Nope, Didn't Need That

6-22-09

Last week I start writing this post in my head as I chase my 3-year-old nephew and 6-year-old niece around the Crud household. I marvel at their energy, their mercurial emotional life (from dancing to hysterical weeping in less than 6 seconds), and their general awesomeness. I also marvel that any mother could remain sane during a second pregnancy with a young ‘un scampering about the house demanding orange juice and yogurt. Kudos to you, ladies. I think that our plan to stop at one—G-d willing—is a wise choice because I can’t fathom keeping my shit together while feeling nauseous, exhausted and bargaining with a toddler.

Alas, such fun and games are not what this post is about.

Saturday shortly after the departure of the extended Crud family, I notice a bug bite like bump on my belly. And then another one. And another. As I stand naked in front of the mirror ready for my shower I see that they are all over my torso. My gut lurches. Should I be freaking out? I step out of my body and try to reason with myself. Freaking out will do no good. Take a deep breath. Take a shower. Get out and calmly call for a second opinion from Mr. Crud.

I shower. I bargain with myself. Chicken pox? Rubella? Measles? None of these are good for the pregnant. But I already had chicken pox. Oh, but it was a mild case. Maybe I didn’t have it enough. Calm. Stay calm.

I get out of the shower and notice the spots have darkened. Deep breath.

“Hon? Could you come take a look at something?” I call into his office en route to the bedroom.

He jumps up from his seat. “What? Is everything okay?”

Dang. My moderated tone is freaking him out more.

We examine the evidence. Yup, those are surely bumps. They don’t itch. They just are.

“I’d almost understand if they were itchy. Like hives or something.”

Mr. Crud’s face is worry. “You want me to call the doctor?” I ask.

“Please.”

I am lucky. My clinic has hours on Saturday and they can squeeze me in. I felt sheepish while dialing the phone. I imagine myself leaning on the counter, “Well, usually I’m a wait and see kind of gal, but I’m pregnant, you know.” I’d roll my eyes at the ridiculousness of coming to see the doctor mere hours after discovering a rash. But on the phone my voice waivers. “Normally I wouldn’t be so worried, but I’m 8 weeks pregnant.” I leave out the part about the miscarriages. I strive to not be overly TMI unless necessary.

“We’ll see you at noon.” The receptionist says.

I spend the next hour googling and consulting the preg books. Yup, chicken pox would indeed be bad news. There are pregnancy specific rashes, but they usually come on later. Wouldn’t it be just like me to be an exception. I am pretty fucking tired of being exceptional in the pregnancy arena. When will I be able to join the larger percentage? What is the secret code?

I check in at reception while a woman complains that she’s been waiting a half hour. You don’t know the half of it, sister, I think, remembering back to the eternal hour I waited for my first pregnancy test what seems like years ago.

“So this is for a rash?” The receptionist asks. “This isn’t pregnancy-related, correct?”

“Well, sort of. I wouldn’t be in here if I weren’t pregnant,” I say.

“Oh, I’m not sure how to code that.”

I blink. Me neither.

“I’ll let the doctor figure that out,” she says. “They’ll call you when they’re ready.”

In preparation for the appointment, I chugged a glass of water. I learned from my previous experience. I will be ready to pee in a cup this time. I’m starting to feel the fruits of my chugging as I take a seat.

“Kt,” they call me back.

They weigh me. 7 pounds more of me than my last appointment, but most of that is heavy clothes and water, I tell myself. I can’t have gained that much weight in 4 weeks. This is no time to beat myself up about being fat, but I get in a few good blows before being seated in an exam room.

We wait. And wait. The once vague sensation of needing to pee is now quickly becoming an emergency. I try to concentrate on my new book—the very fine Dear American Airlines by Jonathan Miles—but all I can think about is the bathroom down the hall. Do I risk losing my turn in line by going? What if they need a sample? Please ask me to pee in a cup! I’m ready for my pee cup!

After 30 minutes, the doctor du jour—not Dr. Awesome who has the weekend off—pops his pony-tailed head in. “Just a few more minutes. So sorry about the wait.”

He pops out again. Shit. I should have asked him if I could pee. But wouldn’t that have been an odd way to start out the relationship? Vaguely preschool. I cross my legs. Remember to be thankful that he could see you on such short notice, I tell myself.

Mr. Crud remembers that Dr. Du Jour is the one who gave him his much hated flexible sigmoidoscopy a few months ago.

“He was cool. He joked. He told me it was okay to fart.”

“Maybe you should take your pants off and see if he remembers you.” I say.

We laugh nervously.

Finally the doctor returns with more apologies. “No problem,” I say.

Dr. Du Jour sits down at the computer and pulls up my file. “So you have a rash.”

“Yes,” I say. “I wouldn’t have been so concerned except I’m about 8 weeks pregnant.”

“Congratulations!” His face lights up.

Both Mr. Crud and I look down. We look so glum that he starts to stumble into a question about whether it’s a desired pregnancy and do we need information about our options.

If I wasn’t so busy trying to convince him that yes, we do want this pregnancy, but that it’s a bit complicated, what with the 2 miscarriages in the last year and all, I would burst out laughing. Yes! An elective abortion would be a kind of relief. At least I would get to make the decision this time.

Instead we stumble through our little speech about our year of pregnancy loss. Yeah, we’re okay but nervous, which is why we’re here.

