Peabody Project Chronicles 2

A Year Already?!?

2011-01-28T10:32:00.000-08:00

I contemplated posting baby updates to this blog. Most of the miscarriage blogs that I found during my days of loss had morphed into mommy blogs by the time I found them. I should have found this encouraging. Yes, these women have been where I am and emerged with tales of no-sleep and poop. Instead I felt rejected yet again. Everyone gets a baby but me, even the ladies who are supposed to be sharing in my experience.

So no baby updates on the Peabody Project. In fact, no baby updates anywhere for the last year aside from a hastily scribbled screed about the first six months of life with Purvis.

If you have stumbled upon this blog after experiencing pregnancy loss, I urge you to return to the beginning of the story, the early entries and move ahead chronologically. Also, I am sorry, very sorry for your loss.

As for me, I still do think about miscarriage mainly when I hear of friends’ losses or when I post a baby-related Facebook update. I hope that my updates don’t cause anybody the icky conflicted murk of emotion that used to befall me when I saw my friends’ baby updates. I have never felt so alienated from my friends, family, and culture at large as after my first miscarriage. I existed in a shadow world of things that aren’t supposed to happen, a world where support groups are the only place of normalcy. I was the cautionary tale, the whispered story.

Friends who shared my experience told me that after Purvis was born I wouldn’t be able to imagine life without her, that in a strange way I’d be grateful that she was the one who came into my life because only Purvis can be Purvis and as great as Primo and Dewey may have been, she is the only child I can imagine. At the time, I didn’t want to hear it. How dare they speak of my lost ones like that, but now I feel the truth of that. I can’t imagine another smile, another laugh, another bugged out I’m-taking-a-crap face.

Yesterday we celebrated Purvis’ first birthday (which she celebrated by pooping in the bathtub. My girl likes to party ALL the time.). We reminisced about when I took what felt like the biggest crap in the world a year ago. (Please see the previous entry for more on that.) We are lucky. Purvis is the shine in my eye. But I still remember Primo and Dewey. I mourn for the lives they missed. I remember the story our post-miscarriage therapist told us about the souls of miscarried babies being protected by the Buddhist bodhisattva, Jizo. Jizo watches and protects their souls until they can be born into another body. One day, when we get our garden in order (which means actually clearing away 2 years worth of dead leaves and planting a garden), I plan to install a Jizo statue in honor of Primo and Dewey. I will tell Purvis about the ones who came before her even though they never really existed beyond the form of our hope and love.

Thanks to friends and family who have supported me, my family, my blog, and now my life with Purvis. May everyone find peace in and beyond Miscarriage World. May we find a way to talk about miscarriage that is sensitive, dark, funny, and true.

Peace out.

The Main Event

2010-07-12T11:46:00.000-07:00

7-5-2010

I call in sick Monday. I am beyond exhausted and starting to get freaked about our lack of a nursery. Despite my doubt of the whole nesting phenomenon, I apparently fell prey to it. My to-buy checklist goes mostly unchecked even after two baby showers. We haul ourselves to IKEA to put my jumpy mind at ease. I have faith that the Swedish are not as wedded to their gendering of décor as the pink v. blue Americans. I am not opposed to the pink and blue as colors, but the weight of their gender signifying ruffles my feathers. It’s odd that the choices seem to be pink, blue, or green. How did green become the Switzerland of gender colors?

As we peruse the walls of Scandinavian knick-knackery, a stuffed bunny rabbit driving a carrot catches my eye. I pick it up. I shake it. Rattle rattle.

“Look, hon,” I hold up my new furry friend. I shake it. Rattle rattle.

“Cute,” Mr. Crud says.

I put it back. Dare I fall in love with this bunny rabbit driving a carrot rattle? I pick it up again. Rattle rattle. I continue along the wall of stuff, directing myself back to the necessities: a rug, curtains, a night light. We peruse the curtain patterns. My mind is stuck on the rattle.

“Do you think it’s silly?” I ask.

“What?”

“The bunny in the carrot? I mean it’s totally silly to get it for a baby. Yeah, I thought so. I mean it’s not like he’ll want to play with a rattle fresh out of the womb.”

Mr. Crud squeezes my arm. “Honey, you can get it if you want. You’re allowed to buy toys.”

I realize that I have been holding back on the toy front for the same reasons I got teary-eyed when my mother-in-law lavished us with baby clothes during their previous visit. Superstition. The idea of an unused rattle stuffed in a box makes me want to break down crying.

I rush back to the bunny and toss it in our basket along with a few other animals driving various household items. I let myself get excited.

That night I lay down to bed a little later than usual. I’m feeling crampy, more menstrual crampy than contraction, but definitely crampy. Shit, I shouldn’t have called in sick. What if I’m coming down with something? I have so much work stuff left undone. I imagine the piles on my desk.

“You okay?” Mr. Crud asks after my tossing and turning enters its second hour.

“I’m feeling kinda crampy,” I say.

His eyes go wide.

“No, not like contraction-y, more just cramps.”

He reaches for his book, The Expectant Father, and turns to the list of pre-labor symptoms.

“Cramps can go on for days or weeks before labor,” he reads, breathing a sigh of relief. “It’s a pre-labor symptom.”

“Or labor.”

“Probably pre-labor though.”

“Yeah, that’s probably what it is. I just hope I can go to work tomorrow.”

He massages my shoulder. “Don’t worry about it. Just try to relax and get some sleep.”

I nestle back in with my body pillow. The cramps aren’t exactly painful, just uncomfortable enough to keep me from drifting off. I have a few is-this-it-?!!? moments, but I reassure myself that the cramps would be getting stronger and more regular if this was indeed it. I look at the clock. 11:45. Mr. Crud is sleeping soundly. I resign myself to a sleep-deprived day at work. Then I feel a twinge in my gut. Probably more Braxton Hicks. My guts start to roil. Onward to the bathroom. Diarrhea. Great. Are the cramps getting stronger or am I psyching myself out? I return to bed and nudge Mr. Crud.

“I’ve got the cha-cha-cha-s,” I say.

He grunts, flaps his hand around for the light and his book. Groggily, he reads, “Diarrhea can be a symptom of labor or pre-labor.”

“Yeah, I know. Don’t worry about it. You go back to sleep. I’m heading to the couch.”

I grab my copy of Caveman’s Valentine and make a pillow nest on the couch. I might as well get some reading done if I’m going to be up. I try to focus on the words, but every few minutes I am pulled away by cramps. I read the same page over and over again. I glance up at the VCR clock. The cramps are coming in 1-2 minute bursts every few minutes. I think back to our birth class. Contractions start to last longer once you enter labor. They don’t seem to be getting longer. Maybe this is just some intense pre-labor. Could it be? Nah. Pre-labor. Pre-labor, for sure.

Then as if to finally, definitively answer my question I am sent to the bathroom again for another round of bowel emptying. I stand up and feel something gooey slip out of my lady parts and splat in the toilet. Hello, mucous plug.

“Oh boy,” I say to myself. I flashback to that fine May morning in the bathroom with my little pee stick. Here we go.

I hunt around for the folder with all the necessary numbers that I was supposed to program into my cell phone so I can bask in the temporary illusion of preparedness for whatever is about to happen to my body and life. I find the folder from the first pregnancy. Then the one from the second. Finally I find the correct thick folder with all my appointments and birth class information. Why didn’t I label these?

I try not to wake Mr. Crud too suddenly. Wouldn’t want to frighten the little feller unnecessarily before I terrify him by necessity. I nudge his shoulder.

“Huh wha?” He mumbles.

“It’s happening. I’m in labor.” I say.

“How do you-“

“Mucous plug.” I say and a stronger contraction grabs me in the gut.

Mr. Crud pops up, immediately awake. I crawl into bed with him. Our doula and the birth educator assured us that first time labors take a long time. “Ignore it until you can’t ignore it anymore,” was the mantra.

Mr. Crud reaches for his book then another, hoping to find some universe where the passing of the mucous plug does not equal labor. It’s not looking good for his case against me being in labor. I climb back into bed and try to keep “ignoring” labor. I think of work and all the undone to-dos. Would it be crazy to run down to the office to tie up some loose ends? Yes, very crazy. But it’s on the way to the hospital. Still crazy.

I roll over and feel a trickle of water head down my thigh. The trickle gets gushier. “I think my water just broke,” I say.

We look at each other. Shit. It’s not just happening. It’s happening happening.

“What do we do?” Mr. Crud asks.

“First call the hospital,” I say, remembering that they want to hear from you if your water breaks. I roll out of bed, trying to walk in a way that does not splash the floor with fluid.

Mr. Crud flips to another page in his book. “What does the fluid look and smell like?”

“Um, water, I guess. Nothing?”

“They’re going to ask about it,” he says, a growing panic in his voice.

“I know. I think it’s fine. Just clear and odorless.”

I call the clinic. They transfer me to Labor and Delivery. As I wait to be transferred to the attending doctor, who I call Dutch because he reminds me of the same named character from The Shield, I feel a stronger contraction. I bend over and support myself on the dining room chair. Oh Nelly, this is getting realer by the moment.

“Hi Kt, I hear you might be in labor.” Dutch asks me the requisite questions—how far apart are my contractions, how long have I felt them, when did my water break, if the fluid has any smell or color.

“We’ll need you to come in to do a speculum exam to see if your bag of waters broke.” (I much prefer the term “water broke” to “bag of waters.” The latter makes me feel like I’ve got some saddlebags full of fluid hitched to my sides.) “It sounds like you can talk through the contractions so you have some time.”

“Good because we haven’t actually packed yet.”

“Oh! You better get packing.” He says.

“So you think we’ll be okay if we come in an hour or so?” I ask. I’ve heard many stories about going to the hospital too early and the resulting boredom and pressure for labor to progress. I want to keep with my ignore it until you can’t ignore it plan.

“An hour is fine. But don’t wait too long.”

I hang up. Another contraction. This one a bit stronger, a bit bite-ier on my sides. I catch myself on the hutch.

I call Dr. Awesome who asks many of the same questions and comes to the same conclusion as Dutch. I call our doula who assures me I’ve got time to pack. “You don’t need to rush.” Meanwhile Mr. Crud has dragged our suitcases up from the basement and commenced to packing.

Why didn’t I make a packing list? Why did I put off packing after numerous people and the freaking childbirth prep class urged us to be ready? Why didn’t we prepare our nursery in time? Shit. The contractor is supposed to come this Thursday to install the ceiling fan that looks like Earth from outer space, the one piece of décor that Mr. Crud was adamant we purchase.

SHIT! Purvis was supposed to marinate another week or two before making his appearance.

The next contraction sends me to my hands and knees. I remember our yoga teacher Tina’s advice to just let the sensation move through you and to move and vocalize in whatever way helps you deal with the discomfort. I rock back and forth and moan in as low a register as I can. Calling out in higher registers can cause the body to panic, the breath to halt so I remember to keep it low.

Mr. Crud dashes out from the bedroom. “You okay?” He kneels to my side.

The contraction passes. I catch my breath. “I’m fine now. This is really happening,” I say. I probably say some variation of “This is actually happening” (embellishing it with more curse words as the contractions strengthen) about a hundred times in the next 7 hours.

I pack as best I can pack, tossing a week’s worth of tank tops, pajama bottoms, sweatpants and underwear into my suitcase. I don’t forget the lavender room spray or my nursing bra. I pause every few minutes, drop to the ground and let the next contraction ripple through my body. For a few minutes we time them and Mr. Crud dutifully tracks them on the chart in his new bible, The Birth Partner, until we realize that it doesn’t really matter. We’re going to the hospital. My waters have broken and left the building. Well, not all of them. As I move around packing I have some more leakage and am forced to change out of a few pairs of my men’s boxer shorts and my red velour sweatpants. I get weirdly picky about which sweatpants I want to wear to the hospital. It’s not like I’ll be wearing them when Purvis is born, but I don’t want to completely abandon fashion. I flip through my pants in search of my “good” Lululemon sweatpants. And another contraction makes the sweatpants issue seem small and unimportant. I settle for the ratty Gap ones.

Mr. Crud brings a handful of CDs to me. “Which ones do you want?”

“I don’t know. All of them. I don’t care.” And the invisible contraction hand wrings out my mid-section once again.

I toss my bathrobe into the suitcase and tangle with the zipper. I have officially packed for an extended vacation. I feel something new in my nether regions. Oh my, is that pressure down below that I’m feeling? Why yes it is.

“Hon, we need to go now.” I yell. “I’m feeling the urge to push.”

“Don’t push,” Mr. Crud’s voice quivers ever so slightly.

All I’m thinking about is my friend’s friend who had her baby in the backseat of her Subaru en route to the hospital because she was too leisurely in getting out of the house when she went into labor. I know few things for sure at this moment, but one thing I do know is that I really don’t want to have Purvis in the back seat of our Subaru. I love a good story, but this is one best left to tell about friends of friends.

Things get blurrier here. Mr. Crud asks if I want to stop and get some Gatorade to help me keep my strength up during labor. No sir, no I don’t. The pressure in my perineum is growing by the contraction and I am not having this baby in our car. I think of Hamim as we zip down Powell Boulevard. He worried about traffic. Ha! No such problem for us. Even though the streets are deserted at 3 a.m., the journey feels like we are traveling by horse and buggy. After we descend the Ross Island Bridge we are caught at a stoplight. I stare at the pedestrian light for the road running perpendicular, praying for the blinking red hand that means our light will go green soon.

White walking man.

White walking man.

White fucking walking man.

If another contraction hadn’t ripped through me at that moment I would have yelled at Mr. Crud to blow the light. He felt my mental vibes. Later he says, “You wanted me to run that red light, didn’t you?”

“Oh hell yeah.”

“I mean it’s the one time we could use that excuse, but I was worried about getting hit. You never know…”

It’s true. Even on a deserted street, some jackass racing his douchebag buddy could come tearing out of nowhere. So much for our one time to have a perfect excuse to run a red light.

We wind up the hill to the hospital. (No snow. Yay!) Mr. Crud pulls up to the Emergency Room and grabs the most important of our overstuffed bags. He deposits me in a chair to writhe and moan through the next contraction while he talks to the woman behind the glass. “My wife is having a baby.”

A woman in a wheelchair wheels over from the waiting area and parks herself next to me. “You’re having a baby?” She says.

I nod and grunt, “Uh huh.”

Mr. Crud goes out to move the car. I await my wheelchair escort to Labor and Delivery. My new friend continues to chat like we are standing at the bus stop whiling away the hours.

“You barely look pregnant. I can’t believe you’re having a baby.” She says.

“Well, I am,” I say. If that’s not totally fucking obvious from the writhing in pain that I am doing. Now please go away.

“Is it a girl or boy?”

I shake my head. “Don’t know.”

She claps her hands together. “Oh, I hope it’s a girl. I don’t know why, but I really hope it’s a girl.”

The security guard looks up from his desk. We exchange a glance.

“Do you have names picked out?”

Another big one grips my uterus. My fingers dig into the cheap green plastic arms of the chair. “I’d prefer not to talk now,” I say. Why so proper, Ms. Manners? If I had one time when I could tell a looky-loo to move along in stronger terms, now is it. First the red light and now this. So many missed opportunities.

The double doors near the reception window swing open and a young fellow in blue scrubs helps me into a wheelchair, hanging my bags on the wheelchair handles. I rest on my left buttock. Somehow this makes the discomfort less uncomfortable. We navigate a maze of antiseptic hallways littered with gurneys and equipment. This ride also feels like it lasts forever.

Labor and Delivery. Hurray! A nurse emerges from the clump behind the desk.

“I’m Sarah. I’ll be your nurse.” She whisks me to a low-lit room, hands me a gown and a cup for a urine sample.

Once in the bathroom I peel off my clothes and attempt to pee. Another contraction. No urine sample today, I’m afraid. I pull apart the gown and try to make sense of the buttons and hooks to no avail. Even in non-labor conditions, I’d be hard pressed to figure it out. I emerge from the bathroom, naked with the gown in my hand. “I need some help.” Our doula told us that the less modest a woman becomes, the closer she is to labor. My usual level of modesty lasted approximately 5 minutes from the hospital’s sliding doors.

Sarah gets me dressed and on the table. She asks me the same questions everyone has asked me—Yes, I think my water broke, no odor, no color. Contractions are lasting 1-2 minutes, no complications so far, etc. She pulls up my file, and checks in on Purvis with the Doppler. His heart is thumping loud and proud. Thank g-d for that. Although I am fully aware that what is happening to me is to be expected, that it is what is supposed to happen and we are well within the time frame for normal, the fear persists. I remember Elizabeth McCracken’s devastating memoir about her stillborn child, how she had to give birth to her child fully aware that the only thing waiting for her at the end of her hard labor was devastation.

Mr. Crud reappears, checks on me, then puts in our chosen birth CD, Brian Eno’s “Music for Airports.” Our old massage therapist, the much loved and missed Francesca, played this CD during our massages and it’s always had a calming effect on me. He drags our over packed bags to a corner in the room. He squeezes my hand. We breathe. Here we go.

Dutch comes in with a medical student in tow. “Is it okay of Dr. Fresh-face observes?”

“Sure,” I say.

Another contraction takes me out of communication commission. They wait for me to finish.

“You have definitely progressed since we were on the phone,” he says. “You were still able to talk through your contractions.”

“Not anymore,” I puff.

Dutch tells me that they’ll be checking my cervix before the speculum exam to check on my bag o’ waters. I pray for a good result. What if all these contractions have been sound and fury signifying nothing? At least 5 inches, I think. C’mon cervix!

He checks me out. (Not with a tape measure or some tiny ruler contraption as I had once imagined. It’s done by feel.) “Okay, so you’re 8 centimeters dilated. I’m going to call your doctors and let them know that they should go ahead and come down now. We won’t need to do the speculum exam. You’ll be ready to start pushing very soon.” He turns on his heel and pushes back into the hallway, cell phone already in hand.

I detect a slight note of surprise in Dutch’s voice. I am surprised myself. This is really fucking happening and it’s happening right the fuck now.

(One of my big disappointments from the whole birth experience is that I did not exercise my license to curse with impunity. My sis-in-law remembers her temporary sailor mouth while she was giving birth to my niece. I had planned on letting the fucking-shit-motherfucker-cocksuckers fly freely, but it just didn’t happened. Please indulge my pottymouth now. As a writer, I must perfect in literature what failed me in life. I hope you read that last sentence with a la-dee-dah accent.)

Then I start to panic that Purvis will come before Dr. Awesome and Dr. Adorable arrive. Dutch and Dr. Fresh-face seem nice and competent enough, but I want my peeps here. I feel like we’ve been working towards this thing together.

“You better call Kelley,” I say to Mr. Crud. He is already dialing.

“She’s on her way.”

When a contraction comes I contract my pelvic floor, (don’t fail me now, mulabandha!) fearing Purvis might squish out if I don’t actively pull up. I groan. Mr. Crud holds my hand and lets loose a low “oooommmmm” whenever he hears my voice get high and whiny. People come and go. A group of nurses wheel in a gurney and move it to another part of the room that was previously closed off by a curtain.

“Is everything okay?” I ask Sarah, suddenly terrified that something is wrong with Purvis but they won’t tell me.

“Everything is fine. That equipment is there just to be safe,” she says, eyes on the computer screen in front of her.

I am both glad it is there and unnerved. The hospital’s job is to prepare for the unexpected, but it’s still freaky to see warming lamps and unfamiliar instruments.

Things get blurrier. Time gets elastic. Dr. Awesome arrives. Dr. Adorable is running late. Car problems, but she is working on getting here. Kelley arrives and comes to my side. “How are you feeling?” I had also been looking forward to all the bonus massage time I would get during early labor from Kelley. So much for that. I know I should not complain about a quick labor after hearing the horrific tales of exhaustion from friends and family who had long ones.

Another cervix check. “You can start pushing whenever you’re ready.”

It feels novel at first, the pushing. How does this work exactly. I press down. Ah yes, something is happening.

Oh there’s Dr. Adorable. She is visibly pregnant now and wearing it oh so well. She has the pregnant look that I so coveted—slim all over with a perfectly round bump.

“Hi Kt, I haven’t seen you in awhile,” Dr. Adorable says.

“And now you can see all of me.”

Always the comedian, even while naked, legs wide open, and lady parts hanging out for all the world to see. I have never been less modest than I am now, and, wow, I’m not even drunk.

Contractions come like waves and I ride them with Mr. Crud. The ooooommmms are my oars.

Dr. Awesome’s “Yeah, that’s how you do it” give me strength. She tells me at one point that she was surprised at how rectal giving birth felt. Oh, so it really is like pushing out the hugest turd of one’s life. That helps. My pushing gets more effective. All those tremendous craps that I took during my pregnancy sort of make sense now. I do hope they will end once I am no longer pregnant for the sake of my ass and our plumbing.

Purvis starts to emerge. “Your baby has hair! You want to feel the head?”

“NO,” I say. Somehow that seems gross to me. Also I worry that I will press too hard and injure Purvis before she is even born.

At a certain point, I enter the fog of birth. I just want to get this thing out of me, to end the agony down below. Although I am not a fan of the movie Baby Mama, I do concur with the character’s description of giving birth: It very much is like shitting knives.

I push and om and shit knives and cry and barf and spit and relax for one precious minute. Dr. Awesome tells me that she wants to do more fetal monitoring than we planned because Purvis’ heart rate isn’t in the range they hoped. Fine, whatever, let’s just do this thing. I writhe and Sarah follows my belly around. I get annoyed at the fetal monitoring paddles. I push. And then the pressure lessens.

“The head is out. One more push.” Someone says.

And then they are holding her up. “So is it a boy or a girl?” Dr. Awesome asks.

My eyes go to the umbilical cord and think, a boy. A boy with a huge penis. Did Jeff Foxworthy make some umbilical cord-penis joke? Sounds about right.

I look lower on the squirmy, crying purple bundle of joy.

“A girl!” Baby – 1, Intuition – 0. I guess all those dreams I had where our child was a girl were accurate.

I turn to Mr. Crud. “We don’t have to worry about circumcision! Yay!!” I realize how hugely relieved I am to not have to make that decision. Phew. Plus I have a daughter.

They put her to my chest and I gaze into her wide open eyes. Oh Purvis! You’re here. I look for any possible defects. Does she have Down’s Syndrome? (I remain suspicious that Purvis has some sort of defect that the doctors aren’t telling us about during our entire stay at the hospital. I reason that they wouldn’t let us go home without telling us about it so I finally relax when signing the discharge papers.) Does she have all her fingers and toes? Is she breathing right?

“She looks perfect,” Dr. Awesome says.

And she is perfect. 7 lbs, 20 inches, born at 6:59 a.m. on January 26.

I hear talk of Mr. Crud cutting the umbilical cord. I wait for the moment he does it to feel if it hurts. I don’t feel a thing. At least I don’t feel a thing umbilical cord-wise. Dr. Adorable is preparing to stitch me up and my downstairs is screaming in pain. Albeit less pain than a few minutes ago.

We attempt nursing. Purvis latches on a few times, which really fucking hurts. She gives me three hickeys on my left boob.

“She has a powerful sucking reflex,” Kelley says.

Oh my yes she does. And I will for the next three weeks have the burning nipples and visits to the lactation consultant to prove it. One doctor advises me to start pumping immediately and let Purvis feed from a bottle at night to give my boobs a break. Fearing nipple confusion, I do not heed this advice. Were I to do it over again? I would definitely heed this advice. All my crashing hormones and sadness is directed at my early troubles with breastfeeding. If it hurts, you’re doing it wrong, I hear and read over and over again. While I’m sure there was an element of doing it wrong at first, I also think my nipples just needed to toughen up.

They check Purvis out and she is great. A little bit of a racing heartbeat but that is common with babies who have such quick births. Dr. Adorable sews up some minor tearing. Dr. Awesome shows me the placenta. Pretty freaking cool, but I have no plans to eat or plant it.

They take my order for breakfast. Uh sushi and a martini? Nope, crappy eggs and a biscuit, but okay, any food sounds good at this moment. I give myself permission to eat without thought to fat content for the day. I must have burned some serious calories.

Mr. Crud and I are wired on love and fear. I can’t pinpoint the moment when we started being afraid that our precious Purvis would stop breathing, but it becomes the principle concern of our lives. We do not want to put her down for even a moment. I barely sleep the first night (and second and third) as I feel the need to check her breathing every few minutes. Even now 5 months later after one of us checks on her, the other will ask “Still breathing?” I have woken Purvis up more times than I care to count doing a breath check. Does this make me an attentive or crazy mom?

