They’re Called Tampons

This past Sunday the PGA TOUR did a wonderful piece called Playing with a Purpose. It featured several players who have wonderful foundations. The story focused on the Jason Dufner Foundation, the David Hearn Foundation, and our Begin Again Foundation. We are so honored that they chose to tell our story and immeasurably grateful for the awareness it has already brought to the public. But I just have to say one thing:

They’re called tampons.

In the story, they stated that I became ill from a feminine hygiene product. Yes, tampons are feminine hygiene products. But I did not get sick from a pad or a cup. I got sick from a combination of having my IUD removed and from using a tampon. It is not just part of my story. It’s my entire story. And as I said in that piece, I believe I survived so that maybe my story can save someone’s life. Look, over the past year, I have shared more personal details than I could have ever imagined. I’ve heard my husband get into discussions about periods and tampons. Again, this is not something I could have envisioned…but Marc gets it. We need to talk about this.

This past April Abigail Jones wrote an article for Newsweek titled, THE FIGHT TO END PERIOD SHAMING IS GOING MAINSTREAM. Now, this article is far too brilliant for me to even think about giving you a summary. Just go read it. The fact that they used a tampon as their cover image is the subject of an entirely different post. But here’s a thought: we are having to make a big fuss over the fact that we are simply trying to talk about a period, something that happens to half the world. We need to be able to say tampon, period, menstrual cup, and pad with the same ease that men can talk about morning stiffy’s, condoms, and lube. We need to do this for our daughters. So that if they are using a tampon and they get sick they will not be ashamed to go tell their dads that they need to go to the doctor. We need to do this for our fathers so that they are not embarrassed to talk to the women in their lives. We need to do this so I stop reading more stories of girls contracting TSS from tampons. More importantly, I want to stop reading the comments on these articles, sometimes from other women, calling these warrior women “idiots” and saying, “how did she not know better?” If we’re not even able to say the word how can we talk about the risks?

We need to be able to say the word tampon so we can talk about how 100% cotton tampons have not been linked to TSS. We need to say tampon so we can talk about how their makers are not required to list their ingredients… but we do know they are made with rayon or cotton-rayon blends. Rayon is made from bleached wood pulp (Yes, you read that right. Yes, we are sticking them up our vaginas.) Dr Philip Tierno, a professor of microbiology and pathology at NYU, has linked viscose rayon to the toxic shock syndrome toxin.  We need to be comfortable with the word tampon so that we can talk about alternating the use of them with pads. Or to talk about the total alternatives of menstrual cups (although in full transparency there has been a single case of TSS from a cup), period panties and pads. We need to talk about tampons because women use an average of 12,000 in their lifetimes. We need the word tampon to be associated with Toxic Shock Syndrome. Not in an effort to scare everyone, but because women need to know that it is a risk. Not that it will happen, but that it can. THAT knowledge can save lives.

Women should not feel the need to whisper about their periods. We should not be ashamed to talk about the very process that creates life. We should not have to be quiet about something that needs to be spoken about. Loudly.

They’re called tampons.

Love,

Audrey

#PSdontusetampons

#ifyoudomakesuretheyrecotton

The Days of Parenting

I’ve just put the boys to bed and I’m sitting here watching Gilmore Girls and drinking a margarita. Today was a good day. The tantrums were few, the laughs were many. A day filled with swim lessons and slime. Visits with good friends and perfect pool weather. Shopping for bike helmets and trampoline jumping. I take it back…today was a great day.

The past year has been filled with many not so good days. I have spent most of my time just going through the motions. Surviving. Wake up, smile, breakfast, lunch, dinner. Is it bed time? Please tell me its bed time. I did my best to do the “right” things for my boys. Playground, playdates, let’s go see the new movie. I really did try. But did I enjoy it? If I’m honest, very little. I remember so many times I would watch my husband play with my boys and see the sheer joy of it. I’m ashamed to say the feeling I felt most was jealousy. Gratitude that he is the father he is. That he was picking up my slack. Pure, unadulterated love for the man I married and the children I carried. But in the deepest, darkest parts of my heart I was green with envy. Why couldn’t I enjoy things the same way? Why did the simple frustrations of dealing with little humans wear on me that it didn’t seem to wear on my friends? Why wasn’t I enjoying these moments that I almost didn’t get to have? I was always acutely aware of how I “should” be feeling and how actually was. I think I did a decent job of disguising it. I hope I did.

