a different clinic, obviously. No Ganesh murals setting me up, thank you very much.

I went to the Utah Ketamine Clinic in American Fork. I am fairly convinced that you will find no better human beings on this planet than those who work at Ketamine clinics. It is fortunate. If you choose a career where you literally have human lives on your hands - not just their lives, but their very psyches, as you're literally inducing dissociative states on these people - it is good to be a good person. The "tone" of an experience is very important, when people are dissociating. I believe these Ketamine employees understand that, and I've never seen one running at less than 100% care and concern, with overwhelming positivity. 

My first experience was touching. The most lovely nurse was taking care of me - my favorite nurse by far. She had a contagious smile. She put in my IV, gave me medication for nausea and dizziness, the anesthesiologist plugged my Ketamine in, turned the lights off, left the room, and away I went, feet up in the soft, sturdy recliner, with my blanket tucked in around me. 

I saw sparks of color on the periphery of my vision, first - gold. My mouth warmed, as the drug filled in my system more, and then? That warm taste in my mouth exploded into a half-mandala, with sharp, pointed edges growing and swirling from the right of my field of vision, in golds, yellows, and whites. Danged, if it wasn't beautiful and weird. But with the warmness in my mouth, the mandala growing in my blurring vision, erasing the room around me as it softly melted down into blackness, I felt a tender moment of love - something my spiritual past experiences would have described as "The Spirit." In that moment I felt an overwhelming warmth of love, and the thought - "You are very brave to do this for your children." I remember feeling a tear falling down my face, which became, instantly, divine. 

I don't know if that feeling or that thought were real or artifically induced, which, frankly, set the tone and question for all my subsequent treatments. 

That first treatment was full of blacks, golds, and comfort. I traveled up a black valley, flew up darkened mountain sides and up past their snow-capped peaks into the dark blue sky, dancing with green aurora borealis. I watched as a godlike figure - yes, it was Sazed from the Mistborn book series - climbed stairs that rose up to meet his feet, flowing in oversized pant legs, on a dazzlingly white, gold, and light orange background - each step slow, smooth, and deliberate.

I morphed into a baby - just like my own newborn. The purring of the IV machine became my cat, and I, my baby lying at its side. I sat and breathed in the calmness of that moment and the realization that my life was very complicated - that things were far bigger than me, and that I was as good as my baby in terms of what I knew and understood and could change, and that I could rest and find peace in that knowledge, or lack thereof. 

My mother, who sat in the room with me, to help me through any first-time potential complications, morphed into Whistler's Mother in her chair, when the IV medication began to wear off. I recognized that she must be incredibly bored, and that alas, that was the role of mothers after all, wasn't it? To be a bored observer? I felt very connected to that message and motivation in that moment, and the urge to find peace in it - peace in boredom, and the steady, calming purr of ignorance and powers beyond my control next to me.

Ketamine turns me into a artist, and every experience I usually have a moment of thinking, "Wow, I wish I could draw this." or "I wonder if anyone has ever tried to draw something like this." It's that wish that I could share it, and that others could understand the intimate, random firings of my brain dissociating. I've had moments where I think I've almost thought of some movie or song that almost captures it, but nothing ever captures it quite right. Though I've tried. 

It's always constant motion. It's waves, it soaring, it's morphing, drawing space out, falling into colors, sights, sounds, textures. Colors and sights are interpreted by your own knowledge, experiences, meandering, and desires, into further movement, color, impressions, and interpretations. 

I've seen God, creating. And I've created. The room has swam around me in sketched blacks and whites, and I've found myself interpreting, "If I come out of this now, will I be an atheist?" The room swirled with greens and golds, architecture, leaves, pillars and stone, and I've found myself interpreting, "If I come out of this now, will I be Hindu?" And it all made perfect sense. I've looked for God in these artificially induced visions and I've found God. I've also looked for God and recognized the biological, physiological randomness of it all instead.

I've questioned and watched the process of the drugs taking my body through these spins and visions. I've also done as John Lennon recommended, to "Turn off your mind, relax and float downstream... That you may see the meaning of within." (Lennon did drugs. He knew what he was talking about! I was happy to take his advice.) The things I dredged up were all things from inside of myself - impressions I already knew, of things already considered, but not quite so vividly or with the exact processes or images. It was all random, very much so, but when experienced, I knew it was all mine. 

So has it helped with my Depression? There have been days where I've doubted it. I'm just as stressed as before. But then, in retrospect, did I really think that Ketamine would change my life situations? I'm still raising three children, one a newborn who doesn't let me sleep and yells at me regularly, one struggling with ADHD who needs frequent reminders and monitoring, and the other with a sassy attitude who likes to "flop" to the ground if I ask him to go anywhere. I have to remind myself that EVERYONE would feel overwhelmed about this, and that being stressed out, frustrated, constantly argued with, and sleep-deprived is not the same thing as being Depressed. 

