Have You Ever?

Have you ever been told that you would never be able to do a particular job, task, or meet a goal? Was it because you were told you just weren't good enough? Was it because you were told that you were not smart enough to accomplish the goal? Were you told that it was because of your illness or were you told this because they knew you would end up doing the task better than them?

In Sixth grade math class at the private Catholic school I attended, I accidentally put too many 0's past the decimal place. My teacher marched me out of class down to the fourth grade math class, where she stood me in the front of class and proceeded to tell them I was stupid. Yes, that actually happened. To this day, math has been a struggle and everytime I get frustrated, I just think back to that time in math class when I was told I was stupid and I get mad. I want to get even. I want to prove to them that I am smart.

In eleventh grade English, I was told by the teacher, that I would never be a good writer, that I would never be good at English and that I should just stop now. Yes, this happened too and so once again I set out on another journey to prove them wrong. I went to college and graduated with a degree in English Literature. I wanted to wave that flag in her face like a proud six-year-old.

I started to do whatever people said. I did jobs with 150% vigor and worked multiple tasks to show that I can handle it, that I can do it no matter if two chronic illnesses were stamped on my forehead. I never said no. I always said yes to working any event, or being a volunteer in my community. I was not in just one community group, I was in three and on the board in one of them. I worked walks, political events, fed the hungry, raised money for cancer, diabetes, and did whatever was asked of me.

My problem is, I go to the extreme proving people wrong. I decided that one college degree was not good enough, so I got four. Sometimes when people ask me why I have so many, I am truthfully telling them that I love school and I love writing and why not get four degrees. But, there is this small place in me that after all these years, I can confess to and that is sometimes I do things because people tell me I can't do them.

I was able to pass a math class, with a good teacher and a tutor. I went to college and succeeded and I am now in Graduate school. I have two chronic illnesses and climbed a huge ass mountain. Day-after-day, I am reminded that there are some things I can't do no matter what and I get mad and there I go again trying to prove to people I can do what they say I can't.

This past week, certain things were said to me about things that I can't do, or were advised that I should not do and that they had no place to even say I can't do. I wanted to prove them wrong. I wanted to duel them right there, pull out my sword and fight to the death. But, I just listened and drew back my advancement for a fight. I knew that I would not win that battle.

After mulling over the conversation in my head a hundred times, I realized something profound, that I should have relaized a long time ago. Life is filled with obstacles and boundaries. They affect your personal life, your job and in our world as a whole and they will be an ever present reminder that we are human. Humans are not perfect, we make mistakes. We put too may 0's past the decimal place and we fight to feel we are worth something and not worthless. This is not wrong to think about.

Some people, like me suck at math. Some people can't climb mountains, some people with IBS or Fibromyalgia can't enjoy vacations, some people are insecure and that is ok. I will be ok. You will be ok. I have to look at each obstacle in life as a building block, a baby step toward something greater and I don't have to overcome those obstacles for a boss, a lover or even a friend. I have to overcome obstacles for ME and me only. I can't keep worrying that you will look at me and be mad that I did not do something you thought that I should know how to do, or something that I should already know how to do.

I will live each day for me, and not try to prove to you that I have to do it this way. If I can't do something, that's ok. I just can say no, I can't do that or no, I don't want to do that and that should be all I need to get through life's obstacles. I will stop trying to prove to people that I can do things. If you tell me I can't do something or I know I can't do something, that's ok.

Reality is realizing that no matter what, life happens and there is no need to go to the extreme to tell the world you can accomplish something. Today I was sick, my Fibromyalgia the culprit and I couldn't do a damn thing about it but sit lifeless on the bed or couch. I was not mad anymore. I realized this is my life and I no longer have to prove anything.

Sometimes you will not be able to pass the test, meet the goal or accomplish the task, no matter how much elbow grease you add to it. No one ever said life was easy. Do what you can, enjoy it and learn. I am learning not to not take things personally and if it can't be done, don't swell on it, just move on. Life is to short.

Fight For It!

