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)
Friday, July 31, 2009
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?
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
C-R-A-N-K-Y, I Ain't Got No Alibi
7-13-09
Cranky, ornery, stink-eye tossin’ motherflipper = me. Maybe it’s the cumulative effects of my body’s delicate ecosystem being thrown into turmoil the past 11 (well 7, let’s get real, the first 4 weeks don’t really count) weeks, but my usual (mostly) even keel has gotten decidedly rocky. I mutter under my breath. (Actually my mutters are turning to loud utters. Yesterday I yelled “Fuck you” and flashed a middle finger to a driver who didn’t yield the right of way to my pedestrian ass. Usually I just think those things. This is certainly behavior unbecoming to the pregnant. Sorry, ladies.) I roll my eyes. I curse out loud at emails from coworkers (“I don’t give a rat’s ass if there isn’t AC! You aren’t on contract thus are not my problem, lady!!”), and the thoughts that I think are decidedly un-yogic. And since you didn’t ask…the top 10 things that are pissing off this pregnant lady (today):
1. Cigarette smoke. Since the indoor smoking ban passed in Portland, the sidewalks have become everyone’s smoking lounge. My lunch hour walk is spent dodging and weaving the nasty habit of the workers of downtown Portland. Yes, I am practically jogging to get ahead of you because I don’t want to stroll in the wake of your stinky cigarette. Baby on board, motherfucker! The increased sensitivity to smell does not help one bit. I hold my breath when encountering the smokers of the world and try not to throw them too obvious a stink-eye because, as you may know, I counted myself among their ranks a mere 11 weeks ago. (Although I limited my smoking to my front porch and back yard for the most part.) On the up side, it looks like my attempt at quitting smoking will stick around this time. Also, pick up your butts, people. I don’t give a shit if “they’re biodegradable.” Ahh, the perfect union of self-righteousness: ex-smoker meets pregnant lady.
2. Anyone who has the gall to arrive at the coffee shop before me, thus being in line ahead of me. The nerve!
3. I see my friend as I swoop in for my morning coffee at the local chain. “You’re not drinking coffee, are you?” She asks, horrified. “Oh yes, I am.” I know that she is only thinking of Purvis, but my ire is raised. I stutter out some explanation of how a little caffeine is not thought to be harmful (below 200 ml, FYI) and that I don’t even get close to that limit with my morning latte. As is the case with many preg-related tidbits, people who aren’t pregnant don’t read the fine print, they only hear the grand strokes. When people question my behavior be it coffee consumption or yoga, I automatically go to a dark place: they obviously think that I DID cause my last 2 miscarriages. It was my fault. I try to keep perspective. They didn’t say that or mean any harm.
4. Overuse of debit cards. See? There’s this amazing thing called cash, which works oh so well for purchasing the smaller things in life. Like coffee. (Notice a theme here? Don’t mess with me pre-latte.) I waited behind a long succession of 20-somethings and teens who paid for their $3 Caramel Whipped Nonfat Kremekulattes with a swipe of the debit card. Wastes paper and takes longer. Well-done, youth of today.
5. The freaking Greenpeace/Save the Children/Cause of the Day people who haunt the corners of downtown Portland. No, I will never ever in a million years have a minute for the environment. I am a selfish asshat. Now stop extending your hand to me. I do not feel guilty breezing by you, not turning off my iPod and saying the most insincere “Have a nice day” ever uttered in the history of speech. I know you have a shitty job, a job where idealism goes to die, and I try to have compassion…but I fail. Regularly.
6. My clothes are getting tight and I have convinced myself that it has nothing to do with pregnancy. I am merely getting fat from my relaxed eating standards. See, Mr. Crud? That one scoop of Willie Nelson’s Peach Cobbler has turned me into Hambone!
7. The Gauntlet of Stink. Every morning I must traverse a smelly minefield en route from coffee shop to office on an empty stomach. First I pass by the pizza shop, then the pizza shop’s dumpster where I, more often than not, fail to keep my gag reflex in check. I have a moment to catch my breath at the crosswalk then head down by the Catholic church, which serves food to the homeless (which is awesome.) Not so awesome is that many of these folks smoke so again I must stifle gags before rushing across the street to the safety and relative pleasant smell of my humble cubicle. I am so ready to relinquish my powers of super smell.
8. Against my better judgment I subscribed to several pregnancy tracker email updates. The the just-us-girlfriends feel and infantilizing tone grates. But I can’t unsubscribe, for how will I pass all the annoying time at work if not reading about the (hopeful) progression of my pregnancy?