After months of literally getting sick about every other week my doctor referred me to the ENT he trusted most. She told me she didn’t want to perform a tonsillectomy on me unless it was truly necessary. That the recovery was much harder for adults. It would be very rough. I told her that it couldn’t be much worse than living the way I already was. She consented. The pathology report came back showing chronic tonsillitis and a bacteria called actinomyces. My pulmonologist was concerned. This bacteria is part of our normal oral flora but for someone with a compromised immune system it can spread and wreak havoc. I saw the same infectious disease doctor that treated me in the hospital. Two months of antibiotics prescribed. A chest CT was scheduled. Results came back showing a small nodule in my right lung. Tiny, really. 4-5mm. Nothing to be concerned about. Except that it was new. Except that I’ve had a chronic cough for a long, long time. Now it would be three months antibiotics and a repeat chest CT. We’ll go from there. My hopes of having another child have been delayed.

I shed a few tears. I prayed a lot. I asked Him when all of this would be over. I told my doctor I must be allowed a drink here and there. I can’t have no baby and no alcohol if he would like me to retain my sanity. He agreed. It is a frustrating setback. But the amazing thing is that I’m feeling better. Like I am slowly waking up. That I’m making my way through the fog. Sometimes when I wake up I actually feel refreshed. My cough is not as frequent. There are moments when I feel like my old self. My family and friends are starting to notice.

And finally I’m allowing myself some grace. It was not until I started to feel better that I realized just how awful I have felt. I mean, I had a pretty good idea but I never allowed myself to wallow. I was simply existing. My body and mind were always working. Always trying to heal. No, I was not the best mom that I could have been. But I tried. I think they knew I was trying. I hope that they will not remember me at my worst. And thankfully, I have the rest of my life to make it up to them. I have many more years to enjoy them. They make it pretty easy to do.

Broken 

When I started writing this blog I made the decision to be honest and transparent. I saw no point in glossing things over or hiding the unpleasant details. But I also didn’t want to throw myself a pity party. So I wrote about the struggles and demons I have had to face but I did not write about every struggle or every demon. Many people have offered their help, repeatedly. For that I am forever grateful. But there are only a few I am ever willing to ask it from. The result is that only my nearest and dearest truly know just how hard the hard has been. I have been sick. A LOT. I have been on antibiotics more times than I can remember. I have tried supplement after supplement. Reiki, yoga, protein shakes, pilates,  dry needling, green smoothies, etc. But I’ll never give up my gluten so let’s not suggest that to me again.  When time after time the next hopeful thing didn’t “fix” me I truly started to feel broken. And a little bit hopeless. I’ve tried often to resign myself to the “this is as good as it’s gonna get” and “suck it up buttercup” mentality but I’ve always been an overachiever. Quite frankly I’ve been a bit pissed off at this body of mine that has refused to keep up with this mind.

I have had strep throat and tonsillitis 5 or 6 times over the last year. The last bought of strep brought about tonsil stones. They are vile and make me feel dirty even though I have excellent oral hygiene. My tonsils are little stone and bacteria factories. Then in the past two months I have been hit with one upper respiratory infection after the other. I don’t want to deal with this anymore. Being grateful for being alive only goes so far to outweigh the everyday shit show my health is. I am going in for a tonsillectomy on Thursday. At the very least I won’t get anymore stones.

All of this led me to sit in our rental last week at The PLAYERS Championship and have a man named Randy Grant prick my finger. I heard about Randy shortly after I got sick last year. He owns a nutrional supplement company, Divine Nature, based out of Scottsdale and works with several of the golfers. His process is simple, and mind blowing. Randy and I spoke last year and we tried to get together but our schedules just never lined up. I wasn’t willing to ask him to fly to Virginia just to see me alone. And so it wasn’t until last week. Oh how I wish it had been sooner. Randy arrived and gave us a short lesson on what he was about to do. He gave me a peice of paper that had many pictures of what blood can look like depending on the condition of your body. He pointed to one and said to me that he was positive that’s what mine was going to look like. I thought, how the hell do you know what my blood is going to look like? But then he hooked up his microscope to our tv screen, pricked my ring finger of just a drop of blood and placed it on a slide. Sure enough he was right. Before I describe my blood I will show you a picture of Marc’s. He has normal blood, albeit a little iron deficient.


