Hospital Life

     Well, I've survived my first two weeks at the hospital.

     Okay, I'm cheating a little; I was admitted two Mondays ago, so technically it hasn't been a full fortnight, but I'm taking my successes where I can get them these days.

     All-in-all, hospital life isn't terrible. I have my own private room with big windows, storage, and a nice bathroom and shower. I get a fair amount of privacy, besides the odd nurse popping in to give me pills or a shot, and the bed isn't as awful as I'd expected it to be (though I won't go so far as to call it comfortable). The food isn't the best, but it's edible, and occasionally there are decent surprises like this morning's cinnamon french toast, a vast improvement from yesterday's single piece of untoasted bread.

     I think the hardest part of being here is exactly what I'd thought it would be: living away from home. I miss my cat, I miss my dog even more, and I miss my husband, even though 5 days out of the week he's right here next to me. Normally at the end of the night if we were at home we'd cuddle up together in our cozy bed, feet touching like they have every night since we first laid together, his warm body wrapped around mine in the most soothing way. I'm used to his occasional shifts in sleep, his tired scent, and his soft hands that always flicker against mine in the darkness when I find myself tossing against insomnia. Here at the hospital though he has to sleep away from me, on a cot bed low to the ground that made me cry our first evening here when I saw it and realized we couldn't touch. We've rectified the problem slightly now by pulling his bed next to mine while he slings his leg up on my mattress, but obviously it's nothing compared to the comfortable situation we had back in Chilliwack.

     I've tried to make it as homey as possible here of course; pictures of my family, my favourite blankets, and a vast collection of books litter the room. But while I'm adjusting, it still doesn't serve to completely ease the homesickness I feel in my stomach whenever I look out the window and realize that I'm so close yet so far from where my heart is.

     Visitors help though, and of those I've had plenty! My mom and brother have come a few times bearing novels and treats, my best friends stopped by with a seemingly never-ending supply of food and stories, my sister and brother-in-law appeared in possession of a laptop loaded with music and DVD's, and my very favourite aunt and uncle-in-law surprised us last Sunday with much-needed hugs and cookies for the afternoon.

     And it was all of that that made me really want to write this blog post: to lament the negative experiences, but then to shake them off and express what I'm grateful for. Because honestly, while I am by no means enjoying staying in the hospital, things could be so, so much worse and I have to count my blessings when they come. All month long I've been reading novels from India, Africa, and beyond, placed now and centuries ago, in which pregnant women squat in the grass to have their babies before continuing work, or hemorrhage during labour, or lose their infants due to inadequate care or abuse; in comparison to this, being away from home for the summer is a small price to pay for mine and my girls' health and well-being.

     So here it is... The things I'm thankful for:

     1. I'm thankful for my loving, giving, selfless husband who is sacrificing not only his own time and life at home, but many comforts as well to be here to support me. He gets me anything I need whenever I need it, combats my hormonal fluctuations with a smile, and never fails to find a way to make me laugh every single day regardless of what's going on here.

     2. I'm thankful for our amazing family and friends from whom we've received endless amounts of love and sustenance... From the minute we found out what was happening and made it public we've had phone calls, e-mails, Facebook messages, and well-wishes from so many that we know including old friends and faraway relatives of mine who I haven't seen in years. This experience has really taught us to recognize who is important in our life and deserves a place in it and who simply doesn't. It's very true that you never see the reality of people's character until you're struggling; that's when the good ones step forward (and the not-so-good ones go into hiding) and we've been blessed with having many, many good ones around us during this difficult time.

     3. I'm thankful for no stretch marks! Okay, I know that this seems a rather vain and irrelevant thing to be thankful for, but when I found out I was having twins it became a big fear of mine. However, up until this point (knock on wood!) My skin remains unblemished, and given the amount of strangers looking at my belly every day it's a nice little victory. I also haven't had any other awkward pregnancy complications like enormous weight gain or acne thus far, so besides sometimes thinking that I resemble a planet with limbs I'm feeling pretty good.

     4. I'm thankful that, despite the emotional effect staying here occasionally has on me, my girls are still flourishing. Their growth is excellent, they're incredibly active (and enjoy kicking each other in the face as the ultrasounds have shown) and don't seem to be suffering from any of the developmental complications that can plague a twin pregnancy like ours. For that, we are very lucky.

