11-25-09
Yesterday’s yoga class is full. The famous Tuesday rush that my yoga buddies and I puzzle over. Why Tuesday? Is it the one day of the week that isn’t too close to either weekend? When I was in college Wednesday signaled the start of the weekend for me or at least provided the first good reason to partake of the sweet nectar, malt liquor. How can you miss Beverly Hills 90210 and how can you make it through the parade of rolled-eye Donna sighs and Brenda side-eyes without a 40 of King Cobra? Impossible.
As a result of the full yoga class—yes, I was talking about yoga before I got sidetracked by lusty thoughts of getting liquored up—my bound baddha konasana puts me in a tight position. I pull my feet together and try to find a space for my long ass legs. My knees poke onto the mats of my fellow yogis. My teacher catches my eye.
“Maybe I should skip this one today,” I say.
He shakes his head. “No way. You’re pregnant. You get to take up some room. You’re practicing for two.” I’m glad he said it and not me. What good is the pregnancy card if you have to pull it out of the deck yourself? I much prefer it when people just make way for my slow-moving (wider than usual) ass without me having to throw any “cracker, please, I’m pregnant” glances.
The yogis on either side of me adjust their mats to make way for my knees.
“And you get to eat whatever you want,” whispers the yogi to my left, a mother of two who zips through her practice every morning so that she can make it home in time to wake her boys and make them breakfast. “That’s what I liked about pregnancy the most.” She makes an mmmm sound then jumps back to chaturanga.
If only it were true. If only the preg-literature advised the pregnant lady to eat twice as much as usual instead of an additional 300 calories. 300 calories I can eat in a single handful of Trader Joe’s Oh My Omega Mix. Not exactly the license to eat I had been hoping for. No, for that I must wait for breastfeeding. The NY Times recently published an article about how breastfeeding is the current in vogue way of losing the pregnancy weight. Many of the women interviewed scoffed at the idea that their dedication to breastfeeding was related to anything but the health of their children. Hmmm…I wish I could be so selfless. I plan to breastfeed because of the benefits to Purvis, it seems a shitload more convenient than mixing up formula, and, yes, because I want an all-you-can-eat-without-guilt ticket to the buffet.
My acupuncturist asks me how my sleep is, interrupted sleep being my main pregnancy (and life) complaint.
“Not so good. I woke up in the middle of the night the past two nights.” I say.
“Are you uncomfortable? Is it the heartburn?”
“No, not really. I know it sounds weird but it kind of hit me the other night that I’m actually going to have a baby in a few months and I haven’t done anything to get ready.” I say.
She laughs and puts her fingers on my wrist to take my pulse. “You just need yourself and your breasts and you’ll be fine.”
But what of the car seat, the stroller, the crib, the changing table, the diaper covers, the baby carrier (Moby or Maya? I think we’re going Moby.), the socks, the bottles, the butt wipes, the diaper genie, the diaper service, the nursing bras, the swaddling blankets, the burp cloths, the high chair, the gliding rocking chair, the baby monitor, and the infinite trinkets that seem to trail a birth announcement like cans on a newlywed’s car? I awake in the middle of the night, my mind spinning with all the preparations, most prominent being preparing a nursery in what is currently Mr. Crud’s office (or The Dungeon as we call it). And those are just the cosmetic changes. Then there’s the whole business of having another person in the house, replacing our dynamic duo with a trio. I guess I should have had some of these thoughts before hitting the 30-week mark, but somehow they got pushed back into a corner, stuffed behind all the worrying about miscarriage.
“I’ve officially transitioned from worrying about what will happen if something goes wrong to freaking over what will happen when things go right,” I tell Mr. Crud over dinner. “Not that I want things to go wrong,” I quickly add.
“I know what you mean. Totally.”
Then he assures me that he’ll start clearing out The Dungeon over the next few days.
We’ve started to wade through the mountains of baby crap that we are supposed to buy. We consult Consumer Reports and the dog-eared copy of Baby Bargains we inherited from Max and Kathy Crud. We leave our first trip to Babies R Us empty-handed, but wiser. When did strollers become tanks?
My acupuncturist advises me to make a list so that I can spend the wee hours of the morning snoozing rather than worrying. I do prefer this brand of worry to carting around a stone of fear in my stomach that something is wrong with Purvis.
RANDOM: The first album of Chloasma, my pregnancy metal band, will be called “The Bloody Show.” Seriously, pregnancy shit is made for metal.
Monday, November 30, 2009
Friday, November 20, 2009
Shower Me
11-19-09
My internet pregnancy buddy, Ruby, emails for my take on the whole baby shower thing. Are we having one? Will there be painful games involved? Yes and no. Mr. Crud and I always planned on having some sort of do to celebrate the impending arrival of Purvis. After attending a lovely affair to welcome our friends’ mystery baby, we were both 90% less averse to the idea of baby showers. (Side note: Mystery Baby is one of the cutest little girls I’ve had the pleasure of knowing. Last time we saw her she cozied up to me like we were BFFs from way back. Her mom said, “She loves pregnant ladies.” Mystery baby sat on my lap and cuddled up to my belly saying, “Baby in?”) Their shower had belly dancers, wine, and tasty nibbles. Ladies, gents, and children of all ages were invited. There wasn’t any of the strained smiles or forced laughter that I associate with most showers. Bawdy jokes flew without the wink-wink-nudge-nudge-we-know-you-totally-did-it undercurrent that I’ve experienced at other showers. Granted most of the other showers I’ve attended have been work-related since many of my friends aren’t the reproducing kind so my sample is skewed. I have a hard time getting comfortable at work events of all kinds unless copious pours of alcohol are involved.