On May 12, 2012, American's all over the world celebrated National Fibromyalgia Awareness Day. Over 2,500 people per week will be diagnosed with Fibromyalgia. The numbers are rising every year. At first they thought it was all in our heads and now we have a voice that is heard. We are not crazy. We did not invent this condition.

Approximately one in 50 Americans are estimated to have Fibromyalgia, or between 3 and 6 million people in the U.S. (American College of Rheumatology, 2004)
About of 50% of people with Fibromyalgia have difficulty with or are unable to perform routine daily activities (Health Central, 2009),
30 to 40% of Fibromyalgia patients have to stop working or change jobs (Health Central, 2009), and people with fibromyalgia are hospitalized about once every 3 years (CDC, 2009)

Three weeks ago after several months of weight loss of ten pounds, I underwent an Upper Endoscopy where I was told I developed non-cancerous benign fundi stomach polyps and gastritis and now have added yet another medication to my already growing daily regiment of pills. It was a depressing day, but I realized that I am not alone.
This past week, I spent two days at doctor's offices and over $100.00 for doctor bills (Thanks Mom) and was told that things are getting better. But are there? With Fibromyalgia, today may be a good day, and tomorrow may be a good day; buy next week may be five days of hell.

Having Fibromyalgia is a crapshoot. But the more people that support the National Fibromyalgia Association, the more people stick together and get the word out about this chronic illness, we can fight back, we can win. We can live better lives. We can do more things. We may not be able to climb mountains, but we can conquer the hill.

This I believe. This is how things change. I believe that Fibromyalgia and IBS WILL NOT define me, WILL NOT Confine me and WILL NOT deny me the chance at a happy life. Don’t let your illness stand in the way.

Raise your hands in the air and fight, fight back for freedom from chronic pain. Fight for long walks on the beach and dancing in the club. Fight for it. It’s worth it.


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Holy Cabot!

Some people dream about dying, being chased, chocolate, sex, drugs, and God only know what else. Well I have food dreams. I have dreams about milk and cheese and ice cream. I dream that I am cooking and eating Fettuccini Alfredo, gooey cheese filled Lasagna, Baked Brie on crackers, creamy mac and cheese and eating an entire tub of cherry vanilla ice cream.

Why do I have such dreams? Because I am lactose intolerant and can't eat dairy. It's a travesty. I mean I'm Italian for Goodness sake. It's kind of my birthright to eat cheese. That's what Italians do. They eat cheese and drink wine. I can do neither. Sometimes I feel Like I'm a "fake Italian" and my Grandma is rolling over in her grave right now saying "Oh Mio Dio." (That means oh my goodness in Italian). She used to own a bakery in Rhode island and when we would go up to visit, we would get to help her make the famous Whandi's (light pastry dusted with powdered sugar), prune Danish and my favorite butter balls. I could eat a whole paper bag of those cookies and only later would I realize that a buttery cookie in becomes a buttery cookie out.

And worse my daddy grew up on a diary farm. Can you believe that? His baby face graced the glass milk jugs. My daddy played with cows daily, won prizes for his cows in fairs and even at one time wanted to be a Vet. Milk was not only a staple in Ruotolo family meals, but it was what put food on the table back in the 1950's, and I can't drink it, not one little sip. If I did, I would be chained to my bathroom for hours in a milk-induced agony that I hope none of you experience.




A few weeks ago the coffee shop I think accidentially made my raspberry latte with milk instead of soy. It was a painful evening to say the least. I realize that even though I can't eat cheese or dairy, I still find myself scanning the cheeses at the specialty market or drooling over yogurt, which now comes in a shit load of delicious flavors. Bummer. I find myself in lala land over the triple cheese pizzas just waiting to be taken home and baked to a golden delicious masterpiece of cheese heaven.