9. The extensive list of foods I can’t eat is all that I want to eat. Prosciutto, smoked salmon, sushi (oh Gonzo Roll, how you taunt me), dirty martinis, blue cheese call to me with their siren song. Sometimes I almost give in then I imagine my sleepless night wondering if I blew it over a bit of (delicious, smoky) sliced ham.
10. My social life is reading books and watching TV. At first I surrendered and enjoyed my quiet time, but after 7 weeks, it’s getting old. We plowed through Season 3 of “It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia,” and I’m keeping up on my “My Life on the D-List” with scary regularity when I’d much rather be seeing friends, basking in the glory of the long Portland summer nights, and taking long walks in the afternoon sun. Mr. Crud tries to put some pep in my step. “Wanna go couch shopping? Up for a trip to Target?” But no, it all sounds like running a marathon to me. So I curl up with my book and throw a frown. “Sorry, hon. Too pooped.” I’m the energetic one in this relationship, g-ddamnit! At least I used to be.
Still reading or do you find me an unthankful shrew yet? After my scary week of lessened pregnancy symptoms, I am grateful that they are still here, reminding me that things are (hopefully) a-brewing in my lady parts. We have our first genetic counseling appointment on Thursday, which has been the appointment of doom for the last 2 pregnancies. The closer we get to the big day, the more I flashback to both times in the darkened ultrasound room. “I’m sorry to tell you this, but you’ve had what’s called a missed abortion,” said Dr. #1. “I’m sorry. Things are not going well,” said Dr. #2. I fortify myself with Dr. Awesome’s words of a week and a half ago “This is very good. Your chances of having a miscarriage are very small.” I look at our grainy photos of the tiny tadpole and say a hopeful hello to whoever is in there every morning after I’m done meditating. And I try to remember compassion for me and everyone else who is currently annoying me.
Dreaming is free:
I had my first dream where I was pregnant. When I felt my round belly it felt exactly like the times in my youth when I shoved a basketball up my shirt and hollered to my friends, “Look y’all, I’m knocked up.” Hardy har har. I’m thinking that an actual pregnant belly doesn’t feel quite as light nor echoes when you tap it.
Wacky Preg-incidences:
Blogger and miscarriage world compadre, Ruby*, emails me to tell me she too is knocked up again. Celebrate good times! Then we compare due dates: hers is one day after mine. Trippy. Keep your fingers crossed for the both of us.
*Names changed to protect the pregnant.
Cranky, ornery, stink-eye tossin’ motherflipper = me. Maybe it’s the cumulative effects of my body’s delicate ecosystem being thrown into turmoil the past 11 (well 7, let’s get real, the first 4 weeks don’t really count) weeks, but my usual (mostly) even keel has gotten decidedly rocky. I mutter under my breath. (Actually my mutters are turning to loud utters. Yesterday I yelled “Fuck you” and flashed a middle finger to a driver who didn’t yield the right of way to my pedestrian ass. Usually I just think those things. This is certainly behavior unbecoming to the pregnant. Sorry, ladies.) I roll my eyes. I curse out loud at emails from coworkers (“I don’t give a rat’s ass if there isn’t AC! You aren’t on contract thus are not my problem, lady!!”), and the thoughts that I think are decidedly un-yogic. And since you didn’t ask…the top 10 things that are pissing off this pregnant lady (today):
1. Cigarette smoke. Since the indoor smoking ban passed in Portland, the sidewalks have become everyone’s smoking lounge. My lunch hour walk is spent dodging and weaving the nasty habit of the workers of downtown Portland. Yes, I am practically jogging to get ahead of you because I don’t want to stroll in the wake of your stinky cigarette. Baby on board, motherfucker! The increased sensitivity to smell does not help one bit. I hold my breath when encountering the smokers of the world and try not to throw them too obvious a stink-eye because, as you may know, I counted myself among their ranks a mere 11 weeks ago. (Although I limited my smoking to my front porch and back yard for the most part.) On the up side, it looks like my attempt at quitting smoking will stick around this time. Also, pick up your butts, people. I don’t give a shit if “they’re biodegradable.” Ahh, the perfect union of self-righteousness: ex-smoker meets pregnant lady.