Anyway, Mr. Crud and I know we don’t want any games, to involve baby pictures of our guests, or to exclude any of our friends based on gender. What we know we want: Middle East food (catering from Hoda’s has been the one thing we’ve known we’ve wanted since the get-go); petit fours (why I hunger for a treat I last ate at a senior year French club meeting, I don’t know but they are one of my shower demands); and to see all the friends we’ve been neglecting since I peed on the stick and we became more hermit-like than usual.
We figured we’d be throwing our own shindig (see above hermit-like behavior), but my yoga buddy Mirjana has kindly offered to host our pals in celebration of Purvis. (My new boss has also offered to host a workety shower, which is slightly more dangerous. I’ll give Mr. Crud a pass on this one. Painful games may be involved. Baby pictures too. May G-d have mercy on our souls.) The only workable weekend for Mirjana’s shower is a mere 2 weeks before my due date. In light of my superstitious inability to actually go through with buying anything baby-related (we are still car seat-less), the close proximity to my due date may be a good thing. At that point I will be able to graciously accept baby presents without mentally hissing “kineahora!” to ward off the evil eye. But how many times have I said that?
“After this ultrasound, I’ll be able to relax,” I say.
Mr. Crud pats my shoulder. “Good.”
“After this doctor’s appointment, I’ll relax,” I say.
Mr. Crud cocks his head to the side. “You think so?”
“After I hear the heartbeat, I’ll be able to relax.” I say.
“Really.” Mr. Crud says.
No, not really. I have stopped setting arbitrary benchmarks when this mystical relaxation will take over and I will become completely confident that everything is fine with Purvis for once and for all. I am improving.
Last night I dream that I break down and have a whiskey sour (a drink of choice from the 90s when whiskey was still my poison). The next night I have a straight up shot of whiskey. The next a glass of wine. I somehow keep forgetting my indulgence of the previous evening and keep drinking the sweet forbidden nectar. Then one morning I awake to no jabs in my belly. No kicking. Nothing. I rush to the hospital, crying. I wake up with a racing heartbeat.
“Well that’s no way to start a Friday,” I mumble to myself as I stumble from the bedroom to the bathroom.
I wait for a jab, a flop, any movement from the Purvis region. For the first few minutes of my day my belly is still. I set the timer for my morning meditation. I ease myself onto my cushion, cross my legs, and start relaxing my body part by part all the while the fear of Purvis stillness pulses in the background.
Relax eyebrows. Relax jaw. Come on, Purvis, one kick, one jab, one floop. Relax ears. Relax throat. Relax neck. Are you in there, Purvis? Is everything okay? I know it was just a dream and all, but come on, one kick for Mama. Relax shoulders. Relax elbows. Wait! Was that Purvis or is my stomach growling. One more, Purvis. Like you mean it this time. Relax back. Relax hips.
By the time I reach my toes Purvis has given me two good kicks in the right hip area, her target of choice. I try to focus my mind on the business of relaxing, then the quiet “so hum” of my breath with little luck. Even when I’m concentrating on one thing my brain splits off onto another spiral. I experience the Tuvan throat singing equivalent of meditation, which only tempts me into breaking off into a third layer of thought about what a crappy meditator I am.
But Purvis is okay. And at least I don’t panic or go off to the locker room shower to weep when his kicks aren’t as kicky as they were yesterday. I remember my last pre-doctor’s appointment panic and tell myself that everything turned out fine. Purvis is tired on Fridays like me. Because for the time being we are drawing from the same body, the same energy source. Purvis kicks around like nuts on Sunday because we are well-rested. At least that is my pseudo-scientific explanation of the day.
Random Updates:
Still biking along, but growing slower by the day. I’m thinking I have at least 1-2 more weeks of cycling in me before my ribs get too crowded and my balance too wonky. In other balance news, while crouching to pick the largest, thickest brownie from the New Seasons display I tipped over onto my ass without warning. Only harm done was to my ego. Isn’t yoga supposed to keep me from such random topples.
When I’m not dreaming of Mr. Crud abandoning me, I dream of alcohol. Sweet sweet wine and whiskey and dry martinis. I walk the aisles of the Fred Meyer wine section salivating over the bottles. Sometimes when I muse over Purvis’ birth, I fantasize more about my post partum meal of sushi and wine than holding the squirming bundle of joy. However I am not fantasizing about smoking so maybe that monkey is finally off my back for once and for all.
