Fitbit ConundrumΒ 

I was given an accountability band (i.e., a Fitbit Charge HR) and I have been diligently tracking my steps, my calories in/calories out, and activity.  So far so good.  However, this Fitbit tracks my sleep as well.  This is a very good tool for me because insomnia was something I was struggling with and I am able to see when I am restless or when I wake up.   I’m noticing I am not sleeping as soundly as I was when I was put back on meds and I have some questions for my doctor at my next visit.   But this is not about that.  Here’s what I woke to this morning:

I use the silent alarm on the Fitbit to wake me.  When it went off this morning I tapped the side to stop it, but tapped a tad to hard and found it had 8 steps recorded.   8 steps?   I hadn’t been out of bed yet.  Thinking I misread it, I got out of bed and went into the bathroom (about 6 steps).  The Fitbit read 14 steps.   Huh.

The Fitbit records steps, I believe, per day, which would be midnight to midnight.  I went to bed at 10:30 p.m.   The sleep log shows me asleep at 10:44 p.m.  I have no recollection of getting out of bed at all.  I do remember waking up.  I spoke to my husband once and another time I remember thinking I could use the bathroom, but I didn’t get up.   If I had used the bathroom, the Fitbit would have (should have) recorded more than 8 steps.   It’s 6 steps to the sink in the bathroom and another 3-4 to the toilet – then back.  I decided to pass it off as a glitch in the Fitbit.

I begin to get ready for work.  I find that I have a dark painful bruise on my right thigh…side of my thigh.   I have no idea how that happened.  There are, of course, many reasons I could bruise my leg.  I could have hit it on my desk at work, banged it in the kitchen getting dinner ready or many other ways, but I don’t remember hitting it.

So I am left with DID I get up and walk 8 steps last night?  Where would I go?   8 steps could get me to the bathroom but not back.  Maybe I got up and started around the bed and turned back, banged my leg on the corner of the footboard, but why would I do that.  Nothing is there except the TV, but it was not on.  Again, my Fitbit tracks me as asleep from 10:44p.m. until well after midnight.

I sense a need for a video camera but fear some sort of “Paranormal Activity” style video.  πŸ˜³πŸ˜³

*Fitbit update:  my husband does remember that I did get out of bed.  He thinks I may have walked into the TV stand (hence the bruise) and that woke him.  He said I turned around and went back to bed.  I’m not a sleepwalker…this is creepy.*

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Thanksgiving Hangover

Is there such a condition as “excessive need for validation”?  I mean my therapist already pointed out my rather unhealthy need for approval – mostly from myself, although I tell myself I’m a liar and well, that’s a whole other ugly circus in my brain.  But I found myself overwhelmed with that warm, squishy, happy feeling in the pit of my belly when last night as my husband sent me a simple text saying “thank you for a wonderful day”.  So simple but so meaningful.

See, this Thanksgiving was our first together as a married couple and although I missed my daughters in a most unspeakable fashion, I was determined to make a long overdue happy family Thanksgiving for my husband.  This included bringing his mother here from the nursing home (doctor’s approval, transportation arrangements, etc.), assembling his two boys (and hopefully not stepping on their mom’s plans for the day), cooking for the first time for my sister in law (who is also a dear long time friend), and convincing my dad to spend the holiday with us (one ever so-slight twist of the arm and a promise of a trip to the local gun range to target shoot on the day after).  Sorely missed was the rest of my family…my two girls, their significant others, my grandson, my sister and my beautiful nieces and nephews.   Maybe next year…

I roasted the largest turkey I have ever had, nearly 20#, and made all the fixings.  Brussels sprouts, peas, corn, biscuits, stuffing (in and out of the bird), mashed potatoes and gravy.  

My husband made the pies and in doing so can no longer pretend he doesn’t know his way around the kitchen or how to read a recipe.  My dad, despite being told to please sit and relax, chopped the garlic and stood guard over the simmering butter and onions. But other than that, I did the rest.  Oh…there was the comical carving of the beast.  First I tried, but the giggles from the men standing around gave me stage fright so I suggested my eldest SOMH take a stab at it.  He does, after all, work in the food industry.  He said working at Burger King does not qualify him to slice up a large bird.  So I turned it over to my dad who tried to mimic his grandfather’s talent for being able to feed 20 people with a 10# turkey.   Everything else was getting cold and quite honestly, the puddles of drool at my husband’s feet were making me nervous.   I reached in and yanked off the drumsticks, said “good enough” and we ate.   