“So let’s take a look.”

I lift up my shirt and show him my spots. He touches them and makes “uh huh” noises and verbal notes to himself “raised areas.” “And you say it doesn’t itch?”

“Nope, not at all, unless I look at it too long.”

“Well, it’s not chicken pox if that’s what you’re worried about.”

I was. I let out a small sigh of relief.

“I think what you have is pityriasis rosea, which you’ll be glad to know carries no risks with pregnancy. But I can’t find a herald patch so I’ll need to get my colleague to confirm.”

Dr. Du Jour steps out.

“Feel better?” I ask.

Mr. Crud nods. “I’m glad we came in.”

Mr. Crud’s PCP returns with Dr. Du Jour for a second opinion on my rash. It’s a regular Mr. Crud medical care reunion up in here. Mr. Crud’s PCP takes a look and concurs with Dr. Du Jour. Pityriasis rosea it is! Neither are 100% sure since my symptoms are not classic but it’s “my story and I’m sticking to it.”

“Because I know you’ll do it at home, let’s google it and see what we can find.” Dr. Du Jour says.

First we find some nasty ass pictures of other sufferers which look nothing like my quaint bug bites. Damn, I hope this isn’t my future. Then he happens upon a recent study that links miscarriage with pityriasis rosea in early pregnancy.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m glad that we found it together though.”

We scan the screen together. In an Italian study of 38 pregnant woman (“Not a very large sample size,” says Mr. Crud), researchers found that women who contract pityriasis rosea in the first 15 weeks of their pregnancy had a 62% higher rate of miscarriage. While Mr. Crud and Dr. Du Jour tease out the actual numbers (“Does that mean 3 women had miscarriages?” the doctors asks.) I tell myself to stay calm. We do our best to rip their study a new one, but conclude that it was a peer reviewed study and might have some validity.

“Well, if you miscarry, they can test for this,” he says.

Uh, thanks? Good? What the fuck?

See what I mean about not knowing all the things to worry about. A weird, non-itchy rash hadn’t even entered my head.

“I’m really sorry,” Dr. Du Jour says. “But there isn’t a treatment. If you develop serious itching or it spreads, give us a call. Are you okay?”

“Yeah, well, I guess there’s not really anything we can do so…” My voice trails off.

We are the last patients to leave the clinic. My overwhelming urge to pee has taken a back seat to this new wrinkle in my pregnancy. I find myself almost wishing for bad news so that the waiting and worrying will be over. Not really. I’d much rather get good news and start buying maternity clothes, but there is something to be said about feeling normal again, not sick and tired and even more emotionally exhausted from attempts to keep oneself from collapsing into tears.

We get home and I beeline for the bathroom. Good thing we waited. Seems I terrified myself into a case of fear-arrhea. Now that would have been REALLY embarrassing. Glad they didn’t ask for a urine sample.

I emerge. “So, we see Dr. Awesome next week for the ultrasound,” I say.

“Okay,” Mr. Crud says and pulls me into a hug.

“Whatever happens we’ll be okay,” I say. This is my new mantra. I’m coming pretty close to convincing myself it’s true.

In other news, I make my appointment for what has historically been the ultrasound of doom. The scheduler tells me to come to the office on the hill, the office where I had my saline sonogram. “We no longer have an office on the Waterfront,” she says.

“That’s great,” I say.

“Uh okay. We’ll see you in a few weeks.”

I suddenly feel light. No Audrey Hepburn! No trolley ride to the gorgeous glass building by the water that has been our undoing the last 2 times. I dial Mr. Crud. “I made the appointment. We go to the hill this time. No Center for Sadness and Disappointment!”

“What’s going on? You sound so happy.”

“I didn’t realize how much I’d been dreading going back there.”

I feel like we are breaking patterns and taking names. I google pityriasis rosea and miscarriage one more time, but quickly close the window. Time to revel in this tiny slice of joy. I’ll take it where I can get it.

Duhhhhhhh

6-16-09

Me tired. This is my third attempt at writing a blog post feeling like my brain is swaddled in bubble wrap. The past two times I wrote notes to myself that make only the vaguest sense to me now and swore that tomorrow, that fine day when the sun will finally come out, I would be infused with both energy and wit. No dice. This fog is in it to win it and I am a mere mouse being tossed about in its mousey paws. (Yes, the fog is also a cat. No mixed metaphor that.)

Yup, still pregnant. Pregnant and too tired to get too worked up about being pregnant. Is that why the first trimester symptoms are such a beat down? To let the worries of what’s going on in there take a back seat to worries about how I’m going to make it through the workday without slumping over my computer in a sudden narcoleptic fit?

Sadly this onslaught of symptoms coincides with the much anticipated visit from JADE, the power quartet of my brother-in-law, sister-in-law, niece, and nephew. I’m thrilled to have them here, but wish that I could be my sparkling self instead of this creature who lumbers about the house fantasizing about an 8:00 bedtime. Last night I beat my niece Emma to bed. She’s 6. She read to me from a novelization of Disney hit, Enchanted. In my sleepy state, I almost started bawling at the sweetness of the moment. Just a few years ago, it was I who read a picture book about witches to her. They grow up so fast.

What was I saying again?

