20 Down, 20 To Go

9-14-09

A lovely vacation and the subsequent work and life catch-up has kept me from the exhaustive (exhausting?) chronicling of pregnancy, but I’ll do my best to catch up and get back on track in this one mere mortal post. Wish me luck.

First of all, I just stepped over the 20-week threshold today. Halfway there! Also no longer in the miscarriage zone.

Last night as Mr. Crud and I chat before bed I say, “As of tomorrow I can no longer have a miscarriage.”

“Really?’ he asks, sitting up a bit.

“Yeah, from here on out it would be considered a stillbirth,” I say.

He slumps. “Oh. Great?”

Yeah, not so great, but still something. A friend of mine experienced a stillbirth and in my miscarriage research I’ve read heartbreaking stories of stillbirth, but they are far less common than miscarriage. I take my comfort where I can get it. Right now after having a good anatomy screen ultrasound (I marvel at the technician’s skill. How does that blob look like a kidney to you? And that hole an eye? The ultrasound was pretty cool, but I did not find myself cooing over how cute a 19-week old Purvis is. No, s/he looked more like a dinosaur to me.) and an all-signs-point-to-yes doctor’s appointment, I’ve got a spring in my step. Post-ultrasound I awoke in the middle of the night—got the midnight pee breaks down to one, yahoo!—and couldn’t get back to sleep out of excitement. This is really happening! I can start telling people I’m pregnant without that “but…” clogging my throat. I finally settled down enough to get a few more zzz-s, but the giddiness and sweet feeling of calm and well-being persists. (Probably the reason I’m not ripping my hair out because of a recent possibly pregnancy-related back injury. Thank you, hormones.)

Now our attention has turned to more important matters like what in the heck are we going to name Purvis? We did not find out the sex during the ultrasound. Well, we sort of didn’t find out the sex. After much deliberation and listing of pros and cons, Mr. Crud and I concluded that we definitely weren’t sure if we wanted to know the sex before Purvis’ birth. My compromise was to have the technician—not Super Tall Ultrasound Dude this time, but smiley young lady technician—write down the sex on a piece of paper. She went an extra step, aiding and abetting our indecision, by writing it on a post-it then covering that post-it with another post-it with “Answer inside” written on it, then sealing it in an envelope. An envelope. which beckons to me from the center of my desk.

“So when are you going to open it?” My doula asks.

“I don’t know. Mr. Crud’s new plan is to bring the envelope with us to the hospital and open it right before I give birth.”

“Great idea!”

I am the main proponent of not wanting to find out. I like the mystery. I like creating long lists of baby names for both sexes and not knowing which of them will get a chance at bat. On a more practical level, I want to avoid receiving a mountain of pink or blue baby things as much as possible. (Oh the assumptions I make about all the friends I’ve been neglecting the last few months. I’ll be lucky if we get a card.) I can be a bit sensitive about gender issues, but who knows what cues set into motion the masculine/feminine cage? A pink booty might just get us off on the wrong foot, sending Purvis into a princess spiral from which we’ll never recover.

Mr. Crud’s reasons for wanting to know are more practical: if it’s a boy we’ll need to plan a bris; we can be more targeted in our hunt for the perfect name; and the myriad of planning issues that come into play. Still, he kind of relishes the mystery too.

So our hunt for the perfect name of both sexes continues. Criteria:

• Must be unique but not too unique, i.e. no funny spellings of common names;
• Must have lots of nickname possibilities (as a person whose had 2 names all my life, I want to share a nickname-able moniker with my offspring.);
• Must be easy to spell (As a person whose name can be spelled many different ways, I want to spare Purvis the same fate):
• Must have a good song (All I have is the “Ballad of Katie” by the Hothouse Flowers, a horror that I have to live with every day of my life.)

We’ve come up with a ton of girl’s names that fit the criteria, but no real strong boy contenders, which is a bit of a problem because my spidey sense tells me that Purvis is a boy. (Also my mom dreamed I had a boy so what more proof do you need?) We have begun consulting websites, but still no clear leaders. Suggestions?

Next on our list of concerns is childbirth classes. So far I’ve found a good yoga for birth one, and a basic class offered by the hospital, but we can’t decide what more we need. Lamaze? The Bradley Method? Birthing from Within? (Actually we have decided against Birthing from Within on the advice of our doula. It sounds like it doesn’t match our personalities. We strive not to be cynical dicks who ruin the party for everyone else when possible.) I can’t quite believe that I’m at the point where I need to sign up for a class. Part of me still feels like I am jinxing something to sign up, but that kind of thinking will leave us class-less and clueless. Mr. Crud on the other hand wants to be signed up now, now, now. Somewhere between his urgency and my reticence, I hope we will meet and find something that will tell us what the heck exactly is going to be happening to my body in another 20 weeks or so. And I sure hope the birth experience is nothing like the scene I watched on last night’s Mad Men where Betty was so drugged, she didn’t know she’d had a baby until she awoke from a Demerol haze with a bundle in her arms. Throughout the episode Mr. Crud grabbed my hand and assured me that this wasn’t how it would be for us. I know that, but it’s still freaky to think that there was a time when a woman was whisked away while the father sat in a waiting room sipping whiskey and hoping for the best. I think I would like to be the one sipping whiskey. That really should be a service for pregnant women. I’m pretty impervious to pain when I’m drunk. How about it, medical science?

Miscarriage (sort of) in Pop Culture
I want badly to like the new series Glee. So far I’m semi-interested mainly due to the comic genius of Jane Lynch. But last week’s show left me pissed. A character, the wife of the main character, who we are clearly supposed to hate went in for an ultrasound. As she rattled on about all the tests she wanted, the doctor shook his head and removed the ultrasound wand.

“So what is it?” She asked. “Boy or girl?”

“It’s nothing,” he said snarkily and then made some crack about how her pregnancy was all in her head and the weight she had gained was from a chicken bone.

Seriously? Is this guy running for worst TV doctor in the world? I can’t imagine if either of my miscarriages had been broken to me with some sort of glib comment about how there is “nothing” in there. Mr. Crud and I stared at each other, momentarily struck dumb by the trivializing of the character’s “hysterical pregnancy.” (That may not even be the medical term for it anymore as the docs strive to be a tad more sensitive these days.)

“What the fuck?” We said practically in unison.

The fact that the woman believes herself to be pregnant while not being pregnant is played for laughs and ridicule. How stupid she is! This whole pregnancy thing is a ruse to keep her man. Selfish bitch.

We’ve both started to notice glaring errors in how pregnancy is represented in popular culture. Example: in the movies—such as Juno--women go in for their anatomy scan ultrasounds with hugely pregnant bellies while in reality, most women have this appointment around their 20th week when most first time mothers are still barely showing. (Well, at least I’m barely showing. Although Mr. Crud claims I look pretty and pregnant, I still feel like my bump could be mistaken for a nacho habit.)

“How pregnancy works isn’t some big mystery,” Mr. Crud says. “People could research how things really go.”

I agree. And they could also stop using miscarriage and hysterical pregnancy as some sort of character cue and punishment.

Consider yourself updated.