     5. I'm thankful that my sister didn't clear the music off of her laptop before she brought it to me here, as in attempting to play Kanye's "Yeezus" I discovered a file full of The Eagles, Bob Marley, Justin Timberlake, Elvis, Tom Petty, and more, so I'm currently having a solo (bed-ridden) dance party in my hospital room and loving life.

     6. And lastly, I'm thankful that I live in Canada! Because if this was the U.S.A. we'd owe a ridiculous amount in medical bills right now! I really should have found a way to celebrate Canada Day last weekend... I think my country deserves a little recognition.

:)

Complications

Lately things have gotten a little… complicated.

I guess that’s the simplest way to put it, without sounding overdramatic.

Up until this point, my pregnancy has been humming along without complications; at 22.5 weeks I’ve gained a minimal 9lbs, I’ve successfully weaned myself off of my morning sickness pills, and every day I can feel my twin girls rolling and kicking in my belly.

I’m incredibly healthy, the doctor, obstetrician, and specialists have said. I should be proud. My babies are incredibly healthy too, weighing in at 1lb 4oz; more than what one would expect from twins at this stage.

The only thing to worry about, I’ve been told, is something called TTTS, or Twin-To-Twin-Transfusion Syndrome, a condition where one fetus takes more blood from the other, causing in itself swelling and heart attack, and in the other lack of development and jaundice. And for both, sometimes death. However, as long as their growth is monitored carefully, doctors can catch this when/if it happens and do things to delay or stop it before fatality occurs.

What no one did prepare me for was being told I have an incompetent cervix. Why should I? Sure, it’s more common with multiples, but I’m 22 and in excellent physical condition especially for someone carrying twins. I've never had a miscarriage, or an abortion, or any other physical issues that might indicate this would be a problem. So why me? Upon hearing the news you find yourself pouring over everything you’ve said and done in your pregnancy up until this point. Is it my fault? Did I do something to cause my cervix to open up almost completely, with only 0.75 of a centimeter keeping my babies in the womb? Sometimes it just happens, the doctor said. The pressure of two babies on the cervix can force it to open and kickstart pre-term labour, and mine apparently has decided to do so before I’ve crossed the “24 week” survival threshold. Doctors won’t even attempt to resuscitate a baby born before 24 weeks, he continued, as their organs won’t be developed enough at that point to sustain life.

So, here I am. On bedrest until Monday when the hospital can admit me indefinitely and start me on a round of steroids intended to speed up my babies’ growth and stop my body from pushing them out before they're ready.

“So they’ll definitely be born prematurely… what do you think, around like 30 weeks?” I’d asked, naively. Or maybe hopefully.

The doctor smiled in a sad little way. “I would love to get you to 30 weeks.” He replied simply, the implication clear enough.

Forum after forum that I poured over, results that popped up from my “incompetent cervix twins” Google search, told me that all wasn’t lost. Some women had had their babies at 25 weeks without fatality, and others were taken off of bedrest at 30 and carried their twins to full term. It’s almost impossible to predict what will happen, so we have to take it one day at a time. This is what I tell myself.

But the days feel long already. And two weeks feels even longer.

At our ultrasound before the bad news, we watched our babies tumble and flap their fingers. One even yawned, stuck her tongue out, rubbed her eyes and smiled at us, something the doctor quickly snapped a picture of. They are so alive, so healthy, so content with their condition. It’s impossible for me to think of them any other way.

So I won’t.

I will picture my girls, and the day we get to hold them, and the later day when we take them home. And I will tackle this bedrest as aggressively as I tackled having a healthy pregnancy before this.

They’re fighters. They came into existence through impossible circumstances, survived a procedure before we knew they were there that should have caused a miscarriage, and have managed to put on more weight than you would expect of identical twin girls sharing a placenta. After everything they’ve overcome I refuse to believe that it will be something as small as this that takes them from us.

This is just another hurdle, and we will tackle it together.

After all, what other choice do we have?

Dear Babies

I wrote this letter to my future daughters last night, in response to an extremely homophobic Facebook status one of my husbands (now former) Facebook friends had updated about the upcoming Vancouver gay pride parade. I was angered and disgusted by the idiocy of such a status, so I thought I'd let my daughters know how their parents feel about homophobia and those who practice it. 