2. Anyone who has the gall to arrive at the coffee shop before me, thus being in line ahead of me. The nerve!
3. I see my friend as I swoop in for my morning coffee at the local chain. “You’re not drinking coffee, are you?” She asks, horrified. “Oh yes, I am.” I know that she is only thinking of Purvis, but my ire is raised. I stutter out some explanation of how a little caffeine is not thought to be harmful (below 200 ml, FYI) and that I don’t even get close to that limit with my morning latte. As is the case with many preg-related tidbits, people who aren’t pregnant don’t read the fine print, they only hear the grand strokes. When people question my behavior be it coffee consumption or yoga, I automatically go to a dark place: they obviously think that I DID cause my last 2 miscarriages. It was my fault. I try to keep perspective. They didn’t say that or mean any harm.
4. Overuse of debit cards. See? There’s this amazing thing called cash, which works oh so well for purchasing the smaller things in life. Like coffee. (Notice a theme here? Don’t mess with me pre-latte.) I waited behind a long succession of 20-somethings and teens who paid for their $3 Caramel Whipped Nonfat Kremekulattes with a swipe of the debit card. Wastes paper and takes longer. Well-done, youth of today.
5. The freaking Greenpeace/Save the Children/Cause of the Day people who haunt the corners of downtown Portland. No, I will never ever in a million years have a minute for the environment. I am a selfish asshat. Now stop extending your hand to me. I do not feel guilty breezing by you, not turning off my iPod and saying the most insincere “Have a nice day” ever uttered in the history of speech. I know you have a shitty job, a job where idealism goes to die, and I try to have compassion…but I fail. Regularly.
6. My clothes are getting tight and I have convinced myself that it has nothing to do with pregnancy. I am merely getting fat from my relaxed eating standards. See, Mr. Crud? That one scoop of Willie Nelson’s Peach Cobbler has turned me into Hambone!
7. The Gauntlet of Stink. Every morning I must traverse a smelly minefield en route from coffee shop to office on an empty stomach. First I pass by the pizza shop, then the pizza shop’s dumpster where I, more often than not, fail to keep my gag reflex in check. I have a moment to catch my breath at the crosswalk then head down by the Catholic church, which serves food to the homeless (which is awesome.) Not so awesome is that many of these folks smoke so again I must stifle gags before rushing across the street to the safety and relative pleasant smell of my humble cubicle. I am so ready to relinquish my powers of super smell.
8. Against my better judgment I subscribed to several pregnancy tracker email updates. The the just-us-girlfriends feel and infantilizing tone grates. But I can’t unsubscribe, for how will I pass all the annoying time at work if not reading about the (hopeful) progression of my pregnancy?
9. The extensive list of foods I can’t eat is all that I want to eat. Prosciutto, smoked salmon, sushi (oh Gonzo Roll, how you taunt me), dirty martinis, blue cheese call to me with their siren song. Sometimes I almost give in then I imagine my sleepless night wondering if I blew it over a bit of (delicious, smoky) sliced ham.
10. My social life is reading books and watching TV. At first I surrendered and enjoyed my quiet time, but after 7 weeks, it’s getting old. We plowed through Season 3 of “It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia,” and I’m keeping up on my “My Life on the D-List” with scary regularity when I’d much rather be seeing friends, basking in the glory of the long Portland summer nights, and taking long walks in the afternoon sun. Mr. Crud tries to put some pep in my step. “Wanna go couch shopping? Up for a trip to Target?” But no, it all sounds like running a marathon to me. So I curl up with my book and throw a frown. “Sorry, hon. Too pooped.” I’m the energetic one in this relationship, g-ddamnit! At least I used to be.
Still reading or do you find me an unthankful shrew yet? After my scary week of lessened pregnancy symptoms, I am grateful that they are still here, reminding me that things are (hopefully) a-brewing in my lady parts. We have our first genetic counseling appointment on Thursday, which has been the appointment of doom for the last 2 pregnancies. The closer we get to the big day, the more I flashback to both times in the darkened ultrasound room. “I’m sorry to tell you this, but you’ve had what’s called a missed abortion,” said Dr. #1. “I’m sorry. Things are not going well,” said Dr. #2. I fortify myself with Dr. Awesome’s words of a week and a half ago “This is very good. Your chances of having a miscarriage are very small.” I look at our grainy photos of the tiny tadpole and say a hopeful hello to whoever is in there every morning after I’m done meditating. And I try to remember compassion for me and everyone else who is currently annoying me.