My internet pregnancy buddy, Ruby, emails for my take on the whole baby shower thing. Are we having one? Will there be painful games involved? Yes and no. Mr. Crud and I always planned on having some sort of do to celebrate the impending arrival of Purvis. After attending a lovely affair to welcome our friends’ mystery baby, we were both 90% less averse to the idea of baby showers. (Side note: Mystery Baby is one of the cutest little girls I’ve had the pleasure of knowing. Last time we saw her she cozied up to me like we were BFFs from way back. Her mom said, “She loves pregnant ladies.” Mystery baby sat on my lap and cuddled up to my belly saying, “Baby in?”) Their shower had belly dancers, wine, and tasty nibbles. Ladies, gents, and children of all ages were invited. There wasn’t any of the strained smiles or forced laughter that I associate with most showers. Bawdy jokes flew without the wink-wink-nudge-nudge-we-know-you-totally-did-it undercurrent that I’ve experienced at other showers. Granted most of the other showers I’ve attended have been work-related since many of my friends aren’t the reproducing kind so my sample is skewed. I have a hard time getting comfortable at work events of all kinds unless copious pours of alcohol are involved.
Anyway, Mr. Crud and I know we don’t want any games, to involve baby pictures of our guests, or to exclude any of our friends based on gender. What we know we want: Middle East food (catering from Hoda’s has been the one thing we’ve known we’ve wanted since the get-go); petit fours (why I hunger for a treat I last ate at a senior year French club meeting, I don’t know but they are one of my shower demands); and to see all the friends we’ve been neglecting since I peed on the stick and we became more hermit-like than usual.
We figured we’d be throwing our own shindig (see above hermit-like behavior), but my yoga buddy Mirjana has kindly offered to host our pals in celebration of Purvis. (My new boss has also offered to host a workety shower, which is slightly more dangerous. I’ll give Mr. Crud a pass on this one. Painful games may be involved. Baby pictures too. May G-d have mercy on our souls.) The only workable weekend for Mirjana’s shower is a mere 2 weeks before my due date. In light of my superstitious inability to actually go through with buying anything baby-related (we are still car seat-less), the close proximity to my due date may be a good thing. At that point I will be able to graciously accept baby presents without mentally hissing “kineahora!” to ward off the evil eye. But how many times have I said that?
“After this ultrasound, I’ll be able to relax,” I say.
Mr. Crud pats my shoulder. “Good.”
“After this doctor’s appointment, I’ll relax,” I say.
Mr. Crud cocks his head to the side. “You think so?”
“After I hear the heartbeat, I’ll be able to relax.” I say.
“Really.” Mr. Crud says.
No, not really. I have stopped setting arbitrary benchmarks when this mystical relaxation will take over and I will become completely confident that everything is fine with Purvis for once and for all. I am improving.
Last night I dream that I break down and have a whiskey sour (a drink of choice from the 90s when whiskey was still my poison). The next night I have a straight up shot of whiskey. The next a glass of wine. I somehow keep forgetting my indulgence of the previous evening and keep drinking the sweet forbidden nectar. Then one morning I awake to no jabs in my belly. No kicking. Nothing. I rush to the hospital, crying. I wake up with a racing heartbeat.
“Well that’s no way to start a Friday,” I mumble to myself as I stumble from the bedroom to the bathroom.
I wait for a jab, a flop, any movement from the Purvis region. For the first few minutes of my day my belly is still. I set the timer for my morning meditation. I ease myself onto my cushion, cross my legs, and start relaxing my body part by part all the while the fear of Purvis stillness pulses in the background.
Relax eyebrows. Relax jaw. Come on, Purvis, one kick, one jab, one floop. Relax ears. Relax throat. Relax neck. Are you in there, Purvis? Is everything okay? I know it was just a dream and all, but come on, one kick for Mama. Relax shoulders. Relax elbows. Wait! Was that Purvis or is my stomach growling. One more, Purvis. Like you mean it this time. Relax back. Relax hips.
By the time I reach my toes Purvis has given me two good kicks in the right hip area, her target of choice. I try to focus my mind on the business of relaxing, then the quiet “so hum” of my breath with little luck. Even when I’m concentrating on one thing my brain splits off onto another spiral. I experience the Tuvan throat singing equivalent of meditation, which only tempts me into breaking off into a third layer of thought about what a crappy meditator I am.
But Purvis is okay. And at least I don’t panic or go off to the locker room shower to weep when his kicks aren’t as kicky as they were yesterday. I remember my last pre-doctor’s appointment panic and tell myself that everything turned out fine. Purvis is tired on Fridays like me. Because for the time being we are drawing from the same body, the same energy source. Purvis kicks around like nuts on Sunday because we are well-rested. At least that is my pseudo-scientific explanation of the day.
Random Updates:
Still biking along, but growing slower by the day. I’m thinking I have at least 1-2 more weeks of cycling in me before my ribs get too crowded and my balance too wonky. In other balance news, while crouching to pick the largest, thickest brownie from the New Seasons display I tipped over onto my ass without warning. Only harm done was to my ego. Isn’t yoga supposed to keep me from such random topples.
When I’m not dreaming of Mr. Crud abandoning me, I dream of alcohol. Sweet sweet wine and whiskey and dry martinis. I walk the aisles of the Fred Meyer wine section salivating over the bottles. Sometimes when I muse over Purvis’ birth, I fantasize more about my post partum meal of sushi and wine than holding the squirming bundle of joy. However I am not fantasizing about smoking so maybe that monkey is finally off my back for once and for all.
Friday, November 13, 2009
All is Well...Again
11-12-09
The moment when Dr. Awesome presses the Doppler stethoscope to belly never fails to get my heart racing. Are you in there, Purvis? Everything okay? The day of my appointment sends me into further fear spirals, culminating in a sobbing session in the locker room showers when I’m sure that all is not well in there, that Purvis has fallen victim to the latest iteration of my bad pregnancy luck.
