December 5, 2008
This morning I awake grateful that I don’t have to make the three treks a night to the bathroom like I did when I was pregnant. That my bladder does not shriek at me every 5 minutes. Weird. I’ve been enjoying the luxury of not having to take bathroom breaks in the middle of the night for 2 months now. For some reason pregnant life has been coming back to me at odd moments. Yesterday a wave of nausea descended on me after yoga and I gagged just like the superfun happy days in preg-land. No way, I thought, it would have to be an immaculate conception because Mr. Crud and I are playing it safe these days.
“I’m not ready,” I say.
“Me neither.” He says.
“If I got pregnant, I’d have to get an abortion, I guess.”
Mr. Crud looks at me with furrowed brow.
“Kidding.”
Still, although my body has given me the go-ahead in the form of regular periods and bountiful cervical fluid (nice image, I know), my brain is still picking over such small details as will it fucking take next time? Can I handle another miscarriage? Another ultrasound of doom? Another abortion?
Yes, technically the procedure I’ve had is an abortion even though the critter they were taking out was no longer alive. In all the swirling debate about abortion rights—which I am more firmly in favor of than ever before due to my pregnancy experience—I wonder if the debate applies to me. Would the pro-lifers want me to keep lugging around a dead embryo until nature took its course and I had myself a nice, old-fashioned miscarriage? Would they endorse endangering my life and reproductive future in the name of making sure this was what their g-d wanted? Maybe not. Maybe I underestimate their compassion, their reasonableness. But if they can go hysterical about partial birth abortion—a procedure that does not medically exist—then I allow myself some hysteria in the opposite direction.
In all the literature I’ve read about miscarriage nobody ever speaks of the physical aftereffects. It is well-known that women’s bodies change after the birth of a child. My body had changed too even though my microscopic ones were never born. Specifically in the pooping arena.
(WARNING—if you are not a fan of poop talk or butts or hemorrhoids, perhaps call it a day on this blog post. Thanks for reading!)
Before my pregnancies, I took pride, private pride albeit but pride nonetheless, in my pooping prowess. I was a twice-a-day crapper and my BM-s were smooth and required minimal clean-up. Two wipes max, bitches. Pretty sweet. Thanks be to yoga and Dave’s Killer Blues bread.
During both pregnancies, the poop train slowed to a crawl. Constipation. Shits that vexed even the most powerful flushes and made me weep in pain. I remembered how when I was a kid, I’d pretend that I was giving birth when taking a particularly painful crap. My crush of the moment, Ralph Macchio for instance, would be my birth partner, chanting, “Breathe, breathe, you can do it, babe,” while I grunted and clawed at my thighs. Splash. Ahhh…another poo baby comes into the world. A precious moment indeed. But such heavy-duty stools take a toll on an asshole. Hemorrhoids flared. I no longer could skip to my loo without experiencing a minor sense of dread, a longing for the days of easy crapping.
After MC#1 and a month-long period of not being able to push with all my might because of the interaction of my D&C with my bowels—they are next door neighbors—things got back to normal. This time, not so lucky. Whenever folks ask how I am doing post-miscarriage, I give them some variation on the “Things have been rough, but I’m still standing” standard. Which is true. In the back of my mind ticks the phrase, “but it’s been hell on my pooper.”I don’t know if this problem is another one of my unique gifts or if other members of the miscarriage club have experienced the change in shitting patterns.
I hear the formerly pregnant—the kind holding swaddled babies in their arms—complain of the weight gain. I hear you, sister. I put on 10 pounds after MC#1, most of it bottles of wine and the snack food section of Trader Joe’s. I’d hoped to lose the extra pounds during pregnancy #2 as my wine consumption halted and snacking urge was greatly diminished by constant nausea. No dice. Maybe it’s my age and the attendant slow down of ye olde metabolisme. Dang.
Ever so slowly I am whittling away the extra poundage. Very slowly. Mostly in the name of fitting into my jean-and-cords uniform. The week after MC#2, my pants squeezed at my still enlarged uterus. Over time and many sweaty yoga sessions, the pressure has lessened. I wouldn’t have minded the weight gain so much if I had a squirming bundle of joy to show for it.