Dreaming is free:
I had my first dream where I was pregnant. When I felt my round belly it felt exactly like the times in my youth when I shoved a basketball up my shirt and hollered to my friends, “Look y’all, I’m knocked up.” Hardy har har. I’m thinking that an actual pregnant belly doesn’t feel quite as light nor echoes when you tap it.
Wacky Preg-incidences:
Blogger and miscarriage world compadre, Ruby*, emails me to tell me she too is knocked up again. Celebrate good times! Then we compare due dates: hers is one day after mine. Trippy. Keep your fingers crossed for the both of us.
*Names changed to protect the pregnant.
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
Yet Another Word from Our Sponsor
7-8-09
Sorry for the lag in posting. Working for the man was the culprit and thankfully, as you can read, not any bad news. I posted these three at once so as not to create any unnecessary tension. Plus I am now caught up and my posts will be slightly more real time. How bloggy of me! Thanks for taking the time to read and comment. For some reason I am not notified of comments. I poke around occasionally to see what people are saying, but if I miss your comment or don't respond, please don't--as the kids say--feel dissed.
Sorry for the lag in posting. Working for the man was the culprit and thankfully, as you can read, not any bad news. I posted these three at once so as not to create any unnecessary tension. Plus I am now caught up and my posts will be slightly more real time. How bloggy of me! Thanks for taking the time to read and comment. For some reason I am not notified of comments. I poke around occasionally to see what people are saying, but if I miss your comment or don't respond, please don't--as the kids say--feel dissed.
Phew!
7-7-09
My guts start to officially roil as I hop on my bike to head home before the appointment we’ve been waiting for. Leaving work early makes it real. I’m having an ultrasound today. I’ve been playing the scenarios on repeat in my mind the last few days: either a celebratory dinner is in order or chugging wine before another D & C. Well, I’m not sold on having a third D & C. I’ve already googled other options. Watchful waiting: no thanks, I think we all know that my uterus doesn’t give up its goods do easily. Mifeprostol: a drug that induces abortion. Maybe. I feel a little guilty about my googling. I hope Purvis didn’t see. Really, kid, I want you to survive but I’m scared and gathering information reassures me momentarily.
I pull up to the house, lug my 2 bags into the living room. “How are you doing?” I drop my helmet to the floor and step to Mr. Crud for a hug.
“I’m good. I feel okay somehow.” He says, looking cool as a cucumber.
“I’m glad one of us is okay.” I say.
I force a snack so as not to be overcome with the gags while sitting in the waiting room and chug some water in case of urine tests.
“Ready?” I ask.
“Ready as I’ll ever be.”
Our wait is mercifully short. I’ve barely set down my book and Willamette Week-heavy bag when my favorite nurse calls my name.
He points me to the scale.
“My favorite part,” I say.
“That’s what everyone says.”
I’m 4 pounds heavier than my first check-up but a few lighter than my pityriasis rosea appointment. “You lost weight since you were here last here.”
“Naw, I lost a jacket.”
“Clothes can be really heavy,” he says with a wink.
Yeah, like 10 pounds. I know that now is not the time to obsess over weight gain, that for once in my life weight gain is a good and expected thing, but it’s a hard habit to break (so-sort of-crooned Peter Cetera.)
Favorite Nurse asks me why I’m here. “I’m pregnant. I’m having an ultrasound.” I almost choke on the words.
“Oh. Wait. They forgot to note that on your chart. I’ll be back. But go ahead and give us a sample.” He hands me a plastic cup.
My bladder feels empty. I chug more water before heading down the hallway. Will I ever learn?
My pee mission successful, I return to the exam room. A heavily pregnant Dr. Awesome soon follows me in. “How are you?” She asks.
“It’s been a tough week.”
“Well, let’s get to it.”
I get naked from waist down and hop up on the exam table. I pray that she is able to do a stomach ultrasound. I fear that my lady parts aren’t so fresh this late in the day. Plus trans-vaginal ultrasounds bring back bad memories. I hope that I’m not destined for traumatic gyno appointments from here on out.
Dr. Awesome returns with the low-resolution machine in tow. She dims the lights. I take a deep breath and lean back on the table. She squirts jelly on my stomach. Mr. Crud comes to my side and holds my hand. As is now my ultrasound protocol I stare at the ceiling as she pushes the want over my belly.
“Look at that,” she says.
I dare turn my eyes to the screen.