The big moment arrives. I recline. Dr. Awesome measures my belly. “27 inches and you’re 27 weeks. Perfect.” She drops the measuring tape and grabs the stethoscope from its jumble on the counter. She goo-s up my belly and rubs it with the cool metallic circle. Purvis’ swift gloob-gloob-gloob-gloob sounds loud and clear. I breathe my (now ceremonial) sigh of relief.
“About 140 beats per minute,” she says. The steady beat slows and quickens. Wait! It changed! It slowed down a bit. Shit. Does that mean??? My mind races. I try to keep my eyes from widening horror movie style.
“You hear how it’s varying? That’s good. It means the baby is moving around and the heartbeat is responding to the activity. Was that a kick?” She presses her hands over the space above my belly button.
“I don’t know,” I say.
“Did you feel that?”
“That I felt.” I’m not feeling all of Purvis’ kicks, which may explain my recent panics. Dr. Awesome encourages me to start counting kicks—just as all the preg books predicted she would—and I feel a mixture of excitement and dread. What if this kick counting becomes another way for me to freak out with worry? Don’t blame the kick counting, lady. This stream of worry has been hunting for an inlet before you ever heard the words kick counting.
“I think the kick counting will reassure you.” Dr. Awesome says. “Put your feet up and just tune in.”
Fast forward to Monday, my first official day of third trimester-dom. Yahoo!
“You think I can do my kick counting while reading the newspaper?” I ask Mr. Crud.
“You’re supposed to just concentrate on the kicking so you don’t get distracted,” he says.
“Yeah, yeah. You’re right.” But who has time to just lay back and wait for kicks? I have a precious 4 hours between the time I get off work and my early bedtime to get my own kicks, i.e. read the newspaper, cook dinner, read some Stieg Larsson, and catch a little TV. Now I gotta drink a cold glass of water—which will surely lead to increased midnight bathroom breaks—and do nothing? Sheesh. Some of the preg books advise kick counting in the morning and the evening. I wonder what women of leisure have the time to do that. Lest you think I’m being flippant about a vital part of my fetus’ health, the jury is out on kick counting. It’s been shown to have little effect on pregnancy outcomes, but still most doctors recommend it as a way to hopefully catch any problems with the fetus.
I compromise. Reading the paper is too distracting, but I can handle mindless TV while feeling for Purvis’ 10 kicks. They come quickly, number 10 jabbing my right hip about 10 minutes into The Soup.
At the appointment, I ask Dr. Awesome about my size again. “I keep seeing these women who are as pregnant or less pregnant than me and they look huge compared to me. I just look like I have a beer belly.”
“You’re tall,” she says with a shrug. “All women show differently. I can sympathize. I was small for my pregnancy and people weren’t afraid to let me know it. It has nothing to do with the size of the baby.”
Why am I so hung up on appearances? The right kind of pregnant look is one, which connotes a healthy mom and baby, yes? People aren’t giving me a hard time about it. Some say I look small for the six months of pregnancy under my belt, but nobody has gasped in shock at my small-ish bump.
Plus I’m feeling pretty good. At prenatal Pilates I do not chime in when SATC lady complains about her squished gall bladder or night sweats. All in all, I’m feeling fine. And in my feeling fine, I feel a little left out of the pregnant lady club. “Well you can join my club because I felt great too,” my mom says.
“You’re lucky,” Dr. Awesome says. “Enjoy it.”
I will. And I will look forward to when the prenatal Pilates conversation turns to the inevitable H1N1 vaccine because that’s an annoying situation that all of us can relate to, both whether or not to get it and, if we want it, where to find it.
Of all the questions I pepper Dr. Awesome with during our appointment I forget the one that comes up every morning and night: bicycling. When should I say when to my commute option of choice?
My older coworkers are clearly worried. “You be careful,” one grandfatherly prof says every night when I head out. “You’re biking for two.”
The worry is rubbing off on me. I start to imagine scary scenarios where I slip on leaves, lose my balance and fall into traffic, or stop short and go over my handlebars. I remind myself that all sorts of activities can be hazardous to the pregnant: cars, walking, the f-ing flu. (I’m set to be jabbed H1N1 style tomorrow afternoon. Yay?) In fact, I’ve had the most close calls with falling while going down steps in boot cut pants. Somehow my foot is adept at finding a way to get caught in the hem. I now approach staircases warily and take a wide-legged stance like a bow-legged cowboy before descending.
In the locker room a woman overhears me telling my locker room buddy of my cycling dilemma. She pops around the corner. “I couldn’t help but overhear.”
She was round and proud at the time when I was just starting to embark on pregnancy number 3. At the time I wondered if she would become my sister-in-motherhood or a reminder of another failed pregnancy. She cycled until she was looking very pregnant. I sent her silent “right on-s” every time I caught her mounting her bike.
“How long did you ride?” I ask.
“Until midway through my third trimester,” she says. “Then she was pressing on my bladder and I couldn’t make it home in time.”