My Depression has historically taken the light out of my days. I remember once, years ago, recognizing that I knew if my medication was working if I enjoyed listening to music, or caught myself singing. And in the last several weeks, I have caught myself singing. I've found myself smiling. In turning off the light in my boy's room, yet again, I didn't bemoan the messy state of their floor, like I usually would. Instead I noted that it appeared they were making a blanket fort! and I took joy in their spark for life. Just a few days ago I caught myself folding laundry right out of the dryer, without making a "laundry heap" in the hallway, for days on end, as I usually do. For me, that was a big deal. And I was happy while I did it. I made a meal plan for the week, and have stuck with it, without Depression driving me to make excuses for takeout. 

Yesterday and today have been long days. The children all have a cold, and I'm suffering from the slightly nauseated, dizzy remnants of my Ketamine infusion last night. No one is on their best behavior, and there have been several angry, frustrated moments. I questioned, today, if the Ketamine infusions have been worth it, as my final one is tomorrow night, almost $2,000 later. 

Last night was a night of textures and voices. The nurses were chatting with each other in their office across the hall, and the pleasant conversation carried through my visions as inaudible, happy mumbling. I DID hear "No pressure!" to laughter, which set a light-hearted tone. I fell into fabrics, cushioned rooms and cities. I was even carried to my living room's black fur rug, which was scanned foot by foot with calm, soft precision, to the dull, happy mumbling of unseen others. And yes, it was good. 

I pulled the room lengthwise, turning it into white, arched doorways which, when stretched, pulled downwards into a black river, with a head like a lizard. I fell into a rug of ripped fabrics, surprisingly soft, which I floated in, like a seaweed-y river - and I thought to myself, "At least being fat makes me happy and comfortable."

Were my Ketamine infusions worth it? 

I think so. Undoubtedly, time will tell. I have seen results. The nagging question and worry, which experience has trained me to be cynical in, makes me wonder how long it will last. They do have return appointments - only one infusion for follow-ups, not the initial six, which they state work wonderfully. Some people return every few months. Some people never feel the need to return! (The Ketamine MIRACLE?!) 

Time will tell. But I'll take what I can from the experiences. Be bored. Recognize your ignorance and inability to fix everything, and embrace that. Be satisfied with your body. Recognize your potential. Embrace that your type of "goddess" self might not be stereotypically feminine - all the best female gods are gods of war, and there is absolutely comfort and purpose in that. I have the ability to change what is unbearable, but being uncomfortable is not the end. The scene will flow on and turn eventually, and who knows? At the end of it you might even discover that you are the queen!

The Story of Your Birth - Matilda

The decision to have a baby is never made lightly. 

The decision to have a baby in the middle of a global pandemic under the regime of Donald Trump is never made lightly either. 

You will grow up being one of "those" babies - your parents were serious enough about their desire to have you, that they chose to have you despite a world of risks, which they were taking very seriously. 

Despite the fact that babies are beautiful miraculous gifts, I'm pretty sure I didn't come up with any fancy way to tell your dad when I found out I was pregnant. We both knew we were pretty reliable when it came to trying for a baby, by this point, that we kind of figured that once we'd tried, we'd succeed. (Not everyone is so lucky, and we're terribly sorry about that.) I'd thought up cute ways to tell him, when I was pregnant with your brothers. But with you? I'm pretty sure I just told him. Sorry. 

My pregnancy with you was both easy and difficult - difficult due to constant nausea throughout the first trimester, and half of the second trimester as well. I'd never been that nauseated with your brothers. But the pregnancy was easy as there were no complications or anything even remotely eventful. When I finally got an appetite back, I craved Arctic Circle's Country Chicken Sandwiches, which, post pregnancy, I would be happy to never see ever again. 

I'd always assumed you would be a boy - not through any profound "gut" feelings, or experiences, but because I'd already been a "boy mom" for five years, and because your father assured me that girls were rare in his family, and genetically speaking, it's the fathers who get to determine the gender of their babies. On our wedding night, your Grandpa Lisch had even warned your dad, "The Lisch boys are good swimmers!" I'd already mentally prepared myself for a future home packed full of raving wild boys.

So when I went in to your 16 week gender reveal appointment, I was fully ready to be told I was having a third boy. Really, the appointment was just so we could start planning baby names. They laid me down in the the chair, started the ultrasound, when lo and behold, we saw something I had never seen before! It was very exciting to say the least! I cried, and was beyond ecstatic to recognize that I would not be the only girl in my house anymore. But more than that, I was excited to have  daughter, and envisioned a potential future relationship just like the relationship I have with my mom. It was wonderful to imagine that perhaps I was carrying a future best friend. 