A tadpole-shaped blotch hovers in the corner of the dark area of my uterus. I see its fluttering heartbeat before she points it out. There is the shape of a large head and little blurry appendages. From all the baby websites, which I’ve been reading with a skeptical eye, I know that Purvis has webbed hands and feet right now.
She moves in for a different angle and he moves. Involuntary movement is happening at this stage. After all of these pregnancy attempts, the baby websites and their development calendars finally apply to me and my baby. I let out a long breath. Mr. Crud leans in for a kiss.
“And there’s the head. And the heartbeat.” Dr. Awesome says.
She measures Purvis. 2.7 centimeters. Gestational age: 9 weeks and 4 days. “This is all very good. Everything looks like it should.”
She squeezes my leg. “Your chances of a miscarriage are extremely low now. You are past where you lost your last pregnancies.”
She takes a few more measurements and snaps some pictures for our fridge. They are blurry and look like a tadpole blob in a dark spot, but we clutch them to our chests like it is Purvis’ first grade photo.
Then she pulls out the Doppler and we hear the heartbeat. 160 beats per minute. Amazing. I could listen to that all day.
“Congratulations, you guys. I’m so happy for you,” she says.
Dr. Awesome’s maternity leave begins next week. She tells us the maternity coordinator will contact us about other prenatal care options. I am happy to stay with Dr. Awesome, to work with the doctor who is taking over her caseload while she is on leave, but am also good with seeing what else is out there.
But all of that feels distant. I get dressed and float out of the clinic. “I can’t believe it,” I say to Mr. Crud. I let all my sad futures, the D & C, the tearful calls to my mom go. I realize how much fear I’d been carrying around now that it has lifted. It wasn’t an equal fight between hope and fear. Hope had a handicap no matter how much I tried to cheer it on.
When I sense the fears sniffing around which, after a weekend off, they have, I remember the sound of Purvis’ heartbeat. When anxiety about the upcoming genetic counseling appointment arises I pull up the image of her little body squirming about. It ain’t over until it’s over, but at least doom has not had the last word. For now.
My guts start to officially roil as I hop on my bike to head home before the appointment we’ve been waiting for. Leaving work early makes it real. I’m having an ultrasound today. I’ve been playing the scenarios on repeat in my mind the last few days: either a celebratory dinner is in order or chugging wine before another D & C. Well, I’m not sold on having a third D & C. I’ve already googled other options. Watchful waiting: no thanks, I think we all know that my uterus doesn’t give up its goods do easily. Mifeprostol: a drug that induces abortion. Maybe. I feel a little guilty about my googling. I hope Purvis didn’t see. Really, kid, I want you to survive but I’m scared and gathering information reassures me momentarily.
I pull up to the house, lug my 2 bags into the living room. “How are you doing?” I drop my helmet to the floor and step to Mr. Crud for a hug.
“I’m good. I feel okay somehow.” He says, looking cool as a cucumber.
“I’m glad one of us is okay.” I say.
I force a snack so as not to be overcome with the gags while sitting in the waiting room and chug some water in case of urine tests.
“Ready?” I ask.
“Ready as I’ll ever be.”
Our wait is mercifully short. I’ve barely set down my book and Willamette Week-heavy bag when my favorite nurse calls my name.
He points me to the scale.
“My favorite part,” I say.
“That’s what everyone says.”
I’m 4 pounds heavier than my first check-up but a few lighter than my pityriasis rosea appointment. “You lost weight since you were here last here.”
“Naw, I lost a jacket.”
“Clothes can be really heavy,” he says with a wink.
Yeah, like 10 pounds. I know that now is not the time to obsess over weight gain, that for once in my life weight gain is a good and expected thing, but it’s a hard habit to break (so-sort of-crooned Peter Cetera.)
Favorite Nurse asks me why I’m here. “I’m pregnant. I’m having an ultrasound.” I almost choke on the words.
“Oh. Wait. They forgot to note that on your chart. I’ll be back. But go ahead and give us a sample.” He hands me a plastic cup.
My bladder feels empty. I chug more water before heading down the hallway. Will I ever learn?
My pee mission successful, I return to the exam room. A heavily pregnant Dr. Awesome soon follows me in. “How are you?” She asks.
“It’s been a tough week.”
“Well, let’s get to it.”
I get naked from waist down and hop up on the exam table. I pray that she is able to do a stomach ultrasound. I fear that my lady parts aren’t so fresh this late in the day. Plus trans-vaginal ultrasounds bring back bad memories. I hope that I’m not destined for traumatic gyno appointments from here on out.