Dear babies,

Something you will discover when you come into this world is that it is full of unhappy, critical, hateful people. Since the beginning of time there has been judgment and oppression, racism, anti-Semitism, and other forms of hate boiling in the spirit of humanity; in many ways being hateful is a part of the human condition, and depending on what century or decade you find yourself in you will always discover some form of it. The version we seem to be facing most prevalently in our society today happens to be homophobia: the fear, hate, inequality, and in some countries capital punishment-inducing intolerance of gay, lesbian, bisexual, and transgendered people.

And this is unacceptable, and has no place in the lives of civilized, intelligent people. In my short life I have heard GLBT people described as disgusting, immoral, evil, an abomination, and even predators, aggressively out to threaten and corrupt the innocent.  They are painted as something to truly be afraid of, and that we need to protect ourselves and our children from.

One day babies, when you’re old enough to understand it, you will learn about slavery, lynchings, pogroms, internment camps, and the Holocaust. One day, when you do, your heart and soul will ache for the suffering of the oppressed, and the victims of such horrors.  And one day, I hope you will realize that homophobia is absolutely no different than the hate that has fuelled these many dark marks on our human history.

And when you do babies, I hope you will realize to your very core that you want no part of it, and will in fact desire to actively fight against this ignorance. And because of this, not only will you be intolerant of hate, but you will also be brave enough to be intolerant of hateful people and you will keep them, and their poison, out of your lives.

I heard a quote once that said “the darkest places in Hell are reserved for those who maintain their neutrality in times of moral crisis”. And babies, I believe this completely; do not be neutral my dears, and do not ever be afraid to stand against hate and oppression or those who promote it. Because when it comes to being GLBT, the only disgusting thing about it is the amount of hate shown by so-called civilized people towards it. And while they may say they base their judgment on the words of the Bible, I firmly believe that if there IS a God (and I’ll leave that up to you to decide) He does not reserve a seat in Heaven for those who practice such vile treatment of their fellow human beings.

If there is anything I can teach you babies, it is to always practice love, compassion, forgiveness, and tolerance towards others, and to focus more energy on your own decisions rather than the personal choices of those around you. Live, and let live.

Love will open your heart and allow you to learn and grow in untainted ways… Hate will make you bitter and cynical and corrupted and miserable. And you, my darlings, are far too good for that.

Love Mama

Mother's Day

This week, having included Mother’s Day, has had me inevitably thinking about moms, and the role they play in our lives.

My own mother and I have had, up until the past few years, what I would call a tumultuous relationship. We butted heads on almost every issue for the majority of my childhood and teenage years, frequently resulting in explosive arguments for which we were both equally to blame. She wasn’t perfect, but neither was I, and we each had our moments of being cruel, ruthless, and unforgiving to the other. However, we also had many moments of incredible love, joy, and happiness in each other’s company; my mother was the first person who inspired me to be a writer, the person who introduced me to Oscar Wilde and Jane Austen, who taught me to relish the outdoors more than a television program, and whose immense strength fuels my own. No one was ever more important to her than her children, and she fought for me and my siblings to be safe, independent, educated, and to form our own opinions. For many, many years our family struggled financially, and it was my mother who pulled us through, not only by working full-time but also by making basic ingredients go far, baking endlessly so we would could eat. On top of that, she sewed not only any tears in our clothing but also curtains, chair covers, and epic Halloween costumes for us every year. When furniture became worn, she would redo it, sanding and polishing tables and dressers for hours or reupholstering couches, and when fixtures or electronics broke she wouldn’t hesitate to pull out tools and fix them.

She was a mother and a father too, wholly replacing the one who was barely involved in our lives except in a destructive way.  And when my parents finally separated, and the severe abuse that my father had drenched us all in for years was gone, it was my mom who pulled our broken family back together and got us smiling again.

 In many ways she’s everything I want to be in a mother to my own children. And she did all of this without the support of her own mother, who passed away from breast cancer at the young age of 46, when my mother was only 25 and pregnant with me. Before she died my mom had to care for her full-time, as the cancer had spread to her brain, and eventually my grandmother passed away a few months before I was born. And, inevitably, despite my grandmother's many imperfections in life and as a parent, the early loss devastated my mom to the point that the wound is still raw even now, 23 years later.

And it’s this that breaks my heart.