We stay in the hospital one day. Nurses come and go, giving their spiels on breastfeeding and the early days of motherhood. Yeah, yeah, I’ll sleep when she sleeps (except she only likes to sleep in our arms and we aren’t supposed to sleep with her in our arms so we devise a pillow propped position on the couch and only lightly snooze for the first month).

My biggest non-breastfeeding challenge is trying to pee after giving birth. It feels like I shat knives and then had to pore alcohol on the wound. The threat of catheterization is the only thing that gets my bladder to get working again and pushes me to brave the pain. I get way too excited about perineal ice packs.

Don’t get me started on the blood. The blood clots. The crime scenes I leave after each visit to the bathroom. I should have taken pictures for Chloasma’s first album cover. For the first few hours I share a room with a woman who had a c-section. I’m glad that she doesn’t have to use the bathroom because I don’t think I can apologize enough for the gross state that I leave it.

Mr. Crud and I are giddy and exhausted. It finally happened after so much. I am hormonal and teary. I think of Primo and Dewey and feel more loss than I thought I ever would for them, my poor lost embryos, but I’m also so glad that Purvis is here, breathing and crying and dotting my tits with hickeys.

We call our parents. Surprise! We try to eat our hospital breakfasts. We gaze at Purvis and brainstorm middle names. Since I was so sure that Purvis was a boy (and would be born after his due date), we spent most of our time coming up with boy’s names. Luckily we had a girl’s first name picked out, but not a middle name. We end up naming her after a citrus fruit and the soda we drink our first night in the hospital. She was almost Pomegranate. (For such a gorgeous and delicious fruit, pomegranate is a hell of a clunky name.)

Now 5 months later, I can’t quite believe it all happened, that this little person so proud of her flipping over, who adores kicking on the changing table at diaper time to Girl Talk songs wasn’t always with us. It feels like she has been here forever. It seems crazy that we were once so worried that she wouldn’t arrive.

I still think about Primo and Dewey, most especially on Mother’s Day when their loss stung me anew. I’m so sorry you can’t join our family. We have such a good time. I think about the folks who struggle with miscarriage and infertility. I try to remember how it felt even as those feelings fade more with each passing day. I don’t want to dwell in sadness, but I want to stay connected in case I am called upon to be comfort to someone in pain. I don’t ever want to be the person saying “It’ll all work out” just because it did for me. Or worse, “It was meant to be.” But mostly I think of how to get Purvis to nap for more than 30 minutes at a stretch, watch her push up during tummy time and wonder when she’ll start crawling, and make funny faces at her so she will laugh. Mr. Crud and I are very much in the moment and most of the time, that moment is good.

**This may be my last post on this blog. Who can say? There is plenty to blog about with Purvis, but I haven't decided if this is the appropriate venue. Anyway, thanks to all of you who read, commented, emailed me with your experiences and words of kindness. We did it! Peace to all of you out there who experience miscarriage and infertility.

The Final Countdown

2010-07-07T11:24:00.000-07:00

**The first few paragraphs of this months old entry contain what they call foreshadowing. Sorry I have been remiss in my blogging duties, but I promise to have a GREAT excuse. To be continued... (sooner hopefully rather than months later).**

1-19-10

“You’re like a ticking time bomb,” my yoga pal says as we tug on yoga pants, mine barely fitting over the increased thigh-ass-belly area that is my own personal Bermuda Triangle.

“I know. I could pop at any moment.” I say. A fact that has started to worm its way into my brain. As Purvis will be my first trip to the birthing unit, I had assumed that she would be late. I was 7 days overdue. Or as Mr. Crud says, the due date was 7 days early. He is correct. Due dates are at best guesstimates.

Sunday night I lay in bed contemplating the tightness in my belly. Another Braxton Hicks (a.k.a. practice contraction) or is this the contraction that gets the party started? Oh shit. I am so not ready. My mind races to work and all the piles of unfiled papers, the documents on my computer that I’ve yet to transfer to a disc for my replacement, the snack drawer that needs cleaning, and on and on. I make mental to-do lists. I vow to at least get my affairs in order enough so that if Purvis makes his grand debut earlier than guesstimated, my office will not go totally off the rails. Fretting over work is so much easier than all the other great unknowns. Will Purvis be healthy? Did any of the genetic diseases we tested for sneak by the blood work and ultrasounds? Am I really the tough guy I think I am? Can I handle birth? Dang, we should have taken an infant CPR class before now. I don’t know how to use the car seat yet. How is this 8-pound thing in my belly going to fit through my innocent (well, relatively speaking) vagina? Ack! We don’t have crib sheets or diaper covers or breast pads or burp cloths! How can we take care of a tiny baby without a brother or sister-in-law to hand him to when diaper changing time comes around?

I toss. I turn. I kick Mr. Crud when he snores. How can he sleep at a time like this? I feel my belly tighten again before Purvis lodges himself under my right rib and wiggles. I contemplate what Purvis knows, what her consciousness is like right now as she curls into her favorite spot: head in pelvis, legs and feet tucked into my right ribs and hips. When I poke at him, he sometimes pokes back or at least wiggles around as if to say “Off my ding, lady.”

The first part of our weekend was more baby lessons. Mr. Crud and I arrive early and take seats in the back. One seat is covered with a thin pillow; the other with a blue-eyed plastic doll swaddled in a blanket. I move the baby to the floor. The blond woman in front of us looks familiar. She says over her shoulder, “I don’t feel right putting this under the chair.”

“Yeah, I guess you can’t do that with the real thing,” I say.

Where do I know her from? Then it hits me. Sara, our genetic counselor from the days of Primo and Dewey. She had the misfortune of counseling us for our two miscarriages, but somehow wasn’t in the office for our one success. Wow. This really is a walk down memory lane.

I lean forward. “Do you work as a genetic counselor?”

She turns to face me. “Yes.”

Recognition. “You were our genetic counselor. Last year. I’m Kt Crud.”

“Hi! Wow! It’s great to see you here.”

“We made it,” I say. Tears start to come to my eyes as I remember the last time we saw her, the box of environmentally friendly tissues she gave us to accompany us to our next stop to have blood drawn in preparation for my second D & C.

Mr. Crud returns and conversation shifts to our upcoming babies, the familiar laments about all the gear there is available and how we’re really not ready. The other couples filter in, most of them are from last week’s childbirth classes. Today’s mood is lighter, more optimistic. We’ve symbolically moved through the pain of childbirth and are on to the world of purple-faced wailing infants beyond. The fellows pick up the dolls and hold them in the crook of their arms while pregnant partners take the pillow seats.

The jinxing thought has the audacity to cross my mind: no Hamim and Azana. today. Right on cue, they shuffle into the room, taking the last seats as our teacher continues her introductory spiel about the benefits of breastfeeding. Mr. Crud and I exchange a look. Oh well. Here we go.

We watch videos of breastfeeding mothers and silently cheer when the babies successfully latch on. I am 100% pro-breastfeeding but my prudish side gets squirmy when I think of how my boobs will go public in the coming months. How will it feel to whip out a tit with my mom in the same room? Not to mention my father-in-law. My friends and sister-in-law breastfed with such aplomb and style that I feel I will be imitating them in the early days, faking it until I make it as the personal motivators say. How big will they get anyway? I’m still reeling from my first official bra fitting when the perky clerk hauled out the 38DDs. Moi?

The teacher warns us of growth when the milk comes in. “One guy said he went to bed with his wife and woke up with a porn star.”

A leaky porn star who had no interest in sex, but I get the idea.

We break for lunch. Cautiously I peer into the break room adjoining the conference room. No Hamim and Azana. Not that they aren’t nice people and all that, but it would be tempting to kindly request that they read a few pregnancy books and maybe not rely on the hearsay of their friends so much. Most of Azana’s questions begin with “My friend tells me…” and end with some claim about babies crying for 12 hours straight. “This is normal?”

Rachel and James, the couple Mr. Crud and I identified as people we’d most likely know otherwise in the class, invite us to join them. Rachel is high-risk. She knows her due date because she has a scheduled c-section. I am curious but I let it be. Are they fellow travelers in Miscarriage World? I’ll let that bummer ride for now. Now is the time to talk about crazy family invasions and incomplete nurseries and more wide-eyed holy shit moments. I jump the gun and imagine us as new parent friends. Rachel and I would meet for tea while our babies snoozed on our chests. Mr. Crud and James would exchange dude tips about supporting their ladies during the hellish first 2 weeks when a baby must feed every 2-3 hours. (“You mean we have to wake them up to feed them even if they’re sleeping?” a classmate asks. The teacher nods with curled lip. “Yep.”) At the end of the day I will trail Rachel and James to the elevator, wondering if I should ask them for their phone number and try to extend our birthing class comradery. We reach the elevator. Rachel veers off to the bathroom. James takes a seat and looks out the window at the foggy afternoon.

“Good luck,” Mr. Crud says.

James nods. “You too.”

If Purvis is a week late we may see them again. Guess we’ll be letting the chips fall where they may.

Getting Schooled

2010-01-15T13:39:00.000-08:00

1-15-10

Is being busy being pregnant a worthy excuse? Not really, but I shall play the pregnant card as my reason for not updating the PPC2 lo these many weeks. Not that I haven’t been thinking about it or taking ever opportunity to flog myself for being so lax.

The typical scenario goes like this: I pull up ye olde Finder (yep, I’m a Mac user but not an insufferable one convinced of superior computing powers) to open a document. Peabody Project.doc looks me in the eye. Shit, how long has it been now? I really need to write something. But first I have to (insert lame unimportant work shit) and then update m my Facebook status and read that one thing about the thing on that one website. Another scenario involves me waking up in the middle of the night. I lie awake writing a blog entry and vowing to put it to paper the next morning. And I don’t.

An incomplete list of topics that have bubbled to the service in the past month and a half:

• Circumcision decision: For cultural (Mr. Crud is a member of the tribe) and health reasons, we have decided to circumcise the theoretically male Purvis. (Nope, we still haven’t opened the envelope to the frustration of our parents—and occasionally Mr. Crud—and the surprise of all who learn of the envelope system.) But what form the procedure takes has been a point of contention and negotiation. Mr. Crud would like a more traditional bris to be held 8 days after Purvis’ birth in our home. I have other, non-traditional ideas. We’ve talked to our doctor, who herself had to make this decision as she is a gentile married to a Jew. We talked to each other. While tears have been shed and uncomfortable silences endured, I think we’re coming to a mutually agreeable decision. Then again, Purvis may just be a girl in which case this was a great exercise in parenting, right?
• Dreaming of Purvis: In my dreams she is always an adorable little girl who can already talk and start telling me about all the things I did wrong while I was pregnant. Methinks this is not premonition speaking but rather my unconscious mind. I still haven’t dreamed that I gave birth to a cat or small animal. “Maybe we should say that we’re hoping for a dog,” I say to Mr. Crud. “Two birds with one stone.” “I was hoping for a slender cat,” he says. Our new line is that we are having a baby because we wanted a dog but weren’t sure if we were up to the responsibility of taking care of one. I plan to use this with the nurses as a humor litmus test.
• The early bird gets their crib on time, and then there’s us: During the winter break, Mr. Crud and I get serious about baby shit. We look at cribs, we work the Baby Bargains book so hard the pages curl. We learn the harsh truth that ordering a crib 5 weeks before your due date causes raised eyebrows in the baby boutique community. “They take 8-10 weeks to come in,” the clerk says. We agonize. We return to Babies R Us in hopes of finding something good enough that is also in stock. Every BRU crib seems to appear on Baby Bargains’ This-Crib-Will-Kill-Your-Baby list. We get depressed. Friends reassure us that we won’t need the crib for the first months of Purvis’ life anyway since we plan to sleep with him/her in a bassinet in our room. We feel a little better. We order the crib. Mr. Crud still harbors hope that things may come in early. “You never know,” he says. “Yeah, but Purvis could come early too,” I say.

The thought that Purvis could arrive before the 40-week mark didn’t really hit me until last weekend when Mr. Crud and I attend “Childbirth A – Z,” the hospital’s cram session for everything birth. As we go around the room, introducing ourselves we are relieved to find that we are not alone. Due dates in late January account for half of the crowd.

“I thought we were far behind,” Mr. Crud says. “We’re February 1.”

We commiserate about the holidays messing with our childbirth preparation. The teacher claps her hands together. “Some of you could be giving birth anytime now.”

Oh boy. Oh shit. I spend the rest of the weekend scrutinizing every Braxton Hicks. Could this be the one?

Mr. Crud and I are the only couple who do not know the sex of their baby. I wonder if this crowd would appreciate Mr. Crud’s sociology humor: “We don’t know the sex yet, but we’re going to gender it male.” Dr. Awesome laughed at least. We are also the only couple who have already hired and met with a doula. About a quarter of the 10 couples don’t even know what a doula is.

“I guess we’re the hippies of the group,” he says.

I am surprised and pleased to note that the other couples seem to be about our age. (Unless I am delusional about what 37-year-olds look like.) I had assumed we would be the oldy oldersons of the childbirth classes although I’ve yet to be the memaw of any of the mommy groups of which I’ve been a part. I guess all those articles about motherhood coming later to a large portion of the population aren’t whistling Dixie. The other couples also seem to be of a similar social milieu: educated and middle class, and mostly white except for the sore thumbs of the group, a Pakistani engineer couple, Hamim and Azana. I can’t calculate how many minutes Hamim and Azana add to our childbirth class with their constant and frequently repetitive questions, but I’d wager to guess at least 45.

The first question comes early. “Are you going to talk about epidurals?” Azana asks.

“Yes, and when do you know you need one?” Hamim adds.

Our fearless, willowy childbirth class teacher Aurelia nods. “Those come tomorrow in the interventions part of the class.”

This doesn’t stop Hamim and Azana from interjecting more questions about epidurals and whatever other tangential topic crosses their minds throughout the day. Yes friends, I have found my bete noirs.

Aurelia suggests that we test our powers to breathe through discomfort by holding a bag of ice.

“Ice? Where do we get this ice?” Hamim asks.

“You know, ice. From your freezer or a convenience store.”

Okay, I’m being unfair to Hamim. He did, in fact, ask where one could procure ice, but this may be a communication-language issue instead of the engineer couples’ typical MO: they obviously have not cracked the binding on a single pregnancy and birth book before this class. For us and the other couples, a lot of what we are talking about feels like review. I’ve read about the stages of birth, the white hot hell of transition, the ring of fire, and other such fun contortions that my body will find itself going through sometime in the next month. I know about positions to alleviate pain and strategies for coping. (“Yoga breathing! Yoga breathing!!” Mr. Crud will holler in my ear.) Aurelia adds a few tools to our box, but mostly the day feels like reinforcement of the reading I’ve done at home.

The other couples are patient during the first day. We smile when Hamim cracks a joke. We don’t roll our eyes when Azana steers the teacher off-course once again with a question about epidurals. The second day, the muttering and hard glances at our spouses set in.

“So what if the husband wants epidural and the wife does not?” Azana asks. “A friend of mine said that her husband wanted her to get one even though she didn’t. Can husband tell the doctor to give her one?”

The women in the room go wide-eyed. Aurelia takes a deep breath for diplomacy. “We won’t give Mom an epidural if she doesn’t want one. Her partner can ask for one but we’d at least want a nod from Mom.”

“But what if she is crazy with pain and can’t make a decision?” Hamim asks.

“It is still her decision.”

This leads Aurelia into a discussion of how in birth we won’t be magically transformed into different people. “If you don’t like baths now, you probably won’t like a bath when you’re in labor.”

Thus, I’m fairly certain that I won’t be going the epidural route.

“You hate taking aspirin when you have a headache,” Mr. Crud says. “I don’t think you’ll be going for heavy pain medication.”

Agreed. For both of my D & Cs I opted for super strength ibuprofen and anti-anxiety meds rather than deal with anesthesia. My motto tends to be that I can take pain as long as I know that nothing is really wrong with me. The more I learn about epidurals, the more I feel confident that I won’t be calling for the anesthesiologist. Not that there is anything wrong with that. Sure, I’m being a little macho about things, but mainly I am freaked out by a needle being stuck in my back and the possibility of a 2-week epidural headache. I’m not going to say never, but I’m hoping my doula and years of yoga will serve as my meds. I also plan to curse a lot.

After a break, Mr. Crud and I return to the conference room where our class is being held. I notice the name on the office door next to the conference room: Jill, the counselor who talked to us after we lost Primo. I feel slightly odd to be back in the office where both of my D & C’s were performed. It’s no Center for Sadness & Disappointment, but my memories of the Women’s Health Center are tangled. When we walk down the hall I crane my neck to look in every examination room. The site of Dewey’s extraction could be any of them.

“It’s kind of weird being back here,” I say to Mr. Crud.

“Yeah, I didn’t want to mention it,” he says.

Over the last month I’ve had a few moments of sadness over Primo and Dewey. I know that they were embryos, balls of genetic material, but I still mourn them and in a way, feel sorry for them that they didn’t get to grow into Peabody. My miscarriage books say that the birth of a child may bring up these issues. I don’t dread the return of thoughts of Primo and Dewey. I wonder what form these thoughts and emotions will take, the shape of my ghosts. The miscarriage days feel so far gone. It’s hard to believe that it was only a year ago when we were in the late mourning period for Dewey. I still worry for Purvis. I can’t 100% shake the stabs of fear that come when I haven’t felt her squirm or kick at my hip for a long stretch. And I still conjure horror scenarios, but they are a much smaller piece of my baby thoughts than I ever imagined possible. These days I’m thinking about nursery room colors (purple), which outfit Purvis will wear home from the hospital, whether it can even be true that I’m fitting into a 38DD bra (I still keep looking at the tags in disbelief), how long it will take for Purvis to breastfeed away my ample hip-ass-leg region, and when-when-when will we meet this mystery baby. The question of most immediate importance however is about tomorrow’s Breastfeeding Basics workshop: will Hamim, Azana, and their litany of questions be in the house?

RANDOM: Mr. Crud amused himself during the many Hamim Q & A moments by making a track list for Chloasma’s first album, The Bloody Show. Favorite: amniohook.

CULTURAL SENSITIVITY NOTE: Both Mr. Crud and I felt weird about our Hamim-Azana annoyance. Was this cultural? Oh hell yes. At one point, after Aurelia stressed for the hundredth time that doctors would not perform any procedure without the patient’s consent, the epidural discussion degenerated into a disagreement on the American medical system.

“Some things should be imperative then there’s a second level where the patient makes the choice.” Hamim said.

“That’s not how it works.” One of the frustrated fathers-to-be in the room said. “You always have to consent.”

“What if you make the wrong decision?”

“Then you make the wrong decision. That’s life,” Mr. Crud said.

“We could spend all day debating the American medical system, but let’s get back to epidurals,” Aurelia said.

On the drive home we agreed that cultural differences can be annoying. Also that engineers need social skills training. I wondered what Hamim and Azana made of the rest of us in the class. Did they find us incurious? Arrogant? I got the impression that they were so in their own world that they didn’t much think of us at all.

Maybe just maybe I am using Hamim and Azana to avoid having to delve too deeply into the reality of my coming experience. Annoyance is a great distraction from facing a total life transformation.

Turning Point

2009-11-30T14:12:00.000-08:00

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.

Shower Me

2009-11-20T14:24:00.000-08:00

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.

All is Well...Again

2009-11-13T10:46:00.000-08:00

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.)

Pre-Doc Jitters

2009-11-05T16:33:00.000-08:00

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.

Fellow Travelers

2009-11-03T16:19:00.000-08:00

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.

Code Red

2009-10-30T16:04:00.000-07:00

10-29-09

“Have you got it yet?” my boss asks after she returns from the campus-wide meeting of boredom.

I know exactly what she’s talking about. In fact whenever anyone asks if I’ve gotten it yet, I get it immediately. “The vaccine? No. I’ve been trying,” I say.

“You have to get it! We don’t want you to be out! Or worse!”

Yes, thank you very much. As if I needed to be reminded for the umpteenth time today that I, a pregnant woman, am in the high-risk category for the latest fear craze to sweep the nation: H1N1—or as my student worker calls it—the Piggy Flu.

“You should be able to get it, right? You’re first in line.” Another coworker says later that same day.

I restrain myself from flying out of my seat. “Just because I’m high priority doesn’t mean I can get it. There are a lot of pregnant women and children under 5 in the world.”

Trust me, I’ve tried. I call my doctor’s office almost everyday. I listen to the recorded message so many times that I can let anyone know the status report of the Richmond Clinic’s flu shot situation. (They don’t got any.) I start to wish that the anti-vaccine contingent had been more successful in spooking the general populace about the safety of the vaccine. At least then numero uno could get a dose no problemo.

A few days ago, after listening to the familiar recording tell me there is no vaccine to be had, I zero out to the receptionist to schedule my Glucose Tolerance Test.

“Dare I ask about the H1N1 vaccine?” I ask.

“We can put you on a waiting list.” He says.

Really? REALLY! Because your message could have said something about that. I don’t know what frustrates me more about this vaccine situation: the fact that people who aren’t on the priority list are getting the vaccine (sometimes lying to get the vaccine) or that the government isn’t handling the distribution in a more organized and coherent manner. At a clinic last weekend, one which my doctor had advised me to attend since her office didn’t have any, 1200 people showed up for 500 shots. Nice. No, I didn’t even try to go to that one as I had anticipated it would be the madhouse that it was. You don’t need to be psychic to see that mob coming from a mile away.

In my prenatal Pilates class last weekend, a newcomer starts out the “How’s everybody doing” portion of our class by announcing she had the shot.

“Where?” I and the other pregnant ladies ask in envious unison.

“At a clinic over on Albina. There were 400 shots. I was number 394.”

We look at her longingly. Oh to be so confident and free of H1N1 panic, to be able to not spend half your day washing your hands into cracked, leathery gloves.

“I can’t believe how much I wanted to be her,” I tell Mr. Crud over dinner. “I felt overwhelmed.”

And who wouldn’t with the horror stories of dead mothers and fetuses coming fast and furious? Yesterday a locker room buddy, who didn’t yet know I am pregnant, tells me of a coworker who came down with the flu and who, at 7 months pregnant, might have to have a c-section to save her baby and herself. My alert level rises.

My acupuncturist tells me that she is stimulating my immune system during my last appointment. Thank G-d. I wash my hands. I drink tea more than ever before after reading that the warm water will deactivate the virus and send it to my stomach where stomach acids will kill it dead. At night I irrigate my nose like a good yogi with my neti pot. I wash my hands again. I wonder if I didn’t have H1N1 to stalk me, if it would be something else. Premature labor, birth defects, Purvis not kicking as much as he did yesterday all linger in the background worry pit of my psyche. I’m sure that one of them would have stepped up had I not had the flu to widen my eyes in mortal terror every now and then.

This morning the swine flu report is that more vaccines are on the way. Maybe by the time I have my appointment next week, a shot will await me at the doctor’s office. Alert level: low.

The Pregnant Card

2009-10-29T13:40:00.000-07:00

10-29-09

Yoga is sparsely attended. Instead of the usual 10 people in class, there are 5.

“Lots of attention for you guys today. Lucky you,” my teacher jokes.

He trains his eagle eye on me. First it’s the hellish wide-legged squat that he says will help strengthen my lazy, pain averse legs--I call them lazy, not him—and allow me to backbend to my heart’s content without the lower back pains that have plagued me the last few years. I squat. I breathe.

“Lower,” he says. He kneels beside me and holds his hand against my knee. “Press out.”

I lower and press and try to breathe through the howling in my inner thighs. This…is…good…for…me. Even my thoughts are panting. Every time I feel the pain amp up to grimace levels in yoga, I remind myself that an even more painful event is on the horizon, a mere 3 months and some change away. If I can’t stay centered and breathe through some screaming thigh pain, I’m screwed.

After 8 breaths, my hands fall to the floor. I straighten my legs. Sweet relief.

“Maybe try it again with your legs wider,” he says.

“Tomorrow,” I gulp.

He doesn’t smirk and wisecrack about how tomorrow may never come like he does with my yoga buddy, but mercifully lets me go on to the next pose and the next unbothered…until Warrior 1.

“Kt. Deeper,” he says, walking towards my mat.

“What does that mean?” I ask, knowing exactly what he means but not wanting to admit it. Deeper = more ouch.