Dr. Awesome returns with the low-resolution machine in tow. She dims the lights. I take a deep breath and lean back on the table. She squirts jelly on my stomach. Mr. Crud comes to my side and holds my hand. As is now my ultrasound protocol I stare at the ceiling as she pushes the want over my belly.
“Look at that,” she says.
I dare turn my eyes to the screen.
A tadpole-shaped blotch hovers in the corner of the dark area of my uterus. I see its fluttering heartbeat before she points it out. There is the shape of a large head and little blurry appendages. From all the baby websites, which I’ve been reading with a skeptical eye, I know that Purvis has webbed hands and feet right now.
She moves in for a different angle and he moves. Involuntary movement is happening at this stage. After all of these pregnancy attempts, the baby websites and their development calendars finally apply to me and my baby. I let out a long breath. Mr. Crud leans in for a kiss.
“And there’s the head. And the heartbeat.” Dr. Awesome says.
She measures Purvis. 2.7 centimeters. Gestational age: 9 weeks and 4 days. “This is all very good. Everything looks like it should.”
She squeezes my leg. “Your chances of a miscarriage are extremely low now. You are past where you lost your last pregnancies.”
She takes a few more measurements and snaps some pictures for our fridge. They are blurry and look like a tadpole blob in a dark spot, but we clutch them to our chests like it is Purvis’ first grade photo.
Then she pulls out the Doppler and we hear the heartbeat. 160 beats per minute. Amazing. I could listen to that all day.
“Congratulations, you guys. I’m so happy for you,” she says.
Dr. Awesome’s maternity leave begins next week. She tells us the maternity coordinator will contact us about other prenatal care options. I am happy to stay with Dr. Awesome, to work with the doctor who is taking over her caseload while she is on leave, but am also good with seeing what else is out there.
But all of that feels distant. I get dressed and float out of the clinic. “I can’t believe it,” I say to Mr. Crud. I let all my sad futures, the D & C, the tearful calls to my mom go. I realize how much fear I’d been carrying around now that it has lifted. It wasn’t an equal fight between hope and fear. Hope had a handicap no matter how much I tried to cheer it on.
When I sense the fears sniffing around which, after a weekend off, they have, I remember the sound of Purvis’ heartbeat. When anxiety about the upcoming genetic counseling appointment arises I pull up the image of her little body squirming about. It ain’t over until it’s over, but at least doom has not had the last word. For now.
Scared Day II
6-24-09
I’m coming to a sort of peace with this whole situation. Somehow I fell asleep last night and had dreams of serial killers—who first looked like Jon Hamm (sexy!) and then like John Goodman (not so sexy)—stalking me until it was an either you kill me or I kill you situation. So I killed the John Goodman incarnation in the middle of SE 39th Avenue in the pouring rain. Perhaps this blew off some of the gathering steam of my panicked afternoon and evening.
Today the panic has subsided and been replaced by a general gloom. I’ve had a miscarriage. The symptoms still haven’t returned to their pre-Tuesday levels. The sooner I accept the hard, sad truth and take up my mantle as habitual aborter (the medical term for ladies who miscarry 3 or more times in a row), the better. It’s only a matter of time before the next ultrasound of doom, the next D & C, the next round of extreme alienation and teary nights in front of the TV in search of sitcom salvation. I see it in the future so clearly. So clearly that I’ll be flummoxed if next week’s planned ultrasound is anything but negative.
At Mr. Crud’s urging I call Dr. Awesome this morning. I break into sobs almost as soon as the words, “my symptoms have decreased” leave my mouth. My planned speech, constructed between sun salutations during the morning’s yoga practice, falls apart as I sniffle and slobber and attempt to calmly answer her questions about breast tenderness and nausea.
“Oh no. I’m so sorry. This doesn’t necessarily mean you’re having a miscarriage. Sometimes symptoms come and go. Every pregnancy is different.” She says all the reassurances I’ve found on websites, but I feel 75% more comforted. “Nothing in your records indicates that you’ll have another miscarriage,” she says. Well, except the 2 previous miscarriages.
My options are to wait and see, to come in next Wednesday for the ultrasound as planned or to come in and take some blood tests over the next few days to monitor my hormone levels and see if they are rising or dropping. Dr. Awesome recommends waiting and seeing. An ultrasound in the clinic today wouldn’t be high resolution enough to tell much. I gather myself together and agree to wait. I don’t relish the idea of coming in for blood tests over the next few days only to have to return the following week. I can stay in this place of worst-case scenarios for a few days more.