She suggests I check out a discussion thread on a local biking blog. The thread is linked to an article about cycling with a bump, which is vague and conflicting in its recommendations. Some ladies stop after the 12th week since the pelvis can no longer provide complete protection for the fetus. Some ride on until their bellies are bumping against their pedaling legs. One respondent tells how she rode her bike to the hospital. Probably not OHSU, I think. That’s a hell of a hill.
I feel reinforced in my decision to keep on biking for the time being. Purvis does find her way to my bladder quite often but it’s not yet unbearable. I take it slow and easy. I hum the B-Sharps hit of yesteryear, “Baby on Board.” I cycle like I am riding for two. Because as elder prof reminds me, I am.
This week in preg-dreams: While I still await my dream of birthing a cat or alien, my unconscious is batting around my apparent fear of abandonment. When I’m not being rejected by high school beautiful people all over again (when will those dreams end?), Mr. Crud is abandoning me in various ways, leaving me pregnant and wandering the streets of Portland in search of him. “But I’m pregnant,” I bleat. The next morning I tell Mr. Crud of my latest version of the abandonment dream. He reassures me that he isn’t going anywhere. Then I do my best to not take out the dream residue of hurt feelings on him throughout the day. (“But it wasn’t ME who left you,” he says. “I know!” I say, still eyeing him warily.)
The moment when Dr. Awesome presses the Doppler stethoscope to belly never fails to get my heart racing. Are you in there, Purvis? Everything okay? The day of my appointment sends me into further fear spirals, culminating in a sobbing session in the locker room showers when I’m sure that all is not well in there, that Purvis has fallen victim to the latest iteration of my bad pregnancy luck.
The big moment arrives. I recline. Dr. Awesome measures my belly. “27 inches and you’re 27 weeks. Perfect.” She drops the measuring tape and grabs the stethoscope from its jumble on the counter. She goo-s up my belly and rubs it with the cool metallic circle. Purvis’ swift gloob-gloob-gloob-gloob sounds loud and clear. I breathe my (now ceremonial) sigh of relief.
“About 140 beats per minute,” she says. The steady beat slows and quickens. Wait! It changed! It slowed down a bit. Shit. Does that mean??? My mind races. I try to keep my eyes from widening horror movie style.
“You hear how it’s varying? That’s good. It means the baby is moving around and the heartbeat is responding to the activity. Was that a kick?” She presses her hands over the space above my belly button.
“I don’t know,” I say.
“Did you feel that?”
“That I felt.” I’m not feeling all of Purvis’ kicks, which may explain my recent panics. Dr. Awesome encourages me to start counting kicks—just as all the preg books predicted she would—and I feel a mixture of excitement and dread. What if this kick counting becomes another way for me to freak out with worry? Don’t blame the kick counting, lady. This stream of worry has been hunting for an inlet before you ever heard the words kick counting.
“I think the kick counting will reassure you.” Dr. Awesome says. “Put your feet up and just tune in.”
Fast forward to Monday, my first official day of third trimester-dom. Yahoo!
“You think I can do my kick counting while reading the newspaper?” I ask Mr. Crud.
“You’re supposed to just concentrate on the kicking so you don’t get distracted,” he says.
“Yeah, yeah. You’re right.” But who has time to just lay back and wait for kicks? I have a precious 4 hours between the time I get off work and my early bedtime to get my own kicks, i.e. read the newspaper, cook dinner, read some Stieg Larsson, and catch a little TV. Now I gotta drink a cold glass of water—which will surely lead to increased midnight bathroom breaks—and do nothing? Sheesh. Some of the preg books advise kick counting in the morning and the evening. I wonder what women of leisure have the time to do that. Lest you think I’m being flippant about a vital part of my fetus’ health, the jury is out on kick counting. It’s been shown to have little effect on pregnancy outcomes, but still most doctors recommend it as a way to hopefully catch any problems with the fetus.
I compromise. Reading the paper is too distracting, but I can handle mindless TV while feeling for Purvis’ 10 kicks. They come quickly, number 10 jabbing my right hip about 10 minutes into The Soup.
At the appointment, I ask Dr. Awesome about my size again. “I keep seeing these women who are as pregnant or less pregnant than me and they look huge compared to me. I just look like I have a beer belly.”
“You’re tall,” she says with a shrug. “All women show differently. I can sympathize. I was small for my pregnancy and people weren’t afraid to let me know it. It has nothing to do with the size of the baby.”
Why am I so hung up on appearances? The right kind of pregnant look is one, which connotes a healthy mom and baby, yes? People aren’t giving me a hard time about it. Some say I look small for the six months of pregnancy under my belt, but nobody has gasped in shock at my small-ish bump.
Plus I’m feeling pretty good. At prenatal Pilates I do not chime in when SATC lady complains about her squished gall bladder or night sweats. All in all, I’m feeling fine. And in my feeling fine, I feel a little left out of the pregnant lady club. “Well you can join my club because I felt great too,” my mom says.
“You’re lucky,” Dr. Awesome says. “Enjoy it.”
I will. And I will look forward to when the prenatal Pilates conversation turns to the inevitable H1N1 vaccine because that’s an annoying situation that all of us can relate to, both whether or not to get it and, if we want it, where to find it.
Of all the questions I pepper Dr. Awesome with during our appointment I forget the one that comes up every morning and night: bicycling. When should I say when to my commute option of choice?
My older coworkers are clearly worried. “You be careful,” one grandfatherly prof says every night when I head out. “You’re biking for two.”