Because now, my mom is my best friend; she’s the person I turn to for advice on everything from “how long should I bake this casserole for?” To “what do I need in my nursery?” And all things in between. She’s not only an endless supporter and counselor for me in times of need, but she’s also devoted many hours to loving and guiding my husband objectively during his own struggles, and I can’t imagine my life without her.  But I’m fully aware that I wasted many years fighting with my mother rather than appreciating her, and that somewhere on a shelf of our lives there is a clock ticking away the minutes I get to spend with her before she’s gone.

And this is what I think we all need to remember: that it doesn’t matter how imperfect your mother can be at times, or frustrating, or slow, or quirky, or old-fashioned. What does matter is that you only have one of them, and regardless of their mistakes most of them enter motherhood optimistically, with the best of intentions and try their hardest to be the most perfect parent they can be. I know that I certainly am. And if yours is still alive and with you right now, be thankful, not ungrateful, and cherish the time you’ve been given because any day that could vanish, sometimes much earlier than you’re prepared for (if you ever are). It’s a lesson it took me many years to learn, but I’m glad I finally have, because I can’t imagine how I’d be coping now (22 and pregnant with twins) if I didn’t have her strong presence there for me on the days I’m feeling shaky. She's my port in a storm, and I hope that my own children will one day love and appreciate me the way I finally appreciate her.

"My mother was the most beautiful woman I ever saw. All I am I owe to my mother. I attribute all of my success in life to the moral, intellectual, and physical education I received from her." - George Washington

 

A Double Surprise

Wow! Well it’s been a ridiculously long time since I’ve updated a blog post. In my defense, I’ve been completely caught up in work/wedding/baby madness, but now that things have calmed down considerably I think it’s about time I posted, especially considering what’s been going on over here.

As anyone who knows me well enough will tell you, I struggle with spontaneity. I like to live with a structured plan, and deviations from that completely overwhelm me. And again, as anyone who knows me well enough will also tell you, a baby was never in my immediate plans. In fact the idea of getting pregnant was, as of about a month ago, probably my worst fear; I have way too much I intend on accomplishing in the next couple years  for the role of “mom” to be anything but a distant consideration.

My husband (then fiancé) is the complete opposite; he’s been baby-crazy for as long as I’ve known him, and that talk has become much more serious since we got engaged during the summer. He feels like he is meant to be a dad, and anyone who knows him well enough would agree; he’s incredibly patient, loving, gentle, goofy, and young at heart and any child would be beyond blessed to have him as a father. But, despite this, I wanted us to wait. Every time he brought it up, my automatic response was: “not a chance. Ask me in 4 years!” When we were both finished our schooling, and had a home and stable careers; then, I thought, we could start talking about a family.

So you can imagine the incredible, overwhelming shock I felt when I discovered in early March that we were expecting. I should have known, of course; the signs were all there. It started with the unexplainable exhaustion during my nightly exercise…  A run I’ve been doing for years became painful, and I found myself nearly fainting at the end of every workout. Then, there was the sudden, random, projectile vomiting that started happening almost every day, something I naïvely chalked up to wedding stress. And I can’t forget the ability to strongly smell everything around me, the most memorable of which was a glass of wine my fiancé had a room away but which smelled like it was right underneath my nose.

All of these were signs of pregnancy, and I knew this, but I refused to acknowledge it. Firstly, we were beyond safe and couldn’t grasp even the possibility of pregnancy (my doctor is still baffled as to how it actually happened), and secondly we’d never had a scare before so I was full of that arrogant belief of invincibility. Finally, however, after day ten or eleven of puking in a row my fiancé decided we needed to take me to the clinic. “Well, I might as well take a pregnancy test now then,” I said in response. “If I go in there and tell them I’m puking this much they’re going to ask me if I’m pregnant so I might as well be sure.” Not believing for a second that I actually was.

I have to say, the two positive pregnancy tests that followed that statement severely humbled me. And as we sat on the couch giggling in shock and disbelief afterwards, I can’t say the thought of “you can’t keep it” didn’t go through my mind. I would love to say that I’m perfect, and rose to the occasion instantly, but that’s just not true. I detest deceitfulness, especially in writing, and I feel the need to be honest about my emotional struggle during those first few days after the revelation. All of my plans: schooling, career, travel, flashed before my eyes and seemed to slip away through my fingers, replaced by the image of a crying, needy baby.

