11-25-09
Yesterday’s yoga class is full. The famous Tuesday rush that my yoga buddies and I puzzle over. Why Tuesday? Is it the one day of the week that isn’t too close to either weekend? When I was in college Wednesday signaled the start of the weekend for me or at least provided the first good reason to partake of the sweet nectar, malt liquor. How can you miss Beverly Hills 90210 and how can you make it through the parade of rolled-eye Donna sighs and Brenda side-eyes without a 40 of King Cobra? Impossible.
As a result of the full yoga class—yes, I was talking about yoga before I got sidetracked by lusty thoughts of getting liquored up—my bound baddha konasana puts me in a tight position. I pull my feet together and try to find a space for my long ass legs. My knees poke onto the mats of my fellow yogis. My teacher catches my eye.
“Maybe I should skip this one today,” I say.
He shakes his head. “No way. You’re pregnant. You get to take up some room. You’re practicing for two.” I’m glad he said it and not me. What good is the pregnancy card if you have to pull it out of the deck yourself? I much prefer it when people just make way for my slow-moving (wider than usual) ass without me having to throw any “cracker, please, I’m pregnant” glances.
The yogis on either side of me adjust their mats to make way for my knees.
“And you get to eat whatever you want,” whispers the yogi to my left, a mother of two who zips through her practice every morning so that she can make it home in time to wake her boys and make them breakfast. “That’s what I liked about pregnancy the most.” She makes an mmmm sound then jumps back to chaturanga.
If only it were true. If only the preg-literature advised the pregnant lady to eat twice as much as usual instead of an additional 300 calories. 300 calories I can eat in a single handful of Trader Joe’s Oh My Omega Mix. Not exactly the license to eat I had been hoping for. No, for that I must wait for breastfeeding. The NY Times recently published an article about how breastfeeding is the current in vogue way of losing the pregnancy weight. Many of the women interviewed scoffed at the idea that their dedication to breastfeeding was related to anything but the health of their children. Hmmm…I wish I could be so selfless. I plan to breastfeed because of the benefits to Purvis, it seems a shitload more convenient than mixing up formula, and, yes, because I want an all-you-can-eat-without-guilt ticket to the buffet.
My acupuncturist asks me how my sleep is, interrupted sleep being my main pregnancy (and life) complaint.
“Not so good. I woke up in the middle of the night the past two nights.” I say.
“Are you uncomfortable? Is it the heartburn?”
“No, not really. I know it sounds weird but it kind of hit me the other night that I’m actually going to have a baby in a few months and I haven’t done anything to get ready.” I say.
She laughs and puts her fingers on my wrist to take my pulse. “You just need yourself and your breasts and you’ll be fine.”
But what of the car seat, the stroller, the crib, the changing table, the diaper covers, the baby carrier (Moby or Maya? I think we’re going Moby.), the socks, the bottles, the butt wipes, the diaper genie, the diaper service, the nursing bras, the swaddling blankets, the burp cloths, the high chair, the gliding rocking chair, the baby monitor, and the infinite trinkets that seem to trail a birth announcement like cans on a newlywed’s car? I awake in the middle of the night, my mind spinning with all the preparations, most prominent being preparing a nursery in what is currently Mr. Crud’s office (or The Dungeon as we call it). And those are just the cosmetic changes. Then there’s the whole business of having another person in the house, replacing our dynamic duo with a trio. I guess I should have had some of these thoughts before hitting the 30-week mark, but somehow they got pushed back into a corner, stuffed behind all the worrying about miscarriage.
“I’ve officially transitioned from worrying about what will happen if something goes wrong to freaking over what will happen when things go right,” I tell Mr. Crud over dinner. “Not that I want things to go wrong,” I quickly add.
“I know what you mean. Totally.”
Then he assures me that he’ll start clearing out The Dungeon over the next few days.
We’ve started to wade through the mountains of baby crap that we are supposed to buy. We consult Consumer Reports and the dog-eared copy of Baby Bargains we inherited from Max and Kathy Crud. We leave our first trip to Babies R Us empty-handed, but wiser. When did strollers become tanks?
My acupuncturist advises me to make a list so that I can spend the wee hours of the morning snoozing rather than worrying. I do prefer this brand of worry to carting around a stone of fear in my stomach that something is wrong with Purvis.
RANDOM: The first album of Chloasma, my pregnancy metal band, will be called “The Bloody Show.” Seriously, pregnancy shit is made for metal.
Monday, November 30, 2009
Friday, November 20, 2009
Shower Me
11-19-09
My internet pregnancy buddy, Ruby, emails for my take on the whole baby shower thing. Are we having one? Will there be painful games involved? Yes and no. Mr. Crud and I always planned on having some sort of do to celebrate the impending arrival of Purvis. After attending a lovely affair to welcome our friends’ mystery baby, we were both 90% less averse to the idea of baby showers. (Side note: Mystery Baby is one of the cutest little girls I’ve had the pleasure of knowing. Last time we saw her she cozied up to me like we were BFFs from way back. Her mom said, “She loves pregnant ladies.” Mystery baby sat on my lap and cuddled up to my belly saying, “Baby in?”) Their shower had belly dancers, wine, and tasty nibbles. Ladies, gents, and children of all ages were invited. There wasn’t any of the strained smiles or forced laughter that I associate with most showers. Bawdy jokes flew without the wink-wink-nudge-nudge-we-know-you-totally-did-it undercurrent that I’ve experienced at other showers. Granted most of the other showers I’ve attended have been work-related since many of my friends aren’t the reproducing kind so my sample is skewed. I have a hard time getting comfortable at work events of all kinds unless copious pours of alcohol are involved.
Anyway, Mr. Crud and I know we don’t want any games, to involve baby pictures of our guests, or to exclude any of our friends based on gender. What we know we want: Middle East food (catering from Hoda’s has been the one thing we’ve known we’ve wanted since the get-go); petit fours (why I hunger for a treat I last ate at a senior year French club meeting, I don’t know but they are one of my shower demands); and to see all the friends we’ve been neglecting since I peed on the stick and we became more hermit-like than usual.
We figured we’d be throwing our own shindig (see above hermit-like behavior), but my yoga buddy Mirjana has kindly offered to host our pals in celebration of Purvis. (My new boss has also offered to host a workety shower, which is slightly more dangerous. I’ll give Mr. Crud a pass on this one. Painful games may be involved. Baby pictures too. May G-d have mercy on our souls.) The only workable weekend for Mirjana’s shower is a mere 2 weeks before my due date. In light of my superstitious inability to actually go through with buying anything baby-related (we are still car seat-less), the close proximity to my due date may be a good thing. At that point I will be able to graciously accept baby presents without mentally hissing “kineahora!” to ward off the evil eye. But how many times have I said that?
“After this ultrasound, I’ll be able to relax,” I say.
Mr. Crud pats my shoulder. “Good.”
“After this doctor’s appointment, I’ll relax,” I say.
Mr. Crud cocks his head to the side. “You think so?”
“After I hear the heartbeat, I’ll be able to relax.” I say.
“Really.” Mr. Crud says.
No, not really. I have stopped setting arbitrary benchmarks when this mystical relaxation will take over and I will become completely confident that everything is fine with Purvis for once and for all. I am improving.
Last night I dream that I break down and have a whiskey sour (a drink of choice from the 90s when whiskey was still my poison). The next night I have a straight up shot of whiskey. The next a glass of wine. I somehow keep forgetting my indulgence of the previous evening and keep drinking the sweet forbidden nectar. Then one morning I awake to no jabs in my belly. No kicking. Nothing. I rush to the hospital, crying. I wake up with a racing heartbeat.
“Well that’s no way to start a Friday,” I mumble to myself as I stumble from the bedroom to the bathroom.
I wait for a jab, a flop, any movement from the Purvis region. For the first few minutes of my day my belly is still. I set the timer for my morning meditation. I ease myself onto my cushion, cross my legs, and start relaxing my body part by part all the while the fear of Purvis stillness pulses in the background.
Relax eyebrows. Relax jaw. Come on, Purvis, one kick, one jab, one floop. Relax ears. Relax throat. Relax neck. Are you in there, Purvis? Is everything okay? I know it was just a dream and all, but come on, one kick for Mama. Relax shoulders. Relax elbows. Wait! Was that Purvis or is my stomach growling. One more, Purvis. Like you mean it this time. Relax back. Relax hips.
By the time I reach my toes Purvis has given me two good kicks in the right hip area, her target of choice. I try to focus my mind on the business of relaxing, then the quiet “so hum” of my breath with little luck. Even when I’m concentrating on one thing my brain splits off onto another spiral. I experience the Tuvan throat singing equivalent of meditation, which only tempts me into breaking off into a third layer of thought about what a crappy meditator I am.
But Purvis is okay. And at least I don’t panic or go off to the locker room shower to weep when his kicks aren’t as kicky as they were yesterday. I remember my last pre-doctor’s appointment panic and tell myself that everything turned out fine. Purvis is tired on Fridays like me. Because for the time being we are drawing from the same body, the same energy source. Purvis kicks around like nuts on Sunday because we are well-rested. At least that is my pseudo-scientific explanation of the day.
Random Updates:
Still biking along, but growing slower by the day. I’m thinking I have at least 1-2 more weeks of cycling in me before my ribs get too crowded and my balance too wonky. In other balance news, while crouching to pick the largest, thickest brownie from the New Seasons display I tipped over onto my ass without warning. Only harm done was to my ego. Isn’t yoga supposed to keep me from such random topples.
When I’m not dreaming of Mr. Crud abandoning me, I dream of alcohol. Sweet sweet wine and whiskey and dry martinis. I walk the aisles of the Fred Meyer wine section salivating over the bottles. Sometimes when I muse over Purvis’ birth, I fantasize more about my post partum meal of sushi and wine than holding the squirming bundle of joy. However I am not fantasizing about smoking so maybe that monkey is finally off my back for once and for all.
My internet pregnancy buddy, Ruby, emails for my take on the whole baby shower thing. Are we having one? Will there be painful games involved? Yes and no. Mr. Crud and I always planned on having some sort of do to celebrate the impending arrival of Purvis. After attending a lovely affair to welcome our friends’ mystery baby, we were both 90% less averse to the idea of baby showers. (Side note: Mystery Baby is one of the cutest little girls I’ve had the pleasure of knowing. Last time we saw her she cozied up to me like we were BFFs from way back. Her mom said, “She loves pregnant ladies.” Mystery baby sat on my lap and cuddled up to my belly saying, “Baby in?”) Their shower had belly dancers, wine, and tasty nibbles. Ladies, gents, and children of all ages were invited. There wasn’t any of the strained smiles or forced laughter that I associate with most showers. Bawdy jokes flew without the wink-wink-nudge-nudge-we-know-you-totally-did-it undercurrent that I’ve experienced at other showers. Granted most of the other showers I’ve attended have been work-related since many of my friends aren’t the reproducing kind so my sample is skewed. I have a hard time getting comfortable at work events of all kinds unless copious pours of alcohol are involved.
Anyway, Mr. Crud and I know we don’t want any games, to involve baby pictures of our guests, or to exclude any of our friends based on gender. What we know we want: Middle East food (catering from Hoda’s has been the one thing we’ve known we’ve wanted since the get-go); petit fours (why I hunger for a treat I last ate at a senior year French club meeting, I don’t know but they are one of my shower demands); and to see all the friends we’ve been neglecting since I peed on the stick and we became more hermit-like than usual.
We figured we’d be throwing our own shindig (see above hermit-like behavior), but my yoga buddy Mirjana has kindly offered to host our pals in celebration of Purvis. (My new boss has also offered to host a workety shower, which is slightly more dangerous. I’ll give Mr. Crud a pass on this one. Painful games may be involved. Baby pictures too. May G-d have mercy on our souls.) The only workable weekend for Mirjana’s shower is a mere 2 weeks before my due date. In light of my superstitious inability to actually go through with buying anything baby-related (we are still car seat-less), the close proximity to my due date may be a good thing. At that point I will be able to graciously accept baby presents without mentally hissing “kineahora!” to ward off the evil eye. But how many times have I said that?
“After this ultrasound, I’ll be able to relax,” I say.
Mr. Crud pats my shoulder. “Good.”
“After this doctor’s appointment, I’ll relax,” I say.
Mr. Crud cocks his head to the side. “You think so?”
“After I hear the heartbeat, I’ll be able to relax.” I say.
“Really.” Mr. Crud says.
No, not really. I have stopped setting arbitrary benchmarks when this mystical relaxation will take over and I will become completely confident that everything is fine with Purvis for once and for all. I am improving.
Last night I dream that I break down and have a whiskey sour (a drink of choice from the 90s when whiskey was still my poison). The next night I have a straight up shot of whiskey. The next a glass of wine. I somehow keep forgetting my indulgence of the previous evening and keep drinking the sweet forbidden nectar. Then one morning I awake to no jabs in my belly. No kicking. Nothing. I rush to the hospital, crying. I wake up with a racing heartbeat.
“Well that’s no way to start a Friday,” I mumble to myself as I stumble from the bedroom to the bathroom.
I wait for a jab, a flop, any movement from the Purvis region. For the first few minutes of my day my belly is still. I set the timer for my morning meditation. I ease myself onto my cushion, cross my legs, and start relaxing my body part by part all the while the fear of Purvis stillness pulses in the background.
Relax eyebrows. Relax jaw. Come on, Purvis, one kick, one jab, one floop. Relax ears. Relax throat. Relax neck. Are you in there, Purvis? Is everything okay? I know it was just a dream and all, but come on, one kick for Mama. Relax shoulders. Relax elbows. Wait! Was that Purvis or is my stomach growling. One more, Purvis. Like you mean it this time. Relax back. Relax hips.
By the time I reach my toes Purvis has given me two good kicks in the right hip area, her target of choice. I try to focus my mind on the business of relaxing, then the quiet “so hum” of my breath with little luck. Even when I’m concentrating on one thing my brain splits off onto another spiral. I experience the Tuvan throat singing equivalent of meditation, which only tempts me into breaking off into a third layer of thought about what a crappy meditator I am.
But Purvis is okay. And at least I don’t panic or go off to the locker room shower to weep when his kicks aren’t as kicky as they were yesterday. I remember my last pre-doctor’s appointment panic and tell myself that everything turned out fine. Purvis is tired on Fridays like me. Because for the time being we are drawing from the same body, the same energy source. Purvis kicks around like nuts on Sunday because we are well-rested. At least that is my pseudo-scientific explanation of the day.
Random Updates:
Still biking along, but growing slower by the day. I’m thinking I have at least 1-2 more weeks of cycling in me before my ribs get too crowded and my balance too wonky. In other balance news, while crouching to pick the largest, thickest brownie from the New Seasons display I tipped over onto my ass without warning. Only harm done was to my ego. Isn’t yoga supposed to keep me from such random topples.
When I’m not dreaming of Mr. Crud abandoning me, I dream of alcohol. Sweet sweet wine and whiskey and dry martinis. I walk the aisles of the Fred Meyer wine section salivating over the bottles. Sometimes when I muse over Purvis’ birth, I fantasize more about my post partum meal of sushi and wine than holding the squirming bundle of joy. However I am not fantasizing about smoking so maybe that monkey is finally off my back for once and for all.
Friday, November 13, 2009
All is Well...Again
11-12-09
The moment when Dr. Awesome presses the Doppler stethoscope to belly never fails to get my heart racing. Are you in there, Purvis? Everything okay? The day of my appointment sends me into further fear spirals, culminating in a sobbing session in the locker room showers when I’m sure that all is not well in there, that Purvis has fallen victim to the latest iteration of my bad pregnancy luck.
The big moment arrives. I recline. Dr. Awesome measures my belly. “27 inches and you’re 27 weeks. Perfect.” She drops the measuring tape and grabs the stethoscope from its jumble on the counter. She goo-s up my belly and rubs it with the cool metallic circle. Purvis’ swift gloob-gloob-gloob-gloob sounds loud and clear. I breathe my (now ceremonial) sigh of relief.
“About 140 beats per minute,” she says. The steady beat slows and quickens. Wait! It changed! It slowed down a bit. Shit. Does that mean??? My mind races. I try to keep my eyes from widening horror movie style.
“You hear how it’s varying? That’s good. It means the baby is moving around and the heartbeat is responding to the activity. Was that a kick?” She presses her hands over the space above my belly button.
“I don’t know,” I say.
“Did you feel that?”
“That I felt.” I’m not feeling all of Purvis’ kicks, which may explain my recent panics. Dr. Awesome encourages me to start counting kicks—just as all the preg books predicted she would—and I feel a mixture of excitement and dread. What if this kick counting becomes another way for me to freak out with worry? Don’t blame the kick counting, lady. This stream of worry has been hunting for an inlet before you ever heard the words kick counting.
“I think the kick counting will reassure you.” Dr. Awesome says. “Put your feet up and just tune in.”
Fast forward to Monday, my first official day of third trimester-dom. Yahoo!
“You think I can do my kick counting while reading the newspaper?” I ask Mr. Crud.
“You’re supposed to just concentrate on the kicking so you don’t get distracted,” he says.
“Yeah, yeah. You’re right.” But who has time to just lay back and wait for kicks? I have a precious 4 hours between the time I get off work and my early bedtime to get my own kicks, i.e. read the newspaper, cook dinner, read some Stieg Larsson, and catch a little TV. Now I gotta drink a cold glass of water—which will surely lead to increased midnight bathroom breaks—and do nothing? Sheesh. Some of the preg books advise kick counting in the morning and the evening. I wonder what women of leisure have the time to do that. Lest you think I’m being flippant about a vital part of my fetus’ health, the jury is out on kick counting. It’s been shown to have little effect on pregnancy outcomes, but still most doctors recommend it as a way to hopefully catch any problems with the fetus.
I compromise. Reading the paper is too distracting, but I can handle mindless TV while feeling for Purvis’ 10 kicks. They come quickly, number 10 jabbing my right hip about 10 minutes into The Soup.
At the appointment, I ask Dr. Awesome about my size again. “I keep seeing these women who are as pregnant or less pregnant than me and they look huge compared to me. I just look like I have a beer belly.”
“You’re tall,” she says with a shrug. “All women show differently. I can sympathize. I was small for my pregnancy and people weren’t afraid to let me know it. It has nothing to do with the size of the baby.”
Why am I so hung up on appearances? The right kind of pregnant look is one, which connotes a healthy mom and baby, yes? People aren’t giving me a hard time about it. Some say I look small for the six months of pregnancy under my belt, but nobody has gasped in shock at my small-ish bump.
Plus I’m feeling pretty good. At prenatal Pilates I do not chime in when SATC lady complains about her squished gall bladder or night sweats. All in all, I’m feeling fine. And in my feeling fine, I feel a little left out of the pregnant lady club. “Well you can join my club because I felt great too,” my mom says.
“You’re lucky,” Dr. Awesome says. “Enjoy it.”
I will. And I will look forward to when the prenatal Pilates conversation turns to the inevitable H1N1 vaccine because that’s an annoying situation that all of us can relate to, both whether or not to get it and, if we want it, where to find it.
Of all the questions I pepper Dr. Awesome with during our appointment I forget the one that comes up every morning and night: bicycling. When should I say when to my commute option of choice?
My older coworkers are clearly worried. “You be careful,” one grandfatherly prof says every night when I head out. “You’re biking for two.”
The worry is rubbing off on me. I start to imagine scary scenarios where I slip on leaves, lose my balance and fall into traffic, or stop short and go over my handlebars. I remind myself that all sorts of activities can be hazardous to the pregnant: cars, walking, the f-ing flu. (I’m set to be jabbed H1N1 style tomorrow afternoon. Yay?) In fact, I’ve had the most close calls with falling while going down steps in boot cut pants. Somehow my foot is adept at finding a way to get caught in the hem. I now approach staircases warily and take a wide-legged stance like a bow-legged cowboy before descending.
In the locker room a woman overhears me telling my locker room buddy of my cycling dilemma. She pops around the corner. “I couldn’t help but overhear.”
She was round and proud at the time when I was just starting to embark on pregnancy number 3. At the time I wondered if she would become my sister-in-motherhood or a reminder of another failed pregnancy. She cycled until she was looking very pregnant. I sent her silent “right on-s” every time I caught her mounting her bike.
“How long did you ride?” I ask.
“Until midway through my third trimester,” she says. “Then she was pressing on my bladder and I couldn’t make it home in time.”
She suggests I check out a discussion thread on a local biking blog. The thread is linked to an article about cycling with a bump, which is vague and conflicting in its recommendations. Some ladies stop after the 12th week since the pelvis can no longer provide complete protection for the fetus. Some ride on until their bellies are bumping against their pedaling legs. One respondent tells how she rode her bike to the hospital. Probably not OHSU, I think. That’s a hell of a hill.