The other day during my two hour shopping trip to Wal-Mart, I was pushing my cart past the cheeses stopping briefly to say hello and buy my boyfriend his usual sliced Kraft cheese and there is was bathed in glorious light from the heavens. It was Cabot Cheese and I remembered at that very moment that a few weeks ago someone told me that Cabot cheese was lactose free. I grabbed a brick of sharp white cheddar like a person who has not seen food in weeks and scanned the contents and right there in beautiful sensual letters it said "Lactose Free." I wasn't sure if I wanted to cry or scream to the heavens "holy fucking Cabot." There is a God and he loves me. But it was Wal-Mart and I thought that was innapropriate so I quickly dialed my mom's cell and blurted out the good news. I grabbed just one brick because though it said lactose free, I was still skeptical. I went home and I must have held that brick of cheese in my hands for minutes thanking the heavens and cows in Vermont (strangley my mom's home state) for making this glorious brick of love.

It took about a week before I have an evening free to test my heaven brick of Cabot for the true lactose test. I was going to make pizza and layer on the cheese thick enough to make a golden, delicious pizza that I had dreamed about. I also needed to make sure that I was not planning on going out anytime soon just in case Cabot was wrong. I watched like a two year-old waiting for Santa to come as the Pizza baked in the oven. I added pepperoni and mushrooms and watched as the moments ticked by on the clock and twelve minutes later, I pulled out my masterpiece pizza. It looked incredible and both Craig and I devoured it. It was delicious and cheesy and almost orgasmic, yes I said that. I was in love with cheese. I was in love with Cabot. It was a moment I had been waiting for for so long that I could have napped afterwards because the experience was so intense.

About 45 minutes later as I was still reeling from my pizza experience, my stomach starting making funny noises. I knew what it was saying. It told me "what have you done to me?" And a few minutes later and for the next forty-five minutes, I was once again sitting on my porcelian throne in pure pain and agony. I was in so much pain I thought I might cry and I once again talked to my stomach apologizing for giving it the Cabot cheese and I promised that I would never, EVER do that again for as long as I live. My earlier moments of cheese bliss were replaced with bouts of toliet hell. It was awful and now I have to go back to my dreams, for that is the only place that cheese and I will be one again.

I wish they make epi-pens for lactose intolerant people like me. Now that's an idea!

Whale Poop Vital For The Ocean

I just read an article that was written by Wendy Zuckerman in April of 2010 talking about how whale poop is good for the oceans. When whales poop, the poop creates large quantities of iron, which is what helps carbon-sequestering phytoplankton thrive in the Southern Ocean. Studies have shown that iron is "crucial to ocean health because plankton need it to grow. If you add soluable iron to the ocean, you get instant phytoplankton growth." (Quoted by Stephen Nicol of the Australian Antartic Division, based in Kingston, Tasmania)

Nicol's team studied 27 different samples of poop from four different species of baleen whales, and found that on average whale poop had 10 million times as much iron as Antartic seawater. So whale poop will ultimately increase the amount of CO2 that the Southern Ocean can sequester. Who would have thought that whale poop was so valuable and such a wonderful thing?

Harvard also recently did research on whale poop and suggests that the "liquid fecal matter, rich in nutrients, has a huge positive influence on the productivity of ocean fisheries, Joe Roman, a whale biologist from the University of Vermont and his colleague, James McCarthy from Harvard University, have discovered."

Their discovery, published Oct. 11 in the journal PLoS ONE, is what Roman calls a "whale pump." Whales, they found, carry nutrients such as nitrogen from the depths where they feed back to the surface via their feces. This functions as an upward biological pump, reversing the assumption of some scientists that whales accelerate the loss of nutrients to the bottom.
And this nitrogen input in the Gulf of Maine is "more than the input of all rivers combined," they write, some 23,000 metric tons each year.

"It is well known that microbes, plankton, and fish recycle nutrients in ocean waters, but whales and other marine mammals have largely been ignored in this cycle. Yet this study shows that whales historically played a central role in the productivity of ocean ecosystems -- and continue to do so despite diminished populations."

"We think whales form a really important direct influence on the production of plants at the base of this food web," says McCarthy.

"We found that whales increase primary productivity," Roman says, allowing more phytoplankton to grow, which then "pushes up the secondary productivity," he says, of the critters that rely on the plankton. The result: "bigger fisheries and higher abundances throughout regions where whales occur in high densities," Roman says.

