Post Vegan/Pre Pregnancy

My 6 month experiment has come and gone, the time I set aside for it anyways. I dream of bloody steak sometimes, but my love and desire to jump in a swimming pool full of goat cheese has passed. Fuck cheese. For now, maybe.  Sarah hates and has hated every minute of my vegan challenge. She has since explained the many ways in which it affects her too, however, it does remain my body and if I don't feel good putting something trivial into it, then I won't. And I won't feel bad about it either. For once in my life, I have a reasonably good relationship with food.


My memories of food in general have not been that positive. When I lived with my Dad and his 2nd wife, they would serve us our meal plates and we had to eat everything on them before we could leave the table. Oh, you don't like brussel sprouts, "your not leaving this table until that plate is spotless". Oh, I gave you 4 cups of mashed potatoes and your already full, "your not leaving this table until that plate is spotless."  When their heads would turn, you had 3 seconds to feed all you could to the 2 dogs drooling under the table. However, they couldn't stand brussel sprouts anymore than I could.  Or, you could ask to leave the table to go to the bathroom, and after being granted permission like a fucking prisoner, stuff your mouth without being noticed, run to the bathroom and spit it in the toilet. Growing up with 5 other kids allowed for the advantage of not being noticed.

Still to this day, I find myself wanting to be unnoticed.

Another memory of food was donuts.  My mothers 8 year relationship with a perverted, alcoholic, mentally compromised, physically abusive boyfriend use to take me to a donut shop every Friday. We would get a dozen donuts to bring home. Chocolate eclairs and lemon filled powered sugar coated donuts, were my favorite. I would eat as many as I could, make myself throw up, and eat as many as I could, and maybe throw up once more. I also remember my Mom making chocolate eclairs once in a while, I did not abuse them however, because my mother had made them, I cherished them.  Much loved staples were  Banquet $. 99 chicken pot pies, TV dinners and spagettio's.  If my mom made it, even just microwaved it, chances are I loved it.

Still to this day, I find myself wanting to throw up.

Onto good, the fertility tracker we call "The Robot", was received in the mail and am excited to start using it. It may be the only time in my life where I'm waiting with excitement to start my period. On that day "The Robot" and I get engaged, and she begins to learn my cycle. Our plan is to start inseminating at the end of July. Course it may take more than one cycle for "The Robot" to learn, so this may get pushed to the end of August. Although it's been years of waiting, I can wait another month to get pregnant. I refuse to use a known donor so as expensive as the price of sperm is, we want those 2 guaranteed fertility days. The possibilities are so fucking exciting. Some people dream of a career, some people dream of meeting their "soul mate" and getting married, I dream of birthing a healthy, adorable baby.

Lazy words

I have no inspiring words for the love for those who are dieing today. I have a new chapter that's speedily approaching, and that is the exact opposite, the possibility of starting a new life.  We had a June start date but that had to be pushed back, due to life getting in the way. Fucking asshole.
Our new start date is July, and with all the luck and positive thoughts on our side, it will only take one insemination.

Onto the business of dieing

I forget sometimes where I work, what it is I'm doing for these people and where the residents end up after all. I love my job, I fucking love my job. I'm surrounded by these once to me, strangers. I'm sought after and demanded by a bell. I'm told what to do and objects to get, sometimes feeling like a "glorified" waitress, housekeeper, punching bag and personal assistant.

 I change beds, I give showers, I get hit and kicked,  I make snacks, clean up spilled drinks or vomit when all other bodily fluids are held in, I get pinched and scratched and told to go to hell. I give back rubs and hugs a plenty, I toilet too many times to count every day. I work about 50 hours a week, waiting, tempting fate to people who mostly don't even remember me.  And I love it, most of it.  

I had a resident die the other night, a lady who sang "Amazing Grace" more beautiful and pure then John Newton.  A woman who told me everyday that she loved me and upon entering her room would say "Hello Daahlin". I would reply "Hi sweetheart" and she would say "Your so beautiful". Alot of the time I would tear up and say " No _______, your the one that's beautiful."  She had rheumatoid arthritis, alzhemiers, dementia, etc. and her whole body was contracting and her bones sounded like they were breaking everytime you moved her.  She would talk in her sleep, making almost no sense but  mostly to her husband who had passed years ago. Listening to her talk of him made my heart soft, daydreaming myself, believing in love ever after.