Dinner conversation was very nice.  My husband asked his eldest son about voting in the next election and the room got quiet.  Politics.   At Thanksgiving.  Seriously?  See my dad, my husband and the younger SOMH can actually discuss things like that – they see eye to eye.   Same pretty much for my sister in law.  But the older SOMH and me…uh…no.  My dad, in his usual way, saved it by announcing loudly “let it be known I did not start this conversation.”   That made us laugh and I was able to peel my glaring eyes off my husband.

So back to the need for validation and the sweet text message.   After dinner dishes were cleared and the pumpkin and apple pies brought out and almost completely consumed in a single sitting, my husband stood looking at the kitchen.  The pots, pans, dishes, turkey bones, etc.  My husband always pulls his weight at the house and I could see it in his eyes that he was calculating where he would need to install the 2nd and 3rd dishwashers if this was going to be an annual event.  I shushed him away.   His mom was getting ready to leave and the dishes could wait.  The younger SOMH had already succumbed to the turkey coma and missed the pies.  (The dejected look on his face when he saw the empty pie pans was priceless.  I told him there was a whole 2nd untouched pumpkin pie in the fridge and watched his eyes light up.)

I tackled the kitchen and without people in my way, I was able to get it done in under an hour.  Just as I was putting the last dried pan away, I received the text message.  I was happy to join the boys on the couch moments later.   They were all asleep.   So my husband must have subconsciously sent me that text.   That simple thing made all of the conscious compliments and laughter seem slight.  I think those who suffer with similar personality issues will understand.   And will agree that the Thanksgiving hangover (backache, indigestion, headache, and oh-so-achy feet) is worth it, even for just the smallest subconscious text message.

One Link Leads To Another

I am a self-admitted hypochondriac but at the same time, I won’t go to a doctor.  At least not for everything.   If I have a few symptoms…I seek out WebMD or, worse yet, I simply “goggle” the symptoms.  One thing I do see a doctor for are my annual checkups.  Religiously.

This year’s annual “lube, oil and filter” came with additional symptoms that when mentioned to the doctor caused her to take an immediate biopsy, blood tests and a very invasive ultrasound.  Scary as hell despite 4 out of 5 of my female friends telling me they all went through a similar “nightmare”.  Regardless, having lost my mother to cancer, I’m frightened of what they are testing for.  (As of this writing not ALL of the tests are back, but the ones that are do not show anything too alarming, alhamdulillah!)

But back to the reason for this blog.   As someone who likes to research, I took the ultrasound report and blood tests and promptly researched words, phrases and symptoms.   One such phrase in the ultrasound report was ” no fluid in the cul-de-sac”.   I don’t know if I’m the only one, but I never heard the term “cul-de-sac” in relation to anything other than real estate.   I decided to investigate and clicked on a link describing a cul-de-sac in relation to female anatomy.   The cul-de-sac is an area behind the uterus and near the rectum and is also known as the “Douglas pouch”.  It led me to wonder who Douglas was and how obscure female body part came to be named after him.   I found a wiki link connecting the “Douglas pouch” to an 18th century anatomist by the name of James Douglas living in the UK.   There are several rectum/uterine parts bearing his name.  What an honor?

Mr. Douglas was a well known man-midwife and anatomist and I spent a few minutes reading about him on the wiki page.   He was best known for uncovering the hoax of Mary Toft who allegedly gave birth to rabbits.   There was a link.  I clicked it.  I was then treated to the horrendous and crazy case of a woman who, so as to not “want” for anything, after the tragic loss of her near-term child, decided to get attention by shoving animal parts into her uterus and birthing them.  πŸ˜±πŸ˜±πŸ˜±πŸ˜±πŸ˜±πŸ˜±πŸ˜±πŸ˜±πŸ˜±πŸ˜±

Needless to say, although this particular round of medical self research didn’t cause me to panic on the off chance I might give birth to a bunny, I was left wondering “WTH just happened.”  

My family did not find the results on my one-click-leads-to-another tale of the crazy woman who shoved little furry bunnies in places they really don’t belong at all as funny as I did, but I had to share.   I have a habit of getting so deep into research (not just medical) that occasionally the outcome has me wondering how I got there.   One link at a time.