Those are his red blood cells. There’s a lot of nice space that they are just floating around in.

This is mine:


Just a little different…

It’s called Rouleaux, which are stacks or aggregations of red blood cells. This is a often a sign of chronic infection and inflammation. Welcome to my life for the past year. A little science lesson for you- red blood cells contain a special protein called hemoglobin, which helps carry oxygen from the lungs to the rest of the body and then returns carbon dioxide from the body to the lungs so it can be exhaled. Because my blood cells are stacked this way they have trouble getting through my capillaries and therefore I am not getting enough oxygen or nutrients throughout my body. Not enough oxygen = not enough energy. Haaaaaaallelujah! Finally a real, tangible answer. My blood slide also showed uric acid crystals and lots of bacteria. I sat there stunned, relieved and a little depressed. It’s one thing to know and feel like you are messed up. It’s another for someone to show you. Randy has started me on many different supplements to try to correct this issues. Between my tonsillectomy and the use of these supplements I am hopeful for the first time in a long time.

One of the many things I have learned since I got sick is that there has been very little long term research done on survivors of Sepsis, TSS, or ARDS. Talk to any survivor and they will tell you. Doctors don’t know what to do with us. I’m blessed to have a doctor who tries everything and anything to help but you can only do so much with the knowledge you have. I would be so, incredibly interested to see if rouleaux may be something survivors have in common.

So friends, I still feel broken. But not shattered. I’m just in repair.

Love,

Audrey

#PSdontusetampons

#thumbsupforbeingalive

One year ago I posted this photo:

I see tired eyes. Hair that hadn’t been washed in a week. Nails that needed cutting. A chin so swollen from injury to it that I could not do a full smile. I was so weak that I could hardly hold my phone up. I had taken the case off in hopes it would be lighter without it. I typed those words with shaky fingers. When I snapped that selfie I was afraid I might drop the phone on my face. There wasn’t a retake. No playing with angles to find the most flattering look. No editing. It still bothers me that it says highlight “real” instead of “reel” One snap. I posted before I could change my mind. I had been reading all of the sweet messages people had been sending me. I didn’t have the energy or the strength to respond to everyone directly at that point but I wanted you all to know I had survived.

I look at this photo with mixed emotions. That girl was grateful to be alive. Exhausted. In pain. Confused. But hopeful. So hopeful. I couldn’t have known what the next year would hold. I could not have imagined the struggles we would face. The strength it would take- physically, yes, but much more mentally.

I thought about The Masters. I told Marc if he wanted to go we would handle it. I love that I married a man who could never leave us. And now we’re here. So much media. So many stories. So many memories. It’s hard to relive it over and over again. But the support is incredible. We’re making new memories. Beautiful ones. People are learning not just about our little family but about much bigger things. About Toxic Shock, Sepsis and ARDS. About the  Begin Again Foundation and our passion to help people and raise awareness. I’m an introvert. The interviews tire me but it’s worth it. Our story might prevent another family from having to endure the way we have. I’ll do every interview. Answer every question.

Yesterday I walked 9 holes, today I’ll walk 9 again. Hopefully I’ll walk 9 both Saturday and Sunday. 18 at Augusta National is still a little too difficult for me. One day though.  

#thumbsupforbeingalive

Love,

Audrey

#PSdontusetampons

One year ago I posted this photo:  

I see tired eyes. Hair that hadn’t been washed in a week. Nails that needed cutting. A chin so swollen from injury to it that I could not do a full smile. I was so weak that I could hardly hold my phone up. I had taken the case off in hopes it would be lighter without it. I typed those words with shaky fingers. When I snapped that selfie I was afraid I might drop the phone on my face. There wasn’t a retake. No playing with angles to find the most flattering look. No editing. It still bothers me that it says highlight “real” instead of “reel” One snap. I posted before I could change my mind. I had been reading all of the sweet messages people had been sending me. I didn’t have the energy or the strength to respond to everyone directly at that point but I wanted you all to know I had survived. 