In the most recent few years, my Jewish heritage has also been something that I have longed to learn more about and participate in. Having a daughter was a beautiful blessing in that regard, as she, too, would give birth to baby Jews, and that my carrying on some Jewish Traditions would not have to die with me, necessarily. I would have a daughter who could carry those traditions on with her children as well. (Only if she wants to, mind!)

Knowing that I was having a girl changed everything! I was no longer a confident mother. I was now a terrified mother. Despite the fact that all babies are pretty much the same, I couldn't wrap my head around the fact that I could be capable of raising a girl! I think I was thinking too far ahead! But despite the surprise gender, the pregnancy carried on.

When it came to picking your name, your dad and I couldn't agree on anything. We had completely opposite tastes in names. After what FELT like months of deliberation, we decided that they only way you were going to get a name was if we divided and conquered. I chose your first name, and your dad chose your middle name. To me, Matilda felt like a strong, confident name, that could be as tomboy or girly as you wished. It felt beautiful and versatile. I loved the Dahl book, Matilda, and having two Australian grandmothers, it seemed only right that I could rock you to sleep with the lovely ballad of Waltzing Matilda. To me, your name was perfect. (I also seriously considered Madeline and Deborah (from the Bible,) but Matilda won out fairly quickly.)

The last month of my pregnancy dragged on. I had told the midwife on multiple occasions that I would be having the baby early. "I tend to have my babies early," I said confidently, as if two previous babies were enough to know. And so every day for about three weeks I was vigilant and ready for your imminent arrival. And then you never came. It was stressful to have rides constantly planned out, plans for your brothers, who would be watching them, etc. 

Because your birth would be a little bit different than theirs. I will preface by saying that your dad is a good man. He loves his family, and would do anything for them. Unfortunately, your dad also doesn't do well with blood and high-stress situations, in terms of being empathetic and present. This has nothing to do with his ability to love his family, but more to do with poor coping mechanisms in regards to stress situations. Having dragged your dad through two previous births, I felt confident enough in myself and my ability to give birth without dying, that I was open to the idea of letting Dad off the hook, and getting myself a confident, calm support person in the delivery room. The fact that you were a girl made that decision more naturally for me, as I psyched myself up for a traditional “women's work” birth.

My mom was an obvious first choice for me to have in the delivery room. After discussing that possibility with your dad, who was not offended in the slightest at the suggestion that I could do this without him, we approached your grandma with the question of if she would be willing to be present for the blood, the nudity, the screams, the needles, the beeping machines, etc. She was happy to tell us that in her former life in Australia she had been present for MANY births, and that she was, in fact, a professional at being just that sort of support person in the delivery room. (It was part of her job, in fact!)

So as the days drew nearer, we were balancing school schedules, and trying to psych ourselves into giving birth on a weekend day, or another day that wouldn't be so inconvenient for Grandma to drive the sometimes hour long drive to get to the hospital to be with me. We had a couple false alarms. I have always had an irritable uterus, which means regular Braxton Hicks throughout my entire pregnancies, but most especially when you really want to give birth, and so you start timing them. It is as if timing the hicks makes them come regularly at three to four minute intervals. Obviously, I absolutely hate not knowing when babies are coming.

Your grandma sat at the hospital with me for the first false alarm, two weeks before you were born, and I called her off a week later before she got to the hospital the second false alarm. She comforted me with the assurance that you would be, in fact, the last grandchild, and she never had to deal with false alarms again! A few days after the second false alarm, my midwife stripped my membranes, in the hopes that it would get things moving, but it did the opposite. My irritable Braxton Hicks stopped being so irritable and regular! It was a relief, at least, that it didn't make things worse!

The next week the midwife stripped my membranes again, and we made an appointment for the following morning for her to strip them a third time! I was dilated to almost a four, and my cervix was absolutely ready. The midwife agreed that my body was embarrassingly ready to give birth, and I should have done it the week before! But the second time stripping my membranes was the charm, however. That afternoon, while Julian was at Kindergarten, I took Dexter for a walk to pick up garbage along the street, came back home, picked up Julian from school, and was having regular contractions by dinner time. I called your grandma, told her I was about "Defcon Orange?" sure that you were coming, and told her I would feel tremendously guilty if she drove all the way to our house if you didn't, in fact, come.

She sat with me on the couch after your brothers were put to bed, and we continued to time contractions together, while she smiled comfortingly and knowingly at me, telling me we should drive to the hospital while I told her I wasn't sure enough, yet, that this was the real deal. After about an hour, things were starting to hurt enough that I was confident, so away we ran to the hospital. We checked in around 9 pm, and immediately were given a room. I don't know how the Labor and Delivery nurses know when someone is, in fact, in real labor, but they knew. They knew that the false alarms were false alarms, and they knew a real contracting woman when they saw one. I had dilated to a five, and things were progressing.