“Your knee. Bend deeper.” Again he is kneeling beside me pressing my hand on the outside of my knee as he coaxes me lower into the bend. “Still not parallel to the floor,” he says.

I go farther, cursing my long legs that require such deep bending to get anywhere close to parallel, “Still not parallel.”

I lose my balance and fall to my hands.

“Oh your center of gravity is shifting,” he says.

I look up from my fallen warrior. “That and the 20 or so extra pounds I’m carrying,” I say.

“The extra human you’re carrying!” he says, pushing himself up to standing.

Thusly the unspoken has become spoken in yoga class: I have played the pregnant card. My teacher has gone easier on me since I gave him the news a few months ago. I no longer feel a churning gut before approaching a pose he’s been known to “help” me with, and I’ve enjoyed him telling me to take it easy. Not that I have much of a choice in the matter. I feel like I’m carrying around rocks in my pants. Plus Purvis likes kicking around during my yoga practice. I imagine her striking fetal poses along with having a few WTF is going on here moments.

At home I whip out the pregnant card with increasing ease.

“Can you do the dishes?” I ask Mr. Crud during our post-dinner plop on the couch.

“I like how you start rubbing your belly when you ask that.” He says.

I shrug. “A lady’s gotta do what a lady’s gotta do.” I rub some more.

The one area where I’ve yet to play the pregnant card is transportation. I’m still biking into work to the consternation of some of my coworkers.

“You sure you should still be biking?” An elder prof asks.

“Yup, my doctor says as long as it feels okay and it still feels okay.”

“You didn’t bike in today, did you?” My student worker asks on a particularly rainy and breezy morning.

“Aw yeah.”

I try not to get my panties in too much of a bunch over their concern. I know that they only want me and Purvis to be safe. They aren’t trying to tell me that I am careless or don’t know how to handle my own body. (Which is the bratty place my mind goes whenever I am offered “helpful” unsolicited advice about pregnancy.) I smile and nod and say, “I still have a few more weeks in me.”

I’m trying to make it to December although I am perfectly willing to bow out earlier should my body dictate it. I am slow on the bicycle, slower than I ever thought I would be. The Wicked Witch of the East passes me regularly and I don’t care. Whenever I am pedaling fast enough to pass someone I think, “Damn Sam, you just got served by a pregnant lady.”

In some ways I look forward to playing the pregnant card and buying a parking pass. It will be interesting to see how the other three-quarters live. I won’t miss the blowing rain, the soaked boots, and the final slog up the hill to my house in the afternoon. I will miss plenty though, most of all feeling like a tough girl.

“Darn, Kt. You’re burly,” my yoga teacher said on a particularly blustery, drenched morning.

And don’t you forget it. Well, until I’m practicing asana and then you should really go easy on me.

Out and Proud

2009-10-22T16:05:00.000-07:00

10-22-09

My heartbeat quickens as I type it. Finally, after all the hedging, the going back and forth--yes, today’s the day then no, I can’t, not yet--I type the Facebook status update that’s been rattling around in my brain: Kt Crud has one in the oven. There, I said it. Tis liberating in a strange way. Ever since ultrasound number 2 when had planned to start spreading the good word, I come up with reasons to not share the news with the social network-iverse. Oh, Purvis isn’t kicking much today. What if something is wrong? I don’t want to make all the ladies who’ve had miscarriages or struggle with fertility experience a bump of weirdness in their day.

Weekly Mr. Crud asks “So when are you going to tell Facebook?”

I shrug. “Tomorrow?”

I get a nudge in the sharing direction yesterday when several commenters to a seemingly non-preg-related post talk about my pregnancy. Aw hell, I think, but I’m not mad.

Last night at dinner Mr. Crud warns. “You’re being outed on Facebook.”

“I know, I know,” I say. “Looks like my time is up.”

I think of Ruby who outed herself long ago. If she can do it so can I. Deep breath. I take the leap. People respond with humor, kindness, and oodles of congrats. Mr. Crud is happy. I am happy. Purvis is having a particularly kicky day. I hope I don’t disappoint everyone.

The outings are coming fast and furious as my belly grows. I am still more of a Bactrian than a Dromedary (those not fluent in camel can google it) to my great dismay, but the humps are unmistakably pregnant rather than chub.

Yesterday it was a student.

“Are you pregnant?”

“Yep,” I say.

“Congratulations!”

“Wouldn’t it have been awkward if I had said no?” I say.

She nods vigorously.

I have to mess with at least one person: “No, I’m not pregnant. Why do you ask?”

My belly also attracts random eyes on the street. I wonder if some of the women are like me 6 months ago, scanning for all signs of pregnant life among the masses. The bump also attracted it’s first attempted belly-pat courtesy of my father-in-law during a visit last weekend.

He and I hug goodnight. His hand hovers around my belly and makes a patting sign. I pull back, mumbling “No touching.”

Not my most finessed response, but the first thing that comes to mind.

I am taking a hard-line stance with belly (and later) baby touching. I can’t go for that. No. No can do. It’s invasive and kind of creepy. I am not Buddha and my belly is my body, my choice. Two people have permission to rub—Mr. Crud and me. So far this hasn’t been a problem, but I hear from other pregnant ladies that the hands start to fly later in pregnancy. Perhaps a form of prenatal karate should be taught in all the childbirth classes, a section on belly self-defense included in What to Expect.

During their visit my mother-in-law announces. “I love shopping for baby clothes.”

Even though I know what is coming next, I’m still not prepared. The room tilts and tears spring to my eyes.

“Is it okay if I give you these now?” she asks, gathering two stuffed bags in her arms. She lives a plane ride away so this could be her only chance to shower us with baby gifts before the big day.

I nod. “Sure.” I swallow hard.

Mr. Crud squeezes my arm. “Are you sure? We don’t have to—“ he whispers.

“It’s okay,” I say.

If we talk about it anymore I will break down in sobs. I can get through this. I pep talk myself, remind myself of all the unpacked baby clothes in our basement. These are no different, right? My mother-in-law is so kind to us, her excitement at her coming grandchild barely contained. I can do this for her.

I pull what feels like 20 baby outfits from the bags. “How cute. Thank you so much,” I say after giving each a cursory examination. I hand them to Mr. Crud one by one for his chance to ooh and ah. I plunge my hand back in the bag. Plunge, smile, and hand off. Repeat.

Is this jinxing things? I keep thinking. What if we never get to see these clothes on anything but a hanger. What if something is wrong at this very minute? I try to breathe. I am pretty impressed that I am able to keep the tears from coming. I am on autopilot now, just waiting until the clothes end, the in-laws leave for the night, and I can collapse and cry in Mr. Crud’s arms.

The end finally comes.

“And that’s all that I could find in gender neutral colors,” my mother-in-law says. The unspoken being: why not just open the envelope already and find out girl or boy?

“Thank you. Thank you so much,” we say.

After the in-laws head out for the incredibly convenient guest house a few blocks from our house (Thank you, Bluebird!), I bury my head in Mr. Crud’s shoulder. “I didn’t know that would be so hard. I don’t know what’s wrong.”

He holds me tight and reminds me that as pregnant lady I have the right to get emotional over whatever I want. “You didn’t have to open them.”

“I know, but your mom was so excited. I didn’t want to spoil it for her.”

“Thank you,” he says.

“Put them away, okay?” I say.

He grabs the bags and puts them in his office closet. “I’m not ready for this,” I say.

“Is it the fear of losing Purvis or the reality that Purvis is coming that’s upsetting you?” He asks.

“Both.”

But mostly it’s the fear.

I tell my bro and sis-in-law of the baby clothes weirdness.

“Oo, it’s too early for that,” my sister-in-law says. “The Cruds fear a jinx.”

“Unfortunately we do.”

I have a feeling that Purvis’ nursery might be a last minute affair. That’s okay. I’m sure we’re not alone. Dr. Adorable suggested that we start looking for a car seat so that I can learn to install it before I’m too large and awkward. Because it is a prescription of sorts, I think I can handle the hunt for a car seat. But Purvis may have to sleep on the couch for a few weeks. And wear paper bags.

I'm Coming Out

2009-10-13T16:06:00.000-07:00

10-8-09

She extends her manicured hand, “Hi, I’m Lisa. Due February 20th. Girl.”

I shake. “Hi. Kt. Due February 1st. Don’t know.” I stumble over my tale of the magic envelope which still remains on my desk, which could at any moment, at the slightest tear, unlock Purvis’ gender mystery.

We go around the circle of 4, giving our preg-stats before our pre-natal Pilates teacher arrives.

I am the most pregnant here date-wise, but Lisa looks months more pregnant than me. She has the smooth round bump that I covet and the accompanying sway-back that I don’t. Lisa is the most Sex and the City of the women in class, this my first formal entrance into the pregnancy industrial complex. The other 2 women are low-key semi-hippie Southeast ladies who—gasp—look my age or—gasp—a year or 2 my senior. Before attending this class, I hadn’t considered that I might be the elder of the group, but now that I am here, I feel a slight relief that I am not doing kegels among the young and bouncy. Mr. Crud points out that the spa where I’m taking the class isn’t exactly targeted at the young and bouncy.

I start to contemplate further adventures in preg-land. All my books tell me that each new pregnancy class, be it yoga or childbirth preparation brings opportunities for new friendships. As we leg lift our saddlebags away in Pilates, I wonder if any of these women will become partners-in-pregnancy and newborn commiseration. Lisa is not likely. She reminds me too much of the popular girls from middle school. Nice to your face, but behind closed doors let the cutting begin. Women like Lisa simultaneously scare me and make me want to please them just so that I will be the one to bask in the glory of their snarky light. The hippie-ish women don’t seem quite my speed either though maybe they are just shy. Where are my aging rockers? My ladies of the wine glass? A lot of pressure for a mere pre-natal Pilates class, I know.

In a way I look forward to being with other pregnant ladies, to sharing rolled eyes at the constant fucking heartburn and midnight trips to the bathroom. (My trip is currently a long haul to the basement while our bathroom is being remodeled. What I do so that Purvis will never know the horror of the previous owner’s penchant for peeling linoleum and inability to do any home improvement project that exceeds the half-assed benchmark.) But I’m a terrible joiner. Even when it’s an activity like writing or yoga or feminism that I love and truly believe in. Witness Wordstock, a local literary extravaganza held a few minutes from my humble abode. Writers and enthusiastic readers converge on the Portland Convention Center for 2 days of readings, workshops, and an endless line of literature-related booths. And will I attend this event so custom-made for a writer like me? No way. Why? I have a hard time explaining. On one hand I get depressed being around so many aspiring writers. There are millions of us. I am deluding myself if I ever think that I’ll get published and make any sort of living out of this writing game. On the other hand, I am snobby: so pathetic are all the yearning smiles, all the small talk and name dropping of publications. (Perhaps if I had my own record of publication to name drop, I’d be a bit more amenable.) I don’t like to stick out, but I do like to feel unique and joining these groups based on writing or pregnancy make me feel alienated if I don’t immediately feel a sense of kinship and belonging, a feeling which usually only comes quickly after a martini or two. (Oh martinis, how I miss thee.)

So, per usual, I will bring more drama to my Pilates class than the average bear.

Yesterday in the locker room one of my buddies turns to me. “You’re looking more round than the last time I saw you,” says BJ, the 70-something swimmer who gives me hope for an active old lady-hood.

“That’s because I’m pregnant,” I say.

The other buddies offer their congrats and pepper me with questions about whether I am feeling sick (“Nope, I’m past that stage now.”) and craving pickles and ice cream (“Nope, just normal food and a lot of it.”).

I tell Mr. Crud. “I was outed.”

“Me too. In the main office. My boss said something.”

“Everyone was cool, right?” I ask.

“Yeah, everyone was really nice. I don’t know why I still feel weird about it.”

“I do too.”

I am getting more comfortable with being pregnant and coming to terms with the fact that I am starting to look pregnant, but still there’s the nagging fear that spreading the news will jinx us. Sometimes I tell somebody of my pregnancy and immediately imagine telling them that we’ve had a miscarriage—technically a stillbirth at this stage in the game. The thought doesn’t instantly send me into a terror spiral. It’s more like a snag in a sweater. Plus there’s the added dimension of having to talk about it with people I don’t know that well. Since I announced my pregnancy at work, various coworkers have come to my window. “How are you doing?”

“Well, thanks. And you?”

“I mean with your—“ they point to my belly or create a phantom belly by rounding their hand over their midsections.

“Oh good thanks. So far so good.”

“You feeling sick?”

“Nope, I’m past that already.”

Something in my brisk tone tells them to drop it and most do. I change the subject with work-related inquiries. How are classes going? Good students this term? Maybe I’m just afraid that I will quickly detour into the well-traveled land of TMI. (“Well, I’m doing pretty well today. I could actually take a shit that didn’t leave me howling in pain. A pleasant change.”)

There’s always the shared terror of the Swine Flu to provide conversational fodder. Yes, I’ve read the pros and cons and I’m going for the vaccine, anti-vaccine conspiracy theories be damned.

And Purvis? She’s still kicking away. No pattern yet so he keeps me on my toes and gives me the occasional fright when a few hours have passed without a jab in the gut. Tomorrow we see Dr. Adorable for a (hopeful) dose of well-being. I look forward to the relieved exhale and weeklong sense of confident well-being when we hear the heartbeat.

RANDOM: A middle finger to Nicole Richie and her fashion line for the pregnant ladies whose upper size limit is 12. Really didn't need to be made to feel like an outcast while in preg-land. May your lack of consideration for the regular-sized women of the world doom your flowy dresses to failure.

Knowing Me is Knowing You*

2009-10-02T16:11:00.000-07:00

10-1-09

Whenever I start to sense a pattern in Purvis’ movement schedule, she switches up on me again. Just keeping me on my toes. How I adore those little jabs and pokes in the gut region like my sweet fetus is saying, “Hey lady, it’s okay. I’m just kicking around in here.”

Yes, lady. Not Mom.

The word Mom is freaking me out right now. Last week Mr. Crud and I meet with our friendly Human Resources rep to help us navigate the wilds of the Family Medical Leave Act (FMLA) and the Oregon Medical Leave Act (OFLA). The Crud dream is that I will take leave starting with my due date, February 1, until the end of spring term so that we don’t have to contend with finding child-care for a 3-month-old. Mr. Crud’s department chair suggested he take the winter quarter off from his teaching job since our due date falls right in the middle. He’s not much use to his department or students if he’s MIA for half the quarter.

As Friendly HR Rep walks us through the maze of leave choices, she referred to us as Mom and Dad.

“Mom will take OFLA for the first 6 weeks then switch to FMLA for the next 12 while Dad is taking his OFLA.”

Every time she said Mom I pictured my own Mom. She is The Mom.

After our head-spinning meeting, where we did figure out a way to theoretically live the dream if our savings account can hold out for a few months sans paycheck, Mr. Crud squeezes my hand.

“Did it weird you out when she called you ‘Mom?’”

“Totally. I don’t see myself as a mom. I can do Dad, I think. I’ve already got that Superdad t-shirt.” One of my favorite t-shirts of all time in fact. Superdad is emblazoned across the chest in sparlkly rainbow puffy letters.

“It is Portland. Purvis can have 2 dads.” Mr. Crud says.

“That won’t be at all confusing for him.”

I have a few months yet to get comfortable with Mom. Maybe it’s my internalized sexism that sends me into an ick spiral when I hear the word. There are so many examples of awesome coolio mothers in the world. Now I can join their ranks, right? Other mothers have told me there is nothing as sweet as hearing your little one call say “Mom.” I’m sure I’ll get accustomed to the idea. But part of me is bothered that I am so bothered by it. Like what kind of feminist am I to have such a visceral reaction to the word Mom?

And now a moment to digress. I wish that I lived in France where maternity leave is salaried, where nurses come to check up on you after you give birth paid in full by the government. Or Sweden. A full year of paid maternity leave. Civilized, isn’t it?

And now a second moment to digress. I am now questioning our decision that Mr. Crud and I both stay home with Purvis during the first few months. Mr. Crud’s parents and my mom voiced concern when we told them of our dream scheme to spend some QT as a new family during Purvis’ first few months of being a Crud.

“What if you get appendicitis and don’t have any sick leave left?” Mr. Crud’s mother asked after he explained that he’d be forced to take all of his sick leave.

“Then I’ll take time off and get better,” he said.

“Will Mr. Crud still have a job to come back to?” My mom asked.

Sarcastic teenager in me longed to spit back, “No, we were planning on moving in with you,” but I remained mature. “That’s what family leave means. Both of our jobs are secure.”

The apparent parental worry over our plans sent us both into a furrowed brow tizzy. “I really didn’t need that,” Mr. Crud said. “I needed some support here.”

“Yeah, I know. I thought they’d be happy for us. Is our plan really so bad?”

We are both first children, first children who battled hard for our independence from our parents but who both hunger for their approval to a degree that pisses us off.

“They didn’t have maternity leave for men when they had us. We should keep that in mind.” Mr. Crud says.

I agree. But every once in a while my hackles raise. Who the hell are they to question our decision? Then I get a little conspiracy on the whole thing: Oh maybe they don’t want Mr. Crud to stay at home so I’ll need to ask the grandmas to come and help out. Hmmm…could be. I am still waiting to consult with my peers on this question. Speak up peer parents if you have some wisdom of wisdom to share on the question of who stays home during the first few months of baby-raising. Tag-teaming sounds like the way to go.

The same day that we meet with Friendly HR Rep, I turn in our application for daycare. Eeeee!!!! I put off turning it in as I was dogged by lingering fears that by turning in an application to daycare that I was jinxing my pregnancy. My jinx fears have also kept me from posting a pregnancy declaration on my Facebook page. It’s a hard line to walk between the fear of the jinx and being responsible. I negotiate it everyday. Responsibility seems to be in the lead. We are signed up for childbirth prep classes and Mr. Crud has started to read The Expectant Father, a longtime member of the pregnancy section of our bookshelf neglected out of fear of the pregnancy jinx. (My favorite Expectant Father tip to support the preg ladies: “Offer back and foot rubs.” Yes, offer, but do not give. Nicely done, expectant father.)

Milestones:
• I had my first dream of giving birth. In it, I was carrying Purvis in a kangaroo type pocket and she—in the dream she was a baby girl—just slipped out when I was bending over to pick something up. No blood or gore, just a dangling umbilical cord. Wow, that wasn’t too bad, I thought. “Maybe it’ll be like that in real life,” Mr. Crud says. I’ve started to read up on birth and I’m thinking the answer to that hopeful maybe is not bloody likely.
• The word is getting out. I got my first word of congrats from a yoga buddy this morning. Not easy to hide the bump (another word that gets on my nerves for some reason) with skintight yoga pants. I have more of a blob than a bump thought. During a fire drill a coworker let it slip that I was pregnant—yeah, I’m still not quite sure how to slip it into conversation with acquaintances—in front of a woman I’ve known for years who also works at the university. “I was wondering about that!” she said. Apparently my loose-fitting shirts are not as camouflaging as I thought. I’m not quite as clever at concealing my growing girth although most pregnant ladies agree that I’m not showing much for my 22 weeks. Such is the blessing of being a 6-foot tall, wide-hipped woman.

* Ever since Fernando was put under name consideration, my head has been on an ABBA loop. I’m wondering if the ABBA that I play as I do dishes and cook up Crispix mix will be the music that soothes a fussy Purvis. ABBA or Terry Gross’ dulcet tones.

Creaky Old Lady Pregnant Body

2009-10-01T10:35:00.000-07:00

9-18-09

(Yup, I did it again. I let pesky work get in the way of my documenting every thought and emotion about pregnancy and Purvis. Bad, bad blogger.)

So my post-ultrasound confidence lasted all of one week this time. Woo hoo. Wednesday morning I was struck with insecurity about Purvis’ movements or seeming lack thereof. Did I feel her kick or was that just gas? I wait a second. Poot. Oh, okay, that was gas. Right now that is how I differentiate between what I theorize to be Purvis and gas. (And boy do I got gas as is the way of the pregnant digestive system.) When I feel the kicky-jabby sensation in my belly with no farty trace, it’s Purvis trying out some moves. Otherwise I’m Gaseous Clay.

I spend all day reading up on the quickening. (This term makes me squirmy. It sounds like a horror movie or a Lifetime movie with Tori Spelling.) A pregnant lady usually can feel her little one’s first kicks and jabs between the 17th and 22nd week. I shouldn’t worry if I haven’t felt Purvis move in awhile. He’s a tiny thing. She may be moving without jabbing my innards. I take a deep breath and return to my mostly okay with a dash of apprehension state, a state not exclusive to members of Miscarriage World.

Body Changes that May or May Not Be Related to Pregnancy:
• My f-ing back is f-ed up again. Shitfuckhell. I noticed the first twinge a mere day after telling my massage therapist how awesome my back had been feeling since becoming pregnant, sharing my theory that the hormones had relaxed whatever tension there was lurking in my normally tricky low back region. Oh yes, seems I spoke too soon. The next day I was greeted with a familiar twinge. Then I went on vacation and the twinge compounded after I engaged in some unwise lifting of my adorable niece. For the next two weeks every step rated on the pain chart from merely uncomfortable to breathtakingly painful. I popped Tylenol like never before and crossed my fingers that this wouldn’t harm Purvis. (Dr. Adorable said it was fine.) Then part of my leg went numb. Nice. The doula theory: the hormones are relaxing ligaments like nuts, which along with my gaining and shifting weight is interrupting my delicate equilibrium. The chiropractor theory: a pinched nerve in my lumbar spine. The back pain is improving poco a poco, but a little to pokey for my tastes.
• I keep biting my lower lip when I eat causing much blood to gush on each bite of my meal. Is pregnancy having a plumping effect on my kisser? Must women who get Cortisone injections constantly monitor their bite technique?
• My TMJ jaw has gotten knocked askew. Pregnancy hormones?
• I can eat and eat and eat with impunity. Somehow I’m not feeling the full sensation that used to cue me to stop with the food shoveling. Pregnancy related or willful ignoring of feelings of fullness since eating is my big oral pleasure now that martinis and cigarettes are off the menu.
• Weird bright red unpimpley blemish near my eye, making me look like I’ve been weeping out of one eye or else wearing pink eyeshadow. Mr. Crud encourages me to make up the other eye to match so as to look like a Duran Duran video vixen.

20 Down, 20 To Go

2009-09-14T13:49:00.000-07:00

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.

To Amnio or Not to Amnio

2009-09-14T13:45:00.000-07:00

8-25-09

Before getting the most recent test results from the sequential screen—which I am still enjoying and feeling confident about surprisingly enough—I was almost sure that I would undergo amnio. I’d recently read Ayelett Waldman’s Bad Mother where she wrote about choosing amnio because of her belief in her own bad luck. Before Miscarriage World, I was her opposite. I know that shit happens to everyone. It’s certainly happened to me, but for the most part I feel content and lucky for my life. During my first pregnancy I had the typical worries, but was confident that my body knew what it was doing, that every little thing would be alright. I was wrong. And I was wrong again. My faith in my body and my ability to trust my body was shaken to the core. Apparently I didn’t feel a tremor in the force when both of my embryos died. I felt nothing. I kept slogging through my first trimesters until they ended with the ultrasounds of doom.

So when the question of amnio arose this time around, I was feeling more Ayelet Waldman than cockeyed optimist. I oscillated wildly (and not in an instrumental Smiths way).

One moment I was sure I’d do it. “I mean it’s only a 1 in 400 chance of miscarriage and even then they aren’t sure if that would be the same rate of miscarriage without amnio,” I told Mr. Crud during the great amnio deliberations.

He nodded thoughtfully. “It’s still scary.”

Agreed. The thought of causing another miscarriage just because I had to know with 99% certainty that Purvis was genetically okay terrified me. Then I wouldn’t be able to curse fate and the universe. Well, I still could shake my fist at the random injustice but there would be an image of me thrown into the mix. Me doing something out of fear, which is an emotion that I’m always telling others isn’t a wise basis for decision-making.

We got the first round of test results that showed Purvis’ chances for genetic problems were less than my age indicated and my amnio confidence showed hairline fractures.

“Maybe we shouldn’t. I mean what’s the percentage on that? It’s tiny.”

Mr. Crud agreed. He did the math. “Let’s wait for the other results.”