The worry is rubbing off on me. I start to imagine scary scenarios where I slip on leaves, lose my balance and fall into traffic, or stop short and go over my handlebars. I remind myself that all sorts of activities can be hazardous to the pregnant: cars, walking, the f-ing flu. (I’m set to be jabbed H1N1 style tomorrow afternoon. Yay?) In fact, I’ve had the most close calls with falling while going down steps in boot cut pants. Somehow my foot is adept at finding a way to get caught in the hem. I now approach staircases warily and take a wide-legged stance like a bow-legged cowboy before descending.
In the locker room a woman overhears me telling my locker room buddy of my cycling dilemma. She pops around the corner. “I couldn’t help but overhear.”
She was round and proud at the time when I was just starting to embark on pregnancy number 3. At the time I wondered if she would become my sister-in-motherhood or a reminder of another failed pregnancy. She cycled until she was looking very pregnant. I sent her silent “right on-s” every time I caught her mounting her bike.
“How long did you ride?” I ask.
“Until midway through my third trimester,” she says. “Then she was pressing on my bladder and I couldn’t make it home in time.”
She suggests I check out a discussion thread on a local biking blog. The thread is linked to an article about cycling with a bump, which is vague and conflicting in its recommendations. Some ladies stop after the 12th week since the pelvis can no longer provide complete protection for the fetus. Some ride on until their bellies are bumping against their pedaling legs. One respondent tells how she rode her bike to the hospital. Probably not OHSU, I think. That’s a hell of a hill.
I feel reinforced in my decision to keep on biking for the time being. Purvis does find her way to my bladder quite often but it’s not yet unbearable. I take it slow and easy. I hum the B-Sharps hit of yesteryear, “Baby on Board.” I cycle like I am riding for two. Because as elder prof reminds me, I am.
This week in preg-dreams: While I still await my dream of birthing a cat or alien, my unconscious is batting around my apparent fear of abandonment. When I’m not being rejected by high school beautiful people all over again (when will those dreams end?), Mr. Crud is abandoning me in various ways, leaving me pregnant and wandering the streets of Portland in search of him. “But I’m pregnant,” I bleat. The next morning I tell Mr. Crud of my latest version of the abandonment dream. He reassures me that he isn’t going anywhere. Then I do my best to not take out the dream residue of hurt feelings on him throughout the day. (“But it wasn’t ME who left you,” he says. “I know!” I say, still eyeing him warily.)
Thursday, November 5, 2009
Pre-Doc Jitters
11-5-09
When I was a kid I got a case of the nerves before doctor’s appointments. Would I have to get a shot? Would I (again) be told that I might want to lose a few? Would the doctor x-ray my stomach and discover the cache of boogers piling up from all that illicit snot munching? (I imagined them in a gooey, green pyramid.) Now I have new reasons. Is everything okay with Purvis? Is she kicking enough? Is my stomach too small for being 6 months pregnant? Wait, was that stitch in my side technically a cramp?
As all the preg-sites warn, pregnancy can turn even the calmest lady into a—and I quote—“worrywart.” What of the chronic worrywarts such as myself? I must move up a notch to hysteric. Well, I would if not for the magic of yoga, which I’m still somehow limping through despite feeling weighed down with 20 extra pounds of thigh, hips and stomach. But mainly thigh and hips although stomach is catching up.
The week before a doctor’s appointment I default to worrywart. I start to question everything, but mostly myself. Maybe the sensations I thought were Purvis kicks are actually gas or some shifting of the bowels that feels different due to my enlarged uterus. Then I feel what is definitely a kick…or is that a muscle spasm?
When I feel kicks, what I know for sure to be kicks, I whisper, “Thank you, Purvis. Your mama was worrying.” (On the plus side I am getting used to the M-word.) And then I pray for another one just like the other one. “One more, Purvis. Show me that you’re in there.”
I am no longer haunted by a blank ultrasound screen but by a screen with the image of a tiny floating dead fetus. What if all that I’m feeling in my gut region is just Purvis’ body bobbing around in amniotic fluid?
I know these are only fears. “This is what fear feels like,” I say to myself. Another handy dandy yoga phrase that has gotten me through bumpy flights and late nights waiting for Mr. Crud to return from band practice after I’ve convinced myself that he’s—a phrase my mom so kindly passed on to me—dead in a ditch somewhere.
I talk out the fears with Mr. Crud.
“But have you been feeling Purvis moving?” He asks.
“Yeah, I’m pretty sure I have. Yes. Yes, I have. Actually he was kicking around a lot today.”
“That’s good.”
“I know, but still…”
Mr. Crud takes our fears to the professional, his awesome counselor, who reminds him that we have every right to be afraid. We got bad news at a past appointment so there will likely be some level of anxiety in approaching any appointment.
“He says we should probably get used to it.” Mr. Crud says.
“That’s what I thought. Dang.”
Today the anxiety is less. After a quiet morning, which put me on edge, Purvis has found his groove this afternoon. The big minus is she has located my bladder and seems to be doing some sort of tap dance upon it. My doctor’s appointment is tomorrow afternoon. I already can’t wait to hear the heartbeat, which is my cue to relax and get teary-eyed with relief.