It’s not that I’m not maternal; I love children, have always wanted to be a mom one day, and in fact work as a nanny for a family with 5 kids. It’s just that this didn’t seem like the right time… how could it be when I was right in the middle of schooling, my fiancé had just started a new job, and we were still living in a rented suite?

So, I tried to put the thought of keeping the baby out of my mind, and my fiancé was above and beyond supportive, though I knew his heart leaned in the opposite direction. Nonetheless, I set up an ultrasound to find out how far along I was, and then went about my life. But a few days after finding out, I went for a run to clear my head and found myself talking to my baby the entire time. I wasn’t even consciously aware that I was doing it for the majority of my run; I told it about the neighbourhood I was running through, what it had been like for me to grow up here, what I hoped its childhood would be like, and suddenly when I realized what I was doing, tears came. Too many to contain. I found myself stopping near the end of my run, walking home and crying my eyes out the entire way with the thought of “how can something so wonderful ruin my life?” Spinning around and around in my head.

When I finally arrived home my fiancé and I sat together and cried for a long time, talking to our baby and each other about what a joy it would be to keep it and what amazing parents we knew we would be, regardless of where our careers or home stability sat. I knew in that moment that if I gave up my child, it would forever haunt me. I was not a woman who would feel empowered by my choice; rather, I would feel as though I had a ghost attached to my shadow, the ghost of a child that should have been. When we did move on to have children, planned children, our first would always be seen in my heart as our second, and I didn’t think I could live with that.

That night, we went to bed with heavy and confused minds; I don’t believe either of us got much sleep.

However, the next day things became even more complicated. An ultrasound was followed by a phone call from the doctor with something that managed to completely stun me in a way, given the weeks events, I wouldn’t have thought possible.

“Did the ultrasound technician tell you anything about your pregnancy…?” She said hesitantly over the phone. When I said no, she responded with something I will always remember vividly: “You’re having twins. Identical twins, actually.”

More tears came then. I cannot explain to anyone who has not had a phone call like that what it truly feels like, but I can say that beyond the initial shock there is a powerful undercurrent of overwhelming joy and love for the double blessing you realize you’ve been given. My mom had been a twin (though hers died in the womb) and there were several other sets in my family, and a couple in my fiancé’s, which massively increased our chances of conceiving them; it was also something we’d always talked about as desperately wanting. Again, the thought struck me: how could something so wonderful, such a massively beautiful gift ever ruin our lives? And I knew then that it couldn’t. No matter how little money or stability we had, we would love our children and be the best parents we could possibly be, and nothing could get in the way of that.

As my mom told me the next day when I told her what was going on “you are never really ready to have a baby. There is never a perfect time. Babies come when they’re ready and they are always a blessing.”

And I knew she was right.

So we decided to keep our precious babies, and every moment since then has been amazing. It seems so easy and natural for me; though I’ve started falling asleep by 8, I’ve simply changed my schedule and made my nightly workouts earlier in the evening so I’m not exhausting myself. And though my morning sickness has been classified as “severe”, I don’t mind very much as I know it means my children are healthy. And though I’ve had the odd craving (ice-cream is a steady one) I ignore it and eat spinach instead because I know it’s what my little ones need to grow and be strong. All the deviations and surprises and things I have no control over don’t bother me like they once did, and I feel very at peace.

For the first time in my life I feel capable of relaxing and going with the flow, and more happy and purposeful than I ever have previously. I spent so much time convincing myself that children were the worst punishment that could be inflicted on me at this age, but I find now that I realize they will be the best thing that has ever happened to me. And I look forward to every day of this new journey my husband and I will take together with our family. It might not have been in the plans, but I've discovered now that life doesn't really care what your plans are, and I'm surprisingly thankful for that.

A BIG lesson from life’s imperfections.

Not A Rom-Com

In my several years of being active in the dating world, I’ve discovered one steadfast reality: that love stories aren’t the way Hollywood tells us they should be. Sure, I’ve had my fair share of incredibly romantic moments but I’ve never had a partner try to complete my bucket list before I die, or been serenaded on a plane with Billy Idol’s guitar, and by no account did a young Shakespeare ever dedicate a classic play to me. By this point I think it’s safe to say that the picture painted for us every year by writers and studio executives rarely holds a fragment of truth.

But if I have learned something from these leagues of movies that inevitably flood out of Hollywood every time a holiday/special occasion/any occasion for couples to get sappy rolls around, it’s that the most important part of any love story is to follow your heart, and be true to yourself. A lesson which ultimately (regardless of how atrocious some of these movies end up being) is still very important in life and in love. It’s also one I’ve had to fully recognize while planning my own wedding.