New pregnancy developments: Dr. Awesome has given us our referral to the Center for Sadness and Disappointment so I will again be making an appointment for early genetic testing. Again be faced with the Audrey Hepburn ultrasound room. I was too chicken shit to call today. I wonder if our genetic counselor will see our names on her docket and say a silent prayer that she doesn’t have to be the bearer of bad news and boxes of tissues yet again.

Next week I see an acupuncturist who is also a nurse midwife. I don’t know what she can do, but I’ll take all the help I can get. Well, almost all of it. In addition to acupuncture she offered an herbal drink that would support the fetus. I am declining for the time being. I’ll need to confer with Dr. Awesome about that one. Plus I’ve never actually made it to the fetus stage. I’ve been arrested at embryo.

Question of the day: How do women with small children survive the first trimester? My sweet nephew is 3-years-old and a bundle of chaos. Even following him around for 15 minutes tires me out. Props to the pregnant mothers in the house. May you find peace.

And a note of congrats to Jan, my yoga buddy. She gave birth to her healthy son last week. May I follow in her footsteps.

Fool Me Once

6-12-09

"There's an old saying in Tennessee — I know it's in Texas, probably in Tennessee — that says, fool me once, shame on — shame on you. Fool me — you can't get fooled again."
--Former (Thank f-ing G-d) President George W. Bush

When I think back on my first pregnancy, I tend to shudder at my optimism, my total trust in my body and the universe to do its thing and give me a healthy baby. I was such a fool. I can’t even read the first 70 or so pages of the Peabody Project Chronicles, a.k.a. the happy pre-miscarriage times, lest I start feeling a deep sadness at my blissful ignorance.

“G-d, I was so stupid,” I said at the time.

I felt so duped by my own belief that everything would turn out just fine for us, that my biggest worry was whether Peabody and I would share a birthday and if I would be in any shape to have some delicious cocktails by the time Thanksgiving rolled around. Who exactly was I?

This morning while in savasana I have the slightest inkling that every little thing is going to be alright. I even dare mentally talk to my embryo. “Hey in there. How’s it going? Are you making yourself comfortable?” I feel myself drifting off into doubt? Should I be doing this? Will talking to this embryo--who I’ve taken to calling Purvis for reasons I don’t fully understand—-make losing it all the more painful should such a thing come to pass? I remember an Ana Forrest answer in one of the Yoga Journal newsletters that fill my inbox to a query about teaching pregnant women. She urged teachers to encourage their pregnant students to relax and connect with the life growing inside of them. After MC #1, I thought of her answer and scoffed: What a load of naive bullshit.

Now I question why being cautious, bordering on worst-case scenario is somehow the wiser of the choices. If Purvis does grow into the adorable tow-headed lass or lad that appears in the hopeful visions in my head, I will have wasted so much time worrying about his or her possible demise. Not that I won’t allow myself the space to be afraid, to have those scary thoughts of the ultrasound room of doom because I know full well that denying them will only cause them to redouble their efforts. But can’t I just operate on the statistically supported assumption that all is well down below?

In savasana I take a deep breath and sigh to get out all the accumulated questions. (Yes, know, savasana is not supposed to be a time to work out all of life’s problems, but rather to just lie there and be. Totally working on it.) “Hey there Purvis. It’s me, the mom. Just wanted you to know that we’re pulling for you. Keep dividing those cells right, okay?”

In a way it’s like a parenting lesson that I’ll have to learn again when my theoretical child reaches teenage-hood and rolls eyes at the sight of me. I have no control—aside from not smoking, drinking, or eating delicious sushi—now as I will have very little then. I’m also reminded of something that my brother said after his daughter, Lyla, was born. “Getting them born safely is just the beginning.”

So it is. And so I go. Optimistic and wise, at least for today.

Symptoms: Oh dear lord, my boobs hurt. I must shield them in the shower lest the droplets of water send me into spasms of pain.
Nausea, oh nausea, rock on.
Aversions-r-us. Pizza and strawberries are the only foods that work for me. Not even sushi. Or French fries. Mr. Crud says, “Who are you?”

People told: My sweet pal, Nao.
Old high school acquaintance turning friend whose had her own tangles with child-bearing demons.

I Must Not Think Bad Thoughts

6-8-09

Back during preg #2, I picked up a copy of What to Expect When You’re Expecting despite the warnings from my doctor and doula that it wasn’t the best of resources. The true title should be What to Freak Out About When You’re Expecting as it contains extensive lists of all the things that could go wrong along. Not to mention the hyperventilating tone. (More exclamation points per paragraph than notes from my niece who is enamored of this most charismatic of quotation marks.) And the condescension. But such is the way of pregnancy world. A woman has sex, starts growing a being in her uterus and somehow morphs into a kindergartner in the eyes of the pregnancy industrial complex. The situation is improving with the publication of From The Hips and other such resources from the sassy and smart Gen X intelligentsia. But those books aren’t as detailed as the classic.

The hip, blue-jeaned woman on the cover beckons. Okay, fine. I’ll just take a quick look at what to expect during week 6. Sore tits: check. Nausea: yup. Food cravings/aversions: And how! (Though I always have my finger on the pulse of my appetite so I might be exaggerating.) My eyes drift to a sidebar “Stay positive!” Women who remain positive during their pregnancies have easier labors and fewer pre-term labors. Well, good for them. All the entreaties to stay optimistic are the fingernails-on-chalkboard of my subsequent pregnancies. I wouldn’t say that I’m all doom and gloom, but I’m certainly not bouncing around, spreading the news of my pregnancy far and wide, and plastering a smile on my face. Now that sounds stressful.

