2-16-09
The results are in: I am (mostly) normal in terms of my clotting abilities and thyroid. Dr. Awesome emails me the lab report, which sends me into AP Biology flashback tremors--A heterozygo-wha? Thankfully she also sends her translation from science to laywoman. Basically, I am normal. Except, possibly, for my homocysteine levels. I am a genetic carrier of a mutation, which does make me grip my chest and say “Oh my,” but this mutation isn’t anything cool like mind-reading powers or tongue tricks. No, it is possible but not likely that my homocysteine levels may lead me to have blood-clotting issues. I tell my mom this over the phone during the mandatory but strained miscarriage check-in part of the weekly conversation.
“Well, your grandfather had problems with blood clots.”
Hmmm…could he be my homocysteine source? I rarely think about my grandfather until somebody asks about your first experience with death. He had the honor. He was 81, suffering from some kind of cancer. He was the type of grandpa who seemed impossibly old from the get-go: shiny bald, a chain-smoker with a permanent wheeze and hacking cough, and a Santa-like physique. Aside from our shared penchant for smoking, could we be joined by homocysteine?
Dr. Awesome says that we can get back in the pregnancy game unless we want to be sure about the homocysteine, in which case I can fast and then have my levels check. My first reaction: Fuck no! Fasting? Hell no!! We have a saying around our house: Don’t make Kt hungry, you wouldn’t like her when she’s hungry. Dr. Awesome goes on to say that the treatment for the unlikely case of high homocysteine levels is folic acid and B6 supplements. During both pregnancies I had been taking the recommended levels of folic acid, well-schooled am I in the effects of not enough folate on growing fetuses. B6 became part of my supplement regimen to quell the nausea. Does this mean we’re back where we started from?
I share the results with Mr. Crud. I also share my reluctance to undergo the homocysteine test. In addition to the whole fasting issue is the cost. Today we received our bill for the blood tests and saline sonogram. Over $2,000. Sure, insurance will pick up most of that, but still, it makes me wish they had found something wrong so I’d be getting my money’s worth.
“But you’ll do it, right? If Dr. Awesome says you should?” Mr. Crud asks. I realize what a huge wimp I am. I remember Jan and the ovary stress tests and hormone tests that she did in her quest for successful pregnancy. Maybe I’m not cut out for this.
“Yeah, I will. But what’s the point if the only treatment is taking vitamins that I’m already taking?”
“Good point.”
I email Dr. Awesome with this very question. She promises answers in a few days. It’s cool. I can wait. Since last month’s flurry of pregnancy desire, my levels have fallen off. I’m hitting the high fertility times and, at the moment, have zero desire to be knocked up. I’m liking my wine right now. My yoga practice is feeling great. My teacher even commented that some of the back issues, which have plagued me for the last 8 months, seem to have resolved themselves. My pants fit without the uncomfortable bulge over the waistband. Life is good.
Thanks to Facebook, I’m indulging in some nostalgia for the good old days of beer, rock shows on school nights, and viewing motherhood as just another form of patriarchical bondage. Seriously. In my early twenties, I took several writing classes with women who had children. Upon learning they were mothers, my first thought was always—and I’m not proud of this—why the hell would you do something like that? Now you’re just a mother. Oh the sweet assaholic twenties. I knew everything and was sure that I would never ever in a million years want to push a watermelon out of my lady parts. I had so much time and so many options.
I tell Mr. Crud of my swing back to the childless side of things. He’s cool.
“In other words Lyla wore off. I think our trip to visit Emma will cure that.” He’s got a point.
It would be nice to go on a vacation without being pregnant. All of my vacations last year coincided with the gnarly days of the first trimester. I think I’ll keep it in my pants—or at least protected—for another month.
Dirty martini, please.
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
Friday, March 13, 2009
3 Down 2 To Go
2-12-2009
Recently 2 of my Facebook friends gave birth to their much status-updated about babies. To be accurate, Old High School friend revolved her status updates around the twins jousting in her belly. The other friend, who was aware of my miscarriages and the sender of several compassionate emails, was not ruled by the lovely baby girl rolling around inside of her. Every time I read an update not related to her pregnancy, I silently thanked her even as I felt compelled to respond to all the baby-related ones with joy. Do I sound like a jerk? Because I sure feel like one. In order to participate in happy baby-related chatter I separate myself, I wipe away the entirety of 2008 and become that hopeful-someday-maybe-mom-to-be.