Through all of the deliberations the underlying question troubled me the most. What did it say about me that I was willing to consider terminating a pregnancy if Purvis did have genetic defects? When I encountered a woman who works on campus who has Down’s Syndrome, I silently apologized to her: it’s not you, it’s me. I’m not strong enough. In fact whenever I saw any folks who appeared to have the symptoms of the genetic defects I’d read about I felt ashamed. Who am I to decide?

I acknowledge that I can be selfish. I look out for number one although I try not to let that be the guiding impulse of my life. I imagined raising a child with special needs. Would I feel embarrassed of him or her? Would I feel a tug of longing every time I saw my fabulous nieces and nephew? Why not me? Why does my kid have to be the special one? Questions multiplied while answers hid. Every decision I made, everything I thought I knew could be reversed by a google search or a conversation or a quote from one of my pregnancy books. I found myself wishing for questionable blood test results just so that we didn’t have to make the decision about the test.

Finally the day came. And the results were better than I thought they could be. The same risk as someone half my age for Down’s Syndrome, lower than that for the other genetic problems. I was shocked to feel how quickly my desire for amnio evaporated. Mr. Crud said we should take the weekend to decide. I agreed. But we spent maybe one short conversation on the whole issue. “I don’t think we should do it,” I said.

“Neither do I.”

Mr. Crud didn’t even call back the genetic counselor to see what she meant exactly by amnio being “not recommended.” He let it go. We let it go. And now I feel more so than ever like I’m actually enjoying this pregnancy, that I’m 100% pregnant without qualification.

Not that I still don’t have moments of doubt. (Please pry me from the internet and never let me google again.) Nor have the flashes of worry that all is not well down there in Purvis world disappeared, but when we met with our doula-to-be last weekend, she asked me about my main thoughts and concerns at this time. “Um, where can I find decent maternity clothes for tall ladies?” (Eileen Fisher can only take me so far.)

Now I’m looking ahead to the next benchmarks: my pot belly transforming into a pregnant belly, feeling Purvis kick (felt something kick-like during a quiet moment of yoga that Sunday but I can’t confirm), and our anatomy scan ultrasound when we get back from vacation in a few weeks.

In the meantime, I look forward to chasing my 14-month-old niece around and introducing her to a potbelly named Purvis. Happy vacation!

RANDOM: Come on, Mad Men, Betty Draper doesn’t even walk like she’s pregnant in the least. I find myself jealous of her blissful ignorance while she puffs away, wine glass in hand.

*I meant to post this pre-vacation...but I didn't.

Have You Heard the Good News? Part Deux

2009-08-20T11:23:00.000-07:00

8-20-09

My cell phone beep boop boops its disco ring from across my office. It’s gotta be them. Test results. Gulp.

“Good news! Your screen was negative, which is a convoluted way of saying that your chances for the genetic conditions we were testing for have gone way down,” says Genetic Counselor #3, whose name I’ve read on the website but is until this moment just a name on a website.

“That’s great!” I say, heartbeat in throat.

“Would you like me to go over the specific numbers with you?”

Oh hell yes.

They break down like this: Purvis’ chance of Down’s Syndrome is down from 1 in 130 to 1 in 1,300; Trisomy 18 is as low as it can go (1/10,000) and Spina Bifida is 1 in 6,000, six times lower than expected for my age. (Which will be 37 by the time Purvis meets us and is considered elderly in child-bearing world.)

“There is no recommended follow-up,” GC#3 says. “Congratulations!”

“I’m so glad you called. My husband and I have been talking a lot about amnio.”

“Of course you are always welcome to have amnio. It’s the only way to know for sure. But it’s not recommended with these results.”

I call Mr. Crud to share the good news. He takes a seat as I throw fractions at him with more gusto than any fraction I’ve ever talked about. Then he does what he does best—-tease apart the real meaning of what GC#3 said.

“By recommended does she mean not recommended in the neutral sense or that they don’t recommend that we have amnio?” He asks.

“Uh, I don’t know.” I scan my notes beside the numbers: bloodwork good, no follow-up.

“She probably means it in the neutral medical sense.” He says, slightly disappointed.

I am too. This whole process is nerve-wracking. Part of me wishes that we had gotten one of those infamous false positives so that amnio or whatever further testing there is to be done would be recommended and we wouldn’t have to decide for ourselves. Yes, I would really like to know 99.9% for sure that Purvis is—as I pray every morning despite it’s clunky language “developing normally”—but risking a miscarriage to get that information doesn’t feel right. At least at this moment of relief and yahoo-ness, it doesn’t. I might be waking up in the middle of the night after imagining Purvis’ tiny body twisted by some horrid genetic disorder and change my mind completely. But I don’t know. The more I think about the whole child-bearing enterprise, the more I come to terms with the fact—a fact of life that Mrs. Garrett should have included among lesser facts like don’t judge a book (or a fat girl) by its cover and Jo might not be a lesbian, just a tomboy—that life is uncertainty. Everything changes. Control is an illusion.

“I guess we should make a decision by the end of the weekend,” Mr. Crud says.

“That sounds fair.”

But I feel like I’m already leaving amnio behind, watching it get smaller in the rearview mirror as I look ahead to the next ultrasound in a few weeks, the anatomy scan that Doctor Awesome-in-Waiting (who will from here on out be known as Dr. Adorable because she looks like she’s 22, is petite of size, and very cute in addition to being a smart, reassuring doc) assures us will be fun. “You’ll get a cool 3-D picture to take home.”

We had our first meeting with Dr. Adorable last Friday. I spilled out my anxieties, which she carefully and gently countered with reality checks. (“Your chance of miscarriage have gone way down now that you’re in the second trimeter.”) We listened to Purvis’ galloping heartbeat and I felt a weeks worth of exhales pour forth. Unfortunately I did not feel such relief when seeing the number on the scale. Egads. Dr. Adorable said I was at the high end of normal, but I caught the drift that I might want to slow down the desert-fest. I knew I should have taken off my jacket before they weighed me! As long as the scale remains the most harrowing part of this pregnancy, I’m good. I’ve battled those numbers—and the impact on my self-esteem—before. I always thought that I’d be cool with getting fat when I got pregnant. Old habits die hard. Or as the yogis say, samskaras are a bitch. (The yogis don’t actually say that, but they might want to consider adding another sutra.)

What Dreams May Come

2009-08-11T15:37:00.000-07:00

8-11-09

Ah dreams. The playground of the unconscious mind. Needless to say, I’ve got a lot of free-range fear roaming around in my subconscious these days. Last night one facet of this dark diamond came out to play: I am sitting across the table from a close friend, telling her that I’ve had another miscarriage, my third.

“Well, at least it was pretty good timing. I was starting to eye Lucille Bluth’s martinis a bit too closely as of late,” Dream Me said, forcing a laugh. (We’ve been watching a lot of Arrested Development over the last few weeks, one of my “I’m pregnant, what the hell” purchases. My other AD-related dreams include one where David Cross and I became buddies and have a ball wisecracking and snarking about, and another where Will Arnett and I pal around. Please pardon this second dream digression. Other people’s dreams are about as interesting as…other people’s dreams.)

In my dream, I try to laugh off this miscarriage, performing an ill-considered “the funny thing about miscarriage” monologue while inside I am dying a little more with each lame joke. My friend sits there mute.

Cut to new dream scene where I sit alone, lamenting my membership in the 2% of women who have 3 miscarriages in a row. I am bereft, hopeless. What next? Adoption? Try again? The thought of trying again as I drag through week 15 sounds impossible. The fact that I’ve only been pregnant 15 weeks sounds even more impossible. When I wake up I keep turning this question over in my head. If necessary, could I really do this again?

I tell Mr. Crud of this latest manifestation of one of my greatest pregnancy fear.

“I don’t think that’s going to happen,” he says.

“I don’t either.” I wish somebody would pep talk my subconscious.

“I really wish my doctor’s appointment hadn’t been cancelled,” I say.

“Me too.”

Monday, yesterday, was supposed to be my first meeting with Dr. Awesome’s replacement while she’s on maternity leave. Dr. Awesome-In-Waiting cancelled due to either illness or being “called to the hill.” I had been anticipating the appointment for weeks, needing a shot of reassurance in the form of hearing Purvis’ heartbeat. Much like my last petit panic, I decided to wait this one out since, again, there’s not really anything that can be done either way. Plus I’m trying to reserve my freak-outs for later in the pregnancy. I don’t want to cash in my chips too soon.

My new favorite fear, third only to miscarriage and genetic abnormalities* is the swine flu. Everyday I ride home from work and am greeted by a new story on NPR detailing how harmful this new flu is to pregnant women and their babies. Fucking great. My miscarriage outrage is renewed. If just one of my previous pregnancies had come to term, we’d have missed the pregnancy-swine flu scare. Then I wonder how soon I can get the shot because oh yes, I will get the shot. I do not buy into the unproven fears that autism has anything to do with vaccinations or thimerosal. I hope the reassuring CDC rep isn’t steering me wrong with her claims that the shot is likely safe for the preg ladies. Or maybe I’ll just lock myself in my room for a few months and cover myself in duct tape. (‘Twas supposed to save us all from a terrorist gas attack, right?)

* I’m starting to lean towards doing amnio but am torn. I want the info, but fear the small chance of miscarriage. Another topic I hope Dr. Awesome-In-Waiting is prepared to tackle when we see her later this week.

The Whole Truth

2009-08-07T10:27:00.000-07:00

8-5-09

Mr. Crud and I take a much-needed jaunt to the coast courtesy of Kjirsten, girlfriend from way back when, whose folks own a house near Long Beach. Kjirsten and her fella have two adorable little ones and the other couple staying for the weekend have two of their own. We are the childless couple. I don’t feel weird about this fact thanks to my own houseguest a.k.a. Purvis. I enjoy watching the little ones frolic and non-sequitur and shine their cute lights for all to see.

When Mr. Crud and I are alone I say, “I can’t wait for it to be our turn to have the cute kid and to tell all the cute kid stories.”

“Me too.”

“I feel like we’ve done our time watching and listening. It’s our turn.” When talk turns to cute kid stuff, I have a wealth of stories to share courtesy of my nieces and nephews. Still, I feel left out.

Later that night after the booze starts flowing (but not pour moi bien sur), the adults are standing around the kitchen.

The lady half of the other couple smiles at us. “I’m so happy for you. It’s so great. I don’t know many people who are just starting to have kids right now.”

Mr. Crud and I exchange the ritual do-we-or-don’t-we look.

“Yeah, well, it’s kind of been a long road for us,” Mr. Crud says.

I nod. To bum out or not to bum out that is the question. Since the mood is light, we silently agree to let it go and accept her congratulations without too much explanation.

“Thank you. We’re really excited too.” I say, lustily eyeing the bottle of scotch on the counter. I don’t even like scotch. At least liquor is no longer repulsive to me. That’s a good thing, right?

One of the woman’s daughters runs into the room in full-on pout mode. She clings to her dad. “I hate Scotch*. I hate cupcakes.”

“If you don’t calm down and get to bed that’s what you’re eating when you wake up tomorrow,” the dad says.

She pouts. I smile. My kind of parenting.

Monday I go to yoga class with one of my new favorite teachers. I lurch around the edges of the reception area, waiting for a break in the flow of students. I have read every flyer twice already. I’ve told at least three people, that no, I’m not waiting for the bathroom, just loitering like a stalker. Finally I see my chance. I swoop in close.

“I just wanted to let you know that I’m 14 weeks pregnant,” I say. I want to throw a second trimester gang sign. Does such a thing exist? I should get myself to a prenatal yoga class to find out. Of course the yogis call it a prenatal mudra.

The teacher claps. “Oh congratulations! That’s great!”

“Thank you,” I say, feeling suddenly bashful. I’m still getting used to accepting congrats on this account. I haven’t figured out how to do so without feeling embarrassed or like waving it away (“Aw, it’s no big deal.”)

“Is this your first?” She asks.

My mind skitters about. I hate this question. Well, yeah, sorta, I mean not my first pregnancy. Actually my third pregnancy but the first time we made it this far. First live child? Yeah, damn, I sure hope so. I feel compelled to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but whenever asked this question. For one, I want any fellow members of Miscarriage World to know that I’m down, I’ve been there, I feel your pain. For another, I feel weird acting like Purvis is my first houseguest like it dishonors the brief but powerful memories of the Peabodies: Primo and Dewey.

The question hangs. “Is this your first?”

I lean in closer. “Yes, well, we had some losses before but this is the first time we’ve made it this far.” Hmmm…that sounds suitably hopeful enough and not too convoluted, right?

The teacher doesn’t blink. “So there are some modifications…”

(G-d willing) this will become a more common occurrence as we start to spread the Purvis word far and wide. Maybe the dilemma will begin to fade. I will find ease in smiling and thanking people for their congratulations without the bummer-ness squeezing my insides. I am not alone in my dilemma. Ruby is right there with me. Another reminder that most joy does not come without complication.

Random
How many calories does giving birth burn? Now that I’m packing on some pounds and feeling chunky such questions plague my mind.

*No children were fed Scotch over the course of this family friendly weekend. I believe she hates Scotch on principle.

A New Frontier

2009-08-05T11:19:00.000-07:00

7-31-09

I am on the cusp of trimester 2. In three short days I will do-si-do into week 14 and the supposedly happiest trimester of all. My energy is returning slowly but surely. Yes, I fell dead asleep at 8:30 last night—and it was a mighty struggle to keep my eyes open that late—but I don’t feel the limb-dragging can’t…go…on weight that has plagued me the last (only!!!!) 2 months. Nausea has become more a habit than anything else. After an extreme gagging episode while following a garbage truck on my bike a few weeks ago (Riding downtown in the early morning PRO: Light traffic. CON: Rotten, stink-spewing garbage trucks are the only traffic.), I now have to choke back gags at the mere sight of garbage trucks. And I think Pizzicato pizza is permanently ruined for me after my daily march down the Gauntlet of Stink. Oh well.

Anxiety is still a sneaky companion. A current of anxiety ebbs and flows. Most of the time I feel like I’m on solid pregnant ground. There are occasional moments when I feel my solid ground start to jerk in the current as if I’m living in some sort of Waterworld. (How could you forget Kevin Costner as the pee-drinking fish-man?) I feel an ache in my abdominal region and wonder if it will turn into full-on cramps. I check my profile in the mirror daily and wonder when I will stop looking like a Beer Belly Champion (thanks, Ruby) and morph into pregnant lady. My lack of a solid bump is my latest raison de stress-out. Has Purvis stopped growing in there? Is all that chub in the gut region a result of my lack of abdominal exercising?

Crazy fears? I got a million of them.

Since the day I saw my positive on that pee stick, I assured myself that I would feel better after the first ultrasound, or after the Nuchal Translucency Test (also an ultrasound), or, wait, wait, for real this time, after I crossed the threshold into trimester #2, which every pregnancy newsletter, book, and website assures me makes my chance of miscarriage plummet to sub percentage levels. I did relax after the first two landmarks…for a weekend or so. So we shall see of trimester 2 becomes a magical wonderland of pregnancy enjoyment.

People tell me that I’ll feel better when I start feeling Purvis kicking around in there. Yeah, I think that’ll be pretty cool, but then I wonder if I’ll fret over the quality and frequency of her kicks like my sis-in-law who made a few trips to the emergency room when she thought in utero Lyla wasn’t moving around enough. We shall see.

My Darling Nausea

2009-07-31T11:24:00.000-07:00

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)

Don't Ask, Don't Tell

2009-07-24T10:48:00.000-07:00

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.

Phew 2: Ultrasound Boogaloo

2009-07-17T13:55:00.000-07:00

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?

C-R-A-N-K-Y, I Ain't Got No Alibi

2009-07-15T10:25:00.000-07:00

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.

Yet Another Word from Our Sponsor

2009-07-08T10:29:00.000-07:00

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.

Phew!

2009-07-08T10:28:00.000-07:00

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.

Scared Day II

2009-07-08T10:27:00.000-07:00

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.

Scared

2009-07-08T10:26:00.000-07:00

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.

Nope, Didn't Need That

2009-06-30T16:06:00.000-07:00

6-22-09

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dang. My moderated tone is freaking him out more.

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

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

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

“Please.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh, I’m not sure how to code that.”

I blink. Me neither.

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

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

“Kt,” they call me back.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

We laugh nervously.

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

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

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

“Congratulations!” His face lights up.

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

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

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

“So let’s take a look.”

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

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

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

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

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

Dr. Du Jour steps out.

“Feel better?” I ask.

Mr. Crud nods. “I’m glad we came in.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Uh, thanks? Good? What the fuck?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s great,” I say.

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

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

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

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

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

Duhhhhhhh

2009-06-29T11:38:00.000-07:00

6-16-09

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

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

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

What was I saying again?

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

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

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

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

Fool Me Once

2009-06-26T16:11:00.000-07:00

6-12-09

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I Must Not Think Bad Thoughts

2009-06-25T10:25:00.000-07:00

6-8-09

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But we’re not there yet.

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

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

A Message From Our Sponsor

2009-06-24T11:21:00.000-07:00

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

Thanks for reading and commenting and being cool humans.

The Road Diverged

2009-06-24T11:15:00.000-07:00

6-4-09

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

“Stay classy, America,” I say.

“I know. Really.” Mr. Crud snorts.

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

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

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

“About?”

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

“Stop doing that.” He squeezes my foot.

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

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

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

You're Shitting Me

2009-06-23T10:39:00.000-07:00

6-3-09

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yup, Still Pregnant

2009-06-16T16:13:00.000-07:00

5-29-09

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

“Your alarm just went off.”

“Oh no.”

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

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

“Fucking great,” I mutter.

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

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

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

“Yeah, that’s fine.”

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

“You okay?”

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

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

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

“We’ll find out in a few minutes.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Then don’t do 4 hours.”

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

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

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

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

I vow to stay away from message boards.

“Am I considered high risk?” I ask.

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

“Elderly, eh? Nice choice of words.”

“I know, right?”

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

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

Tonight we are going to a favorite restaurant to celebrate.

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

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

Celebrate good times indeed.

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

Trial Period**

2009-06-12T10:54:00.000-07:00

5-26-09

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

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

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

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

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

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

I tell Kelley my symptoms.

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

“Yeah, pretty smart system.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I gotta pee,” I whisper to Mr. Crud.

“Are you going to do the thing?”

“Yep.”

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

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

“So?”

“It’s positive.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Of course.”

“You tell.” I say.

“You.” He says.

“No you.”

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

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

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

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

“I think I’m pregnant,” I say.

“You took the test at home?”

“Yes. It was positive.”

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

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

“Okay, sure. How about Wednesday?”

Tomorrow. Hmmm…

“Do you have anything on Thursday or Friday?”

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

“No, Wednesday is good. Tomorrow.”

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

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

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

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

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

Reality TV

2009-06-04T14:07:00.000-07:00

5-18-09

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

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

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

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

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

The credits roll.

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

“Nope. It is a sitcom.”

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

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

Word to Your Mother's Day

2009-05-29T15:22:00.000-07:00

5-11-09

What could be a more wholesome, uncomplicated celebration than Mother’s Day? At least this is what I used to think. Mother’s Day = flowers, cute kid-made cards, champagne brunches (that’s my kinda motherhood), and burnt toast breakfast attempts by tow-headed kindergartners with gap-toothed smiles. Now I’m more in tune to the complications. Mr. Crud is more bummed about it than me. Throughout the day I catch a glum expression on his mug.

“You okay?” I expect it to be an early onset case of the Sundays.

He shrugs. “I don’t know. It just feels weird.”

“That I’m not a mother?”

“Yeah.”

I chalk up my lack of reaction to the holiday as minor denial combined with minor hope. Maybe next year I will be a mother to a real live crying, pooping baby instead of an idea. Wouldn’t that be something.

Per usual, Facebook shakes me out of my denial with the flood of Mother’s Day-related status updates. All the mothers that I know had lovely days with their kids. Precious moments a-plenty. I feel the now-routine dip into contradiction: Good for you. Why not me?

Mr. Crud and I head to yoga class. “Happy Mother’s Day!” says our teacher as a welcome.

I know that she isn’t herself a mother so somehow this greeting feels okay. “And to you,” I say.

I pat Mr. Crud on the back. I hope I’m pregnant by Father’s Day. I already have a complicated enough Father’s Day what with my dad being dead and all.

We find our places among the yogis and wait for class to begin. Our teacher hands out slips of paper with a chant to honor Krishna’s mother. We clap to a beat. We chant. I know that Mr. Crud enjoys the clapping, that he can lose himself in the rhythm. As we clap I think of the other women and men of the world who may not be lost in the lavender-scented wholesomeness: The other wannabe parents like us who struggle with infertility and miscarriage; the parents of dead children with their wounded hearts; the children of incarcerated women, of abusive mothers, of dead, beloved or hated mothers; and simply those people who have complicated relationships with their mothers. I keep clapping. My wishes are for you, my complicated Mother’s Day compatriots, to find peace today. Just a little, whatever you can handle.

After class, Mr. Crud and I walk on sore, warriored-out legs back home. “Mother’s Day isn’t as simple as it seems,” Mr. Crud says.

“My thoughts exactly.”

“I keep wondering what next Mother’s Day will be like,” he says.

“Yeah, me too.” I wonder if we’ll be able to gross out Peabody with the story of how she was conceived on a Mother’s Day a lot like this one. I hope so.

Um...No

2009-05-22T16:05:00.000-07:00

4-30-09

(Sorry for the cliff-hanger, folks.)

Saturday I awake with a rollercoaster tingle in my belly. Sure, it’s 2 days before the supposed arrival of my period, but I’ve been feeling all the symptoms: random nausea, weird bursts of energy, and haven’t my boobs been looking a little larger? Plus my dreams were all about Neal Pollack a.k.a. Alternadad. No interesting narrative arc to report. We were just hanging out, palling around, talking yoga and the like. But I associate him with fatherhood, and with this leap of faith that Mr. Crud and I have taken twice so far so this dream is Significant, right? Right? I whisper in Mr. Crud’s ear, “I gotta pee. I’ll be back in a sec,” lest he worry about my disappearance from our lazy Saturday morning in bed.

I walk to the bathroom. Each step is a change of heart: no, I should wait, it’ll just be a waste of pregnancy test. Why the hell not? I spend more on drinks that I don’t finish than I did for the pee stick. Nah, this is silly. Just wait. 2 more days. You can wait.

Even though I’m not sure I am knocked up, I’ve been acting like a preg. Friday I skipped the sauna and my weekly martini. All week I loaded up on sushi in preparation for a possible sushi drought. I even used my possible pregnancy as a bargaining chip for the last piece of Gonzo Roll, the favorite roll of Mr. Crud and I that is cut into 5 pieces, which necessitates an alternating extra piece rule.

“This may be the last time I can have this for a long time,” I say to Mr. Crud over our weekly Thursday night sushi binge.

He looks at me skeptically. “Maybe.”

“If I’m wrong, I’ll give up my Gonzo rights for 2 weeks,” I say.

“Deal.”

In the bathroom I skim the side of the EPT box: detects pregnancy in 93 % of women 2 days before their period begins. Good enough.

I do the test like I’ve done before. As I wait the 3 minutes for the results, I realize that I’ve never gotten a negative result on a pregnancy test. Always 2 lines for me. I steal a glance at the stick. One line. The other one isn’t even faint. I zip back to check the microwave. 30 seconds until the results. My gut sinks. Negative. The microwave beeps. I pick up the stick and face the result window. Negative.

“Oh well,” I say and head back to bed.

Mr. Crud mumbles, “What took so long?”

“I took a pregnancy test,” I say.

“And?” He perks up a little.

“Negative.”

“I don’t even know how I feel about that.”

“Me neither.”

The cramps on Sunday and blood-streaked toilet paper on Monday confirm it. Not pregnant. Negative. All my inklings and stories were not intuition, just imagination. For the first time in the history of the Crud’s pregnancy attempts, we have not gotten pregnant our first month of trying. I tell myself that this is good. We are breaking the cycle of immediate impregnation and miscarriage. This time will be different. Third time is the charm.

“I feel both sad and relieved,” Mr. Crud says. “Is that weird?”

“Nope, that’s about how I feel.”

While I plot my week of pregnancy-less life—totally taking a Vicodin tonight, I think—I wonder if maybe my body has finally learned to tell the difference between a good egg and a bad one. Our timing was on. I felt ovulation cramps shortly after we, uh, you know. Maybe just maybe my uterus has learned discernment. (See, I knew that some part of my body was learning something from all that yoga.) For lack of finding any scientific reason for the miscarriages, I find myself tunneling deeper into superstition. I write and rewrite the story of conception, of the baby that I envision us holding one day.