Tomorrow I take my Glucose Tolerance Test to see if I am at risk for gestational diabetes. Truthfully, I have put this test off to the last minute in case I have it and must immediately de-sugarify my diet. (Please oh please no! You’ve taken my wine, my martinis, my sushi. Please do not take my sweets!!)
In H1N1 vaccine news, there is no real news. I am feeling better about the whole flu shebang. My doula and acupuncturist assure me that I am a healthy lady with a healthy immune system. For an afternoon, I considered not getting the vaccine at all after reading some anti-vax websites (I know, I know), but my new plan is to do what I can to get it, but not stress out.
Last night I say to Mr. Crud, “I kinda preferred worrying about the swine flu. That felt better.”
“Really?”
As the oracle of my youth, the Lucky 8 Ball, once said: Ask Again Later.
When I was a kid I got a case of the nerves before doctor’s appointments. Would I have to get a shot? Would I (again) be told that I might want to lose a few? Would the doctor x-ray my stomach and discover the cache of boogers piling up from all that illicit snot munching? (I imagined them in a gooey, green pyramid.) Now I have new reasons. Is everything okay with Purvis? Is she kicking enough? Is my stomach too small for being 6 months pregnant? Wait, was that stitch in my side technically a cramp?
As all the preg-sites warn, pregnancy can turn even the calmest lady into a—and I quote—“worrywart.” What of the chronic worrywarts such as myself? I must move up a notch to hysteric. Well, I would if not for the magic of yoga, which I’m still somehow limping through despite feeling weighed down with 20 extra pounds of thigh, hips and stomach. But mainly thigh and hips although stomach is catching up.
The week before a doctor’s appointment I default to worrywart. I start to question everything, but mostly myself. Maybe the sensations I thought were Purvis kicks are actually gas or some shifting of the bowels that feels different due to my enlarged uterus. Then I feel what is definitely a kick…or is that a muscle spasm?
When I feel kicks, what I know for sure to be kicks, I whisper, “Thank you, Purvis. Your mama was worrying.” (On the plus side I am getting used to the M-word.) And then I pray for another one just like the other one. “One more, Purvis. Show me that you’re in there.”
I am no longer haunted by a blank ultrasound screen but by a screen with the image of a tiny floating dead fetus. What if all that I’m feeling in my gut region is just Purvis’ body bobbing around in amniotic fluid?
I know these are only fears. “This is what fear feels like,” I say to myself. Another handy dandy yoga phrase that has gotten me through bumpy flights and late nights waiting for Mr. Crud to return from band practice after I’ve convinced myself that he’s—a phrase my mom so kindly passed on to me—dead in a ditch somewhere.
I talk out the fears with Mr. Crud.
“But have you been feeling Purvis moving?” He asks.
“Yeah, I’m pretty sure I have. Yes. Yes, I have. Actually he was kicking around a lot today.”
“That’s good.”
“I know, but still…”
Mr. Crud takes our fears to the professional, his awesome counselor, who reminds him that we have every right to be afraid. We got bad news at a past appointment so there will likely be some level of anxiety in approaching any appointment.
“He says we should probably get used to it.” Mr. Crud says.
“That’s what I thought. Dang.”
Today the anxiety is less. After a quiet morning, which put me on edge, Purvis has found his groove this afternoon. The big minus is she has located my bladder and seems to be doing some sort of tap dance upon it. My doctor’s appointment is tomorrow afternoon. I already can’t wait to hear the heartbeat, which is my cue to relax and get teary-eyed with relief.
Tomorrow I take my Glucose Tolerance Test to see if I am at risk for gestational diabetes. Truthfully, I have put this test off to the last minute in case I have it and must immediately de-sugarify my diet. (Please oh please no! You’ve taken my wine, my martinis, my sushi. Please do not take my sweets!!)
In H1N1 vaccine news, there is no real news. I am feeling better about the whole flu shebang. My doula and acupuncturist assure me that I am a healthy lady with a healthy immune system. For an afternoon, I considered not getting the vaccine at all after reading some anti-vax websites (I know, I know), but my new plan is to do what I can to get it, but not stress out.
Last night I say to Mr. Crud, “I kinda preferred worrying about the swine flu. That felt better.”
“Really?”
As the oracle of my youth, the Lucky 8 Ball, once said: Ask Again Later.
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
Fellow Travelers
11-2-09
I haul my tired-from-work ass in through the back door and plop my bags onto the floor with a groan.
“Hey hon,” I say to Mr. Crud.
“Oh hey,” he says, rounding the corner from our currently under renovation bathroom. “Darrell and I were just talking pregnancy loss.” Darrell is the tile guy. He is turning our shabby budget bathroom into a sparkling newly tiled budget bathroom.
“Uh okay.” I beeline for the bedroom to shrug off maternity outfit #3—only so much you can do with a few pairs of cords, jeans, and variations on the black shirt—and slip into something more comfortable. Sweatpants.
Hm. Pregnancy loss. That’s an odd thing for two relative strangers to be talking about, especially dudes. I switch into make dinner mode and reemerge, freshly sweatpanted and starving.
Later that night Mr. Crud and I are hunched over our empty dinner plates.
“Good dinner, hon,” he says.
“Thanks.” I carry my plate to the sink. “So, pregnancy loss. How did that come up?”
“Darrell was asking me about your due date and I asked him if he and his wife had any kids. He said they had a loss last year. Then I told him about us.”