Two nights ago I meet with my new writing group for the first time. My friend Trista has gathered 3 of the brightest writing minds of our generation—including moi--and I bring Naomi, a poet-playwright friend from my team.
The talk turns to the recent birth of a colleague of Trista and her friends.
“Oh, have you seen my grandson?” Adrian*, one of the women, asks. She whips out her cell phone and shows us the adorable 6-month-old smiling in a tiny car toy.
“Wow! He’s holding his head up.” Karen, another of Trista’s colleagues, says.
I feel the split. My smile dries as if molded from plaster. I wonder if Naomi and Trista are wondering if I am feeling sad at all the baby chatter, if I can only be reminded of what I have lost. At this moment, I am not. I trade tales of my niece Lyla and how much fun 6-month-old babies can be with all the changes and new smiles. I send mental phrases to Trista and Naomi: Don’t worry about me. I’m cool. It’s fine. I’m a pro.
I have acquired a certain amnesia about the whole thing. Since getting my period a few days ago the should-we-shouldn’t-we see-saw goes up and down.
Yes: Let’s give it another shot. What the hell? Only thing to fear but fear itself, right? You aren’t getting any younger you know.
No: But I’m just getting my body back to its game weight. I love sushi! I don’t want to be pregnant and first trimester-ing during our next trip to Florida. No, no, no. What of martinis? I should be mainlining martinis stat until peeing-on-stick time.
Later in the writing group night, after we have worked out the grand plan for our new group, we talk about what we are working on writing-wise, and who we are outside of the dynamite-stick word “writer.”
“Well, I wrote a novel that I’m trying to get published. Well, trying in the lazy sense of the word. And I do a blog, Crudbucket, and another blog about miscarriage.” I pause. I let my little time-bomb dangle. Who would write about miscarriage if it hadn’t happened to them? Maybe I’m some weirdo on a mission. I wonder what the 2 women who aren’t in on my membership in the miscarriage sisterhood are thinking. Maybe nothing. Maybe it just slides off their shoulders like I said my focus was knitting or oddly shaped dog crap.
I mentally sputter. Should I? No! You’ve just met them. Don’t bum everyone out. Come on, move on, talk about Crudbucket. Crudbucket will save you! Oh come now, be honest, it’ll come out eventually. You’re not ashamed. You’re the Miscarriage Avenger, remember?
I pipe up. “Well, I might as well say it. I had 2 miscarriages last year. I write about them on the blog and might be bringing stuff related to miscarriage. That’s what I’ve mainly been writing about.”
I pause and let it sink in. I wish I had some sort of miscarriage one-liner to pull out and ease the momentary tension. I cannot think of any one, two, or three liners where embryonic death is concerned. Maybe I could commission something from Margaret Cho.
“You really should check out the Peabody Project,” Trista says. Talk turns to web addresses and I frantically start to wonder if everyone thinks I’m a miscarriage-obsessed weirdo. If they’re making a mental note to not bring up childbirth or grandchildren or cute anecdotes about baby poop. (But I love poop talk!)
Trista says nice things about my blog—this here one that you’re treating your eyes to at this very moment—and I relax.
Nobody responds with any facile “It wasn’t meant to be. You can try again” answers. I relax even more.
I get home and tell Mr. Crud of the night’s writing group adventures. “I copped to the miscarriages. I hope it wasn’t weird for everyone.”
“I’m sure it was fine,” he says. He pauses and tilts his head. “I don’t even remember what it was like before. We were different people.”
“Yeah, who were we?”
“It all seems so happy and naïve,” he says.
I run through all the ways the miscarriages have changed me. I’m more sympathetic to health problems. I’m more skilled at responding to tales of sadness and tragedy. I realize that if things are meant to be, then it’s a fucked up world indeed. I let myself think of the reality of being pregnant again. What it would be like to see those two lines appear on the pee stick. I wonder at my reaction, a status update that hasn’t been sanitized for your protection. Or maybe I will become somebody’s Facebook glitch, a status update dripping with pregnant connotations that always reminds her of her alienation from the rest of the tribe. I sort of hope so.
* Names have been changed randomly and inconsistently. If any of you folks named here want a pseudonym, let me know.
Recently 2 of my Facebook friends gave birth to their much status-updated about babies. To be accurate, Old High School friend revolved her status updates around the twins jousting in her belly. The other friend, who was aware of my miscarriages and the sender of several compassionate emails, was not ruled by the lovely baby girl rolling around inside of her. Every time I read an update not related to her pregnancy, I silently thanked her even as I felt compelled to respond to all the baby-related ones with joy. Do I sound like a jerk? Because I sure feel like one. In order to participate in happy baby-related chatter I separate myself, I wipe away the entirety of 2008 and become that hopeful-someday-maybe-mom-to-be.