Mom and I are having our weekly chat. She asks how I’m feeling.

“Oh you know, a little sick, very tired, but on the whole I’m okay.”

“I hope you’re feeling better by the time I get there,” she says.

“I’m just hoping that I’m still pregnant by the time you get here.”

“Oh sweetie. Think good thoughts!” she says.

My mom does not appreciate my gallows humor. I try to explain to her that I am staying positive for the most part, but that it’s hard to be blindly positive when I know how things can turn out. When other women tell me of their pregnancies and aren’t aware of my history, I don’t instantly regale them with my story. I smile and congratulate them and envy them their uncomplicated joy. But for those who know, I am honest. Yes, I am thrilled. Seriously. I want it to work out very badly, but I just don’t believe it yet. Talk to me after my ultrasound at week 9. (Thanks for fitting us in before you give birth, Dr. Awesome!)

My yoga pal Jan said that her pregnancy was transformed after her positive ultrasound. I am waiting for similar magic. Not that I mind other people being optimistic. I rationally know that my chances are good, but I’m just not feeling it yet. When you’re on the wrong side of statistics twice in one year, it’s hard to believe that you can get back to the right side. In this case I am so ready to not be special.

Now if I may totally contradict myself. I also feel like I am supposed to be wary when I spread the news like if I were totally thrilled and jumping for joy that my friends would smack a smile on their faces while secretly thinking, “Is she delusional?” I feel like I need to acknowledge that we are in a precarious position. Sometimes I trot out the statistic that 3 miscarriages in a row is extremely rare. To others I just say, “We’re excited, but you know,” and look down at my growing pot -belly. At some point I will want to be balls-out thrilled. Oh probably around month 8 (g-d willing). And then no one will need to entreat me to be positive. I might even glow.

But we’re not there yet.

Random: As I lay in bed, contemplating pregnancy an image of 2 babies popped into my head. Twins? Not bloody likely. I don’t want to spend the rest of my days swearing to G-d that we didn’t use fertility drugs. For the record, we didn’t.

This weekend I devoured Elizabeth McCracken’s excellent An Exact Replica of a Figment of My Imagination, a memoir about her first pregnancy, which ended in a stillborn baby, and her second, which ended in a happy, healthy, breathing child. She nails many of my feelings: how I must remind myself over and over again not to assume anything of a pregnant woman’s history lest I judge harshly, and the anguish, the deep, bone-rattling, soul-painful anguish. Probably not the best book to read while pregnant, but I certainly feel less alone.

A Message From Our Sponsor

I plan to post roughly a blog entry a day until the entries are up-to-date. I shall put aside my perfectionist impulses and my desire to let the words marinate a few days (or weeks) before they see they light of blogger and be more blog-like in my blogging. Plus, shit is happening and I want to be timely. Nothing sadder than posting blogs about a pregnancy that is no more. Not that this one is no more--it still is. I continue to plug along.

Thanks for reading and commenting and being cool humans.

The Road Diverged

6-4-09

Mr. Crud and I are watching an installment of the excellent PBS series, “We Shall Remain.” Tecumseh and his posse are fighting valiantly against whitey. Mr. Crud and I root for the Indians even though we know how it all turns out. The announcer intones “The colonists then mutilated Tecumseh’s corpse beyond recognition.”

“Stay classy, America,” I say.

“I know. Really.” Mr. Crud snorts.

As the story continues on to the next chapter of Native American bravery and colonist chicken-shitery, I find my mind drifting. Ultrasound room. Audrey Hepburn. Babies floating in utero with their hearts outside of their bodies. Shit. I’ve been spending too much time on the internet again.

It started innocently enough. I went on Amazon to order a book about pregnancy after miscarriage. As I paged through the comments, trying to decipher if I should spend my hard-earned cash on yet another pregnancy book, I found more heartbreaking tales of miscarriage, multiple miscarriage, and harrowing experiences with birth defects that caused women to have late-term abortions. I’ve also been reading about the tragic murder of George Tiller, a man who has morphed into a saint in my eyes for his bravery and kindness to women stuck in the most miserable of situations. In short, I’m reading way too much about what can go wrong in a pregnancy while trying to keep myself sane.

“I’m thinking bad thoughts again,” I tell Mr. Crud.

“About?”

“The usual. It’s the internet’s fault,” I say.

“Stop doing that.” He squeezes my foot.

(It’s only week 5. Can you believe that? I wait at the traffic light this morning and think ahead to next week. Oh finally, week 7. Hold on a second. Just 6. Dang. Pregnancy time drags more than stoned time. When I was an enthusiastic stoner, I claimed that I was “beating time” when it felt like time passed at molasses speed. I loved beating time, wringing every last drop of nectar, from my glazed eye joy. Now? Not so much.)