Last night I tell Mr. Crud of my future fantasy that my niece Emma will one day come visit us all by herself. (No offense intended JADE, I just had this vision of Emma and me going about town on a niece-auntie mission for chocolate and costume jewelry.)

“By that time we might have a Peabody of our own,” he says. “That’ll change things.”

“If we don’t have a Peabody by then, then we’ll probably never have one,” I say.

“Yeah,” Mr. Crud says. “If that happens then we’ll have our house full of mangy cats.”

“And our well-groomed dog.”

Plan B is becoming the crazy cat and dog couple. For some reason the idea of having a lot of cats that we don’t treat well and a dog that we do cracks us up. Such is what passes for humor in Miscarriage World.

Suspicious Minds

2009-05-15T10:38:00.000-07:00

4-22-09

I spend the last three hours of my Monday night tossing and turning. Hello, Insomnia, I didn’t miss you one iota. As the numbers on my digital clock inch towards midnight I yank open my nightstand drawer. I admit it. I am powerless to defeat you insomnia. All my yoga breathing and mindfulness techniques and reassurances to myself that everything is fine, JUST FINE, are for naught. I need drugs and I need them now. I reach for my old buddy old friend, Alprazolam a.k.a. Xanax (which I will call it since it’s a delightful palindrome). Bleary-eyed I read the warning labels “Do not take if you are pregnant, breastfeeding, or suspect you are pregnant.” I consider. I do suspect I am pregnant, but my suspicions are grounded in a few rumblings in my lower abdominals and a confidence in timing. What if the zygote hasn’t found a stretch of uterus to call its own? What if it’s one of those bad old lady eggs that every article about mothers over 35 howls about? What exactly constitutes suspicion?

The first time I was pregnant, I took a Xanax the night after I’d found out so freaked out was I. I had remembered that my previous doctor had said Xanax was okay for the pregnant. I took it out of desperation. There was no way that I’d be sleeping with the knowledge that a baby-parasite had taken up residence chez Kt without it. And I slept. And the next day I googled and commenced with freaking out. I wondered if my ex-doc had misunderstood my question or if I had employed some selective hearing. (“Oh yes, Kt, you can drink wine, eat sushi, smoke, dance until morning, sweat your ass off in yoga class, and take bucketfuls of Xanax without any worries.”) If only.

Tonight I go the safe route. I put down the Xanax almost apologetically. I’ll be back someday. I rummage around and find the Unisom, which is doctor approved for pregnancy. In fact it is recommended as a means of fighting off morning sickness when taken in conjunction with vitamin B6. I hate the way Unisom turns my mornings into a zombie zone, but I am at my wits end and I need sleep.

I eke out 4 hours and spare change of sleep. I zombie my way through the morning, feeling a facsimile of wakefulness only in the afternoon. Xanax doesn’t do this to me, I grumble.

In some respects I am walking the cautious path. I’ve cut out the alcohol, quit smoking (for good this time, I swear!), replaced the Advil with Tylenol, and am consciously avoiding the lunchtime smokers that clog the Portland streets.

In other respects, not so much: I am eating as much sushi as I want.

“Don’t get that Jeremy Piven disease,” Mr. Crud warns.

“You mean being a douchebag who will fuck anything that moves?” Zing!

I am working bean sprouts and soft, unpasteurized cheese into my diet as much as possible. I am enjoying sweaty times on the yoga mat, knowing that I might have to curb my vigorous practice as early as next week.

Or I won’t. Or I’ll wake up Monday morning with cramps, a spot of blood on the TP, and a craving for a dirty martini. I try to predict how I’ll feel pregnant or not. I try to prepare myself for either eventuality. Maybe it’s good if I don’t get pregnant right away. That happened the last 2 times…and we know what happened then. Maybe getting my period is a sign that my uterus has learned to discern a good houseguest from a freeloader.

Thankfully my obsession with knowing one way or the other is waning. I’ll be fine either way. I think. Now if you’ll pardon me, I have some reassuring Buddhist philosophy books to add to my library list just in case my bravado crumbles before next Monday.

"The Babies"

2009-05-07T14:13:00.000-07:00

4-20-09

I open the can of worms. “I think I might be, you know,” I say to Mr. Crud.

Despite my assurances to myself that I would be cool about this whole “pregnancy bullshit”—as I’ve taken to calling it whenever I talk about going another round—andnot obsess over cervical fluid, pangs in the lower lady regions, and random appearances and disappearances of suspected preg-symptoms, I am about as far as one can get from cool. I’m hot. Burning. Hellfire hot.

“Really? How do you know? Really?” Mr. Crud asks, eyes wide.

“I’ve been feeling action in the lady parts. Cramps mainly. But it could just be gas,” I say.

“Don’t cramps mean--?”

“Not necessarily.” I decline to explain mittlelschmerz, the term for the slight, one-sided cramping that ladies can feel when ovulation begins, which I felt. At least I think I did.

After checking numerous fertility calculators, I compiled my data and found the fertile days. I tried not to talk up the days too much lest I scare Mr. Crud and lead to, ahem, other issues that may impede the making of a Peabody 3. Then I got to scrutinizing my fluids. We both decided that we wouldn’t put too much pressure on ourselves this month. No carpet-bombing, just leisurely good times with the one you love. Nonetheless a week ago as I lay in viparita karani in yoga class, I felt the slight cramping commence. We had some leisurely good times that morning so I wondered. Could it?

And for the last week, I did a pretty good job of letting it go. I told myself that I was quitting smoking (a-fucking-gain, I know) because smoking is dumb, all my friends are doing it, and I was tired of the extra phlegm in the morning. The quitting has nothing to do with Peabody.

Friday I almost surrendered my post-work week cocktail, but relented at the last moment. This could be the last cocktail I sip for a long, long time. Better to seize the day by the salt plum vodka martini than to lament what could have been the following Friday. I remembered my mantra: All or nothing. If this martini has any negative effect, it would be to hamper fertilization and/or implantation. I remind myself of all the times multiple doctors have assured me that nothing I ate, drank, or smoked during the first 4 weeks of pregnancy could have caused a miscarriage.

“So, when can you find out for sure?” Mr. Crud asks.

“Next weekend. Actually next Monday.”

“Oh. That’ll make for a long week.”

It already has for the both of us. Time drags. Each twinge I feel in my lower abdomen sets me spinning. I have dipped my toe back into the pregnancy and miscarriage website-a-palooza and swing between feeling comforted and totally freaked out. I allow myself to ponder the trajectory of my theoretical pregnancy, both the good outcomes (With a potential due date in early January there will be no hell trip through snowstorms for Christmas on the east coast!) and bad (If we get another ultrasound of doom, I’ll at least be evacuated of another dead baby by the 4th of July. Just in time to get shit-faced and take up smoking again!).

See what I mean? So not cool.

Last night Mr. Crud flops into bed and rolls over for a hug. “I got the super Sundays,” he says. “The Sundays” refers to the unsavory salad roll of mega dread of the week ahead and regret of the weekend promise left unfulfilled.

“Is it the Sundays plus the pregnancy bullshit?” I ask, pulling him in tight.

“Yeah.”

I thank G-d that when Mr. Crud is nervous and down, I feel okay, a shaky confidence that I will need to bolster in the coming months with large doses of Sylvia Boorstein and Buddhist philosophy.

“We need to come up with a word for this,” he says. “Like the Sundays.”

“How about ‘The Babies’?” I ask.

He considers. “Eh, it’ll do for now.”

I’m at work and going over the same Yoga Journal articles that I’ve read before, assuring myself that I don’t need to immediately halt my yoga practice on suspicion of pregnancy. I re-read an old miscarriage website that I can practically recite by heart. My eyes fall on a new (un-sourced) statistic: after 2 miscarriages, a person has a 40% chance of miscarrying again. Shit. I don’t remember that one. I feel whatever shaky confidence I had evaporate as I stare at the screen, scrolling and scrolling for source material. I try to remember all the stories of women who had multiple miscarriages and eventual successful pregnancies. I picture my yoga friend Jan who is so pregnant now that she looks on the verge of tipping over.

The phone rings. Mr. Crud. Good, I was just about to actually do some work to get my mind off of 40%. Wouldn’t want to do too much work at work.

“Hey hon, how you doing?” He asks.

“Oh okay,” I say in a tone that is clearly not okay. “I’m feeling a little scared, about, you know.”

“You got ‘the babies’?” He asks.

“Yeah, I do.”

But I can’t really talk now unless I want the collection of theater students sitting in the lobby to hear my tale of preg-scare woe.

He offers words of comfort and says, “We need to come up with a better word.”

“Agreed. It’ll do for now.”

Just like everything else.

Everyone's Coming Up Pregnant

2009-04-30T10:56:00.000-07:00

4-6-09

Mr. Crud and I are undulating through cat and cow poses in our usual Sunday afternoon yoga class. The teacher halts our arching and kicks things up a notch with some core work.

“The pregnant ladies may wish to skip this one,” she says.

Even as I tell myself to keep with my breath, to concentrate on my movement, my practice, I surreptitiously steal glances around the room, trying to suss out the pregnant among us. I spy with my little eye a swollen belly on the woman by the window who is doing her own modification. But my teacher said ladieS, plural. My gaze falls on Dr. Awesome, an occasional Sunday afternoon yoga compatriot. She is modifying too. Hmmm… Her shirt hangs baggy. Could it be? Yeah, could be. And so?

The teacher brings us to a cross-legged position for a few minutes of meditation. We do a leisurely twist. I steal more looks at Dr. Awesome’s midsection. Mid-twist I see it, the bump. Dr. Awesome is 4-5 months pregnant by my estimation. Shit. This is totally going to mess with my yoga class. I go through my now familiar “Wow she’s pregnant” stages. Anger, denial, acceptance and so on. I decide that it’s okay if Dr. Awesome is pregnant (how big of me) and that I will be okay with going to see her if/when I get pregnant again. I wonder if it will feel worse getting miscarriage news from a pregnant woman. Nah, probably not. Should that news come again, I doubt the pregnancy state of the bearer of more doom will occupy my mind much. I’ll be too busy rending garments and letting loose a stream of curse words. Also crying. Lots of crying.

After my dip into worst-case-scenario land, I return to the land of actual concerns. How long will Dr. Awesome’s maternity leave last? Does she have enough of a head start on me? Crap. I should have totally gotten knocked up at my first chance. I wonder if things will necessarily be weird after class. I have imaginary conversations in my head: “Hey Dr. Awesome. Congratulations! When are you due? Cool.”

Whenever someone knows of my miscarriage history I feel this need to be extra excited about their pregnancies as it to convince us both that I’m having no hard feelings about it. I remind myself that I did not come to yoga to contemplate my physician’s pregnancy, which quiets the voices for a little while, but every time I catch a glimpse of her swollen belly they kick back into gear.

After class Mr. Crud and I talk to the teacher about our recent travel adventures. Dr. Awesome sits on the bench stuffing her feet into boots. She sniffles.

“How are you?” I ask her.

“Oh good. Just getting over a little cold,” she says.

“It’s tough to get rid of them in this weather,” Mr. Crud says.

I try not to stare at her belly, the elephant in my room.

Mr. Crud and I head out into the rainy afternoon. After we are a block away, I say, “Dr. Awesome is totally pregnant.”

“Really? I didn’t notice.” He says.

“Yup. Really.”

“Huh.”

We go over the time line for our plans to step back in the pregnancy ring. “I might have to get another doctor. Maybe Dr. D & C? I like her.”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” Mr. Crud says.

Oh yeah. Right. I guess I need to get pregnant first.

April Fools and Anniversaries

2009-04-22T15:16:00.000-07:00

4-2-09

How does one mark the one-year anniversary of their initiation into Miscarriage World? I got my period, which seems pretty bloody appropriate (pun very intended and also protesting its use in the previous sentence). I thanked G-d that I wasn’t in the same place I was a year ago—devastated and terrified that I would die during my D & C. While smoking my first cigarette since my positive pregnancy test, I felt gripped by a fear that I was going to die--not just feel like I was dying--the next day. I made the decision that I wanted all my journals burned and told Mr. Crud as much.

“You’re not going to die,” he said.

“But if I do.”

“You sure?”

“Positive.”

From a year distance—and through the eyes of a D & C veteran—my hysterics seem melodramatic. I don’t view myself harshly. My whole world-view had been upended in the course of a single, sunny afternoon.

Last night after dinner Mr. Crud’s face fell into a frown.

“You thinking about--?” I asked.

“Yeah,” he said.

It had been hard not to think about it since leaving for our annual spring break trip to Florida. The night we arrived I lay in my niece Emma’s bed tossing and turning as images from our previous trip zipped about my brain: Me going through maternity and baby clothes while Mr. Crud packed up the Pack ‘n Play and breast pump accessories. The terrible cold that kept me in bed for most of our visit since I couldn’t take any cold medicine. Even though I could have since my reason for abstaining was actually already deceased. Infuriating. For lack of anything more solid than Mother Nature to direct my anger, I get mad at my poor, dead collection of genetic material, Primo. Why the fuck couldn’t you have just rode the red menstrual tide instead of sticking around and stinking up my uterus with your baby-to-be-that-never-was death? I could have taken cold medicine. I could have tasted the delicious scallop dinner that I couldn’t eat because, lacking the ability to smell and taste due to my horrible cold, the texture was disgusting.

Because I wasn’t pregnant this time around, I popped a Xanax and eventually drifted off to sleep with visions of playing witches with my niece dancing in my head. She did not disappoint. Nor did her little bro, nephew Jonah. The chief recruiters did their job of kicking me back into the baby-making mode. Emma with her Lemony Snicket and Stephin Merritt obsessions (for real now, how cool is that for a 6-year-old?), and Jonah with his Caesar-style conquering of potty training--He came, he saw, he crapped, AND wiped—reminded me that the struggle is worth it. Well, unless it isn’t and the events of the past year repeat themselves and we end up sad, bleeding, and hating the g-ds. But what can you do? Hello, fertility calculators. Good-bye, cigarettes.

Riding a Bummer

2009-04-20T15:52:00.000-07:00

3-17-09

Last night as we hunker down for a (hopefully) good night’s sleep, Mr. Crud says, “I’m feeling overwhelmed.”

“Is it like every anxiety you have is coming at you at once?” I ask.

“Yeah, like that.”

This morning I awake with a chip on my shoulder. I don’t want to go to work and deal with whining students. I don’t want to ride my bike through the rain. I don’t want to go to yoga and listen to myself criticize myself for not being thin/strong/skilled enough to get into mayurasana or bakasana B for that matter. I don’t want to make dinner. Whatever malaise infected Mr. Crud spread to me somewhere in our tossing and turning last night.

Get on my bike I do. Ride through rain I will. Talking like Yoda I will stop. I make it to yoga, lock my bike, and head inside to (hopefully) find my way back to feeling fine. Or at least make peace with my discomfort. I stand at the top of my mat in tadasana, hands together in prayer. “Surrender. Ease. Peace. Contentment,” I think. One of my yoga teachers says that we can become our mantras over time. Probably not in the white knuckle state of mind that I’m in right now, but you never know when grace steps in to give you a moment of joy.

I open my eyes and begin. Before I’m even done with my first sun salutation, the thought hits: The one-year anniversary of Primo’s miscarriage is on the horizon. April 1. Oh joy. I think back to my previous spring break trip to Florida. The innocence of packing up hand-me-down maternity clothes and a breast pump, baby clothes and the Pack-and-Play which we’ve since tucked into a corner of our basement. I think of the cards my niece Emma made congratulating me and Mr. Crud (although she wasn’t sure what role he had played in the baby-making enterprise). I remember how sick I was during our last spring break and how I didn’t take any medication lest I harm the unborn baby that was, at that point, already dead. Hmmm…maybe this spring break that I’ve been anticipating and counting down won’t be quite as simple as Cuban food and playing auntie. I worry that my niece, who forgot about my pregnancy, will somehow remember it upon seeing me.

“What happened to your baby, Aunt Kt?” she’ll ask.

“Uh, well, some babies aren’t ready to be born yet so they, uh, decide not to come out.”

I don’t know how honest I’m supposed to be, how much disillusionment a 6-year-old can handle.

In yoga class, I keep breathing and twisting myself into asanas as the miscarriage mist envelops me. I want to go home, bury my head in Mr. Crud’s chest, and cry.

One of my best friends from college sent news of the recent birth of her daughter yesterday. Quickly I replied with congratulations. I am happy for her. And I am sad for me.

How all of this fits into my current lack of desire to attempt pregnancy is unclear. I wanted at least one pregnancy-free vacation this year and my will shall be done in 5 days. At least there is that.

Late!

2009-04-16T10:21:00.000-07:00

3-13-09

I confirm and re-confirm the fertility calculator’s prediction of the first date of my period. I count the days in my date book. No denying it. March 5 was supposed to be the start of the next bloodbath. My gut aches. Shit. How could it? Could we really? I look back to our last, ahem, session of love, and shake my head. No. No way. It would have to be a miracle. Mr. Crud echoes the sentiment when I tell him of my pregnancy fears.

“That’s impossible,” he says. “Don’t worry about it. It’ll come.”

“I mean, it’s not out of the realm of possibility. It could have happened. It’s just highly highly unlikely that it did,” I say.

Friday night we go to the Savoy like we do every Friday night. I order my well-earned martini and settle back. March 6 and still no blood. All day I have been cramp-mining, hoping each rumbling in the lower abdominal area is the start of the latest round of crushing cramps.

“I’ve never really wished for cramps before,” I say to Mr. Crud and take a sip of martini. I nibble on the blue cheese-stuffed olives the bartender brought over for me to try. Oh the delights of forbidden foods are many. I wonder if I am nibbling my last bit of blue cheese and savoring my final martini.

Mr. Crud reaches across the table and pats my hand. “Don’t worry about it.”

“It’s just that I’m not ready, you know? I’m scared. I haven’t gotten my bravery up for another round.”

Mr. Crud goes into counselor mode. “What do you mean by scared?”

I spill the well-worn catalogue of fears and concerns: I don’t want to go through another miscarriage, another doomed ultrasound. Just picturing the ultrasound room is brining tears to my eyes.

“All of those things sound perfectly normal.” He says.

“Yeah, I know. I’m just not ready for it yet.”

Mr. Crud shrugs his shoulders. “Not really anything we can do about it now.”

“If I am pregnant, I’m totally getting an abortion,” I say.

We catch each other’s eyes and burst into hysterical laughter. We laugh until my stomach starts to ache—oh could it finally be the cramps I wished for upon a star—and tears are spilling from my eyes.

“That would sure surprise the doctors.”

“’No, we just decided we weren’t ready yet. This one is elective,’” I pretend explaining it to the doctor who has performed my D & C-s.

“I’m glad we can laugh about this stuff,” Mr. Crud says.

“And how. Cheers.” I hold up my half-finished martini. Our salads arrive. I manage to forget the nagging what-ifs of the last few days.

Saturday I awake. Still no blood. Shit. I think back to the past month. A couple of nights of heavy drinking, the usual sushi parade, and a few half-tabs of Xanax. As I did in July, I conjure the too-tough-to-die baby fantasy. The baby that wants to live so badly that it was created on non-fertile days and survived all the vodka and puffs of cigarette that I threw at it. Then I worry. What if my carrying on has messed up another embryo? What if I am totally to blame this time? I remember my old mantra—all or nothing, all or nothing—and put the baby fears on hold.

That afternoon I pick up another package of pee sticks. I’ll be using them eventually. This seems to do the trick. When I return home from the store, the cramps kick in, then the bloody smears. Ahhh…sweet relief.

“We need to celebrate,” I tell Mr. Crud. “With liquor.”

I’m going to need some liquid courage if I’m going to make it through another first trimester. Guess I’ll have to front load it.

What's a Pregnant Lady Like You Doing in a Place Like This?

2009-04-02T16:02:00.000-07:00

2-27-2009

Is no place safe from pregnant women? Mr. Crud and I step into a basement cum barroom last Saturday. Our first party in months. Partly we sometimes have a hard time relating to folks who haven’t been briefed on our year of heartache. Mostly we are lazy. And in love with Battlestar Galactica and can’t imagine a finer evening than curling up on the couch and watching Lee Adama and Starbuck shoot each other simmering glances while saving humanity from the Cylons. But this special Saturday we decide to venture out into the world of band parties to catch my ex-Gollipopp bandmates do their thing.

One of Mr. Crud’s pals who he hasn’t seen in a few months steps up to our conversational plate.

“What’s new?” Mr. Crud asks.

“I’m going to be a dad in a few months,” Old Pal says and pivots to show his very pregnant wife standing behind him, chatting with friends.

“Hey, that’s great,” Mr. Crud says. We exchange glances. To bring it up or not to bring it up, that is the perpetual question. Is their a tactful way to say “Wow, I’m so happy for you. Kt here was pregnant too. Twice in fact! Twice in one year in fact!!! But you know, it didn’t work out.”

Nope. No tactful way in a basement lit by Christmas lights.

“So, what week are you in?” Mr. Crud asks, making me proud with his pregnancy conversational prowess.

“31. So about 9 weeks left,” he says.

“It’s about 40 weeks,” I say to Mr. Crud, wanting to demonstrate my own knowledge on the topic of human gestational periods.

I do the math. Old Pal’s wife is due a week after I would have (should have) had Dewey. In an alternate universe of perfectly replicating genes, Old Pal and Mr. Crud would have lots to discuss and a mutual back-slapping party of a time ahead of them. Instead, we fish for words as Mr. Crud and I continue to exchange “should we mention it?” looks.

No. We shouldn’t. No father of an about-to-pop pregnant lady wants to hear of a worst-case scenario come to life. He wants to be happy and to be reassured that he didn’t really need to sleep that much anyway.

I decide to excuse myself for a cigarette far far away from the pregnant. The first band starts. A 3-piece with—wouldn’t you know it—a pregnant lady taking lead vocals. Shouldn’t you people be at home gorging on ice cream and nesting or some shit like that? Can a girl even go to a band party without having to look in the mirror and see her failed uterus?

I turn to leave as another friend of Mr. Crud’s steps inside. The last time we saw her I was pregnant and about to have my second ultrasound of doom. She, on the other hand, had a gorgeous 8-month-old daughter whose smiling face made me hopeful that maybe this time things were okay. (Darn babies and their hope-inspiring faces.)

“So where’s the baby?” Mr. Crud asks after we’ve exchanged the requisite how’s it going-s with his friend.

“We have a system,” she says. “I get to party for the first hour while he sits in the van and watches her sleep. Then it’s his turn. And by the end of his hour, we’re usually ready to head home.”

“Ooo, good one,” I say.

I know that Mr. Crud and I will never be motivated to enact such a plan once we (hopefully) have a critter of our own. Plus I’m too prone to forgetting to look at my watch unless I’m having a bad time.

My ex-mates’ band starts up. Old Pal is the third member of the band. Mr. Crud pulls me to the front of the milling crowd where I, who have crossed over into the sleepy drunk zone, find a seat. A few feet away from me Old Pal’s wife records him on a small camcorder. A permanent wide smile settles on her face as her eyes flicker back and forth between Old Pal and the camera’s screen. I imagine myself as her, watching Mr. Crud bang the skins at what would probably be his final rock show before our theoretical baby comes. She smiles like she has a secret. You know, like a baby growing inside of her that is made of the two of them, a being founded in love and kisses and cells dividing at the right time. My eyes keep finding her and wondering if that will ever be me. Should we have tried again last month? Is it time? The longer we wait, the more I get used to sweaty yoga practices and Friday martinis and the fear that hums in the background of every discussion of maybe getting back into the TTC game.

I have secrets too. They just don’t make me smile knowingly.

"Normal"

2009-03-17T11:40:00.000-07:00

2-16-09

The results are in: I am (mostly) normal in terms of my clotting abilities and thyroid. Dr. Awesome emails me the lab report, which sends me into AP Biology flashback tremors--A heterozygo-wha? Thankfully she also sends her translation from science to laywoman. Basically, I am normal. Except, possibly, for my homocysteine levels. I am a genetic carrier of a mutation, which does make me grip my chest and say “Oh my,” but this mutation isn’t anything cool like mind-reading powers or tongue tricks. No, it is possible but not likely that my homocysteine levels may lead me to have blood-clotting issues. I tell my mom this over the phone during the mandatory but strained miscarriage check-in part of the weekly conversation.