I've been a CNA for almost a year now and have worked at the same facility this whole time. At which I've watched 7 residents pass on. Some were more sad than others, some affected me more than others. The first time I did post mordem care, it was surreal. So fucking strange and facinating at the same time. Washing up this body that was once alive and able to communicate, once able to consume and be comforted. I helped the guy that came to pick up the body, put it on his stretcher. I started feeling uncomfortable as he put her head on a head block. It then hit me in that moment, that she was just a body. He turned the white sheet over her and covered her face. My face started burning and I felt the panic and sadness fill my chest. Then he zipped up the body bag and placed a decorative quilt over it. I had to excuse myself in which I went to a private room and sobbed uncontrollably for 20 minutes. I'm a visual person, I'm a "in the moment" kind of person, and watching him zip her up was so final, so sad. It wasn't the first time I witnessed this process, this business of dieing, and it won't be the last.

It's very obvious when a person is beginning the dieing process. First they start sleeping all the time and stop taking in food or fluids (not to be confused with having a passing cold or other sickness). Next they start mottling, the feet and hands turn whitish/blueish and the underside of there body (decreased circulation). All of these didn't bother me with ______, it's the death rattle that hit me, that broke my heart instantly. I walked out of her room and told my nurse that she was rattling and instantly started crying uncontrollably. The nurse tried comforting me and told me "you don't always have to be superman, it's ok to cry." She hugged me, which is a little out of character for her despite having 4 adorable children. All I could say was "it's just not fair."  I tend to forget that this is the last stop for these residents, the only way out is in a body bag. They move from the other, more independant, ambulatory floors and end up on our floor.  I forget that they are not here to get better, but to maintain any normalcy they have left, show them love and comfort and give them the attention and respect they deserve.  Even if two months prior they had punched you in the chest and called you "a shit ass Nazi lover".



to be cont...

I get a little shit from some assholes (one being my acupuncture guru who I love) that I eat fish and claim to be Vegan. Here's my explanation, fuck off I do what I want and make my own rules. This is an experiment. Do I sound resentful, maybe that's my mood in this moment. I guess when people bring things up aka " you still eat fish", there's a small part of me that wants to stomp my feet and explain myself. The truth is I try to maintain a "veganish" diet, and yes for me, that includes eating fish. After all I like to think I'm partly Asian. Not racist, just Asian.

On a seperate topic, this virus shit. A large number of my residents were struck with the vomit/diarrhea stick. The smell, the cleaning, the coughing, I could literally watch theses super germs flying, clawing their way through the air, and into my body. I knew it was only a matter of time, and it was. After 4 days, I'm still a little nauseous but I'm back. Onto the next dilemma, my wife wants to go back to vet school. Virgina I fucking you. To be cont..

PBR=Vegan

It's been awhile I see. The past few weeks I keep coming to this empty screen to write something and just end up staring blankly. So I close it down and quite usually lay back down. I've become a big fan of online television and the comfort of sweat pants. I wonder if I'm depressed, in a rut for the moment, or just lacking creative energy. I'm a photographer at heart and haven't touched my camera in months. I brought it places with me, then lacked the motivation to take it out of my bag.

Food, ah food. The Vegan thing is going great, my wife finds it annoying and worrisome, but for me it's going great.  It's like I finally have control over food. No longer do I eat a jelly donut or a 3lb cheeseburger and make myself throw up. In high school I use to make myself throw up quite regularly, but since I became serious about therapy, I always felt guilty when I'd do it. And now and then over the past few years, I've done it a few times, still feeling that guilt. Still hating myself for eating something, whether the quanity or how much fat it had in it, that made me feel so fucking gross. 

I've lost 10 lbs since beginning the diet. 8 lbs in the first 2 weeks, which made my head turn a little. Thinking that I was carrying around 8 lbs of cheese and meat made me laugh, and also reconsider what "we" put in our bodies.  I don't work out, I haven't changed my life in any other aspect, 8 fucking lbs of bullshit. I find myself hungry more often and eat more then I ever have before, and don't feel disgusting or ashamed once it's traveled down my throat. Going out to eat presents a little challenge at times and I have to bring my own food to my mom's house. But it's a challenge, it's an experiment, that I'm comfortable handling. In short of having IBS, I've never had problems in the bowel movement department. I've always been pretty regular, but now jesus, I shit atleast 3 times a day. All this chatter, I should go lay back down.

Fucking chocolate is everywhere. Cakes, cupcakes, Snickers, Reese's, fucking chocolates. Fucking Nutella.

Nubs didn't even care to chase him.

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