I feel reinforced in my decision to keep on biking for the time being. Purvis does find her way to my bladder quite often but it’s not yet unbearable. I take it slow and easy. I hum the B-Sharps hit of yesteryear, “Baby on Board.” I cycle like I am riding for two. Because as elder prof reminds me, I am.
This week in preg-dreams: While I still await my dream of birthing a cat or alien, my unconscious is batting around my apparent fear of abandonment. When I’m not being rejected by high school beautiful people all over again (when will those dreams end?), Mr. Crud is abandoning me in various ways, leaving me pregnant and wandering the streets of Portland in search of him. “But I’m pregnant,” I bleat. The next morning I tell Mr. Crud of my latest version of the abandonment dream. He reassures me that he isn’t going anywhere. Then I do my best to not take out the dream residue of hurt feelings on him throughout the day. (“But it wasn’t ME who left you,” he says. “I know!” I say, still eyeing him warily.)
The moment when Dr. Awesome presses the Doppler stethoscope to belly never fails to get my heart racing. Are you in there, Purvis? Everything okay? The day of my appointment sends me into further fear spirals, culminating in a sobbing session in the locker room showers when I’m sure that all is not well in there, that Purvis has fallen victim to the latest iteration of my bad pregnancy luck.
The big moment arrives. I recline. Dr. Awesome measures my belly. “27 inches and you’re 27 weeks. Perfect.” She drops the measuring tape and grabs the stethoscope from its jumble on the counter. She goo-s up my belly and rubs it with the cool metallic circle. Purvis’ swift gloob-gloob-gloob-gloob sounds loud and clear. I breathe my (now ceremonial) sigh of relief.
“About 140 beats per minute,” she says. The steady beat slows and quickens. Wait! It changed! It slowed down a bit. Shit. Does that mean??? My mind races. I try to keep my eyes from widening horror movie style.
“You hear how it’s varying? That’s good. It means the baby is moving around and the heartbeat is responding to the activity. Was that a kick?” She presses her hands over the space above my belly button.
“I don’t know,” I say.
“Did you feel that?”
“That I felt.” I’m not feeling all of Purvis’ kicks, which may explain my recent panics. Dr. Awesome encourages me to start counting kicks—just as all the preg books predicted she would—and I feel a mixture of excitement and dread. What if this kick counting becomes another way for me to freak out with worry? Don’t blame the kick counting, lady. This stream of worry has been hunting for an inlet before you ever heard the words kick counting.
“I think the kick counting will reassure you.” Dr. Awesome says. “Put your feet up and just tune in.”
Fast forward to Monday, my first official day of third trimester-dom. Yahoo!
“You think I can do my kick counting while reading the newspaper?” I ask Mr. Crud.
“You’re supposed to just concentrate on the kicking so you don’t get distracted,” he says.
“Yeah, yeah. You’re right.” But who has time to just lay back and wait for kicks? I have a precious 4 hours between the time I get off work and my early bedtime to get my own kicks, i.e. read the newspaper, cook dinner, read some Stieg Larsson, and catch a little TV. Now I gotta drink a cold glass of water—which will surely lead to increased midnight bathroom breaks—and do nothing? Sheesh. Some of the preg books advise kick counting in the morning and the evening. I wonder what women of leisure have the time to do that. Lest you think I’m being flippant about a vital part of my fetus’ health, the jury is out on kick counting. It’s been shown to have little effect on pregnancy outcomes, but still most doctors recommend it as a way to hopefully catch any problems with the fetus.
I compromise. Reading the paper is too distracting, but I can handle mindless TV while feeling for Purvis’ 10 kicks. They come quickly, number 10 jabbing my right hip about 10 minutes into The Soup.
At the appointment, I ask Dr. Awesome about my size again. “I keep seeing these women who are as pregnant or less pregnant than me and they look huge compared to me. I just look like I have a beer belly.”
“You’re tall,” she says with a shrug. “All women show differently. I can sympathize. I was small for my pregnancy and people weren’t afraid to let me know it. It has nothing to do with the size of the baby.”
Why am I so hung up on appearances? The right kind of pregnant look is one, which connotes a healthy mom and baby, yes? People aren’t giving me a hard time about it. Some say I look small for the six months of pregnancy under my belt, but nobody has gasped in shock at my small-ish bump.
Plus I’m feeling pretty good. At prenatal Pilates I do not chime in when SATC lady complains about her squished gall bladder or night sweats. All in all, I’m feeling fine. And in my feeling fine, I feel a little left out of the pregnant lady club. “Well you can join my club because I felt great too,” my mom says.
“You’re lucky,” Dr. Awesome says. “Enjoy it.”
I will. And I will look forward to when the prenatal Pilates conversation turns to the inevitable H1N1 vaccine because that’s an annoying situation that all of us can relate to, both whether or not to get it and, if we want it, where to find it.
Of all the questions I pepper Dr. Awesome with during our appointment I forget the one that comes up every morning and night: bicycling. When should I say when to my commute option of choice?
My older coworkers are clearly worried. “You be careful,” one grandfatherly prof says every night when I head out. “You’re biking for two.”
The worry is rubbing off on me. I start to imagine scary scenarios where I slip on leaves, lose my balance and fall into traffic, or stop short and go over my handlebars. I remind myself that all sorts of activities can be hazardous to the pregnant: cars, walking, the f-ing flu. (I’m set to be jabbed H1N1 style tomorrow afternoon. Yay?) In fact, I’ve had the most close calls with falling while going down steps in boot cut pants. Somehow my foot is adept at finding a way to get caught in the hem. I now approach staircases warily and take a wide-legged stance like a bow-legged cowboy before descending.
In the locker room a woman overhears me telling my locker room buddy of my cycling dilemma. She pops around the corner. “I couldn’t help but overhear.”
She was round and proud at the time when I was just starting to embark on pregnancy number 3. At the time I wondered if she would become my sister-in-motherhood or a reminder of another failed pregnancy. She cycled until she was looking very pregnant. I sent her silent “right on-s” every time I caught her mounting her bike.
“How long did you ride?” I ask.
“Until midway through my third trimester,” she says. “Then she was pressing on my bladder and I couldn’t make it home in time.”
She suggests I check out a discussion thread on a local biking blog. The thread is linked to an article about cycling with a bump, which is vague and conflicting in its recommendations. Some ladies stop after the 12th week since the pelvis can no longer provide complete protection for the fetus. Some ride on until their bellies are bumping against their pedaling legs. One respondent tells how she rode her bike to the hospital. Probably not OHSU, I think. That’s a hell of a hill.
I feel reinforced in my decision to keep on biking for the time being. Purvis does find her way to my bladder quite often but it’s not yet unbearable. I take it slow and easy. I hum the B-Sharps hit of yesteryear, “Baby on Board.” I cycle like I am riding for two. Because as elder prof reminds me, I am.
This week in preg-dreams: While I still await my dream of birthing a cat or alien, my unconscious is batting around my apparent fear of abandonment. When I’m not being rejected by high school beautiful people all over again (when will those dreams end?), Mr. Crud is abandoning me in various ways, leaving me pregnant and wandering the streets of Portland in search of him. “But I’m pregnant,” I bleat. The next morning I tell Mr. Crud of my latest version of the abandonment dream. He reassures me that he isn’t going anywhere. Then I do my best to not take out the dream residue of hurt feelings on him throughout the day. (“But it wasn’t ME who left you,” he says. “I know!” I say, still eyeing him warily.)
Thursday, November 5, 2009
Pre-Doc Jitters
11-5-09
When I was a kid I got a case of the nerves before doctor’s appointments. Would I have to get a shot? Would I (again) be told that I might want to lose a few? Would the doctor x-ray my stomach and discover the cache of boogers piling up from all that illicit snot munching? (I imagined them in a gooey, green pyramid.) Now I have new reasons. Is everything okay with Purvis? Is she kicking enough? Is my stomach too small for being 6 months pregnant? Wait, was that stitch in my side technically a cramp?
As all the preg-sites warn, pregnancy can turn even the calmest lady into a—and I quote—“worrywart.” What of the chronic worrywarts such as myself? I must move up a notch to hysteric. Well, I would if not for the magic of yoga, which I’m still somehow limping through despite feeling weighed down with 20 extra pounds of thigh, hips and stomach. But mainly thigh and hips although stomach is catching up.
The week before a doctor’s appointment I default to worrywart. I start to question everything, but mostly myself. Maybe the sensations I thought were Purvis kicks are actually gas or some shifting of the bowels that feels different due to my enlarged uterus. Then I feel what is definitely a kick…or is that a muscle spasm?
When I feel kicks, what I know for sure to be kicks, I whisper, “Thank you, Purvis. Your mama was worrying.” (On the plus side I am getting used to the M-word.) And then I pray for another one just like the other one. “One more, Purvis. Show me that you’re in there.”
I am no longer haunted by a blank ultrasound screen but by a screen with the image of a tiny floating dead fetus. What if all that I’m feeling in my gut region is just Purvis’ body bobbing around in amniotic fluid?
I know these are only fears. “This is what fear feels like,” I say to myself. Another handy dandy yoga phrase that has gotten me through bumpy flights and late nights waiting for Mr. Crud to return from band practice after I’ve convinced myself that he’s—a phrase my mom so kindly passed on to me—dead in a ditch somewhere.
I talk out the fears with Mr. Crud.
“But have you been feeling Purvis moving?” He asks.
“Yeah, I’m pretty sure I have. Yes. Yes, I have. Actually he was kicking around a lot today.”
“That’s good.”
“I know, but still…”
Mr. Crud takes our fears to the professional, his awesome counselor, who reminds him that we have every right to be afraid. We got bad news at a past appointment so there will likely be some level of anxiety in approaching any appointment.
“He says we should probably get used to it.” Mr. Crud says.
“That’s what I thought. Dang.”
Today the anxiety is less. After a quiet morning, which put me on edge, Purvis has found his groove this afternoon. The big minus is she has located my bladder and seems to be doing some sort of tap dance upon it. My doctor’s appointment is tomorrow afternoon. I already can’t wait to hear the heartbeat, which is my cue to relax and get teary-eyed with relief.
Tomorrow I take my Glucose Tolerance Test to see if I am at risk for gestational diabetes. Truthfully, I have put this test off to the last minute in case I have it and must immediately de-sugarify my diet. (Please oh please no! You’ve taken my wine, my martinis, my sushi. Please do not take my sweets!!)
In H1N1 vaccine news, there is no real news. I am feeling better about the whole flu shebang. My doula and acupuncturist assure me that I am a healthy lady with a healthy immune system. For an afternoon, I considered not getting the vaccine at all after reading some anti-vax websites (I know, I know), but my new plan is to do what I can to get it, but not stress out.
Last night I say to Mr. Crud, “I kinda preferred worrying about the swine flu. That felt better.”
“Really?”
As the oracle of my youth, the Lucky 8 Ball, once said: Ask Again Later.
When I was a kid I got a case of the nerves before doctor’s appointments. Would I have to get a shot? Would I (again) be told that I might want to lose a few? Would the doctor x-ray my stomach and discover the cache of boogers piling up from all that illicit snot munching? (I imagined them in a gooey, green pyramid.) Now I have new reasons. Is everything okay with Purvis? Is she kicking enough? Is my stomach too small for being 6 months pregnant? Wait, was that stitch in my side technically a cramp?
As all the preg-sites warn, pregnancy can turn even the calmest lady into a—and I quote—“worrywart.” What of the chronic worrywarts such as myself? I must move up a notch to hysteric. Well, I would if not for the magic of yoga, which I’m still somehow limping through despite feeling weighed down with 20 extra pounds of thigh, hips and stomach. But mainly thigh and hips although stomach is catching up.
The week before a doctor’s appointment I default to worrywart. I start to question everything, but mostly myself. Maybe the sensations I thought were Purvis kicks are actually gas or some shifting of the bowels that feels different due to my enlarged uterus. Then I feel what is definitely a kick…or is that a muscle spasm?
When I feel kicks, what I know for sure to be kicks, I whisper, “Thank you, Purvis. Your mama was worrying.” (On the plus side I am getting used to the M-word.) And then I pray for another one just like the other one. “One more, Purvis. Show me that you’re in there.”
I am no longer haunted by a blank ultrasound screen but by a screen with the image of a tiny floating dead fetus. What if all that I’m feeling in my gut region is just Purvis’ body bobbing around in amniotic fluid?
I know these are only fears. “This is what fear feels like,” I say to myself. Another handy dandy yoga phrase that has gotten me through bumpy flights and late nights waiting for Mr. Crud to return from band practice after I’ve convinced myself that he’s—a phrase my mom so kindly passed on to me—dead in a ditch somewhere.
I talk out the fears with Mr. Crud.
“But have you been feeling Purvis moving?” He asks.
“Yeah, I’m pretty sure I have. Yes. Yes, I have. Actually he was kicking around a lot today.”
“That’s good.”
“I know, but still…”
Mr. Crud takes our fears to the professional, his awesome counselor, who reminds him that we have every right to be afraid. We got bad news at a past appointment so there will likely be some level of anxiety in approaching any appointment.
“He says we should probably get used to it.” Mr. Crud says.
“That’s what I thought. Dang.”
Today the anxiety is less. After a quiet morning, which put me on edge, Purvis has found his groove this afternoon. The big minus is she has located my bladder and seems to be doing some sort of tap dance upon it. My doctor’s appointment is tomorrow afternoon. I already can’t wait to hear the heartbeat, which is my cue to relax and get teary-eyed with relief.
Tomorrow I take my Glucose Tolerance Test to see if I am at risk for gestational diabetes. Truthfully, I have put this test off to the last minute in case I have it and must immediately de-sugarify my diet. (Please oh please no! You’ve taken my wine, my martinis, my sushi. Please do not take my sweets!!)
In H1N1 vaccine news, there is no real news. I am feeling better about the whole flu shebang. My doula and acupuncturist assure me that I am a healthy lady with a healthy immune system. For an afternoon, I considered not getting the vaccine at all after reading some anti-vax websites (I know, I know), but my new plan is to do what I can to get it, but not stress out.
Last night I say to Mr. Crud, “I kinda preferred worrying about the swine flu. That felt better.”
“Really?”
As the oracle of my youth, the Lucky 8 Ball, once said: Ask Again Later.
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
Fellow Travelers
11-2-09
I haul my tired-from-work ass in through the back door and plop my bags onto the floor with a groan.
“Hey hon,” I say to Mr. Crud.
“Oh hey,” he says, rounding the corner from our currently under renovation bathroom. “Darrell and I were just talking pregnancy loss.” Darrell is the tile guy. He is turning our shabby budget bathroom into a sparkling newly tiled budget bathroom.
“Uh okay.” I beeline for the bedroom to shrug off maternity outfit #3—only so much you can do with a few pairs of cords, jeans, and variations on the black shirt—and slip into something more comfortable. Sweatpants.
Hm. Pregnancy loss. That’s an odd thing for two relative strangers to be talking about, especially dudes. I switch into make dinner mode and reemerge, freshly sweatpanted and starving.
Later that night Mr. Crud and I are hunched over our empty dinner plates.
“Good dinner, hon,” he says.
“Thanks.” I carry my plate to the sink. “So, pregnancy loss. How did that come up?”
“Darrell was asking me about your due date and I asked him if he and his wife had any kids. He said they had a loss last year. Then I told him about us.”
“Wow. That’s cool that he told you, that you guys could talk about it.”
“Yeah, he’s a cool guy.”
I feel heavy in my gut. My eyes start to tear. “I’m so sorry they had to go through that.”
“I know. We talked about all the messed up things people say like ‘it wasn’t meant to be’ and all that crap. Does that make anyone feel better?”
I’m already on record with my feelings on meant to be. I am surprised by the depth of the sadness I feel for these virtual strangers. Darrell seems like such a sweet guy. He sings along with the radio as he tiles, he throws a smile when we pass in the kitchen, and comes over on Saturday to make sure that our tiles are drying correctly. But it isn’t his nice guy-ness that has me sniffly. It’s the miscarriage and knowing that everywhere, all around us, people are experiencing losses. My instant kinship with the recent experiencers of pregnancy loss is slipping away. My status as pregnant woman—27 weeks, bitches!—has taken over. The miscarriages feel far away and dreamlike. Did 2008, the year of the miscarriage, really happen? The miscarriages aren’t that far gone. If I want to torture myself I can easily conjure up images and the emotional reality of those days, but that card has been shuffled to the back of the deck for the time being. I am using all my emotional and creative resources to keep myself from traveling that fearful path over and over. At times, I feel like I’m losing myself to this one singular goal—have baby without going crazy—but it works. At least for now.
I wonder if Darrell feels a tug of sadness, of longing when he catches a sideways glimpse of me and sees my growing—still Bactrian, g-ddamnit—bump(s).
The next time I see him I want to inappropriately pep talk him. Try again! You all can do it! We made it and so can you!! I keep my pep talk to myself, knowing that there is all too much that I don’t know. Maybe they had tests. Maybe they can’t do it or maybe they are just waiting to get up the nerve again. They are a good 10 years younger than Mr. Crud and me thus have the luxury of a longer period of wound-licking.
But then again, maybe he’ll take our story back to his wife and they’ll find the nerve to try again. (I know how egotistical this sounds. Can you hear the music swelling in the background as I paint myself an inspirational figure?) I had such role models on my road back to pregnancy world.
I haul my tired-from-work ass in through the back door and plop my bags onto the floor with a groan.
“Hey hon,” I say to Mr. Crud.
“Oh hey,” he says, rounding the corner from our currently under renovation bathroom. “Darrell and I were just talking pregnancy loss.” Darrell is the tile guy. He is turning our shabby budget bathroom into a sparkling newly tiled budget bathroom.
“Uh okay.” I beeline for the bedroom to shrug off maternity outfit #3—only so much you can do with a few pairs of cords, jeans, and variations on the black shirt—and slip into something more comfortable. Sweatpants.
Hm. Pregnancy loss. That’s an odd thing for two relative strangers to be talking about, especially dudes. I switch into make dinner mode and reemerge, freshly sweatpanted and starving.
Later that night Mr. Crud and I are hunched over our empty dinner plates.
“Good dinner, hon,” he says.
“Thanks.” I carry my plate to the sink. “So, pregnancy loss. How did that come up?”
“Darrell was asking me about your due date and I asked him if he and his wife had any kids. He said they had a loss last year. Then I told him about us.”
“Wow. That’s cool that he told you, that you guys could talk about it.”
“Yeah, he’s a cool guy.”
I feel heavy in my gut. My eyes start to tear. “I’m so sorry they had to go through that.”
“I know. We talked about all the messed up things people say like ‘it wasn’t meant to be’ and all that crap. Does that make anyone feel better?”
I’m already on record with my feelings on meant to be. I am surprised by the depth of the sadness I feel for these virtual strangers. Darrell seems like such a sweet guy. He sings along with the radio as he tiles, he throws a smile when we pass in the kitchen, and comes over on Saturday to make sure that our tiles are drying correctly. But it isn’t his nice guy-ness that has me sniffly. It’s the miscarriage and knowing that everywhere, all around us, people are experiencing losses. My instant kinship with the recent experiencers of pregnancy loss is slipping away. My status as pregnant woman—27 weeks, bitches!—has taken over. The miscarriages feel far away and dreamlike. Did 2008, the year of the miscarriage, really happen? The miscarriages aren’t that far gone. If I want to torture myself I can easily conjure up images and the emotional reality of those days, but that card has been shuffled to the back of the deck for the time being. I am using all my emotional and creative resources to keep myself from traveling that fearful path over and over. At times, I feel like I’m losing myself to this one singular goal—have baby without going crazy—but it works. At least for now.
I wonder if Darrell feels a tug of sadness, of longing when he catches a sideways glimpse of me and sees my growing—still Bactrian, g-ddamnit—bump(s).
The next time I see him I want to inappropriately pep talk him. Try again! You all can do it! We made it and so can you!! I keep my pep talk to myself, knowing that there is all too much that I don’t know. Maybe they had tests. Maybe they can’t do it or maybe they are just waiting to get up the nerve again. They are a good 10 years younger than Mr. Crud and me thus have the luxury of a longer period of wound-licking.
But then again, maybe he’ll take our story back to his wife and they’ll find the nerve to try again. (I know how egotistical this sounds. Can you hear the music swelling in the background as I paint myself an inspirational figure?) I had such role models on my road back to pregnancy world.
Friday, October 30, 2009
Code Red
10-29-09
“Have you got it yet?” my boss asks after she returns from the campus-wide meeting of boredom.
I know exactly what she’s talking about. In fact whenever anyone asks if I’ve gotten it yet, I get it immediately. “The vaccine? No. I’ve been trying,” I say.
“You have to get it! We don’t want you to be out! Or worse!”
Yes, thank you very much. As if I needed to be reminded for the umpteenth time today that I, a pregnant woman, am in the high-risk category for the latest fear craze to sweep the nation: H1N1—or as my student worker calls it—the Piggy Flu.