Do not quote me on that should I finally have a squirming bundle of joy and complain about my weight. I might be running on 1 hour sleep and come out swinging.
Thursday, January 15, 2009
Thursday, January 8, 2009
Have You Heard the Good News?
Mr. Crud emails his uncle that, unfortunately, he probably won’t be able to procure tickets to the Obama inauguration. Mr. Crud’s Uncle Jon excitedly purchased plane tickets to the nation’s capital and booked a hotel room the night of Obama’s victory. Now he just needs the important tickets, the ones that seemingly everyone (whose head isn’t lodged up their ass) wants. Fat chance. In his “thanks for trying” reply, Uncle Jon mentions that they have a lot going on with Rachel’s due date approaching and all.
Rachel’s due date?
“I can’t believe this,” Mr. Crud says as he emerges from the murky depths of his office a.k.a. “the dungeon.”
“What?”
“Rachel’s pregnant.”
“Oh my G-d!” I look up from the newspaper. “But she’s not married!!”
“Uh, yes she is.” Mr. Crud spares me the “duh” as he reminds me of their wedding. “You know, the martini ice sculpture?”
“Oh yeah, that wedding.” The one where I made multiple trips to the martini ice sculpture. The one where Mr. Crud and I announced to his brother and sister-in-law that we might just start trying for one of those baby thingamajigs in the near future.
“I can’t believe nobody told us,” he says.
“You know your mom. She was probably doing her version of protecting us.”
“Yeah, right,” he snorts.
Like most parents, both of our sets err on the side of keeping potentially upsetting news close to the vest. In high school, I learned that my grandfather had cancer on the way to the hospital to visit him after surgery. Mr. Crud learned that his parents were in the market for a new home after they had purchased a house and sold the one that he’d grown up in. Mr. Crud calls this technique the “Fait Accompli.” We are informed of family news after it’s a done deal.
As a teenager this communication style was one more way that adults were trying to screw me. Now that I’m adult, the Fait Accompli makes me feel like a child. A fragile butterfly instead of a tough-knuckled survivor.
“How do you feel about the whole thing?” Mr. Crud asks.
“You know, the usual, happy and sad and all fucked up.”
After remembering that Rachel is in fact married, I move to the next phase of emotion after learning of a friend or acquaintance or family member’s pregnancy. Why them and not us? My actual, uncensored thought was “Why does that turd—a.k.a. Rachel’s husband—get to be a father and not Mr. Crud?”
Then I grit my teeth and remind myself that I can add a “yet” to that last statement. Mr. Crud isn’t a father YET. I roll my eyes at myself.
I think I’ve entered the teenage years of my miscarriage existence. In short, I’m pissed. Why me? Why in the fuck me? Why twice? Why after two miserable months of nausea and exhaustion? That none of these questions will ever have an answer that I don’t make up to make myself feel better doesn’t keep them from multiplying like those fucking rabbits that seem to have so much luck with the whole birth thing.
All around me, smiling dads-to-be walk hand-in-hand with fecund partners. My old high school buddy updates the Facebook world on the news of her gestating twins. Don’t get me started on the celebrities. Jenna fucking Jameson? Who the fuck do you have to fuck to have a fucking successful pregnancy? I would really like to know.
My yoga friend whose had two miscarriages is pregnant. We email about getting together for coffee to share battle scars, but haven’t gotten around to it yet. She hasn’t told me that she’s pregnant. My yoga teacher let it slip.
“I think she’s at her 11th week now. Out of the woods,” he said with a raised eyebrow.
Not exactly, I think, but I am too flustered too respond. He is the final yoga teacher that I have to tell. When he left for a month-long trip to spread the word of yoga in Japan, I was a dragging pregnant lady. Upon his return today, it’s obvious that I’ve lost my drag, that my belly has not expanded to the size it should be for a 5 months pregnant lady, but he has said nothing all morning.
“Well, I obviously didn’t make it,” I mumble.
Either he didn’t understand me or he ignores my stuttered words. “Yeah, she should be coming back soon.”
“I hope so.” I don’t mind that he didn’t stop to give me a pitying stare, to tell me how sorry he is.