I’m walking at lunch and imagining my mother’s visit here in August. Will I show by then? Or just look bloated and like I’ve gained a few? I imagine us shopping for maternity wear even though my plan is to don all the too-large t-shirts from my rocker days past. I plan to use pregnancy as an excuse to revisit my punk rock t-shirt roots. If not now, then when. Then my brain swerves again. Or I could be wearing my fat pants because I’ve been eating and drinking so much to chase away the pain of another miscarriage. I am experiencing two pregnancies simultaneously: best and worst-case scenarios. I want to believe. I want to relax when Dr. Awesome tells me that everything will be okay. I want to know that we have tested what needed to be tested, that it was just bad, bad luck (and my needy, overly hospitable uterus). But it’s so hard to go down the yellow brick road when the one that winds through the menacing woods is so much more familiar.

Symptoms: Almost passed out in yoga class when our teacher had us stand up to chant after I’d moved to floor poses. Guess I may need to tell him sooner rather than later about the bun in the oven.

You're Shitting Me

6-3-09

I still don’t believe it’s true. Pregnant? Me? Come the fuck on. Maybe it’s because the symptoms haven’t yet taken up residence in the brokedown temple that is my body. Occasionally I feel a wave of nausea pass when I’m hungry. Sure, I feel tired, but not sleeping for a few days will do that to a person. I would count my insomnia as a pregnancy symptom, but I occasionally can’t sleep on non-pregnant nights. Insomnia for me is like an old frenemy who pops in for an unwanted visit at random times. Typically it stays for a few days, gets tired of playing with my mind and goes on its merry way. I wonder if this round is rooted in unconscious anxieties about being pregnant. Or maybe it’s the usual work crap. Who knows. All I know is that I long for my old pal Xanax and have been less than impressed by the new anti-anxiety med on the block, Hydroxypam. However, it does clear up my sinuses nicely so when I’m laying in bed or on the couch inhaling deeply as I relax each body part individually, at least I’m not choking on snot.

But for the most part it feels completely unreal. Still in the trial period, I guess.

One sleepless night I go down a “what if” spiral. I land on the most insidious what if of all: What if my pregnancy ends like the other 2 did? What if I revisit the ultrasound of doom and have to have my third D & C? I flash to my summer calendar. Crap. I don’t want to ruin my mother’s visit in early August nor screw up my visit to Nashville so see my brother, sister-in-law and adorable almost-one-year-old niece, Lyla. I lay on the couch counting the weeks of my pregnancy. Week 11 has been the ending point of my last two pregnancies. I figure out that I’ll be done with any possible miscarriage shenanigans before either of my summer vacation plans. This comforts me…until I go down another more insidious rabbit hold: are all these thoughts of miscarriage jinxing me?

When science fails to explain, superstition steps in. I conjure more comfort: my friend Angela feared miscarriage constantly during her third pregnancy (after 2 miscarriages) and she has a fabulous daughter despite her fears. Dr. Awesome feels confident that things will work out for us this time. The statistics are with us. I take another deep breath and try to sink into sleep for the millionth time. But wait. Crap. I have to pee again. Seriously, I stop drinking water at 7:00 p.m. every night in hopes of reducing my trips to the bathroom. It barely seems to help. Where is all of this liquid coming from?

Really though, I am doing well considering. I don’t obsess over pregnancy or compulsively read miscarriage websites. I am considering joining a pregnancy-after-miscarriage support group if I can get beyond my aversion to joining any group. The one I’ve found seems okay, a little rules-y, but as Mr. Crud pointed out, that’s probably a good thing. I work. I do yoga (and have to admit that I’m enjoying taking it easy). I write. I look longingly at the bottle of wine on the wine rack, my emergency bottle in case of doomed ultrasounds, and then pour myself a glass of sparkling water. I marvel that it’s only been a little over a week since I peed on a stick and threw away the last of my cigarettes. The dragging time is the most prominent pregnancy symptom right now. A fast forward button would be much appreciated.

Freudian Slip of the Day: Mr. Crud is lecturing in his Intro to Sociology class about the Federal Works projects of the 40s. “During F.D.R.’s pregnancy,” he says. “Wait. Did I just say pregnancy?” The class nods. “I meant presidency. F.D.R.’s presidency.”

People told: Yoga teacher, Terri, who hugs me twice which makes me tear up
Friend from way back when and partner-in-miscarriage world

Yup, Still Pregnant

5-29-09

The night before my Wednesday doctor’s appointment—and thank you to the fine Richmond Clinic folks who got me in so promptly—I awake at 1:33 to make my second middle-of-the-night trip to the bathroom. I return to bed. I close my eyes. I open them. Dang. Thoughts of my appointment the next day crowd my brain. I try all my usual insomnia combating tricks. I breathe deeply into my belly. I relax each body part. I move to the couch to get out of the bed rut. I think of the next chapter in my novel and the wacky adventures awaiting my main character. No dice. I also notice that my throat is scratchier than usual. Sick? Great. The light in our bedroom goes on. Mr. Crud wanders out into the living room.

“Your alarm just went off.”

“Oh no.”

I stumble to the bathroom and realize there is no way I can make it through the day. I email in sick. I swallow a few more times to be sure that I am legit sick and not just playing it up. Nope. Still hurts. Good thing I have a doctor’s appointment.

I think that I am handling my 3-day-old knowledge of my pregnancy well, but the fear lurks. It rears its head again after we arrive at the clinic and I am alone in the bathroom, pee cup in hand. I turn on the water. I do some yoga breathing. I pull out all my techniques to counter pee fright and have about as much success as I did with the insomnia. Not my day. I hear the nurses outside, directing people to other bathrooms in the clinic. This doesn’t help. Finally I eek out the smallest of samples.