“Well, your grandfather had problems with blood clots.”

Hmmm…could he be my homocysteine source? I rarely think about my grandfather until somebody asks about your first experience with death. He had the honor. He was 81, suffering from some kind of cancer. He was the type of grandpa who seemed impossibly old from the get-go: shiny bald, a chain-smoker with a permanent wheeze and hacking cough, and a Santa-like physique. Aside from our shared penchant for smoking, could we be joined by homocysteine?

Dr. Awesome says that we can get back in the pregnancy game unless we want to be sure about the homocysteine, in which case I can fast and then have my levels check. My first reaction: Fuck no! Fasting? Hell no!! We have a saying around our house: Don’t make Kt hungry, you wouldn’t like her when she’s hungry. Dr. Awesome goes on to say that the treatment for the unlikely case of high homocysteine levels is folic acid and B6 supplements. During both pregnancies I had been taking the recommended levels of folic acid, well-schooled am I in the effects of not enough folate on growing fetuses. B6 became part of my supplement regimen to quell the nausea. Does this mean we’re back where we started from?

I share the results with Mr. Crud. I also share my reluctance to undergo the homocysteine test. In addition to the whole fasting issue is the cost. Today we received our bill for the blood tests and saline sonogram. Over $2,000. Sure, insurance will pick up most of that, but still, it makes me wish they had found something wrong so I’d be getting my money’s worth.

“But you’ll do it, right? If Dr. Awesome says you should?” Mr. Crud asks. I realize what a huge wimp I am. I remember Jan and the ovary stress tests and hormone tests that she did in her quest for successful pregnancy. Maybe I’m not cut out for this.

“Yeah, I will. But what’s the point if the only treatment is taking vitamins that I’m already taking?”

“Good point.”

I email Dr. Awesome with this very question. She promises answers in a few days. It’s cool. I can wait. Since last month’s flurry of pregnancy desire, my levels have fallen off. I’m hitting the high fertility times and, at the moment, have zero desire to be knocked up. I’m liking my wine right now. My yoga practice is feeling great. My teacher even commented that some of the back issues, which have plagued me for the last 8 months, seem to have resolved themselves. My pants fit without the uncomfortable bulge over the waistband. Life is good.

Thanks to Facebook, I’m indulging in some nostalgia for the good old days of beer, rock shows on school nights, and viewing motherhood as just another form of patriarchical bondage. Seriously. In my early twenties, I took several writing classes with women who had children. Upon learning they were mothers, my first thought was always—and I’m not proud of this—why the hell would you do something like that? Now you’re just a mother. Oh the sweet assaholic twenties. I knew everything and was sure that I would never ever in a million years want to push a watermelon out of my lady parts. I had so much time and so many options.

I tell Mr. Crud of my swing back to the childless side of things. He’s cool.

“In other words Lyla wore off. I think our trip to visit Emma will cure that.” He’s got a point.

It would be nice to go on a vacation without being pregnant. All of my vacations last year coincided with the gnarly days of the first trimester. I think I’ll keep it in my pants—or at least protected—for another month.

Dirty martini, please.

3 Down 2 To Go

2009-03-13T10:40:00.001-07:00

2-12-2009

Recently 2 of my Facebook friends gave birth to their much status-updated about babies. To be accurate, Old High School friend revolved her status updates around the twins jousting in her belly. The other friend, who was aware of my miscarriages and the sender of several compassionate emails, was not ruled by the lovely baby girl rolling around inside of her. Every time I read an update not related to her pregnancy, I silently thanked her even as I felt compelled to respond to all the baby-related ones with joy. Do I sound like a jerk? Because I sure feel like one. In order to participate in happy baby-related chatter I separate myself, I wipe away the entirety of 2008 and become that hopeful-someday-maybe-mom-to-be.

Two nights ago I meet with my new writing group for the first time. My friend Trista has gathered 3 of the brightest writing minds of our generation—including moi--and I bring Naomi, a poet-playwright friend from my team.

The talk turns to the recent birth of a colleague of Trista and her friends.

“Oh, have you seen my grandson?” Adrian*, one of the women, asks. She whips out her cell phone and shows us the adorable 6-month-old smiling in a tiny car toy.

“Wow! He’s holding his head up.” Karen, another of Trista’s colleagues, says.

I feel the split. My smile dries as if molded from plaster. I wonder if Naomi and Trista are wondering if I am feeling sad at all the baby chatter, if I can only be reminded of what I have lost. At this moment, I am not. I trade tales of my niece Lyla and how much fun 6-month-old babies can be with all the changes and new smiles. I send mental phrases to Trista and Naomi: Don’t worry about me. I’m cool. It’s fine. I’m a pro.

I have acquired a certain amnesia about the whole thing. Since getting my period a few days ago the should-we-shouldn’t-we see-saw goes up and down.

Yes: Let’s give it another shot. What the hell? Only thing to fear but fear itself, right? You aren’t getting any younger you know.

No: But I’m just getting my body back to its game weight. I love sushi! I don’t want to be pregnant and first trimester-ing during our next trip to Florida. No, no, no. What of martinis? I should be mainlining martinis stat until peeing-on-stick time.

Later in the writing group night, after we have worked out the grand plan for our new group, we talk about what we are working on writing-wise, and who we are outside of the dynamite-stick word “writer.”

“Well, I wrote a novel that I’m trying to get published. Well, trying in the lazy sense of the word. And I do a blog, Crudbucket, and another blog about miscarriage.” I pause. I let my little time-bomb dangle. Who would write about miscarriage if it hadn’t happened to them? Maybe I’m some weirdo on a mission. I wonder what the 2 women who aren’t in on my membership in the miscarriage sisterhood are thinking. Maybe nothing. Maybe it just slides off their shoulders like I said my focus was knitting or oddly shaped dog crap.

I mentally sputter. Should I? No! You’ve just met them. Don’t bum everyone out. Come on, move on, talk about Crudbucket. Crudbucket will save you! Oh come now, be honest, it’ll come out eventually. You’re not ashamed. You’re the Miscarriage Avenger, remember?

I pipe up. “Well, I might as well say it. I had 2 miscarriages last year. I write about them on the blog and might be bringing stuff related to miscarriage. That’s what I’ve mainly been writing about.”

I pause and let it sink in. I wish I had some sort of miscarriage one-liner to pull out and ease the momentary tension. I cannot think of any one, two, or three liners where embryonic death is concerned. Maybe I could commission something from Margaret Cho.

“You really should check out the Peabody Project,” Trista says. Talk turns to web addresses and I frantically start to wonder if everyone thinks I’m a miscarriage-obsessed weirdo. If they’re making a mental note to not bring up childbirth or grandchildren or cute anecdotes about baby poop. (But I love poop talk!)

Trista says nice things about my blog—this here one that you’re treating your eyes to at this very moment—and I relax.

Nobody responds with any facile “It wasn’t meant to be. You can try again” answers. I relax even more.

I get home and tell Mr. Crud of the night’s writing group adventures. “I copped to the miscarriages. I hope it wasn’t weird for everyone.”

“I’m sure it was fine,” he says. He pauses and tilts his head. “I don’t even remember what it was like before. We were different people.”

“Yeah, who were we?”

“It all seems so happy and naïve,” he says.

I run through all the ways the miscarriages have changed me. I’m more sympathetic to health problems. I’m more skilled at responding to tales of sadness and tragedy. I realize that if things are meant to be, then it’s a fucked up world indeed. I let myself think of the reality of being pregnant again. What it would be like to see those two lines appear on the pee stick. I wonder at my reaction, a status update that hasn’t been sanitized for your protection. Or maybe I will become somebody’s Facebook glitch, a status update dripping with pregnant connotations that always reminds her of her alienation from the rest of the tribe. I sort of hope so.

* Names have been changed randomly and inconsistently. If any of you folks named here want a pseudonym, let me know.

Fantastic Voyage

2009-02-20T16:21:00.000-08:00

2-2-09

As Mr. Crud and I are driving to my latest appointment with the dreaded ultrasound machine I say, “You know, I haven’t even prepared myself for bad news. I’m not worried at all.”

“Can you ever really prepare yourself? Does worrying really prepare you for anything?”

“Nah I guess not.”

Mr. Crud turns the car, our family-perfect Subaru station wagon, onto the curving uphill road that improbably leads to the hospital where I hope to give birth someday. During the recent snow-fueled clusterfuck I frequently thought of the pregnant ladies destined to give birth at OHSU. Were they totally freaking?

“We should aim for a due date not during the winter,” I say. “This hill is outrageous.”

“We got a lot more important things to think about,” he says.

I sense that he’s felt the gravity of this appointment, which I have dubbed my uterus-scape, more than I. This morning I realized that I hadn’t even googled the procedure I was about to undergo. I’m getting soft.

As is our way, we are 25 minutes early for the appointment. We check in, peruse the Sam Adams sex scandal-laden paper and pretend that we aren’t dreading the dark room and the ultrasound screen with its Rorshach blobs.

In the tradition of our past ultrasound appointments, the doctors are running behind. We have some seriously bad ultrasound karma. More Sam Adams. More staring at the backwards baseball-capped guy with the “Ice Ice Baby” ringtone.

Once we get into the examination room and I am half-undressed and raring to go, my pulse rises. “God, I hate ultrasounds.”

“I hear that one good one erases the bad ones,” Mr. Crud says.

I raise an eyebrow. “Oh really?”

“Well not erase but fade.”

A perky blonde lab-coated lady does some preliminary ultrasounds, taking pics of my lovely uterus, my charming ovaries, and those devilish fallopian tubes. She says “Sorry” when the wand jammed up my hoo-ha needs to be rotated in weird contortions. I appreciate her care. The most painful part about the procedure is my trapped right leg. I feel like it may spasm and kick her so I concentrate my efforts on keeping it safely in the stirrup. I watch the blobs on the screen until I flashback to my first ultrasounds. I look away. I keep expecting her to read from the ultrasound technician’s script of bad news, “I’m not seeing what I expected. I need to get the doctor.”

She leaves without incident.

“At least there aren’t pictures of Audrey Hepburn and Julia Roberts up in here.” I say.

“Yeah, what IS up with that?” Mr. Crud says.

For my next ultrasound in that hated room in the Center for Sadness and Disappointment, I will uncover the mystery of the black-and-white photos of actresses. Bad news or good.

The red-haired, jean-skirted Dr. German—named for her accent, so clever—gives me the rundown of the procedure with all the risks. Perforating the uterus is on this list of risks too. I feel like a grizzled veteran, a stream of cigarette smoke seeping out my nose, “Perforated uterus? Yeah, I know from perforated uteruses.” Basically they’ll be injecting a balloon and a saline solution into my uterus via a catheter. It’s uncomfortable but not painful. If a doctor ever tells you something is going to be painful, run. Or demand good meds.

A second doctor with curly brown hair and a name neither the doctor nor the technician is sure how to pronounce enters the room. She is the HBIC. She shakes my hand and then Mr. Crud’s.

“Is there any way that you could be pregnant?” She asks. “I thought I saw something.”

“No, I don’t think so.” Mr. Crud and I look at each other. If I am pregnant, that sperm had some serious work ahead of it. Or else I am shitty at counting.

“When was your last period?”

I rattle off the date. I’ve grown accustomed to keeping track of my LMP. Guess-timation will no longer do.

“Okay, probably just a cyst then.” Dr. HBIC says. “Ready?”

Dang, another missed opportunity for an immaculate conception joke.

The room remains dark as the doctors and Ms. LabCoat crowd around my nether regions and inject the balloon and saline. Dr. German aims a flashlight between my legs and I so want to make a spelunking joke, but I resist. The urge to be inappropriate in these situations is so strong. I bite my tongue and stare at the ceiling, waiting for the next visit from the discomfort fairy. I don’t wait long. I feel a pinch inside me and then cramps.

Mr. Crud holds my hand. I listen to the doctors and try to decipher what their words mean, what the spaces between the words mean. Does “move to the right?” actually mean “something is totally fucked over there on the right. Shit, she doesn’t even have an ovary left.” Again I turn to the screen and try to make something familiar out of gray blobs. If someone had pointed at one of the blobs and told me it was a heartbeat, I would have nodded in agreement. Of course. I’ve never seen an ultrasound of my own that resembled anything but a bean. They inflate and deflate the balloon. Snap pictures. The cramping comes and goes.

Dr. German asks if I am hurting. “No, it’s okay. I’ve experienced much worse.”

Dr. HBIC looks me in the eye. “I know.”

I almost tear up at that. I feel that she does know, that she has read my story and understood it. I’m glad that I have dropped the cheery good patient façade for a moment of understanding.

Dr. HBIC removes the wand from my lady parts. She points to one of the square photos on the screen. “That’s your uterus. If there was a septum, it would be here.” She draws a pen along the center of the black blob. “But there isn’t.”

Mr. Crud and I exchange a glance before turning back to the screen. “Everything looks fine,” she says. “Your anatomy does not explain your loss.”

“That’s good, right?” I ask.

“I think it is. Sometimes we find things that aren’t so easy to correct.”

Mr. Crud asks a few more questions, logistical ones about if she’ll be doing anymore analysis, when we’ll hear more news. I feel relieved and glad that I didn’t waste any time fretting over this appointment.

Dr. HBIC leaves us with a smile and handshake. “Good luck.”

Dr. German pauses at the foot of the gurney. “On a personal note, this happened to me and I now have two beautiful daughters.”

I tear up again as I do whenever I meet a sister-visitor to miscarriage world. Words get caught in my throat. “Thank you for telling me,” I say.

“It’s happened to a friend of mine. She has children now too. Just relax. It will be okay,” she says.

I feel like I want to say either too much or too little. Ask for every detail of her miscarriages or pull myself into a tight ball and mutter thank you. I thank her again. The perky technician closes the door behind Dr. German as they exit.

“Wow. That was really cool of her to share that.” I say, pulling on my pants.

On our way out the technician wishes us luck. My uterus is officially not funky. I feel ready to tackle the remaining tests so we head down to the Center for Sadness and Disappointment. I talk Superbowl with the phlebotomist while he fills at least 10 vials with my blood.

As Mr. Crud and I navigate through rush hour traffic, I feel my confidence returning again. It will work this time. I know it. But how do I know it and is that part that knows it the same part that detected nothing wrong the first two times?

The not-so-fantastic voyage continues.

Practice Makes Perfect

2009-02-12T13:47:00.000-08:00

1-22-2009

I curl over the toilet seat for the third time in as many hours. 4:30 a.m. I am supposed to be sleeping. It is Mr. Crud’s birthday. We are supposed to be celebrating with meals at our favorite restaurants, martinis (for me), gin and tonics (for him), and all around good cheer. Instead I am puking my guts out and cursing shellfish.

I am dying.

I better lose some fucking weight if I don’t die.

I’m glad I’m not pregnant for this barf-storm.

I wonder if breastfeeding women must stop if they come down with the flu or, as in my case, food poisoning. Can the toxins be transmitted to the infant via breastmilk? I have my next random question for my doctor when I hear back from her.

Mr. Crud and I have decided to ditch the genetic tests for now and go with the ones recommended by Dr. Awesome: thyroid, thrombosis, and the saline sonogram. The sonogram will be a more detailed look at my uterus, a uterus-scape in fact, to see if I have any stray membranes that might have suckered an egg into attaching to it although it doesn’t have adequate blood flow. I look forward to regaling my visiting in-laws with tales of my uterus. I am the dark artist daughter-in-law. Also the potty-mouthed daughter-in-law as evidenced by my mother-in-law’s reluctance to speak of the copy of my zine I once gave her. I have a rep to uphold.

My plan to get blood drawn the next workday hits a snag thanks to the revenge of the paella that Mr. Crud and I are suffering. No matter. Throwing up the entirety of my being hasn’t left me feeling very sexy. Or in the mood to do something that will make me nauseous 24-7. We are recovering from our bout with food poisoning but still wary of food. I call Mr. Crud to make dinner plans.

“Let’s play it by ear. Like when you were pregnant,” he says.

“Guess we should start practicing.”

The post-food poisoning nausea is different from pregnancy nausea. When I was pregnant I felt like my gag reflex was on high alert. The slightest whiff of burnt beef from Chipotle sent me reeling. My current nausea flavor is more subtle, more of a burning in the gut.

My personal night of living vomit had me wondering if maybe, maybe, I could be pregnant, if this was a sign of things to come. (Dehydration has been known to play games with ones sanity.) Yoga buddy Jan mentioned that her current pregnancy felt different than the miscarried ones. Maybe that period that I got a few days ago was a hoax. That uterus of mine is tricky. She likes to prank.

When Mr. Crud came down with my symptoms, I knew for sure that this was all the fault of some rogue microorganism and not a miracle spermatozoa. I’m waiting for a more complete recovery before the hike down to the Center for Sadness and Disappointment for my blood draw. Mr. Crud is coming with me. At least our return trip won’t involve any horrible news. Yet.

Hurry!

2009-02-03T11:44:00.001-08:00

1-15-09

The cramps began early this morning, awaking me from my dream where Max and Kathy Crud had recently welcomed their second child into the world, a cherubic boy named Purvis. I bounced Purvis on my knee, wondering even in dream-world if I would ever give birth to my own Purvis. (Who, for the record, I would not name Purvis.)

Over the last week my desire to “try this bullshit again” as I told, Kelley, my massage therapist and (fingers crossed) doula-to-be has gone from trickle to waterfall. Last Friday I had a moment to talk to Jan*, the pregnant yoga buddy who has endured 2 miscarriages, each about a month before mine. I dropped off my mat then stepped up to her office door.

“Congratulations,” I said, peeking around the corner.

“Thank you,” she said, smiling. “How are you?”

“I’m good, really good,” I said. “How are YOU?”

“I’m good too.”

She gave me the montage version of her miscarriages. The first came quickly after the positive pregnancy test. The second was an experience similar to mine—ultrasound of doom at 9 weeks after already having a positive ultrasound at 6 weeks. She and her husband did the full battery of tests: blood draws, an ovary stress test, sperm tests, the whole work-up. The news was mixed.

“We decided to give it one month, one more chance, before doing in vitro and—“ she cradles her belly. “I still don’t believe it, but it’s getting pretty hard to deny.” She laughs.

I ask her about the anxiety, if she can relax, why she stopped doing yoga for two months. The questions flow in a giddy rush. In part, I will be late for work if I chat too long, and in part, I need to hear good news, to pretend for just a moment that her experience will be mine.

“I am relaxing. We’re having a boy. After a positive ultrasound experience, I could relax,” she says.

She stopped the yoga on doctor’s orders after she started to bleed. “But the bleeding was probably caused by the ultrasound or the progesterone. They didn’t tell me that of course.” She snorts. “I had to stop longer than I wanted, but it was okay. I did hatha and it was fine. Of course I’m not where I used to be.”

But who is in ashtanga world? Sometimes it feels like we are in constant recovery from past injuries or keeping a wary eye on those creaky body parts for injuries on the horizon. Do I require drama in all aspects of my life? Even yoga?

“The doctors said that yoga wouldn’t cause a miscarriage.”

Every time I hear those words, I am almost rushing to hear them again. Like Lenny and his rabbits, I need to be told daily that nothing I did caused my miscarriages, especially not yoga.

“How about you?” Jan asks.

“We’re thinking about getting going again,” I say, tears glistening in my eyes. “I’m terrified, but what can you do?”

“I’m praying for you,” she says. We hug.

“But I won’t ask if you’re pregnant. You can tell me whenever you’re ready.”

“I’ll probably tell you first thing. I’ll need the support.”

Walking to my office, I feel lighter. The possibility of having a baby is no longer an impassible mountain.

I email my doctor with thanks for her calls, her card, and all her kindness. We set up a phone appointment for the following Monday. Then, Sunday, Mr. Crud and I stop by the bakery before yoga class. Seconds before walking in my spidey senses tingled. I dismissed my intuition as hopeful thinking.

I buy us bread—a 7-grain carrot roll for me, a short skinny for Mr. Crud—and we step towards the door. Dr. Awesome (her newly coined PPC2 name) spins around, her son on her hip.

“Hey!” We say in unison.

The woo-woo side of me goes into overdrive. Despite all my anti-meant-to-be propaganda, I still feel like coincidences are more than the sum of their parts. This is a sign! First Jan, now Dr. Awesome. We must skip yoga class and commence to making Peabody 3 despite the fact that I am a week past ovulation.

We chat, we meet Dr. Awesome’s hot-chocolate mustached son. “You growing a mustache?” Mr. Crud asks.

I smile at Dr. Awesome. Isn’t he good at this?

We confirm our phone appointment and head off to yoga class, my baby mania quelled by the promise of restorative poses.

“So, what are your questions?” Dr. Awesome asks the following Monday morning.

I shut my office door and tell my student worker that I’m going into brief seclusion. He can hear through the window that separates my office from the front reception era but I don’t care. I’m less and less worried about my coworkers knowing about MC#2 these days. They can know. I just don’t want to talk about it.

“Can you go over what happened one more time? I was kind of in a fog right after it happened.”

She consulted the genetic counselor before calling. MC#1 remains a mystery. MC#2 was caused by Trisomy 22. Trisomy 22 is the second leading cause of chromosomal miscarriages and has nothing to do with my old lady eggs or Mr. Crud’s sperm.

“It’s a sporadic variation. Something went wrong when the cells were dividing.”

I jump in, always ready to flog myself. “So could anything I was doing have interfered with normal cell division?”

“No. It’s a mystery why it happens. It just does.”

Ah, the double-edged sword of mystery talk. I wonder if Dewey’s cells were happily dividing when all of a sudden I swung into triangle pose, causing a chromosome to hop to another cell.

“So tell me about the tests.”

Genetic tests. “They can tell you if you are at a higher risk for this happening again, but they can be expensive and insurance might not cover them.”

Thyroid tests. “We sometimes don’t know if something is wrong with the thyroid. It’s not likely, but it’s good to be sure.”

Thrombosis test. “This will tell us if you have a clotting problem. It might explain your first miscarriage if this is the problem.”

Saline infused sonogram. Dr. Awesome needs to consult with the doc who performed my D and C to see what we can learn from this. “Likely it will tell us if the embryo is having a hard time attaching to your uterus because of fibroids.”

Dr. Awesome tells me that most of these situations are treatable. The thyroid with drugs; the clotting with baby aspirin. She and the genetic counselor agree that the genetic tests will likely turn up negative.

Now for my silly question. “Should we wait until we get the test results to start trying?”

“Probably, but if we find out the results early enough in your pregnancy then we can start treating you.”

I decide to consult with Mr. Crud before canceling the genetic tests. I know he will be disappointed. He’s been itching to get his blood drawn. I suspect he’d even be psyched to have to give a sperm sample.

I calculate the date of my expected period. Getting the test results before the fun times of fertile days will be a tight squeeze. I’m in a devil-may-care-fuck-it-let’s-try phase, but I’m alone. Mr. Crud still gets the jittery “eeeee” face when I bring up the possibility.

Purvis’ cousin-to-be will likely be on hold another month. At least.

* Not her real name.

Ready...Set?

2009-01-15T13:43:00.000-08:00

December 5, 2008

This morning I awake grateful that I don’t have to make the three treks a night to the bathroom like I did when I was pregnant. That my bladder does not shriek at me every 5 minutes. Weird. I’ve been enjoying the luxury of not having to take bathroom breaks in the middle of the night for 2 months now. For some reason pregnant life has been coming back to me at odd moments. Yesterday a wave of nausea descended on me after yoga and I gagged just like the superfun happy days in preg-land. No way, I thought, it would have to be an immaculate conception because Mr. Crud and I are playing it safe these days.

“I’m not ready,” I say.

“Me neither.” He says.

“If I got pregnant, I’d have to get an abortion, I guess.”

Mr. Crud looks at me with furrowed brow.

“Kidding.”

Still, although my body has given me the go-ahead in the form of regular periods and bountiful cervical fluid (nice image, I know), my brain is still picking over such small details as will it fucking take next time? Can I handle another miscarriage? Another ultrasound of doom? Another abortion?

Yes, technically the procedure I’ve had is an abortion even though the critter they were taking out was no longer alive. In all the swirling debate about abortion rights—which I am more firmly in favor of than ever before due to my pregnancy experience—I wonder if the debate applies to me. Would the pro-lifers want me to keep lugging around a dead embryo until nature took its course and I had myself a nice, old-fashioned miscarriage? Would they endorse endangering my life and reproductive future in the name of making sure this was what their g-d wanted? Maybe not. Maybe I underestimate their compassion, their reasonableness. But if they can go hysterical about partial birth abortion—a procedure that does not medically exist—then I allow myself some hysteria in the opposite direction.