“You should be able to get it, right? You’re first in line.” Another coworker says later that same day.
I restrain myself from flying out of my seat. “Just because I’m high priority doesn’t mean I can get it. There are a lot of pregnant women and children under 5 in the world.”
Trust me, I’ve tried. I call my doctor’s office almost everyday. I listen to the recorded message so many times that I can let anyone know the status report of the Richmond Clinic’s flu shot situation. (They don’t got any.) I start to wish that the anti-vaccine contingent had been more successful in spooking the general populace about the safety of the vaccine. At least then numero uno could get a dose no problemo.
A few days ago, after listening to the familiar recording tell me there is no vaccine to be had, I zero out to the receptionist to schedule my Glucose Tolerance Test.
“Dare I ask about the H1N1 vaccine?” I ask.
“We can put you on a waiting list.” He says.
Really? REALLY! Because your message could have said something about that. I don’t know what frustrates me more about this vaccine situation: the fact that people who aren’t on the priority list are getting the vaccine (sometimes lying to get the vaccine) or that the government isn’t handling the distribution in a more organized and coherent manner. At a clinic last weekend, one which my doctor had advised me to attend since her office didn’t have any, 1200 people showed up for 500 shots. Nice. No, I didn’t even try to go to that one as I had anticipated it would be the madhouse that it was. You don’t need to be psychic to see that mob coming from a mile away.
In my prenatal Pilates class last weekend, a newcomer starts out the “How’s everybody doing” portion of our class by announcing she had the shot.
“Where?” I and the other pregnant ladies ask in envious unison.
“At a clinic over on Albina. There were 400 shots. I was number 394.”
We look at her longingly. Oh to be so confident and free of H1N1 panic, to be able to not spend half your day washing your hands into cracked, leathery gloves.
“I can’t believe how much I wanted to be her,” I tell Mr. Crud over dinner. “I felt overwhelmed.”
And who wouldn’t with the horror stories of dead mothers and fetuses coming fast and furious? Yesterday a locker room buddy, who didn’t yet know I am pregnant, tells me of a coworker who came down with the flu and who, at 7 months pregnant, might have to have a c-section to save her baby and herself. My alert level rises.
My acupuncturist tells me that she is stimulating my immune system during my last appointment. Thank G-d. I wash my hands. I drink tea more than ever before after reading that the warm water will deactivate the virus and send it to my stomach where stomach acids will kill it dead. At night I irrigate my nose like a good yogi with my neti pot. I wash my hands again. I wonder if I didn’t have H1N1 to stalk me, if it would be something else. Premature labor, birth defects, Purvis not kicking as much as he did yesterday all linger in the background worry pit of my psyche. I’m sure that one of them would have stepped up had I not had the flu to widen my eyes in mortal terror every now and then.
This morning the swine flu report is that more vaccines are on the way. Maybe by the time I have my appointment next week, a shot will await me at the doctor’s office. Alert level: low.
“Have you got it yet?” my boss asks after she returns from the campus-wide meeting of boredom.
I know exactly what she’s talking about. In fact whenever anyone asks if I’ve gotten it yet, I get it immediately. “The vaccine? No. I’ve been trying,” I say.
“You have to get it! We don’t want you to be out! Or worse!”
Yes, thank you very much. As if I needed to be reminded for the umpteenth time today that I, a pregnant woman, am in the high-risk category for the latest fear craze to sweep the nation: H1N1—or as my student worker calls it—the Piggy Flu.
“You should be able to get it, right? You’re first in line.” Another coworker says later that same day.
I restrain myself from flying out of my seat. “Just because I’m high priority doesn’t mean I can get it. There are a lot of pregnant women and children under 5 in the world.”
Trust me, I’ve tried. I call my doctor’s office almost everyday. I listen to the recorded message so many times that I can let anyone know the status report of the Richmond Clinic’s flu shot situation. (They don’t got any.) I start to wish that the anti-vaccine contingent had been more successful in spooking the general populace about the safety of the vaccine. At least then numero uno could get a dose no problemo.
A few days ago, after listening to the familiar recording tell me there is no vaccine to be had, I zero out to the receptionist to schedule my Glucose Tolerance Test.
“Dare I ask about the H1N1 vaccine?” I ask.
“We can put you on a waiting list.” He says.
Really? REALLY! Because your message could have said something about that. I don’t know what frustrates me more about this vaccine situation: the fact that people who aren’t on the priority list are getting the vaccine (sometimes lying to get the vaccine) or that the government isn’t handling the distribution in a more organized and coherent manner. At a clinic last weekend, one which my doctor had advised me to attend since her office didn’t have any, 1200 people showed up for 500 shots. Nice. No, I didn’t even try to go to that one as I had anticipated it would be the madhouse that it was. You don’t need to be psychic to see that mob coming from a mile away.
In my prenatal Pilates class last weekend, a newcomer starts out the “How’s everybody doing” portion of our class by announcing she had the shot.
“Where?” I and the other pregnant ladies ask in envious unison.
“At a clinic over on Albina. There were 400 shots. I was number 394.”
We look at her longingly. Oh to be so confident and free of H1N1 panic, to be able to not spend half your day washing your hands into cracked, leathery gloves.
“I can’t believe how much I wanted to be her,” I tell Mr. Crud over dinner. “I felt overwhelmed.”
And who wouldn’t with the horror stories of dead mothers and fetuses coming fast and furious? Yesterday a locker room buddy, who didn’t yet know I am pregnant, tells me of a coworker who came down with the flu and who, at 7 months pregnant, might have to have a c-section to save her baby and herself. My alert level rises.
My acupuncturist tells me that she is stimulating my immune system during my last appointment. Thank G-d. I wash my hands. I drink tea more than ever before after reading that the warm water will deactivate the virus and send it to my stomach where stomach acids will kill it dead. At night I irrigate my nose like a good yogi with my neti pot. I wash my hands again. I wonder if I didn’t have H1N1 to stalk me, if it would be something else. Premature labor, birth defects, Purvis not kicking as much as he did yesterday all linger in the background worry pit of my psyche. I’m sure that one of them would have stepped up had I not had the flu to widen my eyes in mortal terror every now and then.
This morning the swine flu report is that more vaccines are on the way. Maybe by the time I have my appointment next week, a shot will await me at the doctor’s office. Alert level: low.
Thursday, October 29, 2009
The Pregnant Card
10-29-09
Yoga is sparsely attended. Instead of the usual 10 people in class, there are 5.
“Lots of attention for you guys today. Lucky you,” my teacher jokes.
He trains his eagle eye on me. First it’s the hellish wide-legged squat that he says will help strengthen my lazy, pain averse legs--I call them lazy, not him—and allow me to backbend to my heart’s content without the lower back pains that have plagued me the last few years. I squat. I breathe.
“Lower,” he says. He kneels beside me and holds his hand against my knee. “Press out.”
I lower and press and try to breathe through the howling in my inner thighs. This…is…good…for…me. Even my thoughts are panting. Every time I feel the pain amp up to grimace levels in yoga, I remind myself that an even more painful event is on the horizon, a mere 3 months and some change away. If I can’t stay centered and breathe through some screaming thigh pain, I’m screwed.
After 8 breaths, my hands fall to the floor. I straighten my legs. Sweet relief.
“Maybe try it again with your legs wider,” he says.
“Tomorrow,” I gulp.
He doesn’t smirk and wisecrack about how tomorrow may never come like he does with my yoga buddy, but mercifully lets me go on to the next pose and the next unbothered…until Warrior 1.
“Kt. Deeper,” he says, walking towards my mat.
“What does that mean?” I ask, knowing exactly what he means but not wanting to admit it. Deeper = more ouch.
“Your knee. Bend deeper.” Again he is kneeling beside me pressing my hand on the outside of my knee as he coaxes me lower into the bend. “Still not parallel to the floor,” he says.
I go farther, cursing my long legs that require such deep bending to get anywhere close to parallel, “Still not parallel.”
I lose my balance and fall to my hands.
“Oh your center of gravity is shifting,” he says.
I look up from my fallen warrior. “That and the 20 or so extra pounds I’m carrying,” I say.
“The extra human you’re carrying!” he says, pushing himself up to standing.
Thusly the unspoken has become spoken in yoga class: I have played the pregnant card. My teacher has gone easier on me since I gave him the news a few months ago. I no longer feel a churning gut before approaching a pose he’s been known to “help” me with, and I’ve enjoyed him telling me to take it easy. Not that I have much of a choice in the matter. I feel like I’m carrying around rocks in my pants. Plus Purvis likes kicking around during my yoga practice. I imagine her striking fetal poses along with having a few WTF is going on here moments.
At home I whip out the pregnant card with increasing ease.
“Can you do the dishes?” I ask Mr. Crud during our post-dinner plop on the couch.
“I like how you start rubbing your belly when you ask that.” He says.
I shrug. “A lady’s gotta do what a lady’s gotta do.” I rub some more.
The one area where I’ve yet to play the pregnant card is transportation. I’m still biking into work to the consternation of some of my coworkers.
“You sure you should still be biking?” An elder prof asks.
“Yup, my doctor says as long as it feels okay and it still feels okay.”
“You didn’t bike in today, did you?” My student worker asks on a particularly rainy and breezy morning.
“Aw yeah.”
I try not to get my panties in too much of a bunch over their concern. I know that they only want me and Purvis to be safe. They aren’t trying to tell me that I am careless or don’t know how to handle my own body. (Which is the bratty place my mind goes whenever I am offered “helpful” unsolicited advice about pregnancy.) I smile and nod and say, “I still have a few more weeks in me.”
I’m trying to make it to December although I am perfectly willing to bow out earlier should my body dictate it. I am slow on the bicycle, slower than I ever thought I would be. The Wicked Witch of the East passes me regularly and I don’t care. Whenever I am pedaling fast enough to pass someone I think, “Damn Sam, you just got served by a pregnant lady.”
In some ways I look forward to playing the pregnant card and buying a parking pass. It will be interesting to see how the other three-quarters live. I won’t miss the blowing rain, the soaked boots, and the final slog up the hill to my house in the afternoon. I will miss plenty though, most of all feeling like a tough girl.
“Darn, Kt. You’re burly,” my yoga teacher said on a particularly blustery, drenched morning.
And don’t you forget it. Well, until I’m practicing asana and then you should really go easy on me.
Yoga is sparsely attended. Instead of the usual 10 people in class, there are 5.
“Lots of attention for you guys today. Lucky you,” my teacher jokes.
He trains his eagle eye on me. First it’s the hellish wide-legged squat that he says will help strengthen my lazy, pain averse legs--I call them lazy, not him—and allow me to backbend to my heart’s content without the lower back pains that have plagued me the last few years. I squat. I breathe.
“Lower,” he says. He kneels beside me and holds his hand against my knee. “Press out.”
I lower and press and try to breathe through the howling in my inner thighs. This…is…good…for…me. Even my thoughts are panting. Every time I feel the pain amp up to grimace levels in yoga, I remind myself that an even more painful event is on the horizon, a mere 3 months and some change away. If I can’t stay centered and breathe through some screaming thigh pain, I’m screwed.
After 8 breaths, my hands fall to the floor. I straighten my legs. Sweet relief.
“Maybe try it again with your legs wider,” he says.
“Tomorrow,” I gulp.
He doesn’t smirk and wisecrack about how tomorrow may never come like he does with my yoga buddy, but mercifully lets me go on to the next pose and the next unbothered…until Warrior 1.
“Kt. Deeper,” he says, walking towards my mat.
“What does that mean?” I ask, knowing exactly what he means but not wanting to admit it. Deeper = more ouch.
“Your knee. Bend deeper.” Again he is kneeling beside me pressing my hand on the outside of my knee as he coaxes me lower into the bend. “Still not parallel to the floor,” he says.
I go farther, cursing my long legs that require such deep bending to get anywhere close to parallel, “Still not parallel.”
I lose my balance and fall to my hands.
“Oh your center of gravity is shifting,” he says.
I look up from my fallen warrior. “That and the 20 or so extra pounds I’m carrying,” I say.
“The extra human you’re carrying!” he says, pushing himself up to standing.
Thusly the unspoken has become spoken in yoga class: I have played the pregnant card. My teacher has gone easier on me since I gave him the news a few months ago. I no longer feel a churning gut before approaching a pose he’s been known to “help” me with, and I’ve enjoyed him telling me to take it easy. Not that I have much of a choice in the matter. I feel like I’m carrying around rocks in my pants. Plus Purvis likes kicking around during my yoga practice. I imagine her striking fetal poses along with having a few WTF is going on here moments.
At home I whip out the pregnant card with increasing ease.
“Can you do the dishes?” I ask Mr. Crud during our post-dinner plop on the couch.
“I like how you start rubbing your belly when you ask that.” He says.
I shrug. “A lady’s gotta do what a lady’s gotta do.” I rub some more.
The one area where I’ve yet to play the pregnant card is transportation. I’m still biking into work to the consternation of some of my coworkers.
“You sure you should still be biking?” An elder prof asks.
“Yup, my doctor says as long as it feels okay and it still feels okay.”
“You didn’t bike in today, did you?” My student worker asks on a particularly rainy and breezy morning.
“Aw yeah.”
I try not to get my panties in too much of a bunch over their concern. I know that they only want me and Purvis to be safe. They aren’t trying to tell me that I am careless or don’t know how to handle my own body. (Which is the bratty place my mind goes whenever I am offered “helpful” unsolicited advice about pregnancy.) I smile and nod and say, “I still have a few more weeks in me.”
I’m trying to make it to December although I am perfectly willing to bow out earlier should my body dictate it. I am slow on the bicycle, slower than I ever thought I would be. The Wicked Witch of the East passes me regularly and I don’t care. Whenever I am pedaling fast enough to pass someone I think, “Damn Sam, you just got served by a pregnant lady.”
In some ways I look forward to playing the pregnant card and buying a parking pass. It will be interesting to see how the other three-quarters live. I won’t miss the blowing rain, the soaked boots, and the final slog up the hill to my house in the afternoon. I will miss plenty though, most of all feeling like a tough girl.
“Darn, Kt. You’re burly,” my yoga teacher said on a particularly blustery, drenched morning.
And don’t you forget it. Well, until I’m practicing asana and then you should really go easy on me.
Thursday, October 22, 2009
Out and Proud
10-22-09
My heartbeat quickens as I type it. Finally, after all the hedging, the going back and forth--yes, today’s the day then no, I can’t, not yet--I type the Facebook status update that’s been rattling around in my brain: Kt Crud has one in the oven. There, I said it. Tis liberating in a strange way. Ever since ultrasound number 2 when had planned to start spreading the good word, I come up with reasons to not share the news with the social network-iverse. Oh, Purvis isn’t kicking much today. What if something is wrong? I don’t want to make all the ladies who’ve had miscarriages or struggle with fertility experience a bump of weirdness in their day.
Weekly Mr. Crud asks “So when are you going to tell Facebook?”
I shrug. “Tomorrow?”
I get a nudge in the sharing direction yesterday when several commenters to a seemingly non-preg-related post talk about my pregnancy. Aw hell, I think, but I’m not mad.
Last night at dinner Mr. Crud warns. “You’re being outed on Facebook.”
“I know, I know,” I say. “Looks like my time is up.”
I think of Ruby who outed herself long ago. If she can do it so can I. Deep breath. I take the leap. People respond with humor, kindness, and oodles of congrats. Mr. Crud is happy. I am happy. Purvis is having a particularly kicky day. I hope I don’t disappoint everyone.
The outings are coming fast and furious as my belly grows. I am still more of a Bactrian than a Dromedary (those not fluent in camel can google it) to my great dismay, but the humps are unmistakably pregnant rather than chub.
Yesterday it was a student.
“Are you pregnant?”
“Yep,” I say.
“Congratulations!”
“Wouldn’t it have been awkward if I had said no?” I say.
She nods vigorously.
I have to mess with at least one person: “No, I’m not pregnant. Why do you ask?”
My belly also attracts random eyes on the street. I wonder if some of the women are like me 6 months ago, scanning for all signs of pregnant life among the masses. The bump also attracted it’s first attempted belly-pat courtesy of my father-in-law during a visit last weekend.
He and I hug goodnight. His hand hovers around my belly and makes a patting sign. I pull back, mumbling “No touching.”
Not my most finessed response, but the first thing that comes to mind.
I am taking a hard-line stance with belly (and later) baby touching. I can’t go for that. No. No can do. It’s invasive and kind of creepy. I am not Buddha and my belly is my body, my choice. Two people have permission to rub—Mr. Crud and me. So far this hasn’t been a problem, but I hear from other pregnant ladies that the hands start to fly later in pregnancy. Perhaps a form of prenatal karate should be taught in all the childbirth classes, a section on belly self-defense included in What to Expect.
During their visit my mother-in-law announces. “I love shopping for baby clothes.”
Even though I know what is coming next, I’m still not prepared. The room tilts and tears spring to my eyes.
“Is it okay if I give you these now?” she asks, gathering two stuffed bags in her arms. She lives a plane ride away so this could be her only chance to shower us with baby gifts before the big day.
I nod. “Sure.” I swallow hard.
Mr. Crud squeezes my arm. “Are you sure? We don’t have to—“ he whispers.
“It’s okay,” I say.
If we talk about it anymore I will break down in sobs. I can get through this. I pep talk myself, remind myself of all the unpacked baby clothes in our basement. These are no different, right? My mother-in-law is so kind to us, her excitement at her coming grandchild barely contained. I can do this for her.
I pull what feels like 20 baby outfits from the bags. “How cute. Thank you so much,” I say after giving each a cursory examination. I hand them to Mr. Crud one by one for his chance to ooh and ah. I plunge my hand back in the bag. Plunge, smile, and hand off. Repeat.
Is this jinxing things? I keep thinking. What if we never get to see these clothes on anything but a hanger. What if something is wrong at this very minute? I try to breathe. I am pretty impressed that I am able to keep the tears from coming. I am on autopilot now, just waiting until the clothes end, the in-laws leave for the night, and I can collapse and cry in Mr. Crud’s arms.
The end finally comes.
“And that’s all that I could find in gender neutral colors,” my mother-in-law says. The unspoken being: why not just open the envelope already and find out girl or boy?
“Thank you. Thank you so much,” we say.
After the in-laws head out for the incredibly convenient guest house a few blocks from our house (Thank you, Bluebird!), I bury my head in Mr. Crud’s shoulder. “I didn’t know that would be so hard. I don’t know what’s wrong.”
He holds me tight and reminds me that as pregnant lady I have the right to get emotional over whatever I want. “You didn’t have to open them.”
“I know, but your mom was so excited. I didn’t want to spoil it for her.”
“Thank you,” he says.
“Put them away, okay?” I say.
He grabs the bags and puts them in his office closet. “I’m not ready for this,” I say.
“Is it the fear of losing Purvis or the reality that Purvis is coming that’s upsetting you?” He asks.
“Both.”
But mostly it’s the fear.
I tell my bro and sis-in-law of the baby clothes weirdness.
“Oo, it’s too early for that,” my sister-in-law says. “The Cruds fear a jinx.”
“Unfortunately we do.”
I have a feeling that Purvis’ nursery might be a last minute affair. That’s okay. I’m sure we’re not alone. Dr. Adorable suggested that we start looking for a car seat so that I can learn to install it before I’m too large and awkward. Because it is a prescription of sorts, I think I can handle the hunt for a car seat. But Purvis may have to sleep on the couch for a few weeks. And wear paper bags.
My heartbeat quickens as I type it. Finally, after all the hedging, the going back and forth--yes, today’s the day then no, I can’t, not yet--I type the Facebook status update that’s been rattling around in my brain: Kt Crud has one in the oven. There, I said it. Tis liberating in a strange way. Ever since ultrasound number 2 when had planned to start spreading the good word, I come up with reasons to not share the news with the social network-iverse. Oh, Purvis isn’t kicking much today. What if something is wrong? I don’t want to make all the ladies who’ve had miscarriages or struggle with fertility experience a bump of weirdness in their day.
Weekly Mr. Crud asks “So when are you going to tell Facebook?”
I shrug. “Tomorrow?”
I get a nudge in the sharing direction yesterday when several commenters to a seemingly non-preg-related post talk about my pregnancy. Aw hell, I think, but I’m not mad.
Last night at dinner Mr. Crud warns. “You’re being outed on Facebook.”
“I know, I know,” I say. “Looks like my time is up.”
I think of Ruby who outed herself long ago. If she can do it so can I. Deep breath. I take the leap. People respond with humor, kindness, and oodles of congrats. Mr. Crud is happy. I am happy. Purvis is having a particularly kicky day. I hope I don’t disappoint everyone.
The outings are coming fast and furious as my belly grows. I am still more of a Bactrian than a Dromedary (those not fluent in camel can google it) to my great dismay, but the humps are unmistakably pregnant rather than chub.