“Fucking great,” I mutter.

I flash back to Dr. Rathke’s office when I am 8 years old and trying to force myself to pee into a cup. My mom red-faced telling me to “just go already.” (Note to self: This does not help.) Oh pee shame, why must you follow me into adulthood? Eventually I was able to pee, but it involved a return trip to the office after collecting a sample at home. I bet my mom never imagined herself chauffeuring her daughter’s pee around, but such are the wonders of motherhood—or so I’ve heard.

The nurse intercepts me on my way back to the exam room. “I’ll take that,” he says.

I hand it to him sheepishly. “Is this enough?”

“Yeah, that’s fine.”

I tamp down the urge to spill my tale of pee woe and TMI myself onto some sort of Bad Patient list at the clinic. Mr. Crud looks up from the paper.

“You okay?”

“I think so.” But my stomach is dropping. I want to barf up the chicken noodle soup I just ate for lunch. I pound more water in case another pee test is in order. So much for staying cool.

Dr. Awesome enters, now about 7 months pregnant. “How are you? Are you excited?”

“Suddenly I’m afraid that I’m not actually pregnant.” I say. What if I hallucinated the line? What if it’s gone? What if I’m about to get my period right this moment?

“We’ll find out in a few minutes.”

Dr. Awesome lives up to her name. We craft a strategy to keep Mr. Crud and I sane over the next few months. I’ll have an ultrasound around 9 weeks, a bit later than the last time and after the point at which I lost Dewey.

“At that point we’ll be able to see more than just a heartbeat,” she says.

As part of my ritual, I confirm once again that it is okay to continue my yoga practice and to sweat as long as I’m feeling okay.

“Yes, yes it is. Don’t start doing anything new. Like don’t start doing like two hours of yoga a day 6 days a week.”

“I already do 2 hours of yoga 6 days a week,” I say, my heart skipping a bit.

“Then don’t do 4 hours.”

She tells me I can keep it up at the current level or back off a bit. I already have. No more jumping back for me. Uddiyana bandha? I’ll see you in February.

She urges us to keep busy, to let ourselves be excited about the pregnancy.

“I think it will be fine. The other two were caused by different things. There’s not a pattern.”

I think of the missed miscarriage message board that I looked at a few days ago and the varied tales of woe and confusion. “So many things can go wrong though.”

I vow to stay away from message boards.

“Am I considered high risk?” I ask.

She shakes her head. “Well, you are considered elderly because of your age. But so am I. My due date is 2 weeks after I turn 35.”

“Elderly, eh? Nice choice of words.”

“I know, right?”

Dr. Awesome will be out on maternity leave for most of my (theoretical) second trimester but for the time being we plan to work with her when she returns. The thought of finding another doctor or midwife exhausts me. All the doctors we have worked with have been terrific, but I like that my doctor has a nose piercing and lives in my neighborhood and sometimes shows up at the same yoga class as us. My gut tells me that she is my doctor and in these cases I am trusting my gut.

Dr. Awesome has other patients to see. We ask all our questions. I get a prescription for pregnancy-safe anti-anxiety medication (thank you for existing, hydroxypam!) and we’re on our way.

Tonight we are going to a favorite restaurant to celebrate.

“You can get any sparkling water you want,” Mr. Crud says.

“Maybe I’ll get sparkling water and a cranberry juice,” I say.

Celebrate good times indeed.

People told: Dance professor in my office who is also pregnant—it just slipped out
Friend and confidante extraordinaire, Trista
BFF from the college years, E

Trial Period**

5-26-09

By the end of last week I am convinced that there is no way I’m pregnant. Thursday brought cramps. Friday brought more cramps, but also a bit o’ nausea. I tell myself that my body is imitating pregnancy out of habit. It picked up a few things that it liked during the previous tangles with the knocked up life. Now when I feel hunger pangs, nausea will be their annoying sidekick. At least that’s my theory. Thanks again, body.

By Saturday I’m not so sure. My calendar is marked with one To-do: Period? Since MC #1, I’ve grown all too fond of the question mark. Instead of “End of first trimester” during the reign of Dewey, I added the question mark as insurance. Ditto for the due date. So what have we—we being my body and mind even though I know they are connected because I do yoga and shit-- learned? Nausea and question marks. Miscarriage really is the gift that keeps on giving.

The nausea persists on Saturday. I have a massage appointment with my hopeful-doula-to-be, Kelley. At my last appointment I regaled her with my suspicions.

“I mean I got a negative on my pregnancy test, but I’m pretty sure I’m pregnant,” I said.

She clapped her hands with excitement. “That’s so great.”

This time I return chastened. No special feelings or spidey senses tingling although you can set your calendar by my period. 26 days, baby. And I’m usually woken up by it. My 5:00 scrambles for Advil are legendary in the Crud household. Not today.

I tell Kelley my symptoms.

“Those could mean you’re pregnant or getting your period,” she says.

“Yeah, pretty smart system.”

(Later that day Mr. Crud chimes in with his favorite “Now that’s intelligent design for you!” when I tell him that pregnancy and period symptoms are identical.)