In all the literature I’ve read about miscarriage nobody ever speaks of the physical aftereffects. It is well-known that women’s bodies change after the birth of a child. My body had changed too even though my microscopic ones were never born. Specifically in the pooping arena.

(WARNING—if you are not a fan of poop talk or butts or hemorrhoids, perhaps call it a day on this blog post. Thanks for reading!)

Before my pregnancies, I took pride, private pride albeit but pride nonetheless, in my pooping prowess. I was a twice-a-day crapper and my BM-s were smooth and required minimal clean-up. Two wipes max, bitches. Pretty sweet. Thanks be to yoga and Dave’s Killer Blues bread.

During both pregnancies, the poop train slowed to a crawl. Constipation. Shits that vexed even the most powerful flushes and made me weep in pain. I remembered how when I was a kid, I’d pretend that I was giving birth when taking a particularly painful crap. My crush of the moment, Ralph Macchio for instance, would be my birth partner, chanting, “Breathe, breathe, you can do it, babe,” while I grunted and clawed at my thighs. Splash. Ahhh…another poo baby comes into the world. A precious moment indeed. But such heavy-duty stools take a toll on an asshole. Hemorrhoids flared. I no longer could skip to my loo without experiencing a minor sense of dread, a longing for the days of easy crapping.

After MC#1 and a month-long period of not being able to push with all my might because of the interaction of my D&C with my bowels—they are next door neighbors—things got back to normal. This time, not so lucky. Whenever folks ask how I am doing post-miscarriage, I give them some variation on the “Things have been rough, but I’m still standing” standard. Which is true. In the back of my mind ticks the phrase, “but it’s been hell on my pooper.”I don’t know if this problem is another one of my unique gifts or if other members of the miscarriage club have experienced the change in shitting patterns.

I hear the formerly pregnant—the kind holding swaddled babies in their arms—complain of the weight gain. I hear you, sister. I put on 10 pounds after MC#1, most of it bottles of wine and the snack food section of Trader Joe’s. I’d hoped to lose the extra pounds during pregnancy #2 as my wine consumption halted and snacking urge was greatly diminished by constant nausea. No dice. Maybe it’s my age and the attendant slow down of ye olde metabolisme. Dang.

Ever so slowly I am whittling away the extra poundage. Very slowly. Mostly in the name of fitting into my jean-and-cords uniform. The week after MC#2, my pants squeezed at my still enlarged uterus. Over time and many sweaty yoga sessions, the pressure has lessened. I wouldn’t have minded the weight gain so much if I had a squirming bundle of joy to show for it.

Do not quote me on that should I finally have a squirming bundle of joy and complain about my weight. I might be running on 1 hour sleep and come out swinging.

Have You Heard the Good News?

2009-01-08T15:11:00.000-08:00

Mr. Crud emails his uncle that, unfortunately, he probably won’t be able to procure tickets to the Obama inauguration. Mr. Crud’s Uncle Jon excitedly purchased plane tickets to the nation’s capital and booked a hotel room the night of Obama’s victory. Now he just needs the important tickets, the ones that seemingly everyone (whose head isn’t lodged up their ass) wants. Fat chance. In his “thanks for trying” reply, Uncle Jon mentions that they have a lot going on with Rachel’s due date approaching and all.

Rachel’s due date?

“I can’t believe this,” Mr. Crud says as he emerges from the murky depths of his office a.k.a. “the dungeon.”

“What?”

“Rachel’s pregnant.”

“Oh my G-d!” I look up from the newspaper. “But she’s not married!!”

“Uh, yes she is.” Mr. Crud spares me the “duh” as he reminds me of their wedding. “You know, the martini ice sculpture?”

“Oh yeah, that wedding.” The one where I made multiple trips to the martini ice sculpture. The one where Mr. Crud and I announced to his brother and sister-in-law that we might just start trying for one of those baby thingamajigs in the near future.

“I can’t believe nobody told us,” he says.

“You know your mom. She was probably doing her version of protecting us.”

“Yeah, right,” he snorts.

Like most parents, both of our sets err on the side of keeping potentially upsetting news close to the vest. In high school, I learned that my grandfather had cancer on the way to the hospital to visit him after surgery. Mr. Crud learned that his parents were in the market for a new home after they had purchased a house and sold the one that he’d grown up in. Mr. Crud calls this technique the “Fait Accompli.” We are informed of family news after it’s a done deal.

As a teenager this communication style was one more way that adults were trying to screw me. Now that I’m adult, the Fait Accompli makes me feel like a child. A fragile butterfly instead of a tough-knuckled survivor.

“How do you feel about the whole thing?” Mr. Crud asks.

“You know, the usual, happy and sad and all fucked up.”

After remembering that Rachel is in fact married, I move to the next phase of emotion after learning of a friend or acquaintance or family member’s pregnancy. Why them and not us? My actual, uncensored thought was “Why does that turd—a.k.a. Rachel’s husband—get to be a father and not Mr. Crud?”

Then I grit my teeth and remind myself that I can add a “yet” to that last statement. Mr. Crud isn’t a father YET. I roll my eyes at myself.

I think I’ve entered the teenage years of my miscarriage existence. In short, I’m pissed. Why me? Why in the fuck me? Why twice? Why after two miserable months of nausea and exhaustion? That none of these questions will ever have an answer that I don’t make up to make myself feel better doesn’t keep them from multiplying like those fucking rabbits that seem to have so much luck with the whole birth thing.

All around me, smiling dads-to-be walk hand-in-hand with fecund partners. My old high school buddy updates the Facebook world on the news of her gestating twins. Don’t get me started on the celebrities. Jenna fucking Jameson? Who the fuck do you have to fuck to have a fucking successful pregnancy? I would really like to know.

My yoga friend whose had two miscarriages is pregnant. We email about getting together for coffee to share battle scars, but haven’t gotten around to it yet. She hasn’t told me that she’s pregnant. My yoga teacher let it slip.

“I think she’s at her 11th week now. Out of the woods,” he said with a raised eyebrow.

Not exactly, I think, but I am too flustered too respond. He is the final yoga teacher that I have to tell. When he left for a month-long trip to spread the word of yoga in Japan, I was a dragging pregnant lady. Upon his return today, it’s obvious that I’ve lost my drag, that my belly has not expanded to the size it should be for a 5 months pregnant lady, but he has said nothing all morning.

“Well, I obviously didn’t make it,” I mumble.

Either he didn’t understand me or he ignores my stuttered words. “Yeah, she should be coming back soon.”

“I hope so.” I don’t mind that he didn’t stop to give me a pitying stare, to tell me how sorry he is.

After telling him, I feel a weight lifted. He is the last one. Everyone else in the world who knew of my pregnancy knows that it is no more. The stress of knowing that you’ll have to tell somebody about a miscarriage is great. An albatross around the neck. Next week I am meeting up with old work friends. One knows about MC #1. One knows nothing. I’ve been putting off this meeting for months, wanting to postpone until I have good news to share. A fait accompli with a happy ending.

My Darling, My Parasite

2008-12-05T13:55:00.000-08:00

I plunk my ass in a chair next to an unassuming twenty-something hipster type. The writing workshop I’ve been waiting for with bated breath is finally here. Lynda Barry live, breathing, to be in front of me in mere minutes. The vibe is mellow. Mainly 30-something and older women ready to get our writing groove on with a few bespectacled fellows to keep things diverse. I feel more like myself today than I have in ages. I’m still adjusting to the post-miscarriage me and coming to terms with the fact that this experience has changed me in ways that I didn’t expect. Who knew that miscarriages would turn saying a simple sentence, a simple answer to “How’s it going? What’s been up with you all?” into a scramble for words. I don’t want to lie, but I don’t want to walk around laying miscarriage bummers on all my friends.

The pregnant woman sits down behind me. The matronly woman beside her breaks my concentration on my Pelecanos paperback, the leftover easy reader from jury duty earlier in the week that I brought to keep me company in the quiet moments between writing.

“So when’s the big day?” The woman asks from the table behing me.

“Any day now. I am so ready for Audrey to get here.” Her voice is sharp and nasally like Courtney Love.

“Audrey’s a pretty name.” The woman coos.

Of all the places I could sit in this room of 50 seats, I end up in front of the pregnant woman. Fucking great.

“Yeah, I was going to wait until I met her, but then I realized that I’d already been getting to know her. She’s an Audrey,” Courtney says.

I resist the urge to turn around and take her and her swollen belly in for a moment. Then I can’t resist. I steal a glimpse over my shoulder. The picture I have in my head of Courtney is not far off from the reality: late 20s, round, protruding belly (you can’t get anything past me), dyed black hair in crooked pigtails, wearing slouchy jeans and a faded black band tee. I give myself a pep talk. You cannot dislike women because they are pregnant, because they speak about their pregnancy like the majority of women who’ve never stared down the barrel of a bad ultrasound.

But I sure can dislike somebody for raising her hand to read aloud at every freaking opportunity.

This writing workshop is unique in that the class is instructed to keep our heads down, “working on our spiral” while people read from their assignments. As we doodle spirals and the alphabet, the teacher, Lynda Barry, goes around the room to call on people who have their hands raised and want to read. As you may have noticed, I have a definite sense of how things should be done. I have unspoken rules. I’m a bit of a Larry David without the clit to act on my code beyond a disappointed look or mutter. The same goes doubly true for writing workshops. The first day I (arbitrarily) decide that reading 1-3 times per day is acceptable. You have to give the other folks a chance. You have to keep some of your writing for yourself.

Courtney does not respect my code of the Lynda Barry writing workshop. She stomps all over it by not only reading every time, but raising her hand so fast that she is the first reader most times.

Before Mr. Crud dropped me off at the workshop, he spaketh these wise words, “Don’t be so quick to find a bete noir. Maybe try not looking for one at all.”

I snorted. “Yeah right. I mean, I’ll do my best.”

My best didn’t last very long.

That night I gave Mr. Crud the news. “I couldn’t do it. I have a bete noir.”

“Oh dingles.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. But she read every time. And she talked about her pregnancy in that fake-complaining-bragging way.”

I reassure myself that it’s not the pregnancy that is bugging me so much as the breach in writing workshop etiquette. I want to look around and see if anyone else is annoyed, if any other eyes dart up from being bent over our spiral doodles, but fear attracting the attention and ire of my idol. Don’t be such a jerk, I say to myself.

Ahem, loving kindness anyone?

Day 2 begins with a group sing-a-long to the Underpants Gnomes theme song. Promising to say the least. I am in full-on brain crush mode for all things Lynda Barry. I scribble words that I hope will evoke the anecdotes and jokes she tells. Words to seed my retelling of the workshop to Mr. Crud later that day.

Our second assignment is to write something inspired by the word “Shock.” My first image is the darkened ultrasound room. Ah jeez, I chide myself, can we let that one be for a day? I have written recently and extensively on my close encounters with miscarriage shock. I write about something else.

After the requisite 8 minutes of writing, we bow our heads and begin our spirals. Out of the corner of my eye I catch the next reader and quickly look back to my spiral. She reads haltingly of the day that she learned she was pregnant and excitedly told her husband. Her voice grows quieter as she navigates the words, pausing to sniff back tears. I feel my eyes growing full. Oh no oh no oh no. I wanted to escape miscarriage for this weekend, for these precious 6 hours, but there is nowhere to run.

The woman takes a deep breath and reads the final sentence of the piece, her husband’s reaction to her pregnancy announcement. “Don’t get too excited. Sometimes these things don’t stick.” She breaks down into sobs. I want to run and sling an arm around her slight shoulders. “Did it take?” I want to ask her. Did it?

Tears are not uncommon during the course of the workshop. Men and women push back against the waters churning within. My turn comes during the lunch break. Lynda is signing books. I feel like a dope for forgetting my books. I’m not big on book signings. They feel weird to me. The purpose of the book signing is more a ruse to facilitate contact with the writer. Silly me, I have forgotten my ruse. Courtney plops down next to Lynda and inserts herself into every conversation Lynda has with the workshop participants lined up to get books signed.

“Audrey is totally going to read all your books,” she says.

“Do I sign it to you or Audrey?” Lynda asks.

Across the room I turn back to my PB & J and fume. It’s always the loud girls who command the attention of the writers I love. Likely because the writers are awkward and quiet like me and can relax into the feeling of not having to make conversation.

The woman who read her “Shock” piece sits a few tables over from me, picking at a bowl of noodles. Like me she is eavesdropping on Lynda and the booksignees. Her shoulders are stiff, her face closed and tight. Her lips are a thin lipsticked red line. When I look at her eyes I have to look away, the intensity of the sadness is so strong. I may cry if I look at her too long. Did it take? I still want to ask. Did it?

I crumple my napkin. Lynda is rubbing Courtney’s belly and kissing it. “For Audrey,” she says joyously.

Jealousy flashes. In different circumstances, Courtney and I might be bonding right now. I imagine our conversation.

“Yeah, I’m about 5 months along,” I would have said had Dewey lived.

“Oh girl, you are in for some fun.”

Sure, we wouldn’t have become best pals or anything but we could have had a pregnant lady bonding moment.

“I call Audrey my parasite,” Courtney says in real life. “My sweet little parasite.”

“Oooo, I LOVE parasites,” Lynda says.

That does it. I shoot out of my seat and bump into desks and chairs, but thankfully not any of the people in line on my way out the door. I walk the halls of the Convention Center and settle in a spot away from the hubbub of Wordstock and the 2008 Holiday Food and Gift Festival. My longing for my own parasite almost knocks me over. I want to break workshop rule #1 and talk to Shock Reader about her pregnancy. Did it take? Me neither.

I collect myself and return to the room for 2 more hours of writing exercises. Lynda gives us another word. We write. We spiral. Courtney’s voice sounds first.

She tells the story of the last time she saw Audrey’s father: He is in love with another woman, he doesn’t even want to know when Audrey is born. Courtney has shed her tough girl voice and breaks down into sobs. Still I feel hard towards her. On my spiral sheet I write “Y CANT U B KIND?”

Why indeed.

After the workshop Mr. Crud says, “You look happy. Really happy. I’m so glad.”

I feel happy too. A whole weekend of doing what I love with one of my favorite writers has put a spring in my step. I am exhausted and welcome the bed’s embrace.

That night I dream that I am getting an ultrasound after my D and C.

“The baby isn’t developing but it’s still alive,” the doctor says.

“How can that be?” I ask, upset that the D and C didn’t get everything.

The doctor shrugs his shoulders. My dream spirals into images of waiting rooms and the fluttering heartbeat on the ultrasound screen.

The symbolism is too heavy for even me to miss. My babies are still alive even if they aren’t developing, even if they are discarded cells in a biohazard garbage bag. I carry the weight of their absence. My embryos, my parasites.

Just Who the Hell Are You?

2008-11-21T11:31:00.000-08:00

While we wait for my mom’s sandwich to be prepared at the deli counter, we flip through baby gear in the gift section conveniently located near the counter. Mom is buying a travel sandwich for the long haul across the country tomorrow. Earlier she was filling up on cute onesies and books for her granddaughter—and my niece—Lyla.

“Isn’t that precious?” She says as I hold up baby t-shirts with pictures of gnomes, owls, and flowers on them.

“So cute,” I say.

Although I am not beyond feeling weird and slightly out-of-place in baby stores, I make myself face them and let the chips fall where they may. I try to remember how it felt to enter baby stores when I was a new aunt, thrilled to shower the first baby in the family with presents. It felt weird then too, but a different weird. Back then, a question mark hovered above my head as I browsed through tiny pants and striped hats. Will I ever have a baby? Now the question mark joins with an exclamation point. Will I ever have a fucking baby?!?

Near the deli counter, Mom and I coo over the cute offerings.

“I think I’ve gotten her enough already,” my mom says as she attempts to resist the ghome onesie.

A fifty-ish woman of the aging urban hippie variety approaches us, holding a card. “Excuse me, are you a new mother?” She asks me.

I shake my head.

“Are either of you mothers?”

I point to my mom. “She is.”

“I’m her mother.” My mom squeezes my arm.

“Can I get your advice on something?” The woman asks.

A friend of hers is recently pregnant. She is hunting for the right card. She pulls her hand back to reveal the one in her hand. A fat baby with “Alive” printed on its diaper and a mushroom plopped on its head stretches its limbs. It was exactly the sort of card that I would have loved to receive. Strange but joyful.

“So, what do you think? Is this a good card?” She asks.

“I like it,” I say. “It’s weird for sure, but good-weird.”

She holds the card up to my mom. “You’re a mother. What do YOU think? Too weird?”

I don’t exactly reel from her segregation of the two of us into mother and non-mother camps. I steel myself as I have been doing all weekend. I wanted my mom’s visit to be all silly family stories and laughter and shopping for shoes and baby stuff for Lyla. Whenever miscarriage threatens to intrude on our weekend together I grit my teeth and mutter some seemingly emotionally present thing like, “There are ups and downs, but we’re good.”

At Lauro on Friday for Mom’s birthday dinner, I remained seated throughout the entire dinner although my bladder threatened to burst. The one server, our favorite server, who we told about the pregnancy—more accurately she dragged it out of me when she didn’t believe my blithe comment that I drank cranberry juice instead of a martini due to “doctor’s orders”--is working.

As she zips by our table, I conjure an awkward conversation about how she really should not have pressed me about the cranberry juice.

“Why couldn’t you have chalked it up to some sort of cleanse?” I want to ask.

I drink my martini in salty slurps. Does she see me? Has she put the pieces of the puzzle together? Whatever happens, I pray she doesn’t throw me a pitying looks. I’ve had my lifetime fill of pitying looks.

I don’t want to let my mother into this mine-laden wasteland of undeveloped fetuses and tears. The misery in her voice when I told her of the first miscarriage haunts me still. I can only imagine how hard it is to witness your children suffer. Maybe this is my rationalization for my temporary denial. Maybe I really am my mother’s child and am not as comfortable expressing my emotions as I’m always claiming. At least not with her.

My mom considers the card in Aging Hippie Woman’s hand, casting a sideways glance at her for her disregard of my childless opinion.

“It’s cute,” she says.

“Oh, but it’s so early. Maybe I shouldn’t.” The woman says. “You know—“

Her trailing off voice contains the sum of my pregnancy experience. I am a boogeywoman. All the “you know” happened to me.

“That’s always a danger,” I say, forcing my way back into the conversation.

My mom rubs my back quickly, a band-aid swipe for all the “you know.”

“Well, you could always get it now and then keep it for a few months,” Mom says.

“That’s what I’m going to do,” the woman smiles. “Sorry for bothering you. Thanks.”

She walks away with her card. I lead us out of the baby stuff aisle and pick up a box of cute dog stationary before Mom can say anything about the interaction. “Isn’t this adorable?”

Only cute can save us now.

Due

2008-11-03T15:50:00.000-08:00

The due date for Primo was October 19, 2008. I remember finding it out via the Fertility Friend.com due date calculator. My first thought: that baby better not be born on my birthday! Then, oh sweet, our kiddo will be an October baby. One of a fine breed if you ask me. I wrote “Due Date!!!!” on my desk calendar and etched the number in my mind. October 19. Of course, after the first ultrasound of doom, the date took on a confused character. I scribbled out my exclamation points in my desk calendar, but wiping it from the brain proves more difficult. I had plans to do something special in honor of Primo on the 19th.

“Like go out for dinner?” Mr. Crud said, knowing that I am wont to mark any special date, positive or negative, with a dirty martini (so convenient how you can use drinking for celebrations or as an emotional crutch) and a plate of fried calamari and Piri Piri sauce at Lauro.

“Maybe. Or light a candle or something.” I said.

Mr. Crud and I intend to mark the loss of both our babies-to-be-that-never-were in some way, but haven’t stumbled on something that feels organic, that feels like us. Mr. Crud’s cousin remembered her first pregnancy loss by saying a prayer then releasing an apple into the river, waving good-bye as it floated away. I loved that image. We considered making a paper boat, the S.S. Primo, and sending it off into the Columbia during a visit to Astoria a month after MC #1, but it was too soon and we wanted a weekend away from thinking about the miscarriage after being immersed in it for so long.

On lazy Saturday mornings, the issue of how to remember Primo, and now Dewey, floats to the surface during our drowsy chats. We remain unable to commit. Probably on some level, reluctant to say good-bye, to invite that overwhelming sadness back in even as it runs strong through our veins.

Friday night I met up with my yoga buddy, Mirjana, to celebrate her upcoming trip to India to study yoga with the grandson of the guru of our style of yoga. Over glasses of rose, I lost track of Primo’s upcoming due date. My tongue loosened after a half of a bottle, I attempted to explain the difficulty of Miscarriage World, how—as an awesome reader and friend of crud pointed out—language is inadequate to talk about miscarriage. Is there a word for the shitty swamp that envelopes me whenever I read a Facebook status update about a friend’s excitement over her pregnancy? I love my friends. I am glad to the depths of my heart and soul that most have not been privy to the sadness of infertility or pregnancy loss. Still, I feel left out, wistful. When I found out about my second pregnancy I was so excited to be able to share my symptoms, joy, fear with my pregnant friends. Now I feel torn. Ripped, in fact, between wanting to be there with them and share in their experiences and wanting to pretend it isn’t happening, that I am not THAT friend, the unlucky one with the clingy uterus and failed eggs.

Of course I am far from alone. I list the names of the other women who have been through this, who are going through this in their own Miscarriage World sublets. I whisper their names when I see that another old friend is pregnant. A new form of affirmation to replace the twice failed “My baby is healthy and safe” that I once repeated daily after my yoga practice.

As we stumbled into the cool fall night, Mirjana told me that she was here for me, that she didn’t know what to say, but that she was here to listen and witness.

“That is totally enough,” I said.

On the up side, nobody has told me that this loss was “meant to be.” In part this is due to the fact that I haven’t shared the news with any of the past meant-to-be-ers. Meant-to-be speak is now an automatic disqualification. “It was G-d’s way” will also get you thrown out of the exclusive club of Crud pregnancy updates. Poor you.

All weekend I felt the loss bubbling beneath the surface. During my massage, tears sprung to my eyes. And then the dam broke.

Saturday night Mr. Crud and I went to a play courtesy of a coolio actor coworker who just happens to be part of the hot theatre company in town. Through a perfect storm of bad timing moments, I ended up in the bathroom when the doors closed and the performance began. Oblivious to this fact, I walked back to the door where I had entered the theatre, which also happened to be the door close to the stage. I pulled on the handle. A blonde woman flew from behind the folding table that served as the box office. She pushed the door shut, hissing, “What are you doing?”

I felt like I had been punched. “I thought the play started at 8:00,” I said.

“No! 7:30.”

“Oh my G-d, I’m so sorry,” I said and skulked away, tears of shame burning my eyeballs. Guess I’ll be spending my night sobbing in the bathroom, I thought. At least until intermission.

The coolio actor coworker came up behind you. “It’s okay. She thought you were sneaking in. It’s fine. I’ll just let you in here.” He marched me up to the back entrance, opened the door, and I slipped down the aisle, taking my seat a minute into the play (or so I was assured by Mr. Crud, “You didn’t miss anything.”).

Around me people laughed at the brilliant dark comedy happening two rows in front of my hunched form. Try as I might to dam the tide, the tears flowed freely. I did my best to keep my gusher to myself. I waited for the big laughs to sniffle. I licked the snot that got away off the top of my lip. I dabbed my tears with my shawl. All in all, Mr. Crud rated my performance at pretending not to be totally weeping during a play to be top shelf. “I barely noticed,” he said.

The more I thought about the fact that I was crying my eyes out during a comedy, that the actors on stage might be able to see my tear-stained face, or catch a snippet of my sniffles made the tears fall even harder. I am an inappropriate weeper. It’s a blessing and a curse depending on the moment. A blessing because in theory I am letting the emotional rivers flow, letting go in a physical way. After a jag, I feel tired but clean. A curse because it can be damn embarrassing. Crying in front of a class full of people has happened at pretty much every age in my educational career. Not to mention the inevitable moment when I get all bubbly-eyed in front of my boss, which has happened with every boss I’ve ever had. Some roll with it better than others. Most are willing to trade my competence for a few uncomfortable moments. It doesn’t happen every time something doesn’t go my way but when I’m experiencing undercurrents of emotional craziness the tears are close to the surface. Pinch me and I bleed.