I look at this photo with mixed emotions. That girl was grateful to be alive. Exhausted. In pain. Confused. But hopeful. So hopeful. I couldn’t have known what the next year would hold. I could not have imagined the struggles we would face. The strength it would take- physically, yes, but much more mentally. 

I thought about The Masters. I told Marc if he wanted to go we would handle it. I love that I married a man who could never leave us. And now we’re here. So much media. So many stories. So many memories. It’s hard to relive it over and over again. But the support is incredible. We’re making new memories. Beautiful ones. People are learning not just about our little family but about much bigger things. About Toxic Shock, Sepsis and ARDS. About the  Begin Again Foundation and our passion to help people and raise awareness. I’m an introvert. The interviews tire me but it’s worth it. Our story might prevent another family from having to endure the way we have. I’ll do every interview. Answer every question. 

Yesterday I walked 9 holes, today I’ll walk 9 again. Hopefully I’ll walk 9 both Saturday and Sunday. 18 at Augusta National is still a little too difficult for me. One day though.   

#thumbsupforbeingalive

  

Love,

Audrey

#PSdontusetampons

One Year

Well friends, it’s been a year. 365 days of the highest highs and the lowest lows. There have been many whys and what ifs followed by finding peace, purpose and passion in the search for answers that just aren’t to be found. Nights of silent tears into my pillow and days filled with ordinary moments made magical simply because I am there to live them. 

  A year of learning that Hawaiian sunsets can fill your soul with God’s beauty and that there is not much that good food and great company cannot comfort. 12 months of kissing boo boos, spilled sippy cups, and realizing that no amount of perspective will give you limitless patience for the end of the world tantrums toddlers can throw. 

  
52 weeks of learning just what I am made of. And that is a strong mind, a loving heart and an unwavering faith. Of realizing that healthy and skinny are not the same thing. And that without your family and friends nothing else matters. 

  
It’s been four seasons of self doubt and guilt and feeling like I have to make my life mean something. Otherwise, what sense would it make that I survived when others do not?  Realizing that writing can cut you open and expose your deepest insecurities and your darkest fears. Knowing that telling your truth might be the only way to make you whole again. It has been hours of research and therapy and learning and speaking uncomfortable truths. Four holidays of looking into my childrens’ eyes, hearing their laughs and believing in the miracle of God’s Grace. 

  

  

  

  

   
 

  
Days when I have been forced to accept that sometimes the strongest thing you can do is ask for help.  It has been 12 months of trying to accept this new normal of mine. Of pushing too hard and paying the price. Of trying to forgive myself for being weaker and more tired. Of reminding myself that it could be so much worse and just how blessed I am. 

527,040 leap year minutes experiencing the redeeming nature of love.

  
   
 You hear it all the time- tough times can make or break you. But what about the times when they do both? I have been broken- my body dependent on machines and medicine to survive. I have been made- into a woman who sees the light in life even when it’s dark, the good in people even when the world’s tragedies weigh so heavily on our hearts. How could I not when I get to fall into the arms of a man who will catch me every single time I fall? A man who has carried far more of the load than I have over the past year. It has been a year of love. Of learning that love is often told not with big, romantic gestures but with the simple act of being there. Our story is one that is filled with cups of coffee, wrestling our two boys, laughing over YouTube videos, hand holding, date nights that end with us in bed by 9 watching House of Cards, trips to the pharmacy for another round of antibiotics, and a million other little moments that we almost didn’t get to have. It has been filled with memories we would give anything to forget and ones that we will treasure for as long as we live. The biggest lesson I’ve learned? It’s quite impossible to treasure every moment. No matter how much perspective you have, no matter how grateful you feel, no matter how much you love your life. It is possible to love with your whole heart, to be a kind person, to give back, to smile and cry and laugh and scream and to shine. Shine bright.

It has been a year. What a year it’s been. 