My fiancé and I got engaged this past August, and within less than 2 weeks of announcing it we’d already decided on the basics: a summer wedding, outdoor location, and a date smack dab between our two birthdays; it seemed, in all appearances, perfect. Suggestions poured in from helpful relatives too, on everything from food to décor to my dress, and for my part I was thrilled about that. I was what I’d call a “reluctant bride”; not reluctant to marry my partner but reluctant to involve myself in the entire mindset of what it means to be an engaged female. All the wedding details that seemed so infinitely important to other people didn’t feel very important to me and I was more than happy to let others take the reins and steer us towards the altar. As long as I came out on the other side of the day married to the one I love, I thought I could be happy.

But as the months went by, I felt more and more anxiety building within me. The minute talk about the wedding came up, I became frustrated, tears formed, and I felt like throwing my hands in the air and calling it off altogether. But I couldn’t understand why, and neither could my fiancé; for a while there I’m sure he believed I was having cold feet and that he was the problem, not the wedding itself that was forming in our future.

Finally however, the realization hit me: it wasn’t that I didn’t want a wedding, it was that I didn’t want this wedding. For starters, I’ve never been particularly fond of summertime. Being a fair-skinned, dark-haired individual who burns easily, sun really isn’t my thing. From May through till September I essentially become a vampire: the blinds in my house remain closed at all times and I don’t go out in the daylight without sunglasses and a hood. (No joke there… if one was to go through my family photo albums you’d be lucky to find a single summer picture of me that I wasn’t squinting in.) And brightness aside, there’s the heat too: when summer comes around every year I usually find that I hate all the clothing I own, everything feels sticky, and my hair is thick and frizzy and impossible to deal with. Needless to say if there’s a time of the year where I feel particularly unattractive, summer would be it. So why was I having a summer wedding?

Then there was the time commitment: I’m a full-time student as well as part-time employee and my fiancé is overcoming a serious injury that occurred just prior to our engagement which is a full-time job in itself. Simply put, we had bigger fish to fry this year than having a perfectly planned wedding, and for our sakes we needed to just get it over and done with (as unromantic as that sounds).

And I can’t forget the ridiculous idea of having my wedding outdoors… while it sounds nice in theory, the thought of being chased at my “rustic” open-air reception by bees and mosquitoes (how I usually spend my summer evenings) was my definition of a nightmare.

So, after an emotional conversation with my fiancé we decided to move our wedding date up from July to March, regardless of what anyone else would think about it. March has always been a month I’ve loved; warm rain showers, the smells of spring, and the return of life after a cold winter stir my soul in a way that July never has. It felt perfect. So we settled on March 23^rd, and besides the confusing pregnancy questions I faced there was little resistance to our decision.

And for the first time since our engagement I felt like I could breathe. I no longer felt my finger itching with the ring around it, I didn’t start hyperventilating at the words “wedding” or “bride”, and despite my best efforts I started to actually care about what our special day was going to look like. It was as though asserting myself once and following my heart opened up a whole new person inside of me who not only had real wedding opinions, but felt brave enough to stand up for them.

I have to say, I liked this new identity. While visiting a local jewelry store with my fiancé to browse wedding bands a few weeks later, I felt that familiar suffocation every time the sales associate put a sparkling, diamond encrusted band around my finger insisting it matched my engagement ring perfectly. I didn’t agree, and while the little voice in my head whispered that maybe I should just go for the stereotypical band and not face any questions or criticisms, my new voice spoke up louder and stated flatly that I didn’t like them. So instead I found a simple textured band with (GASP!) no diamonds online and promptly fell in love with it.

And now I find myself 8 weeks away from my wedding feeling incredibly excited, impatient, and overjoyed that I get to celebrate this and take such a huge step with the love of my life. In a matter of months I went from absolutely dreading my wedding to fervently counting the days on the calendar, simply because I decided that I didn’t want to do this anyone’s way but mine and my partner’s. Sure, it’ll probably be nothing like almost every rom-com and link on Pinterest has told me is the only way to get married; our cuisine is Indian, our décor is distinctly Fall themed, and I won’t be patronizing the female guests by tossing my bouquet while yelling “crawl for it bitches!” But it will be beautiful, and it will feel like us, and most importantly I’ll be completely and utterly happy with it. Which, to me is perfection in a way that “you had me at hello” or an awkward Hugh Grant never could be.