Yesterday it was a student.
“Are you pregnant?”
“Yep,” I say.
“Congratulations!”
“Wouldn’t it have been awkward if I had said no?” I say.
She nods vigorously.
I have to mess with at least one person: “No, I’m not pregnant. Why do you ask?”
My belly also attracts random eyes on the street. I wonder if some of the women are like me 6 months ago, scanning for all signs of pregnant life among the masses. The bump also attracted it’s first attempted belly-pat courtesy of my father-in-law during a visit last weekend.
He and I hug goodnight. His hand hovers around my belly and makes a patting sign. I pull back, mumbling “No touching.”
Not my most finessed response, but the first thing that comes to mind.
I am taking a hard-line stance with belly (and later) baby touching. I can’t go for that. No. No can do. It’s invasive and kind of creepy. I am not Buddha and my belly is my body, my choice. Two people have permission to rub—Mr. Crud and me. So far this hasn’t been a problem, but I hear from other pregnant ladies that the hands start to fly later in pregnancy. Perhaps a form of prenatal karate should be taught in all the childbirth classes, a section on belly self-defense included in What to Expect.
During their visit my mother-in-law announces. “I love shopping for baby clothes.”
Even though I know what is coming next, I’m still not prepared. The room tilts and tears spring to my eyes.
“Is it okay if I give you these now?” she asks, gathering two stuffed bags in her arms. She lives a plane ride away so this could be her only chance to shower us with baby gifts before the big day.
I nod. “Sure.” I swallow hard.
Mr. Crud squeezes my arm. “Are you sure? We don’t have to—“ he whispers.
“It’s okay,” I say.
If we talk about it anymore I will break down in sobs. I can get through this. I pep talk myself, remind myself of all the unpacked baby clothes in our basement. These are no different, right? My mother-in-law is so kind to us, her excitement at her coming grandchild barely contained. I can do this for her.
I pull what feels like 20 baby outfits from the bags. “How cute. Thank you so much,” I say after giving each a cursory examination. I hand them to Mr. Crud one by one for his chance to ooh and ah. I plunge my hand back in the bag. Plunge, smile, and hand off. Repeat.
Is this jinxing things? I keep thinking. What if we never get to see these clothes on anything but a hanger. What if something is wrong at this very minute? I try to breathe. I am pretty impressed that I am able to keep the tears from coming. I am on autopilot now, just waiting until the clothes end, the in-laws leave for the night, and I can collapse and cry in Mr. Crud’s arms.
The end finally comes.
“And that’s all that I could find in gender neutral colors,” my mother-in-law says. The unspoken being: why not just open the envelope already and find out girl or boy?
“Thank you. Thank you so much,” we say.
After the in-laws head out for the incredibly convenient guest house a few blocks from our house (Thank you, Bluebird!), I bury my head in Mr. Crud’s shoulder. “I didn’t know that would be so hard. I don’t know what’s wrong.”
He holds me tight and reminds me that as pregnant lady I have the right to get emotional over whatever I want. “You didn’t have to open them.”
“I know, but your mom was so excited. I didn’t want to spoil it for her.”
“Thank you,” he says.
“Put them away, okay?” I say.
He grabs the bags and puts them in his office closet. “I’m not ready for this,” I say.
“Is it the fear of losing Purvis or the reality that Purvis is coming that’s upsetting you?” He asks.
“Both.”
But mostly it’s the fear.
I tell my bro and sis-in-law of the baby clothes weirdness.
“Oo, it’s too early for that,” my sister-in-law says. “The Cruds fear a jinx.”
“Unfortunately we do.”
I have a feeling that Purvis’ nursery might be a last minute affair. That’s okay. I’m sure we’re not alone. Dr. Adorable suggested that we start looking for a car seat so that I can learn to install it before I’m too large and awkward. Because it is a prescription of sorts, I think I can handle the hunt for a car seat. But Purvis may have to sleep on the couch for a few weeks. And wear paper bags.
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
I'm Coming Out
10-8-09
She extends her manicured hand, “Hi, I’m Lisa. Due February 20th. Girl.”
I shake. “Hi. Kt. Due February 1st. Don’t know.” I stumble over my tale of the magic envelope which still remains on my desk, which could at any moment, at the slightest tear, unlock Purvis’ gender mystery.
We go around the circle of 4, giving our preg-stats before our pre-natal Pilates teacher arrives.
I am the most pregnant here date-wise, but Lisa looks months more pregnant than me. She has the smooth round bump that I covet and the accompanying sway-back that I don’t. Lisa is the most Sex and the City of the women in class, this my first formal entrance into the pregnancy industrial complex. The other 2 women are low-key semi-hippie Southeast ladies who—gasp—look my age or—gasp—a year or 2 my senior. Before attending this class, I hadn’t considered that I might be the elder of the group, but now that I am here, I feel a slight relief that I am not doing kegels among the young and bouncy. Mr. Crud points out that the spa where I’m taking the class isn’t exactly targeted at the young and bouncy.
I start to contemplate further adventures in preg-land. All my books tell me that each new pregnancy class, be it yoga or childbirth preparation brings opportunities for new friendships. As we leg lift our saddlebags away in Pilates, I wonder if any of these women will become partners-in-pregnancy and newborn commiseration. Lisa is not likely. She reminds me too much of the popular girls from middle school. Nice to your face, but behind closed doors let the cutting begin. Women like Lisa simultaneously scare me and make me want to please them just so that I will be the one to bask in the glory of their snarky light. The hippie-ish women don’t seem quite my speed either though maybe they are just shy. Where are my aging rockers? My ladies of the wine glass? A lot of pressure for a mere pre-natal Pilates class, I know.
In a way I look forward to being with other pregnant ladies, to sharing rolled eyes at the constant fucking heartburn and midnight trips to the bathroom. (My trip is currently a long haul to the basement while our bathroom is being remodeled. What I do so that Purvis will never know the horror of the previous owner’s penchant for peeling linoleum and inability to do any home improvement project that exceeds the half-assed benchmark.) But I’m a terrible joiner. Even when it’s an activity like writing or yoga or feminism that I love and truly believe in. Witness Wordstock, a local literary extravaganza held a few minutes from my humble abode. Writers and enthusiastic readers converge on the Portland Convention Center for 2 days of readings, workshops, and an endless line of literature-related booths. And will I attend this event so custom-made for a writer like me? No way. Why? I have a hard time explaining. On one hand I get depressed being around so many aspiring writers. There are millions of us. I am deluding myself if I ever think that I’ll get published and make any sort of living out of this writing game. On the other hand, I am snobby: so pathetic are all the yearning smiles, all the small talk and name dropping of publications. (Perhaps if I had my own record of publication to name drop, I’d be a bit more amenable.) I don’t like to stick out, but I do like to feel unique and joining these groups based on writing or pregnancy make me feel alienated if I don’t immediately feel a sense of kinship and belonging, a feeling which usually only comes quickly after a martini or two. (Oh martinis, how I miss thee.)
So, per usual, I will bring more drama to my Pilates class than the average bear.
Yesterday in the locker room one of my buddies turns to me. “You’re looking more round than the last time I saw you,” says BJ, the 70-something swimmer who gives me hope for an active old lady-hood.
“That’s because I’m pregnant,” I say.
The other buddies offer their congrats and pepper me with questions about whether I am feeling sick (“Nope, I’m past that stage now.”) and craving pickles and ice cream (“Nope, just normal food and a lot of it.”).
I tell Mr. Crud. “I was outed.”
“Me too. In the main office. My boss said something.”
“Everyone was cool, right?” I ask.
“Yeah, everyone was really nice. I don’t know why I still feel weird about it.”
“I do too.”
I am getting more comfortable with being pregnant and coming to terms with the fact that I am starting to look pregnant, but still there’s the nagging fear that spreading the news will jinx us. Sometimes I tell somebody of my pregnancy and immediately imagine telling them that we’ve had a miscarriage—technically a stillbirth at this stage in the game. The thought doesn’t instantly send me into a terror spiral. It’s more like a snag in a sweater. Plus there’s the added dimension of having to talk about it with people I don’t know that well. Since I announced my pregnancy at work, various coworkers have come to my window. “How are you doing?”
“Well, thanks. And you?”
“I mean with your—“ they point to my belly or create a phantom belly by rounding their hand over their midsections.
“Oh good thanks. So far so good.”
“You feeling sick?”
“Nope, I’m past that already.”
Something in my brisk tone tells them to drop it and most do. I change the subject with work-related inquiries. How are classes going? Good students this term? Maybe I’m just afraid that I will quickly detour into the well-traveled land of TMI. (“Well, I’m doing pretty well today. I could actually take a shit that didn’t leave me howling in pain. A pleasant change.”)
There’s always the shared terror of the Swine Flu to provide conversational fodder. Yes, I’ve read the pros and cons and I’m going for the vaccine, anti-vaccine conspiracy theories be damned.
And Purvis? She’s still kicking away. No pattern yet so he keeps me on my toes and gives me the occasional fright when a few hours have passed without a jab in the gut. Tomorrow we see Dr. Adorable for a (hopeful) dose of well-being. I look forward to the relieved exhale and weeklong sense of confident well-being when we hear the heartbeat.
RANDOM: A middle finger to Nicole Richie and her fashion line for the pregnant ladies whose upper size limit is 12. Really didn't need to be made to feel like an outcast while in preg-land. May your lack of consideration for the regular-sized women of the world doom your flowy dresses to failure.
She extends her manicured hand, “Hi, I’m Lisa. Due February 20th. Girl.”
I shake. “Hi. Kt. Due February 1st. Don’t know.” I stumble over my tale of the magic envelope which still remains on my desk, which could at any moment, at the slightest tear, unlock Purvis’ gender mystery.
We go around the circle of 4, giving our preg-stats before our pre-natal Pilates teacher arrives.
I am the most pregnant here date-wise, but Lisa looks months more pregnant than me. She has the smooth round bump that I covet and the accompanying sway-back that I don’t. Lisa is the most Sex and the City of the women in class, this my first formal entrance into the pregnancy industrial complex. The other 2 women are low-key semi-hippie Southeast ladies who—gasp—look my age or—gasp—a year or 2 my senior. Before attending this class, I hadn’t considered that I might be the elder of the group, but now that I am here, I feel a slight relief that I am not doing kegels among the young and bouncy. Mr. Crud points out that the spa where I’m taking the class isn’t exactly targeted at the young and bouncy.
I start to contemplate further adventures in preg-land. All my books tell me that each new pregnancy class, be it yoga or childbirth preparation brings opportunities for new friendships. As we leg lift our saddlebags away in Pilates, I wonder if any of these women will become partners-in-pregnancy and newborn commiseration. Lisa is not likely. She reminds me too much of the popular girls from middle school. Nice to your face, but behind closed doors let the cutting begin. Women like Lisa simultaneously scare me and make me want to please them just so that I will be the one to bask in the glory of their snarky light. The hippie-ish women don’t seem quite my speed either though maybe they are just shy. Where are my aging rockers? My ladies of the wine glass? A lot of pressure for a mere pre-natal Pilates class, I know.
In a way I look forward to being with other pregnant ladies, to sharing rolled eyes at the constant fucking heartburn and midnight trips to the bathroom. (My trip is currently a long haul to the basement while our bathroom is being remodeled. What I do so that Purvis will never know the horror of the previous owner’s penchant for peeling linoleum and inability to do any home improvement project that exceeds the half-assed benchmark.) But I’m a terrible joiner. Even when it’s an activity like writing or yoga or feminism that I love and truly believe in. Witness Wordstock, a local literary extravaganza held a few minutes from my humble abode. Writers and enthusiastic readers converge on the Portland Convention Center for 2 days of readings, workshops, and an endless line of literature-related booths. And will I attend this event so custom-made for a writer like me? No way. Why? I have a hard time explaining. On one hand I get depressed being around so many aspiring writers. There are millions of us. I am deluding myself if I ever think that I’ll get published and make any sort of living out of this writing game. On the other hand, I am snobby: so pathetic are all the yearning smiles, all the small talk and name dropping of publications. (Perhaps if I had my own record of publication to name drop, I’d be a bit more amenable.) I don’t like to stick out, but I do like to feel unique and joining these groups based on writing or pregnancy make me feel alienated if I don’t immediately feel a sense of kinship and belonging, a feeling which usually only comes quickly after a martini or two. (Oh martinis, how I miss thee.)
So, per usual, I will bring more drama to my Pilates class than the average bear.
Yesterday in the locker room one of my buddies turns to me. “You’re looking more round than the last time I saw you,” says BJ, the 70-something swimmer who gives me hope for an active old lady-hood.
“That’s because I’m pregnant,” I say.
The other buddies offer their congrats and pepper me with questions about whether I am feeling sick (“Nope, I’m past that stage now.”) and craving pickles and ice cream (“Nope, just normal food and a lot of it.”).
I tell Mr. Crud. “I was outed.”
“Me too. In the main office. My boss said something.”
“Everyone was cool, right?” I ask.
“Yeah, everyone was really nice. I don’t know why I still feel weird about it.”
“I do too.”
I am getting more comfortable with being pregnant and coming to terms with the fact that I am starting to look pregnant, but still there’s the nagging fear that spreading the news will jinx us. Sometimes I tell somebody of my pregnancy and immediately imagine telling them that we’ve had a miscarriage—technically a stillbirth at this stage in the game. The thought doesn’t instantly send me into a terror spiral. It’s more like a snag in a sweater. Plus there’s the added dimension of having to talk about it with people I don’t know that well. Since I announced my pregnancy at work, various coworkers have come to my window. “How are you doing?”
“Well, thanks. And you?”
“I mean with your—“ they point to my belly or create a phantom belly by rounding their hand over their midsections.
“Oh good thanks. So far so good.”
“You feeling sick?”
“Nope, I’m past that already.”
Something in my brisk tone tells them to drop it and most do. I change the subject with work-related inquiries. How are classes going? Good students this term? Maybe I’m just afraid that I will quickly detour into the well-traveled land of TMI. (“Well, I’m doing pretty well today. I could actually take a shit that didn’t leave me howling in pain. A pleasant change.”)
There’s always the shared terror of the Swine Flu to provide conversational fodder. Yes, I’ve read the pros and cons and I’m going for the vaccine, anti-vaccine conspiracy theories be damned.
And Purvis? She’s still kicking away. No pattern yet so he keeps me on my toes and gives me the occasional fright when a few hours have passed without a jab in the gut. Tomorrow we see Dr. Adorable for a (hopeful) dose of well-being. I look forward to the relieved exhale and weeklong sense of confident well-being when we hear the heartbeat.
RANDOM: A middle finger to Nicole Richie and her fashion line for the pregnant ladies whose upper size limit is 12. Really didn't need to be made to feel like an outcast while in preg-land. May your lack of consideration for the regular-sized women of the world doom your flowy dresses to failure.
Friday, October 2, 2009
Knowing Me is Knowing You*
10-1-09
Whenever I start to sense a pattern in Purvis’ movement schedule, she switches up on me again. Just keeping me on my toes. How I adore those little jabs and pokes in the gut region like my sweet fetus is saying, “Hey lady, it’s okay. I’m just kicking around in here.”
Yes, lady. Not Mom.
The word Mom is freaking me out right now. Last week Mr. Crud and I meet with our friendly Human Resources rep to help us navigate the wilds of the Family Medical Leave Act (FMLA) and the Oregon Medical Leave Act (OFLA). The Crud dream is that I will take leave starting with my due date, February 1, until the end of spring term so that we don’t have to contend with finding child-care for a 3-month-old. Mr. Crud’s department chair suggested he take the winter quarter off from his teaching job since our due date falls right in the middle. He’s not much use to his department or students if he’s MIA for half the quarter.
As Friendly HR Rep walks us through the maze of leave choices, she referred to us as Mom and Dad.
“Mom will take OFLA for the first 6 weeks then switch to FMLA for the next 12 while Dad is taking his OFLA.”
Every time she said Mom I pictured my own Mom. She is The Mom.
After our head-spinning meeting, where we did figure out a way to theoretically live the dream if our savings account can hold out for a few months sans paycheck, Mr. Crud squeezes my hand.
“Did it weird you out when she called you ‘Mom?’”
“Totally. I don’t see myself as a mom. I can do Dad, I think. I’ve already got that Superdad t-shirt.” One of my favorite t-shirts of all time in fact. Superdad is emblazoned across the chest in sparlkly rainbow puffy letters.
“It is Portland. Purvis can have 2 dads.” Mr. Crud says.
“That won’t be at all confusing for him.”
I have a few months yet to get comfortable with Mom. Maybe it’s my internalized sexism that sends me into an ick spiral when I hear the word. There are so many examples of awesome coolio mothers in the world. Now I can join their ranks, right? Other mothers have told me there is nothing as sweet as hearing your little one call say “Mom.” I’m sure I’ll get accustomed to the idea. But part of me is bothered that I am so bothered by it. Like what kind of feminist am I to have such a visceral reaction to the word Mom?
And now a moment to digress. I wish that I lived in France where maternity leave is salaried, where nurses come to check up on you after you give birth paid in full by the government. Or Sweden. A full year of paid maternity leave. Civilized, isn’t it?
And now a second moment to digress. I am now questioning our decision that Mr. Crud and I both stay home with Purvis during the first few months. Mr. Crud’s parents and my mom voiced concern when we told them of our dream scheme to spend some QT as a new family during Purvis’ first few months of being a Crud.
“What if you get appendicitis and don’t have any sick leave left?” Mr. Crud’s mother asked after he explained that he’d be forced to take all of his sick leave.
“Then I’ll take time off and get better,” he said.
“Will Mr. Crud still have a job to come back to?” My mom asked.
Sarcastic teenager in me longed to spit back, “No, we were planning on moving in with you,” but I remained mature. “That’s what family leave means. Both of our jobs are secure.”
The apparent parental worry over our plans sent us both into a furrowed brow tizzy. “I really didn’t need that,” Mr. Crud said. “I needed some support here.”
“Yeah, I know. I thought they’d be happy for us. Is our plan really so bad?”
We are both first children, first children who battled hard for our independence from our parents but who both hunger for their approval to a degree that pisses us off.
“They didn’t have maternity leave for men when they had us. We should keep that in mind.” Mr. Crud says.
I agree. But every once in a while my hackles raise. Who the hell are they to question our decision? Then I get a little conspiracy on the whole thing: Oh maybe they don’t want Mr. Crud to stay at home so I’ll need to ask the grandmas to come and help out. Hmmm…could be. I am still waiting to consult with my peers on this question. Speak up peer parents if you have some wisdom of wisdom to share on the question of who stays home during the first few months of baby-raising. Tag-teaming sounds like the way to go.
The same day that we meet with Friendly HR Rep, I turn in our application for daycare. Eeeee!!!! I put off turning it in as I was dogged by lingering fears that by turning in an application to daycare that I was jinxing my pregnancy. My jinx fears have also kept me from posting a pregnancy declaration on my Facebook page. It’s a hard line to walk between the fear of the jinx and being responsible. I negotiate it everyday. Responsibility seems to be in the lead. We are signed up for childbirth prep classes and Mr. Crud has started to read The Expectant Father, a longtime member of the pregnancy section of our bookshelf neglected out of fear of the pregnancy jinx. (My favorite Expectant Father tip to support the preg ladies: “Offer back and foot rubs.” Yes, offer, but do not give. Nicely done, expectant father.)
Milestones:
• I had my first dream of giving birth. In it, I was carrying Purvis in a kangaroo type pocket and she—in the dream she was a baby girl—just slipped out when I was bending over to pick something up. No blood or gore, just a dangling umbilical cord. Wow, that wasn’t too bad, I thought. “Maybe it’ll be like that in real life,” Mr. Crud says. I’ve started to read up on birth and I’m thinking the answer to that hopeful maybe is not bloody likely.
• The word is getting out. I got my first word of congrats from a yoga buddy this morning. Not easy to hide the bump (another word that gets on my nerves for some reason) with skintight yoga pants. I have more of a blob than a bump thought. During a fire drill a coworker let it slip that I was pregnant—yeah, I’m still not quite sure how to slip it into conversation with acquaintances—in front of a woman I’ve known for years who also works at the university. “I was wondering about that!” she said. Apparently my loose-fitting shirts are not as camouflaging as I thought. I’m not quite as clever at concealing my growing girth although most pregnant ladies agree that I’m not showing much for my 22 weeks. Such is the blessing of being a 6-foot tall, wide-hipped woman.
* Ever since Fernando was put under name consideration, my head has been on an ABBA loop. I’m wondering if the ABBA that I play as I do dishes and cook up Crispix mix will be the music that soothes a fussy Purvis. ABBA or Terry Gross’ dulcet tones.
Whenever I start to sense a pattern in Purvis’ movement schedule, she switches up on me again. Just keeping me on my toes. How I adore those little jabs and pokes in the gut region like my sweet fetus is saying, “Hey lady, it’s okay. I’m just kicking around in here.”