Love,

Audrey

  
#PSdontusetampons 

Control

It has been 10 months since I went to the doctor thinking I had the stomach flu. Sometimes when I write my posts are well thought out. Sometimes it feels as though my heart is the puppeteer of my hands and that my fingers can hardly keep up with it’s commands. Today’s post is one of the latter. The words starting flooding my brain as I was reading the book, The Shack, that has been recommended to me by many different people. If you’re not familiar with it, it is about a man, Mack, whose young daughter, Missy, dies at the hand of a serial killer. A few years after her death, Mack receives a mysterious note inviting him to the shack where she died. At this shack he spends a weekend with God, Jesus, and the Holy Spirit. I am still reading it but one of the recurring themes so far is Mack’s distrust in God and his need for absolute independence and control over his life. In one passage Sarayu (the Holy Spirit) tells Mack:

You must give up your right to decide what is good and evil on your own terms: that is a hard pill to swallow-choosing to live only in me. To do that, you must know me enough to trust me and learn to rest in my inherent goodness.

I am also currently reading a book suggested by my therapist, Invisible Heroes: Survivors of Trauma and How They Heal by Bellaruth Naperstack. It is taking me a long time to get through it because the truth of some of the things she writes takes my breath away. After last April I’m a little weary of anything that does that to me. In many ways it has been incredibly healing to just know that I’m not crazy. That the thoughts, feelings, and flashbacks are normal.

But back to the issue of control. I never considered how much I needed it until I had so little of it. The author discusses how it is in our human nature to delight in our ability to control and create things, even an 18 month toddler who realizes that she can knock a stack of blocks over and so she wants do it again and again (much to the dismay of the poor parent who has to keep stacking them!)

Naperstack writes:

The joyous self-love from such accomplishments is a good part of what drives us all- children and adults- to master more, to grow, and develop and learn even in the face of frustration, fear and the anxiety of the leaving the familiar comfort of already mastered terrain.

And because it is built into our human hard-wiring to love ourselves for being able to make things happen, the converse is also true: we lose self regard when bad things happen that are beyond our control. The essential insult of trauma is the helplessness it generates, and the inadequacy and powerlessness we feel in its grip.



She goes on to talk about how this can cause people to lose value in themselves and can creat feelings of guilt and even shame. Those feelings are enough to fill up several different posts and I’m not quite ready to be that naked with you yet so I will stick with control. When I met Marc I learned that Aussies are very relaxed, laid back people. I also learned that there is Aussie laid back and then there is Leishman laid back. If you need lessons on how to chill out, they’re your people. By nature of just spending so much time together this quality started to rub off on me and although I will never completely learn their ways I am forever grateful for this. I am not sure how I could have survived the past 10 months without this quality. And yet, my need for control has peaked.

When I think about the girl who was lying in a bed completely dependent on other people to keep her alive, I just want to lay next to her and give her a hug. I want to tell her it’s okay to let them help, and that it’s not her fault. And then I think about being discharged and being so determined that I was not going to let Marc carry me up those stairs that I painfully climbed up one step at a time. I was so tired afterwards that I could not get out of bed for the rest of the day. Fast forward a few months and I should be better already! I’m taking all of these supplements. I’m doing the “right” things so you have to be kidding me that I am gong to have to hire someone to help me care for my babies. I wish I could have looked at it in the way that it was my decision. It would have provided me with some comfort. Instead it was just more evidence of how little control I had over how I was feeling. I could not magically make myself better. Even by doing everything suggested I was not improving fast enough. Fast enough by whose standards, though? My impossible ones. Part of the reason I started this blog was becuase it would be my decision, in my control. I had been reading so many articles written about me. Some of them didn’t have the facts correct and I needed to control the content. Writing has been therapeutic in many ways but giving me a feeling of control has been one of the most beneficial.

I have surrounded myself with mugs that have phrases like, “Let Go and Let God.” I have repeated the serenity prayer. I wrote a post on faith. On good days I am better at giving Him my troubles. It’s the days when I need to the absolute most that I struggle immensely. I have many friends who have a faith so strong that I find myself envious. They say things like, no matter high the mountain, no matter how difficult the battle they know it is God’s will and that they have given Him their lives. Oh, what comfort that would be! To give up control would be to know that I can just live. I can trust His plan for me. I can just be a good person and try my hardest and that will be enough. I cannot even fathom the idea of feeling enough. Just as I am. Maybe one day. What is it that they say? The first step is admitting there is a problem.

Hello, my name is Audrey and it is time for me to give up control.

Love,

Audrey

#PSdontusetampons