“Wow. That’s cool that he told you, that you guys could talk about it.”
“Yeah, he’s a cool guy.”
I feel heavy in my gut. My eyes start to tear. “I’m so sorry they had to go through that.”
“I know. We talked about all the messed up things people say like ‘it wasn’t meant to be’ and all that crap. Does that make anyone feel better?”
I’m already on record with my feelings on meant to be. I am surprised by the depth of the sadness I feel for these virtual strangers. Darrell seems like such a sweet guy. He sings along with the radio as he tiles, he throws a smile when we pass in the kitchen, and comes over on Saturday to make sure that our tiles are drying correctly. But it isn’t his nice guy-ness that has me sniffly. It’s the miscarriage and knowing that everywhere, all around us, people are experiencing losses. My instant kinship with the recent experiencers of pregnancy loss is slipping away. My status as pregnant woman—27 weeks, bitches!—has taken over. The miscarriages feel far away and dreamlike. Did 2008, the year of the miscarriage, really happen? The miscarriages aren’t that far gone. If I want to torture myself I can easily conjure up images and the emotional reality of those days, but that card has been shuffled to the back of the deck for the time being. I am using all my emotional and creative resources to keep myself from traveling that fearful path over and over. At times, I feel like I’m losing myself to this one singular goal—have baby without going crazy—but it works. At least for now.
I wonder if Darrell feels a tug of sadness, of longing when he catches a sideways glimpse of me and sees my growing—still Bactrian, g-ddamnit—bump(s).
The next time I see him I want to inappropriately pep talk him. Try again! You all can do it! We made it and so can you!! I keep my pep talk to myself, knowing that there is all too much that I don’t know. Maybe they had tests. Maybe they can’t do it or maybe they are just waiting to get up the nerve again. They are a good 10 years younger than Mr. Crud and me thus have the luxury of a longer period of wound-licking.
But then again, maybe he’ll take our story back to his wife and they’ll find the nerve to try again. (I know how egotistical this sounds. Can you hear the music swelling in the background as I paint myself an inspirational figure?) I had such role models on my road back to pregnancy world.
I haul my tired-from-work ass in through the back door and plop my bags onto the floor with a groan.
“Hey hon,” I say to Mr. Crud.
“Oh hey,” he says, rounding the corner from our currently under renovation bathroom. “Darrell and I were just talking pregnancy loss.” Darrell is the tile guy. He is turning our shabby budget bathroom into a sparkling newly tiled budget bathroom.
“Uh okay.” I beeline for the bedroom to shrug off maternity outfit #3—only so much you can do with a few pairs of cords, jeans, and variations on the black shirt—and slip into something more comfortable. Sweatpants.
Hm. Pregnancy loss. That’s an odd thing for two relative strangers to be talking about, especially dudes. I switch into make dinner mode and reemerge, freshly sweatpanted and starving.
Later that night Mr. Crud and I are hunched over our empty dinner plates.
“Good dinner, hon,” he says.
“Thanks.” I carry my plate to the sink. “So, pregnancy loss. How did that come up?”
“Darrell was asking me about your due date and I asked him if he and his wife had any kids. He said they had a loss last year. Then I told him about us.”
“Wow. That’s cool that he told you, that you guys could talk about it.”
“Yeah, he’s a cool guy.”
I feel heavy in my gut. My eyes start to tear. “I’m so sorry they had to go through that.”
“I know. We talked about all the messed up things people say like ‘it wasn’t meant to be’ and all that crap. Does that make anyone feel better?”
I’m already on record with my feelings on meant to be. I am surprised by the depth of the sadness I feel for these virtual strangers. Darrell seems like such a sweet guy. He sings along with the radio as he tiles, he throws a smile when we pass in the kitchen, and comes over on Saturday to make sure that our tiles are drying correctly. But it isn’t his nice guy-ness that has me sniffly. It’s the miscarriage and knowing that everywhere, all around us, people are experiencing losses. My instant kinship with the recent experiencers of pregnancy loss is slipping away. My status as pregnant woman—27 weeks, bitches!—has taken over. The miscarriages feel far away and dreamlike. Did 2008, the year of the miscarriage, really happen? The miscarriages aren’t that far gone. If I want to torture myself I can easily conjure up images and the emotional reality of those days, but that card has been shuffled to the back of the deck for the time being. I am using all my emotional and creative resources to keep myself from traveling that fearful path over and over. At times, I feel like I’m losing myself to this one singular goal—have baby without going crazy—but it works. At least for now.
I wonder if Darrell feels a tug of sadness, of longing when he catches a sideways glimpse of me and sees my growing—still Bactrian, g-ddamnit—bump(s).
The next time I see him I want to inappropriately pep talk him. Try again! You all can do it! We made it and so can you!! I keep my pep talk to myself, knowing that there is all too much that I don’t know. Maybe they had tests. Maybe they can’t do it or maybe they are just waiting to get up the nerve again. They are a good 10 years younger than Mr. Crud and me thus have the luxury of a longer period of wound-licking.
But then again, maybe he’ll take our story back to his wife and they’ll find the nerve to try again. (I know how egotistical this sounds. Can you hear the music swelling in the background as I paint myself an inspirational figure?) I had such role models on my road back to pregnancy world.
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