Yes, lady. Not Mom.
The word Mom is freaking me out right now. Last week Mr. Crud and I meet with our friendly Human Resources rep to help us navigate the wilds of the Family Medical Leave Act (FMLA) and the Oregon Medical Leave Act (OFLA). The Crud dream is that I will take leave starting with my due date, February 1, until the end of spring term so that we don’t have to contend with finding child-care for a 3-month-old. Mr. Crud’s department chair suggested he take the winter quarter off from his teaching job since our due date falls right in the middle. He’s not much use to his department or students if he’s MIA for half the quarter.
As Friendly HR Rep walks us through the maze of leave choices, she referred to us as Mom and Dad.
“Mom will take OFLA for the first 6 weeks then switch to FMLA for the next 12 while Dad is taking his OFLA.”
Every time she said Mom I pictured my own Mom. She is The Mom.
After our head-spinning meeting, where we did figure out a way to theoretically live the dream if our savings account can hold out for a few months sans paycheck, Mr. Crud squeezes my hand.
“Did it weird you out when she called you ‘Mom?’”
“Totally. I don’t see myself as a mom. I can do Dad, I think. I’ve already got that Superdad t-shirt.” One of my favorite t-shirts of all time in fact. Superdad is emblazoned across the chest in sparlkly rainbow puffy letters.
“It is Portland. Purvis can have 2 dads.” Mr. Crud says.
“That won’t be at all confusing for him.”
I have a few months yet to get comfortable with Mom. Maybe it’s my internalized sexism that sends me into an ick spiral when I hear the word. There are so many examples of awesome coolio mothers in the world. Now I can join their ranks, right? Other mothers have told me there is nothing as sweet as hearing your little one call say “Mom.” I’m sure I’ll get accustomed to the idea. But part of me is bothered that I am so bothered by it. Like what kind of feminist am I to have such a visceral reaction to the word Mom?
And now a moment to digress. I wish that I lived in France where maternity leave is salaried, where nurses come to check up on you after you give birth paid in full by the government. Or Sweden. A full year of paid maternity leave. Civilized, isn’t it?
And now a second moment to digress. I am now questioning our decision that Mr. Crud and I both stay home with Purvis during the first few months. Mr. Crud’s parents and my mom voiced concern when we told them of our dream scheme to spend some QT as a new family during Purvis’ first few months of being a Crud.
“What if you get appendicitis and don’t have any sick leave left?” Mr. Crud’s mother asked after he explained that he’d be forced to take all of his sick leave.
“Then I’ll take time off and get better,” he said.
“Will Mr. Crud still have a job to come back to?” My mom asked.
Sarcastic teenager in me longed to spit back, “No, we were planning on moving in with you,” but I remained mature. “That’s what family leave means. Both of our jobs are secure.”
The apparent parental worry over our plans sent us both into a furrowed brow tizzy. “I really didn’t need that,” Mr. Crud said. “I needed some support here.”
“Yeah, I know. I thought they’d be happy for us. Is our plan really so bad?”
We are both first children, first children who battled hard for our independence from our parents but who both hunger for their approval to a degree that pisses us off.
“They didn’t have maternity leave for men when they had us. We should keep that in mind.” Mr. Crud says.
I agree. But every once in a while my hackles raise. Who the hell are they to question our decision? Then I get a little conspiracy on the whole thing: Oh maybe they don’t want Mr. Crud to stay at home so I’ll need to ask the grandmas to come and help out. Hmmm…could be. I am still waiting to consult with my peers on this question. Speak up peer parents if you have some wisdom of wisdom to share on the question of who stays home during the first few months of baby-raising. Tag-teaming sounds like the way to go.
The same day that we meet with Friendly HR Rep, I turn in our application for daycare. Eeeee!!!! I put off turning it in as I was dogged by lingering fears that by turning in an application to daycare that I was jinxing my pregnancy. My jinx fears have also kept me from posting a pregnancy declaration on my Facebook page. It’s a hard line to walk between the fear of the jinx and being responsible. I negotiate it everyday. Responsibility seems to be in the lead. We are signed up for childbirth prep classes and Mr. Crud has started to read The Expectant Father, a longtime member of the pregnancy section of our bookshelf neglected out of fear of the pregnancy jinx. (My favorite Expectant Father tip to support the preg ladies: “Offer back and foot rubs.” Yes, offer, but do not give. Nicely done, expectant father.)
Milestones:
• I had my first dream of giving birth. In it, I was carrying Purvis in a kangaroo type pocket and she—in the dream she was a baby girl—just slipped out when I was bending over to pick something up. No blood or gore, just a dangling umbilical cord. Wow, that wasn’t too bad, I thought. “Maybe it’ll be like that in real life,” Mr. Crud says. I’ve started to read up on birth and I’m thinking the answer to that hopeful maybe is not bloody likely.
• The word is getting out. I got my first word of congrats from a yoga buddy this morning. Not easy to hide the bump (another word that gets on my nerves for some reason) with skintight yoga pants. I have more of a blob than a bump thought. During a fire drill a coworker let it slip that I was pregnant—yeah, I’m still not quite sure how to slip it into conversation with acquaintances—in front of a woman I’ve known for years who also works at the university. “I was wondering about that!” she said. Apparently my loose-fitting shirts are not as camouflaging as I thought. I’m not quite as clever at concealing my growing girth although most pregnant ladies agree that I’m not showing much for my 22 weeks. Such is the blessing of being a 6-foot tall, wide-hipped woman.
* Ever since Fernando was put under name consideration, my head has been on an ABBA loop. I’m wondering if the ABBA that I play as I do dishes and cook up Crispix mix will be the music that soothes a fussy Purvis. ABBA or Terry Gross’ dulcet tones.
Thursday, October 1, 2009
Creaky Old Lady Pregnant Body
9-18-09
(Yup, I did it again. I let pesky work get in the way of my documenting every thought and emotion about pregnancy and Purvis. Bad, bad blogger.)
So my post-ultrasound confidence lasted all of one week this time. Woo hoo. Wednesday morning I was struck with insecurity about Purvis’ movements or seeming lack thereof. Did I feel her kick or was that just gas? I wait a second. Poot. Oh, okay, that was gas. Right now that is how I differentiate between what I theorize to be Purvis and gas. (And boy do I got gas as is the way of the pregnant digestive system.) When I feel the kicky-jabby sensation in my belly with no farty trace, it’s Purvis trying out some moves. Otherwise I’m Gaseous Clay.
I spend all day reading up on the quickening. (This term makes me squirmy. It sounds like a horror movie or a Lifetime movie with Tori Spelling.) A pregnant lady usually can feel her little one’s first kicks and jabs between the 17th and 22nd week. I shouldn’t worry if I haven’t felt Purvis move in awhile. He’s a tiny thing. She may be moving without jabbing my innards. I take a deep breath and return to my mostly okay with a dash of apprehension state, a state not exclusive to members of Miscarriage World.
Body Changes that May or May Not Be Related to Pregnancy:
• My f-ing back is f-ed up again. Shitfuckhell. I noticed the first twinge a mere day after telling my massage therapist how awesome my back had been feeling since becoming pregnant, sharing my theory that the hormones had relaxed whatever tension there was lurking in my normally tricky low back region. Oh yes, seems I spoke too soon. The next day I was greeted with a familiar twinge. Then I went on vacation and the twinge compounded after I engaged in some unwise lifting of my adorable niece. For the next two weeks every step rated on the pain chart from merely uncomfortable to breathtakingly painful. I popped Tylenol like never before and crossed my fingers that this wouldn’t harm Purvis. (Dr. Adorable said it was fine.) Then part of my leg went numb. Nice. The doula theory: the hormones are relaxing ligaments like nuts, which along with my gaining and shifting weight is interrupting my delicate equilibrium. The chiropractor theory: a pinched nerve in my lumbar spine. The back pain is improving poco a poco, but a little to pokey for my tastes.
• I keep biting my lower lip when I eat causing much blood to gush on each bite of my meal. Is pregnancy having a plumping effect on my kisser? Must women who get Cortisone injections constantly monitor their bite technique?
• My TMJ jaw has gotten knocked askew. Pregnancy hormones?
• I can eat and eat and eat with impunity. Somehow I’m not feeling the full sensation that used to cue me to stop with the food shoveling. Pregnancy related or willful ignoring of feelings of fullness since eating is my big oral pleasure now that martinis and cigarettes are off the menu.
• Weird bright red unpimpley blemish near my eye, making me look like I’ve been weeping out of one eye or else wearing pink eyeshadow. Mr. Crud encourages me to make up the other eye to match so as to look like a Duran Duran video vixen.
(Yup, I did it again. I let pesky work get in the way of my documenting every thought and emotion about pregnancy and Purvis. Bad, bad blogger.)
So my post-ultrasound confidence lasted all of one week this time. Woo hoo. Wednesday morning I was struck with insecurity about Purvis’ movements or seeming lack thereof. Did I feel her kick or was that just gas? I wait a second. Poot. Oh, okay, that was gas. Right now that is how I differentiate between what I theorize to be Purvis and gas. (And boy do I got gas as is the way of the pregnant digestive system.) When I feel the kicky-jabby sensation in my belly with no farty trace, it’s Purvis trying out some moves. Otherwise I’m Gaseous Clay.
I spend all day reading up on the quickening. (This term makes me squirmy. It sounds like a horror movie or a Lifetime movie with Tori Spelling.) A pregnant lady usually can feel her little one’s first kicks and jabs between the 17th and 22nd week. I shouldn’t worry if I haven’t felt Purvis move in awhile. He’s a tiny thing. She may be moving without jabbing my innards. I take a deep breath and return to my mostly okay with a dash of apprehension state, a state not exclusive to members of Miscarriage World.
Body Changes that May or May Not Be Related to Pregnancy:
• My f-ing back is f-ed up again. Shitfuckhell. I noticed the first twinge a mere day after telling my massage therapist how awesome my back had been feeling since becoming pregnant, sharing my theory that the hormones had relaxed whatever tension there was lurking in my normally tricky low back region. Oh yes, seems I spoke too soon. The next day I was greeted with a familiar twinge. Then I went on vacation and the twinge compounded after I engaged in some unwise lifting of my adorable niece. For the next two weeks every step rated on the pain chart from merely uncomfortable to breathtakingly painful. I popped Tylenol like never before and crossed my fingers that this wouldn’t harm Purvis. (Dr. Adorable said it was fine.) Then part of my leg went numb. Nice. The doula theory: the hormones are relaxing ligaments like nuts, which along with my gaining and shifting weight is interrupting my delicate equilibrium. The chiropractor theory: a pinched nerve in my lumbar spine. The back pain is improving poco a poco, but a little to pokey for my tastes.
• I keep biting my lower lip when I eat causing much blood to gush on each bite of my meal. Is pregnancy having a plumping effect on my kisser? Must women who get Cortisone injections constantly monitor their bite technique?
• My TMJ jaw has gotten knocked askew. Pregnancy hormones?
• I can eat and eat and eat with impunity. Somehow I’m not feeling the full sensation that used to cue me to stop with the food shoveling. Pregnancy related or willful ignoring of feelings of fullness since eating is my big oral pleasure now that martinis and cigarettes are off the menu.
• Weird bright red unpimpley blemish near my eye, making me look like I’ve been weeping out of one eye or else wearing pink eyeshadow. Mr. Crud encourages me to make up the other eye to match so as to look like a Duran Duran video vixen.
Monday, September 14, 2009
20 Down, 20 To Go
9-14-09
A lovely vacation and the subsequent work and life catch-up has kept me from the exhaustive (exhausting?) chronicling of pregnancy, but I’ll do my best to catch up and get back on track in this one mere mortal post. Wish me luck.
First of all, I just stepped over the 20-week threshold today. Halfway there! Also no longer in the miscarriage zone.
Last night as Mr. Crud and I chat before bed I say, “As of tomorrow I can no longer have a miscarriage.”
“Really?’ he asks, sitting up a bit.
“Yeah, from here on out it would be considered a stillbirth,” I say.
He slumps. “Oh. Great?”
Yeah, not so great, but still something. A friend of mine experienced a stillbirth and in my miscarriage research I’ve read heartbreaking stories of stillbirth, but they are far less common than miscarriage. I take my comfort where I can get it. Right now after having a good anatomy screen ultrasound (I marvel at the technician’s skill. How does that blob look like a kidney to you? And that hole an eye? The ultrasound was pretty cool, but I did not find myself cooing over how cute a 19-week old Purvis is. No, s/he looked more like a dinosaur to me.) and an all-signs-point-to-yes doctor’s appointment, I’ve got a spring in my step. Post-ultrasound I awoke in the middle of the night—got the midnight pee breaks down to one, yahoo!—and couldn’t get back to sleep out of excitement. This is really happening! I can start telling people I’m pregnant without that “but…” clogging my throat. I finally settled down enough to get a few more zzz-s, but the giddiness and sweet feeling of calm and well-being persists. (Probably the reason I’m not ripping my hair out because of a recent possibly pregnancy-related back injury. Thank you, hormones.)
Now our attention has turned to more important matters like what in the heck are we going to name Purvis? We did not find out the sex during the ultrasound. Well, we sort of didn’t find out the sex. After much deliberation and listing of pros and cons, Mr. Crud and I concluded that we definitely weren’t sure if we wanted to know the sex before Purvis’ birth. My compromise was to have the technician—not Super Tall Ultrasound Dude this time, but smiley young lady technician—write down the sex on a piece of paper. She went an extra step, aiding and abetting our indecision, by writing it on a post-it then covering that post-it with another post-it with “Answer inside” written on it, then sealing it in an envelope. An envelope. which beckons to me from the center of my desk.
“So when are you going to open it?” My doula asks.
“I don’t know. Mr. Crud’s new plan is to bring the envelope with us to the hospital and open it right before I give birth.”
“Great idea!”
I am the main proponent of not wanting to find out. I like the mystery. I like creating long lists of baby names for both sexes and not knowing which of them will get a chance at bat. On a more practical level, I want to avoid receiving a mountain of pink or blue baby things as much as possible. (Oh the assumptions I make about all the friends I’ve been neglecting the last few months. I’ll be lucky if we get a card.) I can be a bit sensitive about gender issues, but who knows what cues set into motion the masculine/feminine cage? A pink booty might just get us off on the wrong foot, sending Purvis into a princess spiral from which we’ll never recover.
Mr. Crud’s reasons for wanting to know are more practical: if it’s a boy we’ll need to plan a bris; we can be more targeted in our hunt for the perfect name; and the myriad of planning issues that come into play. Still, he kind of relishes the mystery too.
So our hunt for the perfect name of both sexes continues. Criteria:
• Must be unique but not too unique, i.e. no funny spellings of common names;
• Must have lots of nickname possibilities (as a person whose had 2 names all my life, I want to share a nickname-able moniker with my offspring.);
• Must be easy to spell (As a person whose name can be spelled many different ways, I want to spare Purvis the same fate):
• Must have a good song (All I have is the “Ballad of Katie” by the Hothouse Flowers, a horror that I have to live with every day of my life.)
We’ve come up with a ton of girl’s names that fit the criteria, but no real strong boy contenders, which is a bit of a problem because my spidey sense tells me that Purvis is a boy. (Also my mom dreamed I had a boy so what more proof do you need?) We have begun consulting websites, but still no clear leaders. Suggestions?
Next on our list of concerns is childbirth classes. So far I’ve found a good yoga for birth one, and a basic class offered by the hospital, but we can’t decide what more we need. Lamaze? The Bradley Method? Birthing from Within? (Actually we have decided against Birthing from Within on the advice of our doula. It sounds like it doesn’t match our personalities. We strive not to be cynical dicks who ruin the party for everyone else when possible.) I can’t quite believe that I’m at the point where I need to sign up for a class. Part of me still feels like I am jinxing something to sign up, but that kind of thinking will leave us class-less and clueless. Mr. Crud on the other hand wants to be signed up now, now, now. Somewhere between his urgency and my reticence, I hope we will meet and find something that will tell us what the heck exactly is going to be happening to my body in another 20 weeks or so. And I sure hope the birth experience is nothing like the scene I watched on last night’s Mad Men where Betty was so drugged, she didn’t know she’d had a baby until she awoke from a Demerol haze with a bundle in her arms. Throughout the episode Mr. Crud grabbed my hand and assured me that this wasn’t how it would be for us. I know that, but it’s still freaky to think that there was a time when a woman was whisked away while the father sat in a waiting room sipping whiskey and hoping for the best. I think I would like to be the one sipping whiskey. That really should be a service for pregnant women. I’m pretty impervious to pain when I’m drunk. How about it, medical science?
Miscarriage (sort of) in Pop Culture
I want badly to like the new series Glee. So far I’m semi-interested mainly due to the comic genius of Jane Lynch. But last week’s show left me pissed. A character, the wife of the main character, who we are clearly supposed to hate went in for an ultrasound. As she rattled on about all the tests she wanted, the doctor shook his head and removed the ultrasound wand.
“So what is it?” She asked. “Boy or girl?”
“It’s nothing,” he said snarkily and then made some crack about how her pregnancy was all in her head and the weight she had gained was from a chicken bone.
Seriously? Is this guy running for worst TV doctor in the world? I can’t imagine if either of my miscarriages had been broken to me with some sort of glib comment about how there is “nothing” in there. Mr. Crud and I stared at each other, momentarily struck dumb by the trivializing of the character’s “hysterical pregnancy.” (That may not even be the medical term for it anymore as the docs strive to be a tad more sensitive these days.)
“What the fuck?” We said practically in unison.
The fact that the woman believes herself to be pregnant while not being pregnant is played for laughs and ridicule. How stupid she is! This whole pregnancy thing is a ruse to keep her man. Selfish bitch.
We’ve both started to notice glaring errors in how pregnancy is represented in popular culture. Example: in the movies—such as Juno--women go in for their anatomy scan ultrasounds with hugely pregnant bellies while in reality, most women have this appointment around their 20th week when most first time mothers are still barely showing. (Well, at least I’m barely showing. Although Mr. Crud claims I look pretty and pregnant, I still feel like my bump could be mistaken for a nacho habit.)
“How pregnancy works isn’t some big mystery,” Mr. Crud says. “People could research how things really go.”
I agree. And they could also stop using miscarriage and hysterical pregnancy as some sort of character cue and punishment.
Consider yourself updated.
A lovely vacation and the subsequent work and life catch-up has kept me from the exhaustive (exhausting?) chronicling of pregnancy, but I’ll do my best to catch up and get back on track in this one mere mortal post. Wish me luck.
First of all, I just stepped over the 20-week threshold today. Halfway there! Also no longer in the miscarriage zone.
Last night as Mr. Crud and I chat before bed I say, “As of tomorrow I can no longer have a miscarriage.”
“Really?’ he asks, sitting up a bit.
“Yeah, from here on out it would be considered a stillbirth,” I say.
He slumps. “Oh. Great?”
Yeah, not so great, but still something. A friend of mine experienced a stillbirth and in my miscarriage research I’ve read heartbreaking stories of stillbirth, but they are far less common than miscarriage. I take my comfort where I can get it. Right now after having a good anatomy screen ultrasound (I marvel at the technician’s skill. How does that blob look like a kidney to you? And that hole an eye? The ultrasound was pretty cool, but I did not find myself cooing over how cute a 19-week old Purvis is. No, s/he looked more like a dinosaur to me.) and an all-signs-point-to-yes doctor’s appointment, I’ve got a spring in my step. Post-ultrasound I awoke in the middle of the night—got the midnight pee breaks down to one, yahoo!—and couldn’t get back to sleep out of excitement. This is really happening! I can start telling people I’m pregnant without that “but…” clogging my throat. I finally settled down enough to get a few more zzz-s, but the giddiness and sweet feeling of calm and well-being persists. (Probably the reason I’m not ripping my hair out because of a recent possibly pregnancy-related back injury. Thank you, hormones.)
Now our attention has turned to more important matters like what in the heck are we going to name Purvis? We did not find out the sex during the ultrasound. Well, we sort of didn’t find out the sex. After much deliberation and listing of pros and cons, Mr. Crud and I concluded that we definitely weren’t sure if we wanted to know the sex before Purvis’ birth. My compromise was to have the technician—not Super Tall Ultrasound Dude this time, but smiley young lady technician—write down the sex on a piece of paper. She went an extra step, aiding and abetting our indecision, by writing it on a post-it then covering that post-it with another post-it with “Answer inside” written on it, then sealing it in an envelope. An envelope. which beckons to me from the center of my desk.
“So when are you going to open it?” My doula asks.
“I don’t know. Mr. Crud’s new plan is to bring the envelope with us to the hospital and open it right before I give birth.”
“Great idea!”