Two nights ago I meet with my new writing group for the first time. My friend Trista has gathered 3 of the brightest writing minds of our generation—including moi--and I bring Naomi, a poet-playwright friend from my team.
The talk turns to the recent birth of a colleague of Trista and her friends.
“Oh, have you seen my grandson?” Adrian*, one of the women, asks. She whips out her cell phone and shows us the adorable 6-month-old smiling in a tiny car toy.
“Wow! He’s holding his head up.” Karen, another of Trista’s colleagues, says.
I feel the split. My smile dries as if molded from plaster. I wonder if Naomi and Trista are wondering if I am feeling sad at all the baby chatter, if I can only be reminded of what I have lost. At this moment, I am not. I trade tales of my niece Lyla and how much fun 6-month-old babies can be with all the changes and new smiles. I send mental phrases to Trista and Naomi: Don’t worry about me. I’m cool. It’s fine. I’m a pro.
I have acquired a certain amnesia about the whole thing. Since getting my period a few days ago the should-we-shouldn’t-we see-saw goes up and down.
Yes: Let’s give it another shot. What the hell? Only thing to fear but fear itself, right? You aren’t getting any younger you know.
No: But I’m just getting my body back to its game weight. I love sushi! I don’t want to be pregnant and first trimester-ing during our next trip to Florida. No, no, no. What of martinis? I should be mainlining martinis stat until peeing-on-stick time.
Later in the writing group night, after we have worked out the grand plan for our new group, we talk about what we are working on writing-wise, and who we are outside of the dynamite-stick word “writer.”
“Well, I wrote a novel that I’m trying to get published. Well, trying in the lazy sense of the word. And I do a blog, Crudbucket, and another blog about miscarriage.” I pause. I let my little time-bomb dangle. Who would write about miscarriage if it hadn’t happened to them? Maybe I’m some weirdo on a mission. I wonder what the 2 women who aren’t in on my membership in the miscarriage sisterhood are thinking. Maybe nothing. Maybe it just slides off their shoulders like I said my focus was knitting or oddly shaped dog crap.
I mentally sputter. Should I? No! You’ve just met them. Don’t bum everyone out. Come on, move on, talk about Crudbucket. Crudbucket will save you! Oh come now, be honest, it’ll come out eventually. You’re not ashamed. You’re the Miscarriage Avenger, remember?
I pipe up. “Well, I might as well say it. I had 2 miscarriages last year. I write about them on the blog and might be bringing stuff related to miscarriage. That’s what I’ve mainly been writing about.”
I pause and let it sink in. I wish I had some sort of miscarriage one-liner to pull out and ease the momentary tension. I cannot think of any one, two, or three liners where embryonic death is concerned. Maybe I could commission something from Margaret Cho.
“You really should check out the Peabody Project,” Trista says. Talk turns to web addresses and I frantically start to wonder if everyone thinks I’m a miscarriage-obsessed weirdo. If they’re making a mental note to not bring up childbirth or grandchildren or cute anecdotes about baby poop. (But I love poop talk!)
Trista says nice things about my blog—this here one that you’re treating your eyes to at this very moment—and I relax.
Nobody responds with any facile “It wasn’t meant to be. You can try again” answers. I relax even more.
I get home and tell Mr. Crud of the night’s writing group adventures. “I copped to the miscarriages. I hope it wasn’t weird for everyone.”
“I’m sure it was fine,” he says. He pauses and tilts his head. “I don’t even remember what it was like before. We were different people.”
“Yeah, who were we?”
“It all seems so happy and naïve,” he says.
I run through all the ways the miscarriages have changed me. I’m more sympathetic to health problems. I’m more skilled at responding to tales of sadness and tragedy. I realize that if things are meant to be, then it’s a fucked up world indeed. I let myself think of the reality of being pregnant again. What it would be like to see those two lines appear on the pee stick. I wonder at my reaction, a status update that hasn’t been sanitized for your protection. Or maybe I will become somebody’s Facebook glitch, a status update dripping with pregnant connotations that always reminds her of her alienation from the rest of the tribe. I sort of hope so.
* Names have been changed randomly and inconsistently. If any of you folks named here want a pseudonym, let me know.
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