Getting an epidural with your brother Dexter was easily the worst pain I have been in in my entire life. It was so much pain, that I was seriously considering giving birth to you naturally, without pain relief. I was terrified! But after months of deliberation, I'd concluded that ten minutes of pain had nothing on potential hours worth of labor and then birth, and that I could do another epidural.

Your Grandma held my hand while I shook like a leaf. It was very comforting, especially when I realized that THIS anesthesiologist wasn't going about the epidural with the intensity of performing a root canal, like I'd experienced with the last one, so I was able to calm down. Even then, he nearly called for his supervisor, as he struggled to get the epidural in place, until I assured him it felt like it was going in straight, not to the right or left, so he gave it one last attempt, and it worked beautifully. And Grandma didn't even faint or look the least bit pale!

Grandma read to me for a couple hours and we chatted as casually as ever, while I continued to labor in perfect comfort. (Epidural was the right choice!) The midwife came and broke my water - she literally leaned back squinting and flinching, which was funny to me. (Gross.)

As the next couple hours passed, the nurses informed me that it was up to me to let them know when my numbed body was ready to push. (I have always found this odd. Sure, you feel pressure and things, with an epidural, but no real guttural "push" urge.) Subsequently, I had the nurse keep tabs on the "readiness" factor fairly regularly for the last thirty minutes, as I wasn't sure and didn't want to miss anything! I'd popped your brother out in one contraction last time, and didn't want to make your Grandma catch. Though obviously we joked about it, and she, in all seriousness, told me it wouldn't be a problem. Part of me still wonders if she hoped she couldn't get her hands a little dirty and catch a grandbaby!

She didn't have to, as the nurses knew what they were doing. The midwife came in with her trainee, and the trainee delivered you, at nearly seven months pregnant herself! I had you out in three contractions, and you came out perfect at 12:01 am, 6 pounds 10 ounces, 19 inches long.

You cried the right amount, and calmed right down when I held you and started talking to you. After everything settled down in the delivery room, Grandma excused herself to go home and sleep, and I was wheeled up to our Mom/Baby room. While wheeling along being pushed in the wheelchair, your eyes were open wide, taking in all the new sights, and I was in love. You were SO interested and satisfied!

You got hypothermia after an hour, but after being on the warmer, you leveled out just right. That first day, during daylight hours, you also took an eleven hour hunger strike, which my favorite nurse smiled and calmly assured me, "She's not hungry. She was right there with you, with that birth, and some kids just AREN'T HUNGRY for a bit. She'll be fine."

And you were. Of course. We later learned that you were a little connoisseur when it came to formula. I'm fairly confident that you ate so poorly at the hospital because the formula came room temperature. Once you got home, you learned to gag at anything less than optimal temperature, and demanded WARM formula from thenceforth. 

And you SMILED. I'd never had a baby just SMILE. Sometimes babies will smile while pooping, or farting, and parents are thrilled that they caught a smile, but yours weren't fake smiles. They were genuine, REAL smiles, right out the gate from Day One. You loved looking at me, and you loved getting your head stroked - something Grandma figured out!

When it came time to take you home, obviously, we were nervous about your reception, but both of your brothers were ecstatic. Dexter immediately ran to find you a toy, and Julian followed us around closely, desperate just to TOUCH you, and know that you were real! He'd been waiting for WEEKS, right along with the rest of us, for HIS baby to come. 

We had to be very careful that their sheer excitement didn't crush you to death! There was a lot of love! And still is, now, as I'm writing this! You're one month old, now. This morning I set you on the shag rug, desperate to wash dishes, and your brothers, unprompted, ran over to keep you company - to show you your toy, and help you play with it. You were more interested in them! 

Julian is always grabbing your hand, even when you're asleep, so that we have to tell him to stop! Dexter prefers to kiss the top of your head, and he doesn't necessarily do it softly! 

I was crazy, the first week, worrying about how small you were, worrying if you were eating enough, worrying about if you were pooping enough, and all the things you worry about, with a brand new baby. You were my smallest baby, by a sizeable amount, and I was scared. 

Not so much now, one month in. You're good at eating, though you're still small - still wearing NEWBORN size clothes, which never would have happened one month in, with your brothers. But you'll probably size out of those in the next day or two, so you're catching up. 

You've been easy, baby, and it's a welcome blessing! Your quick smiles are an absolute treasure! I hope you never lose that! You're a beauty. You are smart and you are good. The prospect of raising someone who quite literally can be a "mini me" is thrilling. I hope you take the good, and leave the bad. I hope you take strength of will and character. Be a force of nature. So help me, take after your mother and lock the kids out of the school building at recess because it's "right!" Be brave, be confident, and stand up for yourself and what's good. Defend others. But don't take everything. I'll do my best to give you the good, and not the bad. Because you are perfect, just the way you are. You fill my heart with a fierce Momma Bear pride. 

I will always be fiercely proud to say that you are mine!