Adapting to Change

About a week ago when my fiancé and I woke up in the morning, we noticed that something was a little off with our cat. Normally she is happy to see us but disinterested in anything else and, as cats are nocturnal, eventually finds her way to her bed and sleeps away most of the day. This morning however, her behavior was different: she meowed like she was being tortured, circled our feet endlessly, and sprang up like a rocket every time we moved in the direction of her food/litterbox area. Realizing she was unnaturally hungry, I fed her, and she devoured the kibbles in seconds. However, the next day the same thing took place, and then again the day after that. She started doing it at night too before her dinner feeding, usually starting around 4pm and continuing until 6 or so when we finally gave in.

I was perplexed. We’ve owned our cat since we adopted her from the SPCA almost a year ago now (wow!) and not once, not even in the first days we owned her did she ever behave this aggressively towards feeding time. So what had changed?

A couple days into this madness, my fiancé casually remarked to me: “maybe it’s because I’ve been feeding her so much food.”

“What?” I asked, confused and also instantly suspicious. “What do you mean?”

And then he went on to explain that he’d discovered old tins of wet cat food in some of our moving boxes, and so on top of giving her dry food at meal times he’d also been adding in half a can of wet food… a feast, essentially, to a small feline. And that this routine of gratuitous overfeeding had continued for days.

Maybe our cat thought she was going to be starved soon, and that this was her last meal. Or maybe she’s just an animal who couldn’t resist the buffet in front of her. Either way, my fiancé had essentially trained her to eat more than she was generally accustomed to, until soon that became her new normal and the little scoop I’d been giving her wasn’t enough… Understandably after devouring it she was still hungry.

It was upon realizing this that a simple thought occurred to me: everything is adaptable. We can change almost anything in our lives that we put our minds to… develop new routines, new habits, even entirely new ways of thinking simply by altering the standard. Thinking about this in my own life, I realized that it applies completely.

Almost daily, I eat some sort of green vegetable with every meal. But things weren’t always this way, or even remotely close to it… I thought I was eating healthy but in reality I wasn’t; cereal, processed white bread, heavy rices, apples, and junk essentially rounded out my diet. And I didn’t ever think that would change! Besides the basics such as carrots, peppers, and iceberg lettuce, vegetables were completely unpleasant to me and I had no interested in going near them. But out of a desire to have better control over my moods and stomach issues I decided to start adding them to my fridge, and little by little my vegetable collection grew, as did my cravings for them. My bravery developed too, and I began to start trying new things I previously wouldn’t have touched with a ten foot pole; I was pleasantly surprised by what I discovered. As the months have gone on this has expanded and expanded to the point that I can now honestly say that I ADORE vegetables; spinach, broccoli, kale, asparagus, and tomatoes (my once sworn enemy) are some of my favourites. And that change started to lead to other changes too; my rices are now whole grain, as is my bread, and seeds, fruits, and nuts carry me through the day.

Of course I’m not perfect, and I definitely indulge now and then, but as a general rule I avoid the rich, starchy, sugary, salty, fatty foods of my past, and my body and mind feel infinitely clearer for it. I now understand the connection between what we eat and how we function, which, surprisingly is not something I ever truly understood until a few months ago, and now when I eat a big bowl of green veggies I don’t feel like I’m depriving myself I feel like I’m rewarding myself with delicious nutrient goodness. What better gift is there than that?

SO THIS IS WHAT I LEARNED TODAY: That change ISN’T as scary as it seems. That no matter how intimidating or frightening or impossible or uncomfortable something seems, it’s just an adjustment that one day will seem completely normal. And that no matter how badly I don’t want to go on that run in the snow, or shower in cold water to make my hair shiny, or dump mushrooms into my pasta because the recipe calls for it, it’s worth doing anyways, just to keep life interesting. I learned that new experiences are how we keep from becoming stagnant. No positive big change is ever going to kill me (fingers crossed…) it just takes some getting used to. Anything is possible; any lifestyle can become “normal” to the people who live it long enough. There’s a first time for everything, and that means you have the power to make your life into whatever you want it to be; it just begins with taking that first step in the right direction.

A little lesson from life’s imperfections.