After telling him, I feel a weight lifted. He is the last one. Everyone else in the world who knew of my pregnancy knows that it is no more. The stress of knowing that you’ll have to tell somebody about a miscarriage is great. An albatross around the neck. Next week I am meeting up with old work friends. One knows about MC #1. One knows nothing. I’ve been putting off this meeting for months, wanting to postpone until I have good news to share. A fait accompli with a happy ending.
Rachel’s due date?
“I can’t believe this,” Mr. Crud says as he emerges from the murky depths of his office a.k.a. “the dungeon.”
“What?”
“Rachel’s pregnant.”
“Oh my G-d!” I look up from the newspaper. “But she’s not married!!”
“Uh, yes she is.” Mr. Crud spares me the “duh” as he reminds me of their wedding. “You know, the martini ice sculpture?”
“Oh yeah, that wedding.” The one where I made multiple trips to the martini ice sculpture. The one where Mr. Crud and I announced to his brother and sister-in-law that we might just start trying for one of those baby thingamajigs in the near future.
“I can’t believe nobody told us,” he says.
“You know your mom. She was probably doing her version of protecting us.”
“Yeah, right,” he snorts.
Like most parents, both of our sets err on the side of keeping potentially upsetting news close to the vest. In high school, I learned that my grandfather had cancer on the way to the hospital to visit him after surgery. Mr. Crud learned that his parents were in the market for a new home after they had purchased a house and sold the one that he’d grown up in. Mr. Crud calls this technique the “Fait Accompli.” We are informed of family news after it’s a done deal.
As a teenager this communication style was one more way that adults were trying to screw me. Now that I’m adult, the Fait Accompli makes me feel like a child. A fragile butterfly instead of a tough-knuckled survivor.
“How do you feel about the whole thing?” Mr. Crud asks.
“You know, the usual, happy and sad and all fucked up.”
After remembering that Rachel is in fact married, I move to the next phase of emotion after learning of a friend or acquaintance or family member’s pregnancy. Why them and not us? My actual, uncensored thought was “Why does that turd—a.k.a. Rachel’s husband—get to be a father and not Mr. Crud?”
Then I grit my teeth and remind myself that I can add a “yet” to that last statement. Mr. Crud isn’t a father YET. I roll my eyes at myself.
I think I’ve entered the teenage years of my miscarriage existence. In short, I’m pissed. Why me? Why in the fuck me? Why twice? Why after two miserable months of nausea and exhaustion? That none of these questions will ever have an answer that I don’t make up to make myself feel better doesn’t keep them from multiplying like those fucking rabbits that seem to have so much luck with the whole birth thing.
All around me, smiling dads-to-be walk hand-in-hand with fecund partners. My old high school buddy updates the Facebook world on the news of her gestating twins. Don’t get me started on the celebrities. Jenna fucking Jameson? Who the fuck do you have to fuck to have a fucking successful pregnancy? I would really like to know.
My yoga friend whose had two miscarriages is pregnant. We email about getting together for coffee to share battle scars, but haven’t gotten around to it yet. She hasn’t told me that she’s pregnant. My yoga teacher let it slip.
“I think she’s at her 11th week now. Out of the woods,” he said with a raised eyebrow.
Not exactly, I think, but I am too flustered too respond. He is the final yoga teacher that I have to tell. When he left for a month-long trip to spread the word of yoga in Japan, I was a dragging pregnant lady. Upon his return today, it’s obvious that I’ve lost my drag, that my belly has not expanded to the size it should be for a 5 months pregnant lady, but he has said nothing all morning.
“Well, I obviously didn’t make it,” I mumble.
Either he didn’t understand me or he ignores my stuttered words. “Yeah, she should be coming back soon.”
“I hope so.” I don’t mind that he didn’t stop to give me a pitying stare, to tell me how sorry he is.
After telling him, I feel a weight lifted. He is the last one. Everyone else in the world who knew of my pregnancy knows that it is no more. The stress of knowing that you’ll have to tell somebody about a miscarriage is great. An albatross around the neck. Next week I am meeting up with old work friends. One knows about MC #1. One knows nothing. I’ve been putting off this meeting for months, wanting to postpone until I have good news to share. A fait accompli with a happy ending.
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