Kelley massages away the thoughts bumping around in my brain and for a blessed 60 minutes I feel relaxed. The cramps stop. I float away not caring one way or the other.

For dinner Mr. Crud calls for fancy tacos, which means Por Que No?!? I heed the call. And order a sangria. I told Kelley that one of the reasons I was holding off on the pee test was my desire to have a few drinks tonight. “That’s totally fine. Especially if it calms you down.” She’s a midwife-in-training so I order my sangria guilt-free.

“Could be the last one,” I say to Mr. Crud.

Instead of going to the party at a friend’s house or the Lady Sov show at the Doug Fir, we stay in. I drink the rest of my bottle of wine and finish off the last couple forbidden cigarettes (yeah, yeah, I know. A week ago I saw a very pregnant woman walking down the street sucking on a cigarette. Instead of mental recriminations, I thought “Wow, that’s brave.” I wanted to follow her and catalogue all the expressions of disgust and snorts of disapproval that she left in her wake.) I had planned on more excitement—a.k.a. drunken party time—had my period arrived, but the waiting game makes me want to stick close to home.

I awake at 3:44 in the morning, mind racing. Fuck, am I pregnant? Shit. What do I do then? What have we done!!!!!????!!!! I go out to the couch, my insomnia cure, and rest there until sleep (and f-ed up dreams) find me. I return to bed. 5:30. Still too early to get up. I contemplate peeing on the stick now, but know that neither I nor Mr. Crud would be able to fall back asleep no matter if it’s a 1 or 2 line kind of morning. I awake for good at 8:00.

“I gotta pee,” I whisper to Mr. Crud.

“Are you going to do the thing?”

“Yep.”

I unwrap the final pee stick and, after re-reading instructions that I can probably recite by heart, I take the test. I set the microwave alarm and busy myself by brushing teeth and putting in my contacts. I avoid looking at the pregnancy test stick like it’s my naked brother. I check on the time. 40 seconds left. I contemplate flossing as further distraction. I let my eyes stray to her honor sitting atop the hot pink EPT box-throne. I spy with my little eye 2 lines. But it’s not official so I look away. Enough time to floss? The alarm: beep beep beep.

It’s official. I’m pregnant. Again. Unlike the first and second times I do not feel the rollercoaster revving up in my guts. Calmly I walk back to the bedroom and kiss Mr. Crud on the cheek.

“So?”

“It’s positive.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

We hold each other tight. I wait for something to come over me: tears or waves of panic, but I feel calm. I choose to enjoy this pregnancy. I choose to be a warrior instead of a victim.

“Bad things can happen at any time. Might as well enjoy it while we can,” I say as much to reassure myself as Mr. Crud.

After breakfast I turn to my old buddy old pals: the internet pregnancy sites. “You just got a positive on a pregnancy test!” they say. I remember that pregnancy websites have a romance with exclamation points and how I hate the forced cheer. They caution me that it may just be too early to have taken the test, that I should wait until a week after a missed period for accurate results. False negatives are far more common than false positives (false positives in fact being very early miscarriages). I try to remember if these cautions were here before or if I just chose to ignore them. As I scroll through websites I’ve read before my heart rate takes it up a notch. I close the open windows on my screen. I can’t read these yet. Too soon.

Sunday—which I mark on my calendar with “Positive test” instead of “Pregnant!”—feels like it lasts 3 days. Mr. Crud and I walk around in a haze, hugging each other, offering weak smiles, cleaning. If all else fails, I will have a clean house.

“It doesn’t feel real,” I say. “I feel like I’m only kinda pregnant.”

“Yeah, I know what you mean,” Mr. Crud says.

We debate telling our families. I go back and forth. Can I handle my mom’s cautious congrats? I should know how to do this by now. I’ve already done it twice.

In the afternoon we Skype with JADE (Mr. Crud’s brother, sister-in-law, and our niece and nephew). Niece Emma swoops in on the monitor camera and growls at us. We growl back. Mr. Crud and his brother discuss the recent end of the Sri Lankan civil war. The elephant in Mr. Crud’s office snorts behind us. JADE exits the camera’s view while Mr. Crud’s brother soothes my nephew’s puzzle demands and Emma runs off to check on dinner. “Should we tell?” he asks.

“Yeah. When the kids are gone.” I say.

“Of course.”

“You tell.” I say.

“You.” He says.

“No you.”

His brother and sister-in-law come back into the frame. Mr. Crud and I look at each other, take a deep breath and he spills the beans. “We got a positive pregnancy test result today.”

Just like I would have done it. “Kt is pregnant!” has become too presumptuous. Just the facts, ma’am. We’re still in kinda-sorta territory,

They raise their arms in a cheer. I suddenly feel bashful. I don’t want to discuss it further or talk about the particulars. I want to talk about their visit to Portland in a few weeks or the lovely weather we’ve been having. Mr. Crud does most of the talking, taking up my slack. I decide to hold off on calling my family. Wait until the trial period is done.

This morning, Tuesday, I call Dr. Awesome’s office for an appointment from my desk at work. Over the weekend I was haunted by nightmares of the bad doctors that would treat me while she is on maternity leave. Plus I feel like I need her to tell me it’s real. The receptionist asks me for the reason for my appointment.

“I think I’m pregnant,” I say.

“You took the test at home?”

“Yes. It was positive.”

“And you want to come in to confirm it?” She asks.