I am the main proponent of not wanting to find out. I like the mystery. I like creating long lists of baby names for both sexes and not knowing which of them will get a chance at bat. On a more practical level, I want to avoid receiving a mountain of pink or blue baby things as much as possible. (Oh the assumptions I make about all the friends I’ve been neglecting the last few months. I’ll be lucky if we get a card.) I can be a bit sensitive about gender issues, but who knows what cues set into motion the masculine/feminine cage? A pink booty might just get us off on the wrong foot, sending Purvis into a princess spiral from which we’ll never recover.
Mr. Crud’s reasons for wanting to know are more practical: if it’s a boy we’ll need to plan a bris; we can be more targeted in our hunt for the perfect name; and the myriad of planning issues that come into play. Still, he kind of relishes the mystery too.
So our hunt for the perfect name of both sexes continues. Criteria:
• Must be unique but not too unique, i.e. no funny spellings of common names;
• Must have lots of nickname possibilities (as a person whose had 2 names all my life, I want to share a nickname-able moniker with my offspring.);
• Must be easy to spell (As a person whose name can be spelled many different ways, I want to spare Purvis the same fate):
• Must have a good song (All I have is the “Ballad of Katie” by the Hothouse Flowers, a horror that I have to live with every day of my life.)
We’ve come up with a ton of girl’s names that fit the criteria, but no real strong boy contenders, which is a bit of a problem because my spidey sense tells me that Purvis is a boy. (Also my mom dreamed I had a boy so what more proof do you need?) We have begun consulting websites, but still no clear leaders. Suggestions?
Next on our list of concerns is childbirth classes. So far I’ve found a good yoga for birth one, and a basic class offered by the hospital, but we can’t decide what more we need. Lamaze? The Bradley Method? Birthing from Within? (Actually we have decided against Birthing from Within on the advice of our doula. It sounds like it doesn’t match our personalities. We strive not to be cynical dicks who ruin the party for everyone else when possible.) I can’t quite believe that I’m at the point where I need to sign up for a class. Part of me still feels like I am jinxing something to sign up, but that kind of thinking will leave us class-less and clueless. Mr. Crud on the other hand wants to be signed up now, now, now. Somewhere between his urgency and my reticence, I hope we will meet and find something that will tell us what the heck exactly is going to be happening to my body in another 20 weeks or so. And I sure hope the birth experience is nothing like the scene I watched on last night’s Mad Men where Betty was so drugged, she didn’t know she’d had a baby until she awoke from a Demerol haze with a bundle in her arms. Throughout the episode Mr. Crud grabbed my hand and assured me that this wasn’t how it would be for us. I know that, but it’s still freaky to think that there was a time when a woman was whisked away while the father sat in a waiting room sipping whiskey and hoping for the best. I think I would like to be the one sipping whiskey. That really should be a service for pregnant women. I’m pretty impervious to pain when I’m drunk. How about it, medical science?
Miscarriage (sort of) in Pop Culture
I want badly to like the new series Glee. So far I’m semi-interested mainly due to the comic genius of Jane Lynch. But last week’s show left me pissed. A character, the wife of the main character, who we are clearly supposed to hate went in for an ultrasound. As she rattled on about all the tests she wanted, the doctor shook his head and removed the ultrasound wand.
“So what is it?” She asked. “Boy or girl?”
“It’s nothing,” he said snarkily and then made some crack about how her pregnancy was all in her head and the weight she had gained was from a chicken bone.
Seriously? Is this guy running for worst TV doctor in the world? I can’t imagine if either of my miscarriages had been broken to me with some sort of glib comment about how there is “nothing” in there. Mr. Crud and I stared at each other, momentarily struck dumb by the trivializing of the character’s “hysterical pregnancy.” (That may not even be the medical term for it anymore as the docs strive to be a tad more sensitive these days.)
“What the fuck?” We said practically in unison.
The fact that the woman believes herself to be pregnant while not being pregnant is played for laughs and ridicule. How stupid she is! This whole pregnancy thing is a ruse to keep her man. Selfish bitch.
We’ve both started to notice glaring errors in how pregnancy is represented in popular culture. Example: in the movies—such as Juno--women go in for their anatomy scan ultrasounds with hugely pregnant bellies while in reality, most women have this appointment around their 20th week when most first time mothers are still barely showing. (Well, at least I’m barely showing. Although Mr. Crud claims I look pretty and pregnant, I still feel like my bump could be mistaken for a nacho habit.)
“How pregnancy works isn’t some big mystery,” Mr. Crud says. “People could research how things really go.”
I agree. And they could also stop using miscarriage and hysterical pregnancy as some sort of character cue and punishment.
Consider yourself updated.
To Amnio or Not to Amnio
8-25-09
Before getting the most recent test results from the sequential screen—which I am still enjoying and feeling confident about surprisingly enough—I was almost sure that I would undergo amnio. I’d recently read Ayelett Waldman’s Bad Mother where she wrote about choosing amnio because of her belief in her own bad luck. Before Miscarriage World, I was her opposite. I know that shit happens to everyone. It’s certainly happened to me, but for the most part I feel content and lucky for my life. During my first pregnancy I had the typical worries, but was confident that my body knew what it was doing, that every little thing would be alright. I was wrong. And I was wrong again. My faith in my body and my ability to trust my body was shaken to the core. Apparently I didn’t feel a tremor in the force when both of my embryos died. I felt nothing. I kept slogging through my first trimesters until they ended with the ultrasounds of doom.
So when the question of amnio arose this time around, I was feeling more Ayelet Waldman than cockeyed optimist. I oscillated wildly (and not in an instrumental Smiths way).
One moment I was sure I’d do it. “I mean it’s only a 1 in 400 chance of miscarriage and even then they aren’t sure if that would be the same rate of miscarriage without amnio,” I told Mr. Crud during the great amnio deliberations.
He nodded thoughtfully. “It’s still scary.”
Agreed. The thought of causing another miscarriage just because I had to know with 99% certainty that Purvis was genetically okay terrified me. Then I wouldn’t be able to curse fate and the universe. Well, I still could shake my fist at the random injustice but there would be an image of me thrown into the mix. Me doing something out of fear, which is an emotion that I’m always telling others isn’t a wise basis for decision-making.
We got the first round of test results that showed Purvis’ chances for genetic problems were less than my age indicated and my amnio confidence showed hairline fractures.
“Maybe we shouldn’t. I mean what’s the percentage on that? It’s tiny.”
Mr. Crud agreed. He did the math. “Let’s wait for the other results.”
Through all of the deliberations the underlying question troubled me the most. What did it say about me that I was willing to consider terminating a pregnancy if Purvis did have genetic defects? When I encountered a woman who works on campus who has Down’s Syndrome, I silently apologized to her: it’s not you, it’s me. I’m not strong enough. In fact whenever I saw any folks who appeared to have the symptoms of the genetic defects I’d read about I felt ashamed. Who am I to decide?
I acknowledge that I can be selfish. I look out for number one although I try not to let that be the guiding impulse of my life. I imagined raising a child with special needs. Would I feel embarrassed of him or her? Would I feel a tug of longing every time I saw my fabulous nieces and nephew? Why not me? Why does my kid have to be the special one? Questions multiplied while answers hid. Every decision I made, everything I thought I knew could be reversed by a google search or a conversation or a quote from one of my pregnancy books. I found myself wishing for questionable blood test results just so that we didn’t have to make the decision about the test.
Finally the day came. And the results were better than I thought they could be. The same risk as someone half my age for Down’s Syndrome, lower than that for the other genetic problems. I was shocked to feel how quickly my desire for amnio evaporated. Mr. Crud said we should take the weekend to decide. I agreed. But we spent maybe one short conversation on the whole issue. “I don’t think we should do it,” I said.
“Neither do I.”
Mr. Crud didn’t even call back the genetic counselor to see what she meant exactly by amnio being “not recommended.” He let it go. We let it go. And now I feel more so than ever like I’m actually enjoying this pregnancy, that I’m 100% pregnant without qualification.
Not that I still don’t have moments of doubt. (Please pry me from the internet and never let me google again.) Nor have the flashes of worry that all is not well down there in Purvis world disappeared, but when we met with our doula-to-be last weekend, she asked me about my main thoughts and concerns at this time. “Um, where can I find decent maternity clothes for tall ladies?” (Eileen Fisher can only take me so far.)
Now I’m looking ahead to the next benchmarks: my pot belly transforming into a pregnant belly, feeling Purvis kick (felt something kick-like during a quiet moment of yoga that Sunday but I can’t confirm), and our anatomy scan ultrasound when we get back from vacation in a few weeks.
In the meantime, I look forward to chasing my 14-month-old niece around and introducing her to a potbelly named Purvis. Happy vacation!
RANDOM: Come on, Mad Men, Betty Draper doesn’t even walk like she’s pregnant in the least. I find myself jealous of her blissful ignorance while she puffs away, wine glass in hand.
*I meant to post this pre-vacation...but I didn't.
Before getting the most recent test results from the sequential screen—which I am still enjoying and feeling confident about surprisingly enough—I was almost sure that I would undergo amnio. I’d recently read Ayelett Waldman’s Bad Mother where she wrote about choosing amnio because of her belief in her own bad luck. Before Miscarriage World, I was her opposite. I know that shit happens to everyone. It’s certainly happened to me, but for the most part I feel content and lucky for my life. During my first pregnancy I had the typical worries, but was confident that my body knew what it was doing, that every little thing would be alright. I was wrong. And I was wrong again. My faith in my body and my ability to trust my body was shaken to the core. Apparently I didn’t feel a tremor in the force when both of my embryos died. I felt nothing. I kept slogging through my first trimesters until they ended with the ultrasounds of doom.
So when the question of amnio arose this time around, I was feeling more Ayelet Waldman than cockeyed optimist. I oscillated wildly (and not in an instrumental Smiths way).
One moment I was sure I’d do it. “I mean it’s only a 1 in 400 chance of miscarriage and even then they aren’t sure if that would be the same rate of miscarriage without amnio,” I told Mr. Crud during the great amnio deliberations.
He nodded thoughtfully. “It’s still scary.”
Agreed. The thought of causing another miscarriage just because I had to know with 99% certainty that Purvis was genetically okay terrified me. Then I wouldn’t be able to curse fate and the universe. Well, I still could shake my fist at the random injustice but there would be an image of me thrown into the mix. Me doing something out of fear, which is an emotion that I’m always telling others isn’t a wise basis for decision-making.
We got the first round of test results that showed Purvis’ chances for genetic problems were less than my age indicated and my amnio confidence showed hairline fractures.
“Maybe we shouldn’t. I mean what’s the percentage on that? It’s tiny.”
Mr. Crud agreed. He did the math. “Let’s wait for the other results.”
Through all of the deliberations the underlying question troubled me the most. What did it say about me that I was willing to consider terminating a pregnancy if Purvis did have genetic defects? When I encountered a woman who works on campus who has Down’s Syndrome, I silently apologized to her: it’s not you, it’s me. I’m not strong enough. In fact whenever I saw any folks who appeared to have the symptoms of the genetic defects I’d read about I felt ashamed. Who am I to decide?
I acknowledge that I can be selfish. I look out for number one although I try not to let that be the guiding impulse of my life. I imagined raising a child with special needs. Would I feel embarrassed of him or her? Would I feel a tug of longing every time I saw my fabulous nieces and nephew? Why not me? Why does my kid have to be the special one? Questions multiplied while answers hid. Every decision I made, everything I thought I knew could be reversed by a google search or a conversation or a quote from one of my pregnancy books. I found myself wishing for questionable blood test results just so that we didn’t have to make the decision about the test.
Finally the day came. And the results were better than I thought they could be. The same risk as someone half my age for Down’s Syndrome, lower than that for the other genetic problems. I was shocked to feel how quickly my desire for amnio evaporated. Mr. Crud said we should take the weekend to decide. I agreed. But we spent maybe one short conversation on the whole issue. “I don’t think we should do it,” I said.
“Neither do I.”
Mr. Crud didn’t even call back the genetic counselor to see what she meant exactly by amnio being “not recommended.” He let it go. We let it go. And now I feel more so than ever like I’m actually enjoying this pregnancy, that I’m 100% pregnant without qualification.
Not that I still don’t have moments of doubt. (Please pry me from the internet and never let me google again.) Nor have the flashes of worry that all is not well down there in Purvis world disappeared, but when we met with our doula-to-be last weekend, she asked me about my main thoughts and concerns at this time. “Um, where can I find decent maternity clothes for tall ladies?” (Eileen Fisher can only take me so far.)
Now I’m looking ahead to the next benchmarks: my pot belly transforming into a pregnant belly, feeling Purvis kick (felt something kick-like during a quiet moment of yoga that Sunday but I can’t confirm), and our anatomy scan ultrasound when we get back from vacation in a few weeks.
In the meantime, I look forward to chasing my 14-month-old niece around and introducing her to a potbelly named Purvis. Happy vacation!
RANDOM: Come on, Mad Men, Betty Draper doesn’t even walk like she’s pregnant in the least. I find myself jealous of her blissful ignorance while she puffs away, wine glass in hand.
*I meant to post this pre-vacation...but I didn't.
Thursday, August 20, 2009
Have You Heard the Good News? Part Deux
8-20-09
My cell phone beep boop boops its disco ring from across my office. It’s gotta be them. Test results. Gulp.
“Good news! Your screen was negative, which is a convoluted way of saying that your chances for the genetic conditions we were testing for have gone way down,” says Genetic Counselor #3, whose name I’ve read on the website but is until this moment just a name on a website.
“That’s great!” I say, heartbeat in throat.
“Would you like me to go over the specific numbers with you?”
Oh hell yes.
They break down like this: Purvis’ chance of Down’s Syndrome is down from 1 in 130 to 1 in 1,300; Trisomy 18 is as low as it can go (1/10,000) and Spina Bifida is 1 in 6,000, six times lower than expected for my age. (Which will be 37 by the time Purvis meets us and is considered elderly in child-bearing world.)
“There is no recommended follow-up,” GC#3 says. “Congratulations!”
“I’m so glad you called. My husband and I have been talking a lot about amnio.”
“Of course you are always welcome to have amnio. It’s the only way to know for sure. But it’s not recommended with these results.”
I call Mr. Crud to share the good news. He takes a seat as I throw fractions at him with more gusto than any fraction I’ve ever talked about. Then he does what he does best—-tease apart the real meaning of what GC#3 said.
“By recommended does she mean not recommended in the neutral sense or that they don’t recommend that we have amnio?” He asks.
“Uh, I don’t know.” I scan my notes beside the numbers: bloodwork good, no follow-up.
“She probably means it in the neutral medical sense.” He says, slightly disappointed.
I am too. This whole process is nerve-wracking. Part of me wishes that we had gotten one of those infamous false positives so that amnio or whatever further testing there is to be done would be recommended and we wouldn’t have to decide for ourselves. Yes, I would really like to know 99.9% for sure that Purvis is—as I pray every morning despite it’s clunky language “developing normally”—but risking a miscarriage to get that information doesn’t feel right. At least at this moment of relief and yahoo-ness, it doesn’t. I might be waking up in the middle of the night after imagining Purvis’ tiny body twisted by some horrid genetic disorder and change my mind completely. But I don’t know. The more I think about the whole child-bearing enterprise, the more I come to terms with the fact—a fact of life that Mrs. Garrett should have included among lesser facts like don’t judge a book (or a fat girl) by its cover and Jo might not be a lesbian, just a tomboy—that life is uncertainty. Everything changes. Control is an illusion.
“I guess we should make a decision by the end of the weekend,” Mr. Crud says.
“That sounds fair.”
But I feel like I’m already leaving amnio behind, watching it get smaller in the rearview mirror as I look ahead to the next ultrasound in a few weeks, the anatomy scan that Doctor Awesome-in-Waiting (who will from here on out be known as Dr. Adorable because she looks like she’s 22, is petite of size, and very cute in addition to being a smart, reassuring doc) assures us will be fun. “You’ll get a cool 3-D picture to take home.”
We had our first meeting with Dr. Adorable last Friday. I spilled out my anxieties, which she carefully and gently countered with reality checks. (“Your chance of miscarriage have gone way down now that you’re in the second trimeter.”) We listened to Purvis’ galloping heartbeat and I felt a weeks worth of exhales pour forth. Unfortunately I did not feel such relief when seeing the number on the scale. Egads. Dr. Adorable said I was at the high end of normal, but I caught the drift that I might want to slow down the desert-fest. I knew I should have taken off my jacket before they weighed me! As long as the scale remains the most harrowing part of this pregnancy, I’m good. I’ve battled those numbers—and the impact on my self-esteem—before. I always thought that I’d be cool with getting fat when I got pregnant. Old habits die hard. Or as the yogis say, samskaras are a bitch. (The yogis don’t actually say that, but they might want to consider adding another sutra.)
My cell phone beep boop boops its disco ring from across my office. It’s gotta be them. Test results. Gulp.
“Good news! Your screen was negative, which is a convoluted way of saying that your chances for the genetic conditions we were testing for have gone way down,” says Genetic Counselor #3, whose name I’ve read on the website but is until this moment just a name on a website.
“That’s great!” I say, heartbeat in throat.
“Would you like me to go over the specific numbers with you?”
Oh hell yes.
They break down like this: Purvis’ chance of Down’s Syndrome is down from 1 in 130 to 1 in 1,300; Trisomy 18 is as low as it can go (1/10,000) and Spina Bifida is 1 in 6,000, six times lower than expected for my age. (Which will be 37 by the time Purvis meets us and is considered elderly in child-bearing world.)
“There is no recommended follow-up,” GC#3 says. “Congratulations!”
“I’m so glad you called. My husband and I have been talking a lot about amnio.”
“Of course you are always welcome to have amnio. It’s the only way to know for sure. But it’s not recommended with these results.”
I call Mr. Crud to share the good news. He takes a seat as I throw fractions at him with more gusto than any fraction I’ve ever talked about. Then he does what he does best—-tease apart the real meaning of what GC#3 said.
“By recommended does she mean not recommended in the neutral sense or that they don’t recommend that we have amnio?” He asks.
“Uh, I don’t know.” I scan my notes beside the numbers: bloodwork good, no follow-up.
“She probably means it in the neutral medical sense.” He says, slightly disappointed.
I am too. This whole process is nerve-wracking. Part of me wishes that we had gotten one of those infamous false positives so that amnio or whatever further testing there is to be done would be recommended and we wouldn’t have to decide for ourselves. Yes, I would really like to know 99.9% for sure that Purvis is—as I pray every morning despite it’s clunky language “developing normally”—but risking a miscarriage to get that information doesn’t feel right. At least at this moment of relief and yahoo-ness, it doesn’t. I might be waking up in the middle of the night after imagining Purvis’ tiny body twisted by some horrid genetic disorder and change my mind completely. But I don’t know. The more I think about the whole child-bearing enterprise, the more I come to terms with the fact—a fact of life that Mrs. Garrett should have included among lesser facts like don’t judge a book (or a fat girl) by its cover and Jo might not be a lesbian, just a tomboy—that life is uncertainty. Everything changes. Control is an illusion.
“I guess we should make a decision by the end of the weekend,” Mr. Crud says.
“That sounds fair.”
But I feel like I’m already leaving amnio behind, watching it get smaller in the rearview mirror as I look ahead to the next ultrasound in a few weeks, the anatomy scan that Doctor Awesome-in-Waiting (who will from here on out be known as Dr. Adorable because she looks like she’s 22, is petite of size, and very cute in addition to being a smart, reassuring doc) assures us will be fun. “You’ll get a cool 3-D picture to take home.”
We had our first meeting with Dr. Adorable last Friday. I spilled out my anxieties, which she carefully and gently countered with reality checks. (“Your chance of miscarriage have gone way down now that you’re in the second trimeter.”) We listened to Purvis’ galloping heartbeat and I felt a weeks worth of exhales pour forth. Unfortunately I did not feel such relief when seeing the number on the scale. Egads. Dr. Adorable said I was at the high end of normal, but I caught the drift that I might want to slow down the desert-fest. I knew I should have taken off my jacket before they weighed me! As long as the scale remains the most harrowing part of this pregnancy, I’m good. I’ve battled those numbers—and the impact on my self-esteem—before. I always thought that I’d be cool with getting fat when I got pregnant. Old habits die hard. Or as the yogis say, samskaras are a bitch. (The yogis don’t actually say that, but they might want to consider adding another sutra.)
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
What Dreams May Come
8-11-09
Ah dreams. The playground of the unconscious mind. Needless to say, I’ve got a lot of free-range fear roaming around in my subconscious these days. Last night one facet of this dark diamond came out to play: I am sitting across the table from a close friend, telling her that I’ve had another miscarriage, my third.
“Well, at least it was pretty good timing. I was starting to eye Lucille Bluth’s martinis a bit too closely as of late,” Dream Me said, forcing a laugh. (We’ve been watching a lot of Arrested Development over the last few weeks, one of my “I’m pregnant, what the hell” purchases. My other AD-related dreams include one where David Cross and I became buddies and have a ball wisecracking and snarking about, and another where Will Arnett and I pal around. Please pardon this second dream digression. Other people’s dreams are about as interesting as…other people’s dreams.)