I hang up and realize that I do feel better. I don’t really believe that nothing is wrong, but I at least feel like I’ve done something. Mr. Crud calls.
“I talked to the doctor.”
“Thank you,” he says.
I pass along her reassurances. “She says that this is all totally normal. The symptoms and how we’re reacting.”
“Oh.” Mr. Crud sounds like he’s in a tunnel or talking through a cup at the end of a string.
“You okay?” I ask.
“I don’t know. I just want to cry.” He says. I feel bad for dragging him along on this rollercoaster even though I know he wants to support me.
“You can cry,” I say. “You’re doing a great job.”
He is. Last night I told him that no matter what happens I still feel incredibly lucky because of him, which is no lie.
We make plans for an afternoon walk. I try not to think too much about my possible refreshed entry into Miscarriage World. I try not to think of all the people who had 2 miscarriages before having a successful pregnancy. How I want to be one of them so bad. How I do not want to join the 1% of couples who have 3 in a row. It’s going to be a long week.
I’m coming to a sort of peace with this whole situation. Somehow I fell asleep last night and had dreams of serial killers—who first looked like Jon Hamm (sexy!) and then like John Goodman (not so sexy)—stalking me until it was an either you kill me or I kill you situation. So I killed the John Goodman incarnation in the middle of SE 39th Avenue in the pouring rain. Perhaps this blew off some of the gathering steam of my panicked afternoon and evening.
Today the panic has subsided and been replaced by a general gloom. I’ve had a miscarriage. The symptoms still haven’t returned to their pre-Tuesday levels. The sooner I accept the hard, sad truth and take up my mantle as habitual aborter (the medical term for ladies who miscarry 3 or more times in a row), the better. It’s only a matter of time before the next ultrasound of doom, the next D & C, the next round of extreme alienation and teary nights in front of the TV in search of sitcom salvation. I see it in the future so clearly. So clearly that I’ll be flummoxed if next week’s planned ultrasound is anything but negative.
At Mr. Crud’s urging I call Dr. Awesome this morning. I break into sobs almost as soon as the words, “my symptoms have decreased” leave my mouth. My planned speech, constructed between sun salutations during the morning’s yoga practice, falls apart as I sniffle and slobber and attempt to calmly answer her questions about breast tenderness and nausea.
“Oh no. I’m so sorry. This doesn’t necessarily mean you’re having a miscarriage. Sometimes symptoms come and go. Every pregnancy is different.” She says all the reassurances I’ve found on websites, but I feel 75% more comforted. “Nothing in your records indicates that you’ll have another miscarriage,” she says. Well, except the 2 previous miscarriages.
My options are to wait and see, to come in next Wednesday for the ultrasound as planned or to come in and take some blood tests over the next few days to monitor my hormone levels and see if they are rising or dropping. Dr. Awesome recommends waiting and seeing. An ultrasound in the clinic today wouldn’t be high resolution enough to tell much. I gather myself together and agree to wait. I don’t relish the idea of coming in for blood tests over the next few days only to have to return the following week. I can stay in this place of worst-case scenarios for a few days more.
I hang up and realize that I do feel better. I don’t really believe that nothing is wrong, but I at least feel like I’ve done something. Mr. Crud calls.
“I talked to the doctor.”
“Thank you,” he says.
I pass along her reassurances. “She says that this is all totally normal. The symptoms and how we’re reacting.”
“Oh.” Mr. Crud sounds like he’s in a tunnel or talking through a cup at the end of a string.
“You okay?” I ask.
“I don’t know. I just want to cry.” He says. I feel bad for dragging him along on this rollercoaster even though I know he wants to support me.
“You can cry,” I say. “You’re doing a great job.”
He is. Last night I told him that no matter what happens I still feel incredibly lucky because of him, which is no lie.
We make plans for an afternoon walk. I try not to think too much about my possible refreshed entry into Miscarriage World. I try not to think of all the people who had 2 miscarriages before having a successful pregnancy. How I want to be one of them so bad. How I do not want to join the 1% of couples who have 3 in a row. It’s going to be a long week.
Scared
6-23-09
I call Mr. Crud because it’s all I can do to keep my shit together at work.
“I’m scared. My symptoms seem to be lessening. I’m not exhausted or nauseous anymore. I don’t know what to do.” Tears stream down my cheeks as I walk in the sunny afternoon en route to do deliveries, my reason to escape the office for a brief moment of honesty.