"In areas where whales were once more numerous than they are today, we suggest that they were more productive," say McCarthy.

All of this research is evident to me that whales and whale poop play a more prominent role in ecosystems than once believed. I don't think I'll ever be able to look at a whale again without first remarking on their majestic beauty, but to also know that we must keep them safe, so that our oceans will remain healthy.

Up On The Mountain

Several weeks before Thanksgiving, my boyfriend finally talked me into hiking, which if you have IBS and Fibromyaligia, then you know is not something I was looking forward to, or to be honest thought I would actually be able to accomplish. I get winded going up the stairs too fast sometimes and the thought of hiking a freaking mountain no matter the height, scared the hell out of me. But, on the other hand, I wanted to prove to myself that I could do it and I knew my boyfriend, Mr. Adventure loved this kind of stuff and I wanted to be the girlfriend I used to be.

So, I sucked it up, took a double dose of imodium, got my ass out of bed at the crack of dawn and we drove the four hours to Hanging Rock State Park located in western North Carolina. The weather was beautiful and I love the mountains and the fall, so I was in heaven with the fall colors and the crisp breeze. We got there before anyone else and started the hike up Hanging Rock Mountain. I had my fanny pack (yes, don't freaking laugh, I needed toliet paper just in case and water and all that crap) and we made our way up the mountain hand in hand.

The first twenty minutes were great, we walked up a slight incline and as we got higher up the mountain, the paved road turned into a rocky path and that was when I thought to myself, what the fuck have I just got myself into. I couldn't turn back, I couldn't let my chronic illness win, so I pushed on for another thirty minutes pretending that my body was not in agony. I was out of breath and several times, I thought I might hurl. I was obvioulsy out of shape. I ended up having to stop several times to catch my breath and when we finally got there, I was so glad I really considered bowing down and kissing the rock.

Once we got up to the top, it was well worth the agony and I almost cried because I had finally done something I didn't think I could still do, I also wanted to cry because I knew in order to get off this mountain, we had to go back down. We stayed up on the mounatin for a few hours taking in the majestic view. I admit, I was glad that I up there, I was in my element, high up on the mountain, looking down upon the fall leaves on the trees. I was at such peace. I had just wished that I had room in my fanny pack for a notebook and pen.

Right before we headed back down the mountain, just guess what happened next? Yep, I had to shit and I thought, really? There were people everywhere and I was prepared because I had my tiny roll of TP, but really, why on this beautiful mountain? Why now? I tried to talk some sense into my stomach but it would not quit whining, so my boyfriend and I searched for a secret place where I could do the deed and noone would be able to see. I was thinking to myself that my boyfriend and I should be trying to find a place to have hot, mountain sex, but instead we were searching for a shitting spot. This is so messed up. I wanted sex, not shit!

I scaled the tiny side of the back part of the rock and found a small dip in the rock hidden by trees and right there in the middle of the afternoon, I dropped my jeans and did what I had to do, but I have to say, it was the most beautiful scene I ever shit to. It was breathtaking.

After I finished I walked back around the rock and we headed down the mountain as if it was no big thing. I thought about it while walking back down the mouantin, that back in the day when toliets and port-a-potties didn't exist, people did their business in nature. It made me think about the life cycle. And thinking about this made me feel better. I hadn't just shit on a mountaintop, I helped the environment. I helped the ecosystem and I helped the cycle of life go on. Ok, so I know that sounds kind of stupid, but when you shit as much as me, you have to find the silver lining in everything and I had to stop thinking that my TP was not biodigrabale and think that the other part was.

I thought I would call my deed on the mountain, "the life cycle of Christina's shit," and if I ever came back up on this mountain, then I would hopefully seed a plant in the place of where my shit once laid. And so, the cycle of life goes on, or so mine did on the side of Hanging Rock Mountain.