In my dream, I try to laugh off this miscarriage, performing an ill-considered “the funny thing about miscarriage” monologue while inside I am dying a little more with each lame joke. My friend sits there mute.
Cut to new dream scene where I sit alone, lamenting my membership in the 2% of women who have 3 miscarriages in a row. I am bereft, hopeless. What next? Adoption? Try again? The thought of trying again as I drag through week 15 sounds impossible. The fact that I’ve only been pregnant 15 weeks sounds even more impossible. When I wake up I keep turning this question over in my head. If necessary, could I really do this again?
I tell Mr. Crud of this latest manifestation of one of my greatest pregnancy fear.
“I don’t think that’s going to happen,” he says.
“I don’t either.” I wish somebody would pep talk my subconscious.
“I really wish my doctor’s appointment hadn’t been cancelled,” I say.
“Me too.”
Monday, yesterday, was supposed to be my first meeting with Dr. Awesome’s replacement while she’s on maternity leave. Dr. Awesome-In-Waiting cancelled due to either illness or being “called to the hill.” I had been anticipating the appointment for weeks, needing a shot of reassurance in the form of hearing Purvis’ heartbeat. Much like my last petit panic, I decided to wait this one out since, again, there’s not really anything that can be done either way. Plus I’m trying to reserve my freak-outs for later in the pregnancy. I don’t want to cash in my chips too soon.
My new favorite fear, third only to miscarriage and genetic abnormalities* is the swine flu. Everyday I ride home from work and am greeted by a new story on NPR detailing how harmful this new flu is to pregnant women and their babies. Fucking great. My miscarriage outrage is renewed. If just one of my previous pregnancies had come to term, we’d have missed the pregnancy-swine flu scare. Then I wonder how soon I can get the shot because oh yes, I will get the shot. I do not buy into the unproven fears that autism has anything to do with vaccinations or thimerosal. I hope the reassuring CDC rep isn’t steering me wrong with her claims that the shot is likely safe for the preg ladies. Or maybe I’ll just lock myself in my room for a few months and cover myself in duct tape. (‘Twas supposed to save us all from a terrorist gas attack, right?)
* I’m starting to lean towards doing amnio but am torn. I want the info, but fear the small chance of miscarriage. Another topic I hope Dr. Awesome-In-Waiting is prepared to tackle when we see her later this week.
Ah dreams. The playground of the unconscious mind. Needless to say, I’ve got a lot of free-range fear roaming around in my subconscious these days. Last night one facet of this dark diamond came out to play: I am sitting across the table from a close friend, telling her that I’ve had another miscarriage, my third.
“Well, at least it was pretty good timing. I was starting to eye Lucille Bluth’s martinis a bit too closely as of late,” Dream Me said, forcing a laugh. (We’ve been watching a lot of Arrested Development over the last few weeks, one of my “I’m pregnant, what the hell” purchases. My other AD-related dreams include one where David Cross and I became buddies and have a ball wisecracking and snarking about, and another where Will Arnett and I pal around. Please pardon this second dream digression. Other people’s dreams are about as interesting as…other people’s dreams.)
In my dream, I try to laugh off this miscarriage, performing an ill-considered “the funny thing about miscarriage” monologue while inside I am dying a little more with each lame joke. My friend sits there mute.
Cut to new dream scene where I sit alone, lamenting my membership in the 2% of women who have 3 miscarriages in a row. I am bereft, hopeless. What next? Adoption? Try again? The thought of trying again as I drag through week 15 sounds impossible. The fact that I’ve only been pregnant 15 weeks sounds even more impossible. When I wake up I keep turning this question over in my head. If necessary, could I really do this again?
I tell Mr. Crud of this latest manifestation of one of my greatest pregnancy fear.
“I don’t think that’s going to happen,” he says.
“I don’t either.” I wish somebody would pep talk my subconscious.
“I really wish my doctor’s appointment hadn’t been cancelled,” I say.
“Me too.”
Monday, yesterday, was supposed to be my first meeting with Dr. Awesome’s replacement while she’s on maternity leave. Dr. Awesome-In-Waiting cancelled due to either illness or being “called to the hill.” I had been anticipating the appointment for weeks, needing a shot of reassurance in the form of hearing Purvis’ heartbeat. Much like my last petit panic, I decided to wait this one out since, again, there’s not really anything that can be done either way. Plus I’m trying to reserve my freak-outs for later in the pregnancy. I don’t want to cash in my chips too soon.
My new favorite fear, third only to miscarriage and genetic abnormalities* is the swine flu. Everyday I ride home from work and am greeted by a new story on NPR detailing how harmful this new flu is to pregnant women and their babies. Fucking great. My miscarriage outrage is renewed. If just one of my previous pregnancies had come to term, we’d have missed the pregnancy-swine flu scare. Then I wonder how soon I can get the shot because oh yes, I will get the shot. I do not buy into the unproven fears that autism has anything to do with vaccinations or thimerosal. I hope the reassuring CDC rep isn’t steering me wrong with her claims that the shot is likely safe for the preg ladies. Or maybe I’ll just lock myself in my room for a few months and cover myself in duct tape. (‘Twas supposed to save us all from a terrorist gas attack, right?)
* I’m starting to lean towards doing amnio but am torn. I want the info, but fear the small chance of miscarriage. Another topic I hope Dr. Awesome-In-Waiting is prepared to tackle when we see her later this week.
Friday, August 7, 2009
The Whole Truth
8-5-09
Mr. Crud and I take a much-needed jaunt to the coast courtesy of Kjirsten, girlfriend from way back when, whose folks own a house near Long Beach. Kjirsten and her fella have two adorable little ones and the other couple staying for the weekend have two of their own. We are the childless couple. I don’t feel weird about this fact thanks to my own houseguest a.k.a. Purvis. I enjoy watching the little ones frolic and non-sequitur and shine their cute lights for all to see.
When Mr. Crud and I are alone I say, “I can’t wait for it to be our turn to have the cute kid and to tell all the cute kid stories.”
“Me too.”
“I feel like we’ve done our time watching and listening. It’s our turn.” When talk turns to cute kid stuff, I have a wealth of stories to share courtesy of my nieces and nephews. Still, I feel left out.
Later that night after the booze starts flowing (but not pour moi bien sur), the adults are standing around the kitchen.
The lady half of the other couple smiles at us. “I’m so happy for you. It’s so great. I don’t know many people who are just starting to have kids right now.”
Mr. Crud and I exchange the ritual do-we-or-don’t-we look.
“Yeah, well, it’s kind of been a long road for us,” Mr. Crud says.
I nod. To bum out or not to bum out that is the question. Since the mood is light, we silently agree to let it go and accept her congratulations without too much explanation.
“Thank you. We’re really excited too.” I say, lustily eyeing the bottle of scotch on the counter. I don’t even like scotch. At least liquor is no longer repulsive to me. That’s a good thing, right?
One of the woman’s daughters runs into the room in full-on pout mode. She clings to her dad. “I hate Scotch*. I hate cupcakes.”
“If you don’t calm down and get to bed that’s what you’re eating when you wake up tomorrow,” the dad says.
She pouts. I smile. My kind of parenting.
Monday I go to yoga class with one of my new favorite teachers. I lurch around the edges of the reception area, waiting for a break in the flow of students. I have read every flyer twice already. I’ve told at least three people, that no, I’m not waiting for the bathroom, just loitering like a stalker. Finally I see my chance. I swoop in close.
“I just wanted to let you know that I’m 14 weeks pregnant,” I say. I want to throw a second trimester gang sign. Does such a thing exist? I should get myself to a prenatal yoga class to find out. Of course the yogis call it a prenatal mudra.
The teacher claps. “Oh congratulations! That’s great!”
“Thank you,” I say, feeling suddenly bashful. I’m still getting used to accepting congrats on this account. I haven’t figured out how to do so without feeling embarrassed or like waving it away (“Aw, it’s no big deal.”)
“Is this your first?” She asks.
My mind skitters about. I hate this question. Well, yeah, sorta, I mean not my first pregnancy. Actually my third pregnancy but the first time we made it this far. First live child? Yeah, damn, I sure hope so. I feel compelled to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but whenever asked this question. For one, I want any fellow members of Miscarriage World to know that I’m down, I’ve been there, I feel your pain. For another, I feel weird acting like Purvis is my first houseguest like it dishonors the brief but powerful memories of the Peabodies: Primo and Dewey.
The question hangs. “Is this your first?”
I lean in closer. “Yes, well, we had some losses before but this is the first time we’ve made it this far.” Hmmm…that sounds suitably hopeful enough and not too convoluted, right?
The teacher doesn’t blink. “So there are some modifications…”
(G-d willing) this will become a more common occurrence as we start to spread the Purvis word far and wide. Maybe the dilemma will begin to fade. I will find ease in smiling and thanking people for their congratulations without the bummer-ness squeezing my insides. I am not alone in my dilemma. Ruby is right there with me. Another reminder that most joy does not come without complication.
Random
How many calories does giving birth burn? Now that I’m packing on some pounds and feeling chunky such questions plague my mind.
*No children were fed Scotch over the course of this family friendly weekend. I believe she hates Scotch on principle.
Mr. Crud and I take a much-needed jaunt to the coast courtesy of Kjirsten, girlfriend from way back when, whose folks own a house near Long Beach. Kjirsten and her fella have two adorable little ones and the other couple staying for the weekend have two of their own. We are the childless couple. I don’t feel weird about this fact thanks to my own houseguest a.k.a. Purvis. I enjoy watching the little ones frolic and non-sequitur and shine their cute lights for all to see.
When Mr. Crud and I are alone I say, “I can’t wait for it to be our turn to have the cute kid and to tell all the cute kid stories.”
“Me too.”
“I feel like we’ve done our time watching and listening. It’s our turn.” When talk turns to cute kid stuff, I have a wealth of stories to share courtesy of my nieces and nephews. Still, I feel left out.
Later that night after the booze starts flowing (but not pour moi bien sur), the adults are standing around the kitchen.
The lady half of the other couple smiles at us. “I’m so happy for you. It’s so great. I don’t know many people who are just starting to have kids right now.”
Mr. Crud and I exchange the ritual do-we-or-don’t-we look.
“Yeah, well, it’s kind of been a long road for us,” Mr. Crud says.
I nod. To bum out or not to bum out that is the question. Since the mood is light, we silently agree to let it go and accept her congratulations without too much explanation.
“Thank you. We’re really excited too.” I say, lustily eyeing the bottle of scotch on the counter. I don’t even like scotch. At least liquor is no longer repulsive to me. That’s a good thing, right?
One of the woman’s daughters runs into the room in full-on pout mode. She clings to her dad. “I hate Scotch*. I hate cupcakes.”
“If you don’t calm down and get to bed that’s what you’re eating when you wake up tomorrow,” the dad says.
She pouts. I smile. My kind of parenting.
Monday I go to yoga class with one of my new favorite teachers. I lurch around the edges of the reception area, waiting for a break in the flow of students. I have read every flyer twice already. I’ve told at least three people, that no, I’m not waiting for the bathroom, just loitering like a stalker. Finally I see my chance. I swoop in close.
“I just wanted to let you know that I’m 14 weeks pregnant,” I say. I want to throw a second trimester gang sign. Does such a thing exist? I should get myself to a prenatal yoga class to find out. Of course the yogis call it a prenatal mudra.
The teacher claps. “Oh congratulations! That’s great!”
“Thank you,” I say, feeling suddenly bashful. I’m still getting used to accepting congrats on this account. I haven’t figured out how to do so without feeling embarrassed or like waving it away (“Aw, it’s no big deal.”)
“Is this your first?” She asks.
My mind skitters about. I hate this question. Well, yeah, sorta, I mean not my first pregnancy. Actually my third pregnancy but the first time we made it this far. First live child? Yeah, damn, I sure hope so. I feel compelled to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but whenever asked this question. For one, I want any fellow members of Miscarriage World to know that I’m down, I’ve been there, I feel your pain. For another, I feel weird acting like Purvis is my first houseguest like it dishonors the brief but powerful memories of the Peabodies: Primo and Dewey.
The question hangs. “Is this your first?”
I lean in closer. “Yes, well, we had some losses before but this is the first time we’ve made it this far.” Hmmm…that sounds suitably hopeful enough and not too convoluted, right?
The teacher doesn’t blink. “So there are some modifications…”
(G-d willing) this will become a more common occurrence as we start to spread the Purvis word far and wide. Maybe the dilemma will begin to fade. I will find ease in smiling and thanking people for their congratulations without the bummer-ness squeezing my insides. I am not alone in my dilemma. Ruby is right there with me. Another reminder that most joy does not come without complication.
Random
How many calories does giving birth burn? Now that I’m packing on some pounds and feeling chunky such questions plague my mind.
*No children were fed Scotch over the course of this family friendly weekend. I believe she hates Scotch on principle.
Wednesday, August 5, 2009
A New Frontier
7-31-09
I am on the cusp of trimester 2. In three short days I will do-si-do into week 14 and the supposedly happiest trimester of all. My energy is returning slowly but surely. Yes, I fell dead asleep at 8:30 last night—and it was a mighty struggle to keep my eyes open that late—but I don’t feel the limb-dragging can’t…go…on weight that has plagued me the last (only!!!!) 2 months. Nausea has become more a habit than anything else. After an extreme gagging episode while following a garbage truck on my bike a few weeks ago (Riding downtown in the early morning PRO: Light traffic. CON: Rotten, stink-spewing garbage trucks are the only traffic.), I now have to choke back gags at the mere sight of garbage trucks. And I think Pizzicato pizza is permanently ruined for me after my daily march down the Gauntlet of Stink. Oh well.
Anxiety is still a sneaky companion. A current of anxiety ebbs and flows. Most of the time I feel like I’m on solid pregnant ground. There are occasional moments when I feel my solid ground start to jerk in the current as if I’m living in some sort of Waterworld. (How could you forget Kevin Costner as the pee-drinking fish-man?) I feel an ache in my abdominal region and wonder if it will turn into full-on cramps. I check my profile in the mirror daily and wonder when I will stop looking like a Beer Belly Champion (thanks, Ruby) and morph into pregnant lady. My lack of a solid bump is my latest raison de stress-out. Has Purvis stopped growing in there? Is all that chub in the gut region a result of my lack of abdominal exercising?
Crazy fears? I got a million of them.
Since the day I saw my positive on that pee stick, I assured myself that I would feel better after the first ultrasound, or after the Nuchal Translucency Test (also an ultrasound), or, wait, wait, for real this time, after I crossed the threshold into trimester #2, which every pregnancy newsletter, book, and website assures me makes my chance of miscarriage plummet to sub percentage levels. I did relax after the first two landmarks…for a weekend or so. So we shall see of trimester 2 becomes a magical wonderland of pregnancy enjoyment.
People tell me that I’ll feel better when I start feeling Purvis kicking around in there. Yeah, I think that’ll be pretty cool, but then I wonder if I’ll fret over the quality and frequency of her kicks like my sis-in-law who made a few trips to the emergency room when she thought in utero Lyla wasn’t moving around enough. We shall see.
I am on the cusp of trimester 2. In three short days I will do-si-do into week 14 and the supposedly happiest trimester of all. My energy is returning slowly but surely. Yes, I fell dead asleep at 8:30 last night—and it was a mighty struggle to keep my eyes open that late—but I don’t feel the limb-dragging can’t…go…on weight that has plagued me the last (only!!!!) 2 months. Nausea has become more a habit than anything else. After an extreme gagging episode while following a garbage truck on my bike a few weeks ago (Riding downtown in the early morning PRO: Light traffic. CON: Rotten, stink-spewing garbage trucks are the only traffic.), I now have to choke back gags at the mere sight of garbage trucks. And I think Pizzicato pizza is permanently ruined for me after my daily march down the Gauntlet of Stink. Oh well.
Anxiety is still a sneaky companion. A current of anxiety ebbs and flows. Most of the time I feel like I’m on solid pregnant ground. There are occasional moments when I feel my solid ground start to jerk in the current as if I’m living in some sort of Waterworld. (How could you forget Kevin Costner as the pee-drinking fish-man?) I feel an ache in my abdominal region and wonder if it will turn into full-on cramps. I check my profile in the mirror daily and wonder when I will stop looking like a Beer Belly Champion (thanks, Ruby) and morph into pregnant lady. My lack of a solid bump is my latest raison de stress-out. Has Purvis stopped growing in there? Is all that chub in the gut region a result of my lack of abdominal exercising?
Crazy fears? I got a million of them.
Since the day I saw my positive on that pee stick, I assured myself that I would feel better after the first ultrasound, or after the Nuchal Translucency Test (also an ultrasound), or, wait, wait, for real this time, after I crossed the threshold into trimester #2, which every pregnancy newsletter, book, and website assures me makes my chance of miscarriage plummet to sub percentage levels. I did relax after the first two landmarks…for a weekend or so. So we shall see of trimester 2 becomes a magical wonderland of pregnancy enjoyment.
People tell me that I’ll feel better when I start feeling Purvis kicking around in there. Yeah, I think that’ll be pretty cool, but then I wonder if I’ll fret over the quality and frequency of her kicks like my sis-in-law who made a few trips to the emergency room when she thought in utero Lyla wasn’t moving around enough. We shall see.
Friday, July 31, 2009
My Darling Nausea
7-24-09
I awake to my alarm. 4:54 again. I push myself out of bed and it slaps me in the face: I only peed twice in the middle of the night last night. Panic. Are my symptoms subsiding? I haven’t been feeling as nauseous as I was either. As soon as I get to work I look up my latest pregnancy newsletter. Yes, phew, it says that symptoms can start diminishing as early as the 11th week. I’m well into week 12 so I can relax, right? I get an email from Ruby. She had a similar experience. Are we the only two women in the world praying for constant, nagging nausea?
Weird how I cling to symptoms like they are the baby itself. When else do nausea, frequent urination, and fatigue indicate that things are going well? Aside from a few pee sticks, journal entries, and medical bills, my symptoms (and now their memory) are all I have left from my first two pregnancies. Nausea and running to the bathroom are pregnancy to me. Until I get the belly, something to see and hold on to, I have nausea, dear nausea.
People told: My interim boss for the month of August. She is excited, kind, and low-key about the whole thing. Perfetto.
New Favorite Euphemism for Baby/Fetus/Purvis: Houseguest (courtesy of Trista)
I awake to my alarm. 4:54 again. I push myself out of bed and it slaps me in the face: I only peed twice in the middle of the night last night. Panic. Are my symptoms subsiding? I haven’t been feeling as nauseous as I was either. As soon as I get to work I look up my latest pregnancy newsletter. Yes, phew, it says that symptoms can start diminishing as early as the 11th week. I’m well into week 12 so I can relax, right? I get an email from Ruby. She had a similar experience. Are we the only two women in the world praying for constant, nagging nausea?
Weird how I cling to symptoms like they are the baby itself. When else do nausea, frequent urination, and fatigue indicate that things are going well? Aside from a few pee sticks, journal entries, and medical bills, my symptoms (and now their memory) are all I have left from my first two pregnancies. Nausea and running to the bathroom are pregnancy to me. Until I get the belly, something to see and hold on to, I have nausea, dear nausea.
People told: My interim boss for the month of August. She is excited, kind, and low-key about the whole thing. Perfetto.
New Favorite Euphemism for Baby/Fetus/Purvis: Houseguest (courtesy of Trista)
Friday, July 24, 2009
Don't Ask, Don't Tell
7-24-09
As the time approaches when we can theoretically start telling friends, family, coworkers, pals, chums, and random people on the street that I am knocked up, I find myself growing more reluctant to share the news. After each ultrasound I have sworn, “Okay, now I’ll tell my student worker I’m pregnant” so he knows why I look like creamed ass at the end of a work day and why my laziness has grown to gargantuan proportions.
“You print these out?” He asks me yesterday.
“Oh yeah, like 3 days ago,” I say.
He is the most fabulous of fabulous student workers so he smiles and hands me my forgotten printouts instead of throwing me a side-eye. Tell him, tell him, I think to myself all afternoon.
The other preg lady in the department pops by my window. “The ultrasound went okay?” she whispers.
I nod. “Everything looks good.”
She gives a silent cheer. Now would be an excellent time to tell him. The man has ears. He likely knows what an ultrasound is or at least that it’s connected to pregnancy. But my lips remain zipped.
Last weekend Mr. Crud and I are taking an afternoon stroll to the yummy vegan milkshake/smoothie stand. Across the street we spy our old friend and Mr. Crud’s ex-band mate.
“Let’s go say ‘hi,’” I say.
“Can we tell him?” Mr. Crud asks.
“No, let’s wait,” I say.