“Yeah. I’ve had miscarriages. I don’t know. I want to see my doctor.” I mumble, eyes on the work horizon. Not quite ready to let my coworkers in on my status.

“Okay, sure. How about Wednesday?”

Tomorrow. Hmmm…

“Do you have anything on Thursday or Friday?”

“No, she’s booked. You could call back later.”

“No, Wednesday is good. Tomorrow.”

I want to tell the receptionist about the trial period, how I’m not sure if this one is going to take, how the others didn’t take but it took me a trimester to discover that, but I keep it to myself for once. She and the other receptionists will know enough about me in time.

I imagine Dr. Awesome’s face, her pulling up my chart on the computer screen. I make my mental list of things to ask: how sweaty is too sweaty in yoga practice? Can I take a fiber supplement to head off pooping problems? I turn on the internet and do my early pregnancy ritual of re-reading all the websites that tell me it’s okay to practice yoga. Again I pray this is the last time I have to do this.

Symptoms: Hello, middle-of-the-night pee breaks
Light nausea when the hunger pangs strike
Ever so slightly bigger boobs (or maybe that’s hopeful augmentation)

This week in Miscarriage Pop Culture: Mr. Crud and I are catching up on our new favorite TV show, Battlestar Galactica. In tonight’s episode, Cylon Number 6 miscarries her baby Liam, the hope for the Cylon future. I totally called it. When she got knocked in the gut during a fight scene and then hyperventilated as her Cylon fellow’s newly returned-from-the-dead wife told her of his infidelity, I looked up at Mr. Crud. “Total miscarriage.” It was a sad scene, but also funny (for us) in a well-that’s-fucking-great way. Still, totally opposed to miscarriage as a plot point. Hollywood and Sci-Fi Channel, take note.

** To my friends who are finding out the big news via blog, I apologize for not telling you personally. I owe you a drink, which I will buy you once I’m not pregnant anymore. Hopefully in 9 months or so. Fingers crossed.

Reality TV

5-18-09

(WARNING: Spoilers of the season finale of The Office ahead.)

OMG! Pam is pregnant! Mr. Crud and I are watching the season finale of our beloved Office. The always adorable Pam hurts her leg. Jim takes her to the hospital. As the nurse wheels Pam into X-Ray, she asks Pam if she’s pregnant. Mr. Crud throws a knowing look. I wonder if it is a bit of misdirection to get us hanging viewers going down a blind pregnant alley. But no. A few minutes later Jim is called into the examination room for the results of Pam’s x-rays. Instead of a frantic rush to get her back on her feet so as to defeat the evil NY branch of Dunder-Mifflin, we see his face morph from shock to joy. They hug. He runs outside to tell his coworkers to “send in the subs” before returning to Pam for more celebrating.

(If I may poop on this sitcom parade, how exactly did this work? The nurse asks Pam if she’s pregnant on the way into the x-ray because x-raying pregnant women isn’t the greatest of ideas. Pam says no…so the nurse gives her a pregnancy test anyway? Are pregnancy tests standard when a woman of child-bearing age goes to the hospital after twisting her ankle? Did they x-ray her ankle and somehow tilt the machine up to catch an image of her uterus? In the parlance of the 30 Rock episode which followed: All these inconsistencies? Dealbreaker!)

And now back to our regularly scheduled blog entry about how my first thought after thinking the pregnancy development was kinda sweet (I’m surprised at how much I enjoy Pam and Jim’s cute premarital bliss.) was Pam is totally not going to have a miscarriage. A miscarriage scare so that she and Jim can know for sure for sure that they really want and love this baby? Sure. Everybody does that. But no miscarriage. Miscarriages in popular culture follow a few narratives:
• Bad woman gets knocked up and at the moment she decides she will change her evil ways to be a mother to this fetus inside of her, she has a miscarriage to punish her past misdeeds.
• Woman plans on having an abortion, but chicken-shit TV executives fear the wrath of the anti-choicers, thus have her cancel her abortion and allow her to have a miscarriage soon thereafter. Phew!
• Perfect cute couple are so in love and she gets pregnant and the birds are singing, but then she gets kicked in the stomach/has a car accident/falls down the stairs and she has a miscarriage. This technique is more common to Lifetime and weepy movies of the week.

My future master’s thesis in sociology/woman’s studies: Representations of Miscarriage in Popular Culture. (Please feel free to steal that. I’m more curious to find out the results than to do the dreaded research myself, although watching crappy TV in the name of research does have a certain appeal.)

The credits roll.

“She won’t have a miscarriage,” I say to Mr. Crud.

“Nope. It is a sitcom.”

I think about Jenna Fisher, the actress who plays Pam. She is hitting her mid-thirties sans baby bump. Does she want her own Peabody? Is playing pregnant a daily reminder of all that she is missing (or has lost—you never know a member of the miscarriage sisterhood from appearances) or a reaffirmation of her decision not to procreate? Or maybe she’s just doing her job.

As for me? We’re on the final week of the current TTC cycle. Either my period or a pregnancy test awaits this weekend. I have not the first clue as to whether magic happened this time around or if it is back to the drawing board. I have (mostly) stopped trying to guess. I don’t check on potential due dates or let myself get tangled in the superstition game. However I am looking at my boobs more than usual. Do they look bigger to you?