Fibromyalgia and Death

Fibromyalgia and IBS don't take holidays, breaks and don't care what's on your agenda. I have been in extreme physical pain from my chronic illness since November 9th when my best friend, Michelle was admitted to the hospital after collapsing. She had battled stage four lung cancer for over two years and the cancer was winning.

I sat motionless for six days in a hard, hospital chair on the sixth floor looking out on the world around me through autumnal trees and swirling leaves. I watched as my friend slowly faded before me and through it all I was in so much physical pain from my chronic illness that I did my best to shut it from my mind. I had to be strong for her, for her family and for her three year old son, Grayson. I had to set my illness aside, remove the pain from my mind and be there for my friend during her last days on this earth. I wanted my Fibromyalgia to take a holiday and it wouldn't, even to give me few days to be there for my friend.

I sat with her, held her hand, prayed, sung Amazing Grace and even painted her toenails while she lay motionless in extreme pain. I felt bad that she was laying there before me in the dim evening light in so much pain that she could not even speak but only softly moaned when her morphine was wearing off. I thought of all the times that I have cried and complained because I was in pain and hurting but my pain was nothing in comparison to what she was going through that very moment.

I could not and would not let it be known that to sit for six hours a night in this hard chair, my back was going numb and my feet tingling. Instead, I prayed and asked God to help her and not me. I wanted her to go peacefully to the place that we all dream of going to one day. I told her twenty four hours before she died, sitting beside her bed, that it was ok to go to Heaven now and that God was waiting for her and that when she got there, there would be no more pain and it would be glorious.

I saw what pain she went through the last two and a half years and I felt selfish for even complaining about my back hurting or the fact that I had to shit too many times a day. Here she was in private agony, fighting so hard to win a battle that eventually took over every part of her, her mind and her body, and the day she died, November 15, 2010 at 6:30am, I was ashamned that I felt relieved for her. I felt bad for thinking that I was glad that she was gone and with God, because I knew she would never have to feel pain again and this tiny part of me was jealous. I don't want to die, don't get me wrong, but waking up every day in pain is not only physically draining, but emotionally draining as well. The sadnessI fell now that she is gone is enormous, and it has made my chronic illness worse. I went for Acupuncture and that did not help. I went for a massage and that did not help.

It has been one week since we buried Michelle. Today is Thanksgiving, the day we should be thankful for health, friends and family and I can't help but think of her and I do smile knowing that she is no longer in pain but I miss her terribly and wish she had more time on this earth, with her husband, with her son, and to continue to be my best friend. Today I will be thankful for friends, family, health (even if I have IBS and Fibromyalgia), and most of all, I am thankful for my new guardian angel that I know is watching over me right now. For today, I can rest easy on a soft couch and think of her tonight. Happy Thanksgiving Michelle. May you find peace in Heaven next to God.

(Picture above is titled "Sacred Hour" by Christophe Vacher)

My Fantasy Toilet

I just found out that in Japan they have built a women's restroom that is surrounded by a salt water aquarium on three sides that has swimming fish and a turtle. It's a shitter's heaven. A sanctuary for people like me. And it's only for women. They did not build one for men.

This amazing bathroom is located at Mumin Papa Café in Akashi, Japan and was built in 2007. The owner of the cafe says it cost 30 Million Yen (approx. $270,000 at the time) to build, which is not in the budget of most restaurants. It’s filled with all sorts of exotic fish, including the “famous” male sea turtle that watching women to their business. Surprisingly, many women do not claim it impairs their duty or gives them stage fright. The surrounding aquarium was designed to mimic the feeling of relieving yourself while swimming in the ocean.

This makes me wonder why doctor's offices and people in America have not created one here. For people who suffer from IBS and visit bathrooms often, this type of bathroom would make me much more relaxed and not be so anxious when making multiple trips to the bathroom. I might actually look forward to going to the bathroom for a change. Now instead of reading magazines with stupid gossip or observing ceiling tiles, I can now mingle with the fishes and pretend I'm a mermaid and maybe instead of talking to myself, I'll talk to the turtle.




So if the bathroom cost $270,000 to build, I wonder how much the entrees in that restaurant cost.