After a preg-free conversation, we go on our merry way. Mr. Crud says, “So when can we start telling people?”
“You can tell whoever you want to,” I say. “Well, except Eli when I’m with you.”
“Okay.”
“After 2 Sundays from now. That’s when the miscarriage chance officially goes way down.” I say.
“Okay, two Sundays.”
But even that makes my guts roil. What if we find out there’s some genetic problem with Purvis and (g-d forbid) have to terminate the pregnancy? That strikes me as being a hell of a lot harder to explain than a miscarriage. Then again the what-if rabbit hole in pregnancy is endless. For the sake of any other preg ladies who may be reading this, I’ll spare you the list, but in my last year of Miscarriage World membership I’ve learned a ton more than I ever wanted to know about all the things that can go wrong. During my first pregnancy I could avert my eyes and reassure myself “no, that won’t happen to you.” But I know all too well that yes, that can happen to me. Twice in fact.
Today I hear my cell phone ring from my bag. Even though my boss is in the next room I dash to pick it up. (Not that she cares, but I have some silly professional rule about not answering my cell at work.) It’s the genetic counselor.
“Your results look good. Your chance for Down’s Syndrome had dropped considerably as has the chance for Trisomy 18.”
She gives me the nitty gritty numbers and I jot them down to share with Mr. Crud. Now can I relax? Yeah, for about a half hour or so at least.
I call Mr. Crud and give him the good news. “Wow. Yay.” He says.
And then it comes up. “Now can we start telling people?”
“Sure. Maybe. How about after next Sunday?”
I guess I’m waiting for it to be obvious. I feel awkward sharing the news with people who don’t know of our miscarriage struggles, like I need to fill in the bad news after giving the good. A sort of “but don’t get too excited because it’s gotten fucked up before” coda to the joy. And then there’s the whole identity thing. Will people see me differently now that I’m pregnant? Will I no longer be privy to dirty jokes? Will people be afraid of offending my delicate sensibilities? Actually I’ve found that I’m a lot less delicate than usual. (Delicate being a relative term.) I hunger for murder mysteries, thrillers, tales of darkness, vampire books. My usual literary fiction-humorous memoir reading list has taken a decidedly bloody turn. And why not? Pregnancy and birth aren’t for wimps. Partly I like reading about others in dire straits so I can breathe a shallow sigh of relief, “At least my entire family wasn’t murdered while I watched.” I am reminded of our trek home last Christmas during Portland’s latest Storm of the Century. As Mr. Crud and I jammed onto a bus destined for the Portland Airport that would get us there a good 2 hours after our departure time but we had to go anyway just in case, we looked at each other and shook our heads. “At least we aren’t being hunted by Cylons.”
I catch a glimpse of myself in the bathroom mirror. My belly definitely protrudes, but not in an obviously pregnant way, just in a bloated belly way. Soon, I tell myself, soon there (g-d willing) won’t be any question about what I’ve been up to.
RANDOM: I want to start a heavy metal pregnancy-themed band called Chloasma. I’m pretty sure we could put some of those spooky death metal bands to shame. Does gore spill from their wieners? No, sir.
As the time approaches when we can theoretically start telling friends, family, coworkers, pals, chums, and random people on the street that I am knocked up, I find myself growing more reluctant to share the news. After each ultrasound I have sworn, “Okay, now I’ll tell my student worker I’m pregnant” so he knows why I look like creamed ass at the end of a work day and why my laziness has grown to gargantuan proportions.
“You print these out?” He asks me yesterday.
“Oh yeah, like 3 days ago,” I say.
He is the most fabulous of fabulous student workers so he smiles and hands me my forgotten printouts instead of throwing me a side-eye. Tell him, tell him, I think to myself all afternoon.
The other preg lady in the department pops by my window. “The ultrasound went okay?” she whispers.
I nod. “Everything looks good.”
She gives a silent cheer. Now would be an excellent time to tell him. The man has ears. He likely knows what an ultrasound is or at least that it’s connected to pregnancy. But my lips remain zipped.
Last weekend Mr. Crud and I are taking an afternoon stroll to the yummy vegan milkshake/smoothie stand. Across the street we spy our old friend and Mr. Crud’s ex-band mate.
“Let’s go say ‘hi,’” I say.
“Can we tell him?” Mr. Crud asks.
“No, let’s wait,” I say.
After a preg-free conversation, we go on our merry way. Mr. Crud says, “So when can we start telling people?”
“You can tell whoever you want to,” I say. “Well, except Eli when I’m with you.”
“Okay.”
“After 2 Sundays from now. That’s when the miscarriage chance officially goes way down.” I say.
“Okay, two Sundays.”
But even that makes my guts roil. What if we find out there’s some genetic problem with Purvis and (g-d forbid) have to terminate the pregnancy? That strikes me as being a hell of a lot harder to explain than a miscarriage. Then again the what-if rabbit hole in pregnancy is endless. For the sake of any other preg ladies who may be reading this, I’ll spare you the list, but in my last year of Miscarriage World membership I’ve learned a ton more than I ever wanted to know about all the things that can go wrong. During my first pregnancy I could avert my eyes and reassure myself “no, that won’t happen to you.” But I know all too well that yes, that can happen to me. Twice in fact.
Today I hear my cell phone ring from my bag. Even though my boss is in the next room I dash to pick it up. (Not that she cares, but I have some silly professional rule about not answering my cell at work.) It’s the genetic counselor.
“Your results look good. Your chance for Down’s Syndrome had dropped considerably as has the chance for Trisomy 18.”
She gives me the nitty gritty numbers and I jot them down to share with Mr. Crud. Now can I relax? Yeah, for about a half hour or so at least.
I call Mr. Crud and give him the good news. “Wow. Yay.” He says.
And then it comes up. “Now can we start telling people?”
“Sure. Maybe. How about after next Sunday?”
I guess I’m waiting for it to be obvious. I feel awkward sharing the news with people who don’t know of our miscarriage struggles, like I need to fill in the bad news after giving the good. A sort of “but don’t get too excited because it’s gotten fucked up before” coda to the joy. And then there’s the whole identity thing. Will people see me differently now that I’m pregnant? Will I no longer be privy to dirty jokes? Will people be afraid of offending my delicate sensibilities? Actually I’ve found that I’m a lot less delicate than usual. (Delicate being a relative term.) I hunger for murder mysteries, thrillers, tales of darkness, vampire books. My usual literary fiction-humorous memoir reading list has taken a decidedly bloody turn. And why not? Pregnancy and birth aren’t for wimps. Partly I like reading about others in dire straits so I can breathe a shallow sigh of relief, “At least my entire family wasn’t murdered while I watched.” I am reminded of our trek home last Christmas during Portland’s latest Storm of the Century. As Mr. Crud and I jammed onto a bus destined for the Portland Airport that would get us there a good 2 hours after our departure time but we had to go anyway just in case, we looked at each other and shook our heads. “At least we aren’t being hunted by Cylons.”
I catch a glimpse of myself in the bathroom mirror. My belly definitely protrudes, but not in an obviously pregnant way, just in a bloated belly way. Soon, I tell myself, soon there (g-d willing) won’t be any question about what I’ve been up to.
RANDOM: I want to start a heavy metal pregnancy-themed band called Chloasma. I’m pretty sure we could put some of those spooky death metal bands to shame. Does gore spill from their wieners? No, sir.
Friday, July 17, 2009
Phew 2: Ultrasound Boogaloo
7-17-09
I awake at 3:50 a.m. for the last of my three middle-o’-the-night potty breaks. (After traversing the length of the house in the dead of night thrice nightly, I now appreciate why a bathroom in the master bed is a smashing idea.) I return to bed and assume my favored and short-lived sleeping position, on my stomach. I close my eyes and there he is: Dr. #2 in the Audrey Hepburn ultrasound room, “I’m sorry, things are not going well.” Shit. The ghosts of ultrasounds past have been visiting me the past few days and this morning they are relentless. I flip over and breathe into my belly (Yoga breathing! Yoga breathing!!), but it’s no use. I’m awake. Thank g-d I only have another hour to wait until the alarm sounds.
Then yoga, which pushes back the clamoring thoughts. Lucky for me my yoga teacher decides today is the day that he’ll focus in on the weaknesses in my chaturanga dandasana to upward dog transition. Yay? At least his focus on my asanas lets my mind go to the “please leave me alone, hard yoga teacher” place instead of thinking of the doomed scenarios that could result from this afternoon’s ultrasound. When I say good-bye to my teacher and yoga pals, I leave out my usual “See you tomorrow” in case I don’t.
Work carries me along on its tide of to-dos although I can barely concentrate. I surf the web in search of distraction. Thank you, dlisted.com. I lunch with my pal, Naomi, and am so so happy to talk about the happenings in her life instead of mine. I sum up my day with, “It’s nerve-wracking and scary, but what can you do?”
2:30 rolls around. I go to unlock my bike and find that another bike is wedged in against mine, making it impossible to remove my bike without some serious wrangling. “Thanks, asshole. Maybe try not being a total fuckwad next time,” I say loudly. I glance at the parking attendant’s station. Not there. Good. I’ll be the crazy lady who talks to herself soon enough around these parts, but I try to keep a decent rep while I can. Finally I extract my bike, reconnect my brake cable, which my removal gymnastics had pulled loose, and kick the tire of the offending bike. “Fucker.” Misplaced aggression anyone?
Mr. Crud rolls into the loading lane and packs me and my banged up chariot into the car.
“You okay?” He asks.
“I think so.”
We kiss and head up to the Perinatology Center on the hill.
“I wonder if they brought Audrey with them from the other office,” I say.
“I hope not.”
After a short wait, Super Tall Ultrasound Dude (STUD) from our first ultrasound of doom appears in the door. “Katherine?” (I do mean super tall—he’s easily 6’6”*.)
We stand up. Shit. Did it have to be him again? I wonder if he is praying almost as hard as we are that everything is normal, that he doesn’t have to use his prepared bad news speech (“I’m not seeing what I expect here. I’ll be back with the doctor.”) a second time.
“How are things going?” He asks as I lay down on the table.
“So far so good,” I say.
“We met about a year ago, right?” He says.
“Yep,” I say, fighting the urge to add “on one of the worst days of my life in fact.”
“You’ve had 2 losses, correct?” He says as he flips on the machine and grabs the warm goo for my belly.
“Yes.”
“I bet you’re feeling pretty anxious.”
“Oh yes,” I say. Understatement of the year. I’m surprised that I haven’t crapped my pants to be honest.
I roll down the waistband of my pants. He tucks in the towel and covers my potbelly with goo. This time I don’t look away from the screen but stare head-on. Come on, Purvis. You were here just 2 weeks ago. Don’t let me down.
He rubs the sensor over my belly and finds what he’s looking for. “Things look good,” he says quickly.
“Thank you,” I say.
As he moves the sensor around, finding Purvis’ body: arms, legs (crossed at the ankle), head, heartbeat and various markers of an 11-week ultrasound, he clicks pictures and reassures me. “Everything looks normal.”
“Thank you,” I say every time. Thank you, G-d. Thank you, STUD, for telling me over and over again and not letting me stew in my fear.
With each new find, he says “This is your baby’s head. This is your baby’s heart. This is your baby’s arms.” The phrase “your baby” somehow makes me feel warm and happy and freaked out. Purvis is a baby now. Not an embryo or fetus. Baby. I feel like I am entering dangerous territory: hope, attachment, and love.
“I need to shift your position. Your baby isn’t in a good position for me to get the measurement we need.” STUD says. He tilts the bed down.
“I do yoga. I can go upside down if you need.” Finally a chance to use my yoga powers in public!
He laughs. “I think this ought to do it.”
It doesn’t. He puts me on my side, jiggles the wand around in my pelvis. “Nope, your baby is happy where he is.”
The fear creeps back in. Why isn’t he doing what STUD wants? Is something wrong? STUD senses my freak out to be and says, “Everything looks normal. I’m just trying to get a better picture for the measurement that we need.”
He leaves Mr. Crud and I alone to wait for the doctor and to see if Purvis will get into the necessary position if I rest on my side a moment.
“I wonder if it will be one of the previous doctors,” I say.
“Accent Man or Nice Jewish Lady?” Mr. Crud asks.
“They were both good,” I say.
A new doctor whose name is also Kt enters and gives us the lowdown. Everything looks good and normal, all the markers check out. The measurement that they got of Purvis’ neck is normal too and when the results of my blood test come back, we’ll have an even better idea of our chances for genetic abnormalities. I feel weird doing these tests although I was sure from the get-go that I wanted them. I don’t know what we’ll do if we are faced with a genetically abnormal baby. I used to think that I knew, but I know enough now to know what I don’t know. (A tongue twister to keep things light, alright?) For now we will wait for the blood test results before deciding if we’ll do further diagnostic testing such as amniocentesis, which carries a small risk of miscarriage. Dr. Kt says this is what most couples do.
Again she tries to coax Purvis into a more photogenic position and again she fails so the dreaded transvaginal ultrasound is invoked.
“I’d hoped to avoid this, but I guess that’s how it goes,” I say.
Dr. Kt leaves the room and I strip from the waist down.
“Does that include my shoes?” I ask Mr. Crud. “I never know if I should leave my shoes on.”
“She said waist down.” He says with a shrug.
Dr. Kt and STUD return. This time they get the shot they need. Everything still looks good. I wonder if Purvis got his workout from my morning of yoga, if she is doing spins and turns along with me in the morning and this is her nap time.
STUD gives us a CD of some choice photos of Purvis and we are on our way.
“I’m not quite sure what to do with good news,” Mr. Crud says.
“I know. I had already starting preparing for the bad,” I say.
We are both exhausted, but not too tired to call the essential parties and share the news. Mr. Crud sends the best shot of Purvis to our close family members and we smile at their joyful replies.
“You’re not going to make that picture your wallpaper, are you?” I ask.
“No. Are you?”
“No. Something about that creeps me out,” I say.
“I wonder if I’ll be the type of person who has pictures of their kids on their wallpaper,” he says.
I know I’ve said some variation of this a gajillion times, but golly, I hope we find out.
* Did I just make the same error as Spinal Tap in the Stonehenge debacle?
I awake at 3:50 a.m. for the last of my three middle-o’-the-night potty breaks. (After traversing the length of the house in the dead of night thrice nightly, I now appreciate why a bathroom in the master bed is a smashing idea.) I return to bed and assume my favored and short-lived sleeping position, on my stomach. I close my eyes and there he is: Dr. #2 in the Audrey Hepburn ultrasound room, “I’m sorry, things are not going well.” Shit. The ghosts of ultrasounds past have been visiting me the past few days and this morning they are relentless. I flip over and breathe into my belly (Yoga breathing! Yoga breathing!!), but it’s no use. I’m awake. Thank g-d I only have another hour to wait until the alarm sounds.
Then yoga, which pushes back the clamoring thoughts. Lucky for me my yoga teacher decides today is the day that he’ll focus in on the weaknesses in my chaturanga dandasana to upward dog transition. Yay? At least his focus on my asanas lets my mind go to the “please leave me alone, hard yoga teacher” place instead of thinking of the doomed scenarios that could result from this afternoon’s ultrasound. When I say good-bye to my teacher and yoga pals, I leave out my usual “See you tomorrow” in case I don’t.
Work carries me along on its tide of to-dos although I can barely concentrate. I surf the web in search of distraction. Thank you, dlisted.com. I lunch with my pal, Naomi, and am so so happy to talk about the happenings in her life instead of mine. I sum up my day with, “It’s nerve-wracking and scary, but what can you do?”
2:30 rolls around. I go to unlock my bike and find that another bike is wedged in against mine, making it impossible to remove my bike without some serious wrangling. “Thanks, asshole. Maybe try not being a total fuckwad next time,” I say loudly. I glance at the parking attendant’s station. Not there. Good. I’ll be the crazy lady who talks to herself soon enough around these parts, but I try to keep a decent rep while I can. Finally I extract my bike, reconnect my brake cable, which my removal gymnastics had pulled loose, and kick the tire of the offending bike. “Fucker.” Misplaced aggression anyone?
Mr. Crud rolls into the loading lane and packs me and my banged up chariot into the car.
“You okay?” He asks.
“I think so.”
We kiss and head up to the Perinatology Center on the hill.
“I wonder if they brought Audrey with them from the other office,” I say.
“I hope not.”
After a short wait, Super Tall Ultrasound Dude (STUD) from our first ultrasound of doom appears in the door. “Katherine?” (I do mean super tall—he’s easily 6’6”*.)
We stand up. Shit. Did it have to be him again? I wonder if he is praying almost as hard as we are that everything is normal, that he doesn’t have to use his prepared bad news speech (“I’m not seeing what I expect here. I’ll be back with the doctor.”) a second time.
“How are things going?” He asks as I lay down on the table.
“So far so good,” I say.
“We met about a year ago, right?” He says.
“Yep,” I say, fighting the urge to add “on one of the worst days of my life in fact.”
“You’ve had 2 losses, correct?” He says as he flips on the machine and grabs the warm goo for my belly.
“Yes.”
“I bet you’re feeling pretty anxious.”
“Oh yes,” I say. Understatement of the year. I’m surprised that I haven’t crapped my pants to be honest.
I roll down the waistband of my pants. He tucks in the towel and covers my potbelly with goo. This time I don’t look away from the screen but stare head-on. Come on, Purvis. You were here just 2 weeks ago. Don’t let me down.
He rubs the sensor over my belly and finds what he’s looking for. “Things look good,” he says quickly.
“Thank you,” I say.
As he moves the sensor around, finding Purvis’ body: arms, legs (crossed at the ankle), head, heartbeat and various markers of an 11-week ultrasound, he clicks pictures and reassures me. “Everything looks normal.”
“Thank you,” I say every time. Thank you, G-d. Thank you, STUD, for telling me over and over again and not letting me stew in my fear.
With each new find, he says “This is your baby’s head. This is your baby’s heart. This is your baby’s arms.” The phrase “your baby” somehow makes me feel warm and happy and freaked out. Purvis is a baby now. Not an embryo or fetus. Baby. I feel like I am entering dangerous territory: hope, attachment, and love.
“I need to shift your position. Your baby isn’t in a good position for me to get the measurement we need.” STUD says. He tilts the bed down.
“I do yoga. I can go upside down if you need.” Finally a chance to use my yoga powers in public!
He laughs. “I think this ought to do it.”
It doesn’t. He puts me on my side, jiggles the wand around in my pelvis. “Nope, your baby is happy where he is.”
The fear creeps back in. Why isn’t he doing what STUD wants? Is something wrong? STUD senses my freak out to be and says, “Everything looks normal. I’m just trying to get a better picture for the measurement that we need.”
He leaves Mr. Crud and I alone to wait for the doctor and to see if Purvis will get into the necessary position if I rest on my side a moment.
“I wonder if it will be one of the previous doctors,” I say.
“Accent Man or Nice Jewish Lady?” Mr. Crud asks.
“They were both good,” I say.
A new doctor whose name is also Kt enters and gives us the lowdown. Everything looks good and normal, all the markers check out. The measurement that they got of Purvis’ neck is normal too and when the results of my blood test come back, we’ll have an even better idea of our chances for genetic abnormalities. I feel weird doing these tests although I was sure from the get-go that I wanted them. I don’t know what we’ll do if we are faced with a genetically abnormal baby. I used to think that I knew, but I know enough now to know what I don’t know. (A tongue twister to keep things light, alright?) For now we will wait for the blood test results before deciding if we’ll do further diagnostic testing such as amniocentesis, which carries a small risk of miscarriage. Dr. Kt says this is what most couples do.
Again she tries to coax Purvis into a more photogenic position and again she fails so the dreaded transvaginal ultrasound is invoked.
“I’d hoped to avoid this, but I guess that’s how it goes,” I say.
Dr. Kt leaves the room and I strip from the waist down.
“Does that include my shoes?” I ask Mr. Crud. “I never know if I should leave my shoes on.”
“She said waist down.” He says with a shrug.
Dr. Kt and STUD return. This time they get the shot they need. Everything still looks good. I wonder if Purvis got his workout from my morning of yoga, if she is doing spins and turns along with me in the morning and this is her nap time.
STUD gives us a CD of some choice photos of Purvis and we are on our way.
“I’m not quite sure what to do with good news,” Mr. Crud says.
“I know. I had already starting preparing for the bad,” I say.
We are both exhausted, but not too tired to call the essential parties and share the news. Mr. Crud sends the best shot of Purvis to our close family members and we smile at their joyful replies.
“You’re not going to make that picture your wallpaper, are you?” I ask.
“No. Are you?”
“No. Something about that creeps me out,” I say.
“I wonder if I’ll be the type of person who has pictures of their kids on their wallpaper,” he says.
I know I’ve said some variation of this a gajillion times, but golly, I hope we find out.
* Did I just make the same error as Spinal Tap in the Stonehenge debacle?
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