“It’s okay. Do you want to call the doctor? You can call her.”
“Yeah, I know.” I sniffle and wipe a tear away from my cheek. “I don’t know.”
The thought of waiting another week with this fear lodged firmly in my gut renews my tears. I could call her. I don’t want to be hysterical though. Symptoms can come and go, so say the pregnancy message boards. But this can also be a symptom of a missed miscarriage, which is my MO. In my previous pregnancies I felt the symptoms right up until I had the D & Cs. Or at least I thought I did. “But every pregnancy is different,” writes one mom on a message board trying to soothe the fears of a disappearing symptom pregnant woman. I read these over and over but simply don’t believe them. I send mental messages to my embryo: If you’re alive, keep going, but if not, get out. While I recognize the benefits to being a missed miscarriage person, most importantly the ability to test the products of conception to find a reason for the miscarriage, I still feel unsettled that my body doesn’t seem to know when enough is enough.
But that might not be the case now. Is probably not the case. “Only 1% of couples experience 3 or more consecutive miscarriages.” Now is not the time to be exceptional. Just normal. All I ask is normal.
“Do you want to call Dr. Awesome? See if you can come in earlier?” Mr. Crud asks.
“Maybe. I don’t know. I could email her, I guess.” I say. I emailed her yesterday about my pityriasis rosea. I don’t want to become a pushy patient and have my email privileges cut.
“Will that make you feel better?” He asks.
“Probably.”
I don’t email. I return to the office, cheeks tight from dried tears, and get to googling. Each reassuring message is like a hit of a drug. Temporarily satisfying, but I find myself needing more and more to maintain. I decide to give it another day and see how I feel. I remind myself that either way there is not a single solitary goddamn motherfucking thing that I can do. If the embryo is gone, it’s gone. If it’s still bumping alone, so it will. As long as I keep eating, breathing, sleeping (yeah, right), not smoking, and avoiding all the preg no-nos, I’ve done all I can do.
Surrender, I tell myself over and over, because fighting is like punching a brick wall.
I call Mr. Crud because it’s all I can do to keep my shit together at work.
“I’m scared. My symptoms seem to be lessening. I’m not exhausted or nauseous anymore. I don’t know what to do.” Tears stream down my cheeks as I walk in the sunny afternoon en route to do deliveries, my reason to escape the office for a brief moment of honesty.
“It’s okay. Do you want to call the doctor? You can call her.”
“Yeah, I know.” I sniffle and wipe a tear away from my cheek. “I don’t know.”
The thought of waiting another week with this fear lodged firmly in my gut renews my tears. I could call her. I don’t want to be hysterical though. Symptoms can come and go, so say the pregnancy message boards. But this can also be a symptom of a missed miscarriage, which is my MO. In my previous pregnancies I felt the symptoms right up until I had the D & Cs. Or at least I thought I did. “But every pregnancy is different,” writes one mom on a message board trying to soothe the fears of a disappearing symptom pregnant woman. I read these over and over but simply don’t believe them. I send mental messages to my embryo: If you’re alive, keep going, but if not, get out. While I recognize the benefits to being a missed miscarriage person, most importantly the ability to test the products of conception to find a reason for the miscarriage, I still feel unsettled that my body doesn’t seem to know when enough is enough.
But that might not be the case now. Is probably not the case. “Only 1% of couples experience 3 or more consecutive miscarriages.” Now is not the time to be exceptional. Just normal. All I ask is normal.
“Do you want to call Dr. Awesome? See if you can come in earlier?” Mr. Crud asks.
“Maybe. I don’t know. I could email her, I guess.” I say. I emailed her yesterday about my pityriasis rosea. I don’t want to become a pushy patient and have my email privileges cut.
“Will that make you feel better?” He asks.
“Probably.”
I don’t email. I return to the office, cheeks tight from dried tears, and get to googling. Each reassuring message is like a hit of a drug. Temporarily satisfying, but I find myself needing more and more to maintain. I decide to give it another day and see how I feel. I remind myself that either way there is not a single solitary goddamn motherfucking thing that I can do. If the embryo is gone, it’s gone. If it’s still bumping alone, so it will. As long as I keep eating, breathing, sleeping (yeah, right), not smoking, and avoiding all the preg no-nos, I’ve done all I can do.
Surrender, I tell myself over and over, because fighting is like punching a brick wall.
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