After intermission I stemmed the teary tide. Then came the late thirties female lead yelled, “I want a baby!” and a few more dribbled out.

Mr. Crud and I blasted out of the theater as soon as the play ended. Had I seen the hisser or my coolio coworker, I would have burst into tears afresh. We escaped without any further damage to my makeup job.

“The way I see it, you weren’t going to get out of there without crying,” Mr. Crud said.

“Good point.”

“I don’t think you were crying because that lady yelled at you,” he said.

We shared a laugh over the play, which though advertised as a comedy was most definitely not a comedy. More accurately it was a relationship drama about people who used comedy to keep from being sucked under by the tragedy.

“I felt very meta. I tried laughing to cover my crying while the characters were masking their own misery by laughing but then everyone ended up miserable.”

Sunday brought more reasons to be sad. A couple of weeks ago one of Mr. Crud’s colleagues committed suicide. She was a beautiful, smart, neato woman of our age. A wife, a mother to a five-year-old and someone I’d casually met at his office functions and the grocery store where we shared a laugh about how she, a feminist academic, was buying her daughter doll toys. Mr. Crud had interviewed her and her husband as part of his thesis research. It seemed totally inconceivable that she was dead and that she had made the decision to die.

Mr. Crud and I attended the memorial service at a retreat center in the Gorge. I was sniffing back tears as soon as I took a seat. Who am I crying for, I wondered. Is this for the tragedy that I saw in all the faces around me or for my own sadness? For Primo who was supposed to be born today? Am I piggybacking on someone else’s funeral? Several times during the shared remembrances, the reading of poems and music I had to restrain myself from breaking into hysterical sobs. Too much, too much, I kept thinking.

After the remembrances we moved outside. The air had turned chilly with a layer of fog resting on the evergreens across the gorge. The husband read a poem and then took a photo of Mr. Crud’s colleague and burned it over a bowl. He looked into her paper eyes and wept. I could only watch him for a second before turning away. Too much, too much. Was the burning cathartic? I had already thrown away the pee stick from Primo but still had an ultrasound photo and pee stick leftover from Dewey. Maybe burning is the way to go. A release.

I can imagine myself years from now pulling open a box filled with the paperwork from my D and C, the ultrasound photo, and other random effluvia of these two doomed pregnancies and crying more tears for my babies-to-be-that-never-were. My ghost children. Every morning I say a prayer for them, I wish them peace and imagine that my father and grandmother are watching over them. I think of the pregnancy loss counselor’s image of the babies-to-be-that-never-were being absorbed into the ocean of the universal consciousness. Maybe it is better to burn and let go than to keep objects to fondle in moments of future sadness.

I’m still figuring it out. And glad that due date #1 has come and gone. I have until April 17 to come up with my miscarried baby mourning system.

Mystery Solved

2008-10-23T15:15:00.000-07:00

I pick up the messages on my work voicemail. Message #1 is from Sara, genetic counselor. We have been playing phone tag despite my initial plan to not call her back right away.

“What? What does ‘you’ll call her back next week’ mean?” Mr. Crud asked me as we lay in bed last night.

“Next week is what it means.” I pulled the covers tighter around my chin.

“Not Monday?”

“I don’t want to talk about this right before bed,” I said.

The truth was that I had grown comfortable in the post-D and C world of not knowing. What if there was an answer? What if was my fault?

I called her back. She called me back on two different lines. Then she called Mr. Crud at home. The second voicemail message was from him.

“Good news, uh, sorta. The tests found a chromosomal abnormality so this miscarriage is unrelated to the first one.”

Yay? Chromosome 23 is the culprit. The miscarriage was destined to happen from the moment of conception. Embryos with this abnormality don’t make it past 11 weeks so there wasn’t any risk of Down’s Syndrome or the other feared conditions listed in Sara’s notebook. The chance of this happening was 1 in 149. Should we play the lottery?

Mr. Crud’s message continues. “Oh, they also found out that you aren’t a carrier for Cystic Fibrosis.”

Good news, of course, but I know Mr. Crud is a little bit disappointed. If I had been a carrier then they would have tested him too and all through both pregnancies, Mr. Crud has hungered to be tested for something. When the doctors tell us that only I need a blood draw, Mr. Crud face takes on a momentary “what-about-me” sadness.

His time has come! For the tests that they would like to run on us, to rule out more systematic chromosomal problems, both Mr. Crud and I will have blood drawn. Sara tells us that there is no rush. And I feel no rush to get back on the pregnancy train. I have been thoroughly enjoying dirty martinis, sushi, bean sprout-laden spring rolls, stinky, unpasteurized cheeses of all kinds, and a few cigarettes here and there. The cigarettes bother me the most. During the pregnant days, I liked the feeling that I had stepped off the cancer train. Self-righteousness is among my favorite natural highs and now when I partake of a smoke, I also trade in my well-worn high horse. Alas.

The only times I feel the pregnancy urgency return is when I hear about my friends getting pregnant, mostly through Facebook status updates. When I read that Old High School Friend is hunting for daycare for the twins she’s expecting, the tears well. Or New Adult Friend has learned the sex of her baby, I sigh. I get an email from Old College Friend who says all the right consolations about my miscarriage until I get to the next paragraph…she’s pregnant too. I feel genuinely happy for her.

And sad for me.

Our kids would have been born close together. We could have gone through their stages together, comparing notes on who is smiling, walking, babbling sounds that we swear sound like “Mom.” I mourn the experience of being pregnant with my friends. I mourn unmitigated joy when I read their preg-related status updates and emails. I am happy for them and glad that they have been spared this claustrophobic world of miscarriages. I am also sad for me, for Mr. Crud, for my yoga friend and her 2 miscarriages, for the band friends of Mr. Crud, Liz and Mark and their recent loss, for the woman who used to be my manager at my record store job years ago who found me on Facebook and shared her story of 2 miscarriages in a row. The loss of pregnancy innocence is another death that I revisit even as I had hoped to leave it behind after miscarriage #1.

In a conversation with my brother, he reminds me that fear during pregnancy is just the beginning. The other night my sister-in-law awoke to their child making weird snurfling noises and unable to make eye contact with either parent. They flew into a terrified frenzy that something was WRONG with their daughter. The doctor talked them down and advised them to feed their daughter, which was the trick that brought her back from whatever haze she had fallen into.

“I mean it’s easier because you can see them breathing and know what’s going on with them,” my brother says. “But birth is just the beginning of a-whole-nother world of worry.”

That’s what we have to look forward to?

This About Sums Things Up

2008-10-22T09:54:00.001-07:00

Thanks to Julie for directing me to this great article about Miscarriage World in the NY Times.

There Will Be Blood Clots

2008-10-15T10:46:00.000-07:00

Remind me not to schedule my next genetic counseling and ultrasound appointment on any sort of major or minor holiday. The first ultrasound of doom came April Fool’s Day. The second came last Tuesday on the first day of Rosh Hashanah. L’shana tova my ass.

Our second trip to the OHSU Center for Health and Healing or as we are now calling it the Center for Disappointment and Sadness begins with enough promise. The sun bounces off the windows of the Streetcar that take us to our appointment. Sara, our genetic counselor, greets us with smiles and congratulations, also a cute new blonde hair color. I say a silent vow to get my highlights re-highlighted as soon as possible. The trimester of safety and sickness concludes in one week. I can’t wait to check out the dimensions of the 2nd trimester, the best trimester. Pregnancy only means nausea, exhaustion, and sore boobs to me at this point.

“It must be strange coming back here,” Sara says, gesturing for us to sit down in the chairs where 6 months ago we had cried and learned what the terms “molar pregnancy” and “missed abortion” meant. Sara gave us tissues and cups of water to take on our return trip to work that day. I remember the details of the room as if I had been here yesterday—the brushed metal mini-refrigerator, the stacks of tissue boxes on metal shelves, the notebook with graphic representations of genes and lists of occurrences of Down Syndrome by maternal age sprawled on the table.

“Yeah,” I say. “It’s kind of traumatic.” I laugh nervously and sniff away tears.
She takes a seat across from us. “We have no reason to believe that what happened before will happen again.” We nod solemnly.

Briefly we review the tutorial of sequential screening that she had given us 6 months ago. We have no questions. She sends us off to kill time before the ultrasound as the technician is running almost an hour behind schedule.

“You’d think after the last time they wouldn’t make us wait,” I say as we step into the elevator.

“At least we can leave.”

Mr. Crud and I step into the cool fall afternoon. “Those 15 minutes cost us $204,” I say.

“Really?”

“Genetic counseling isn’t covered for some reason even though it seems like it would cost the insurance company less to do non-invasive testing first.”

“Fucked up,” Mr. Crud says.

We walk to a private beach on the South Waterfront. Signs warning us of private property abound but residents are scarce. The slowdown in condo sales has been especially cruel to this burgeoning area. We spy a group of yarmulke-topped heads around a table in one of the glass window condo boxes.

“L’shana tova?” I say and look to Mr. Crud for affirmation.

“That’s right.”

Slowly but surely I am learning my Jewish holiday greetings. I am all over Hanukkah and working on my Rosh Hashanah and Passover. Haven’t quite made it to Yom Kippur but I know that I’m supposed to be somber and wish folks an easy fast.

We find a bench and share a blueberry muffin lest the ever-lurking nausea get me in its grips during a key moment of our appointment. This could me my last hour as a pregnant woman, I think. Despite my uneasy détente with the worried voices in my head that this pregnancy isn’t going as well as everyone believes, I still can’t help planning for a bad outcome. I did the same before our first ultrasound at 8 weeks, writing out the speech I’d tell my boss in my head as the doctor smiled and directed our eyes to the fluttering heartbeat on the screen.

Some of the internet boards and well-meaning friends suggest that even allowing such negative thoughts to exist creates a danger to my pregnancy. With all due respect, I think not. My friend Angela had 2 miscarriages between the births of her 2 daughters and she didn’t stop worrying the entire time she was pregnant with her second daughter…which didn’t make her youngest daughter any less real or healthy.

“I barely believed she was real after she had been born,” my friend said, assuring me that my worry was nothing to worry about.

Please people, stop telling pregnant women not to worry, to focus on the positive and implying that worrying is the reason for their miscarriages or infertility. If negative thoughts could end pregnancies, there would be no need for abortion or for women with unwanted pregnancies to worry about ending their pregnancies: “Yeah, I’m knocked up again but I’ll just tell the little fucker to scram and that ought to do the trick.” I can see this opening up a whole new unsavory can of women’s rights worms.

Sometimes I feel like I have to defend my right to feel a little anxious about being pregnant after a miscarriage. For the most part I’ve remained calm and positive although I’ve had moments of fear and worry. I think that being honest about my fears, experiencing them and letting them go is healthier than denying them. Denial leads to a heap of shrill voices that come screaming at me at 3 in the morning, commanding to be heard.

A few minutes before our rescheduled appointment time we head back to the ultrasound office. Here we wait for another 45 minutes as the doctor apologetically explains that the person before us is pregnant with triplets.

“I hope everything is okay,” I said.

Mr. Crud nods.

Finally the doctor ushers us into the room of my nightmares. The framed pictures of Audrey Hepburn and Meryl Streep gaze upon me as I hike down my pants and underwear in preparation for the squirt of jelly on my belly.

Mr. Crud has requested that a doctor sit in on the ultrasound so that if anything is wrong we won’t have the agonizing wait, so that we won’t have to hear the words “I’m not seeing what I’m expecting here. Let me get the doctor” again.

Dr. Toloso is the doctor of the day and he willingly agrees to come along on our second ultrasound voyage. He explains what will be happening, the possible meanings of what they might see, and also reassures us that even if they cannot see well with the stomach cam that the vaginal cam does not automatically mean that we are doomed.

“I know you are very nervous, Katherine. We’ll do this as quickly as possible,” he says with a charming accent.

The technician, Chrissy who is different than the Chris of last time’s ultrasound, pushes the wand around my belly, and presses buttons that emit a beeping sound from the machine. I stare at the ceiling as tears stream down my face. After a few seconds I know. It’s happening again. This is how it happens.

Dr. Toloso tells me that a vaginal ultrasound is necessary. He instructs me to empty my bladder. Numb, I walk across the hall and pee. So distracted am I that I leave the bathroom door wide open and don’t give even the tiniest of shits.

Mr. Crud and I hug before I undress. “He said this doesn’t necessarily mean anything bad,” Mr. Crud says.

The tears keep coming. I take off my pants and stick my feet in the stirrups. Dr. Toloso and Chrissy return. The probe goes in and the wand wiggling and beeping recommence. Dr. Toloso asks questions as he watches the screen:

Are you still experiencing symptoms?
When was your last ultrasound?
Have you experienced any cramping?

The charade is up shortly thereafter. “Katherine, I’m sorry to tell you that things are not going well.”

It appears the newest Peabody incarnation, who I have named Dewey (close to the Italian word for Due, meaning 2), died shortly after the first ultrasound which revealed the heartbeat, around 8 weeks. My clingy uterus is at it again.

“But why didn’t I just have a miscarriage?” I ask Dr. Toloso. “Why didn’t my body get rid of it?”

Next to the whole having a miscarriage thing, this bothers me the most. Why in the fuck does my body not know when the thing it is carrying around inside of it dies? Why must I become a walking casket?

“You would have eventually had a miscarriage,” Dr. Toloso says.

The pregnancy loss counselor who we saw after MC#1 said the same thing. I don’t find it comforting. My uterus does not know when to let go, when to say good-bye to the squatter. My 13-year-old-girl hopeful uterus: If I just keep pretending, maybe it will be true. Sorry, kid. Carl Perry wasn’t secretly falling in love with you during 8th grade gym class and this pregnancy ain’t happening.

Dr. Toloso tells me to get dressed and that he will be back and we can discuss my options. I need no discussion. “I want a D and C with Dr. Bednarek tomorrow morning or as soon as possible.” I know my way around the missed abortion block and the one thing I know for sure is I don’t want this dead embryo floating around inside of my uterus and making me feel tired and nauseous another moment more. Strangely enough, my pregnancy symptoms disappear after I get the news. Suddenly I am wide awake and the nausea vanishes. Great, now my brain is in on it too, tricking me into thinking I’m pregnant with well-placed dry heaves and cravings for cheese.

Dr. Toloso leaves to make the arrangements for abortion #2 as I get dressed. Mr. Crud and I hug and cry. “Why is this happening?” Mr. Crud asks.

“This happens to a lot of people,” I say. This comforts me for about 2 seconds.

Nobody knows why it’s happening. Not Dr. Toloso nor Dr. Bednarek or Dr. Risser. Dr. Toloso offers us tests after we have recovered from this latest chapter of doomed pregnancy. Dr. Bednarek assures us—although I don’t remember as I got so high on Ativan that I saw double—that we will have a child. Dr. Bednarek’s resident reminds me that medically recurrent miscarriages aren’t considered a problem until a woman has three in a row. We may want to reconsider doing the tests at this point, she says. Mr. Crud wants to do the tests. He worries that the miscarriages are somehow his fault. Even though we are assured and reassured that the miscarriages are nobody’s fault, the both of us take the blame. I murmur angry curses at my uterus, my vagina, my still overgrown pregnant boobs. I know that this isn’t helpful but the words slip out. “Go the fuck away,” I say to my boobs as I wrestle them into my too-small bra. “Nobody needs you anymore.”

The D and C goes about the same as the last time although we have traded the large operating-type room for a cramped examination room (for a savings of $1200!). The tall awesome nurse, Lisa, from the last time brings me my drugs and checks on us after the procedure is done. We talk books and again I am frustrated at how I trip over my words under the influence of anti-anxiety meds. She tells me that I am known as the “Cool Boot Woman” around the OHSU Women’s Health Center. Dr. Bednarek rushed out to buy the same pair of turquoise cowboy boots that I wore to my first D and C. Another resident picked up a pair in lime green. Consumer desire grips me. I want lime green! I vow to myself to go on a mission during my days off of work. Glimmering green boots pull me out of the gathering funk…for about 3 seconds.

All maxi-padded up, Mr. Crud and I head home where I wolf down a smoke salmon bagel and spend the rest of the day snoozing on the couch.

I decide to stay home from work the rest of the week. My days are spent checking the maxi pads for overly large blood clots and crying. My boss is awesome, telling me that they’ll survive without me at work even though it is the first week of fall term, arguably the busiest days of the year. Mr. Crud stays home when he can and we fall into each other’s arms at double the rate of our normal hugging schedule.

I bleed.

I bleed some more.

I contemplate my membership in a new sisterhood: the recurrent miscarriage club. After the first miscarriage, I hoped that I would never see the dimensions of this new clubhouse: the “Why me?” wallpaper and red hot anger blasting from the furnace. “Most women only have one miscarriage,” the websites, doctors, and books assured. Most then added a statement about how most women who have more than one miscarriage eventually go on to have a successful pregnancy. How big is eventually? 2 miscarriages? 7? My friend Angela decided that she could have 7 miscarriages before throwing in the childbearing towel. “I saw some statistic that 80% if women who have miscarriages have a successful pregnancy.” I no longer find comfort in statistics. My latest pregnancy had a less than 13% chance of miscarriage. I’m beating the odds. Hooray for special me.

Sunday morning I am awoken by killer cramps that only 2 Vicodin chase away. Do these count as severe cramps? Should I call the doctor? That afternoon I stand up from my fetal position to use the bathroom and a huge clump—though not larger than the egg the pamphlet warns me to look for—passes through me onto the pad. I sit on the toilet and hyperventilate. This is so fucking gross. I want to call Mr. Crud in to share in the gore. It’s almost fascinating. The miracle of death and all that, but I spare him and wrap it up in a plastic grocery bag. I jam it deep into the trashcan. I curse maxi-pad world.

The rest of the day is a blur of bloody pads, cramps, and Mr. Crud bearing mugs of Peppermint tea. I dread returning to work the next day although I don’t feel as tortured by the question of to tell the coworkers or not to tell. I decide against making the grand email announcement that I did last time. One miscarriage is sad; the second one seems careless. My coworkers are great, but I loathe the looks of pity that I received. Most people don’t know dick about miscarriage and my attempts at education must come through sniffles and tears that I don’t have the time or energy to shed this time around.

I email the friends who I had let into the pregnancy world. The sorry-s and why-s come fast and furious. Each kind word brings fresh tears. Even though this sucks harder than almost anything I’ve been through, I am overcome with gratitude for my friends and family and their expressions of kindness: a quiche dinner with Tracy and Ezra while their 8-month-old paddles around the floor; a care package from Dan and Anna with a note that makes me ache to hug them; Dawn and Eric bringing us out of our mourning bubble with a dinner at the Savoy, phone calls and emails and enough love to make me feel lucky instead of unlucky. I play my usual misery game and think of those who are alone, who can’t find comfort with loved ones. So many more suffer more than this on a daily basis.

I get an email from a yoga pal who asks why I’ve been away for a week. I share the news even though I hadn’t told her of my pregnancy. She tells me that she experienced her second miscarriage during the summer. She and her husband found answers at a local fertility clinic. I google immediately.

I feel weird doing all the tests like we are trying too hard for a biological baby. I didn’t think I would be one of those women who would do anything for a baby born of her materials. Mr. Crud and I have already discussed adoption. At first I didn’t think I’d ever want this, but I’m warming to the idea. I think adoption is awesome in theory and I love to see multi-ethnic families roaming the neighborhood. However I never fail to think about the couple’s struggles with infertility or miscarriages. Now I puzzle over their back story. I cringe to think that somebody would do the same to us. (Insert speech to self about how I need to stop caring so much about what other people think.)

For the time being I have no answers. Just an ever-multiplying stable of questions. One thing I know for sure: I really REALLY want a dog now.

Take 2?

2008-09-15T16:27:00.000-07:00

July 2008

This month Mr. Crud and I officially revved our engines and returned to the TTC* path. Last month was more of a dare: let’s see if we can knock me up without trying or me acting like a pregnant woman should. This month, we got serious even though we are both terrified. It was easy enough. I input my menstrual period date into a couple of websites, came up with conflicting answers as to when I’d be ovulating so I decided to cast a wide net. Neither Mr. Crud nor I minded. Sex is pretty darn fun if you can keep yourself from getting too tired to do it.

So we did it. I returned to my cervical fluid scrutinizing ways and we did it. That was 2 weeks ago.

I quit smoking during the doing-it phase. Might as well do it right this time, I reasoned. I finished my (supposed) last glass of wine and puffed my last puff and was a good girl for a whole week. Then the mental gymnastics set in. This might be your very last chance to be able to smoke and drink for over a year! Get going, lady. The timing was too perfect. Last Wednesday Mr. Crud had an early drum practice. We dined a half hour early and he set off for a night’s worth of drumming. Minutes after he slammed the door closed, I was out the door and marching to the Plaid Pantry three blocks away. Cigarettes: check! I was relieved to find that they also had wine and not the terrible Boones Farm-Thunderbird selection that I feared. My quitting quitting would not force me to walk 5 more blocks to the grocery store. It almost seemed meant to be (a phrase that I am especially hostile to at the moment): I am meant to smoke a cigarette and drink wine!

At home I thoroughly enjoyed my vices. I told myself that I probably wasn’t pregnant because I hadn’t been feeling odd like I had the first time around. No sudden moments of weird smells, no cramping, no queasy waves.

I spent my free time at work scouring the internet for early pregnancy symptoms. I know them by heart: tender breasts, mild cramping (which are both also premenstrual symptoms as well—way to go Intelligent Design), fatigue, nausea. I don’t exactly know what I was looking for aside from some super secret way to find out if you’re pregnant a week after having sex.

Let the body scrutiny begin! Were those mild cramps due to a fertilized embryo implanting in my uterus or just an extension of my recent bout of digestive distress.

“Well, I’ve had diarrhea the past few days,” I said to Mr. Crud, “so I’m probably not pregnant.”

“Uh. I don’t think those have anything to do with each other.”

Are my boobs tender because of pregnancy or because I’m poking them all the time?
“Do my boobs look bigger to you?” I asked Mr. Crud after cupping them, staring at them, taking a profile view in the bathroom mirror.

“I don’t know.”

Is my hair falling out less? I watch the comb in the shower and remind myself that the previous month I had also believed my normal hair loss to have halted.

(Aside: Because I have a weird feeling that I am destined for 2 miscarriages, I have decided that I was indeed pregnant last month but that all my drinking, smoking, sauna-ing caused me to miscarry. I really did think I was pregnant last month. I felt a tingling in my lady regions, which ended with the big tingle in the form of cramps and heavy flow. Sound reasonable to you?)

Am I tired because work is tiring or is this a return to the exhaustion level of tired from the pg times?

Last night I awoke three times to pee in the middle of the night. I have not had such heavy midnight bathroom activity since I was pregnant. Or maybe I was just anxious and getting up to pee was a way to release the tension (in the form of urine? Uh maybe.).

Each mention of potential symptoms turns Mr. Crud edgy. During the first go-round my mention of symptoms made us both shriek “Eeeeee!” but this time we hug each other and reassure each other that no matter what happens, we’ll be okay. After learning about the first pregnancy, we grappled with issues of are we ready to be parents? Do we really want to be parents? Now, we know that we want to be parents. We know that we switched into the roles of future parents with relative ease. Now we also know how much there is to lose, which is the root of our anxiety. I try to imagine how it will feel if the pregnancy test that I take in three days—assuming I haven’t gotten my period by that time—is positive. The fear and joy are intertwined. As much as I tell myself that the odds are with me to have a normal, healthy pregnancy and a normal, healthy baby, I can’t shake the memory of the ultrasound room or imagine a new venue for bad news. “I’m not expecting what I’m seeing here. I should get the doctor.” The fear and joy are the creepy twin girls from The Shining. They hold hands and stare at me, mute and impassive, as blood rushes around us.

“I’m sorry I keep putting you on a rollercoaster,” I tell Mr. Crud after he gives me a frightened look at the mention of a brief moment of nausea.

“It’s okay. You should be able to share this with me. I’m just scared,” he says.

We hug. We hold each other and wonder if we are still alone in this thing or if some combination of us bumps around inside my uterus, a mess of dividing cells, which G-d willing, will keep on dividing.

* TTC means "Trying to Conceive" to those of you not schooled in the online pregnancy lingo.

Introducing Peabody 2

2008-09-15T15:37:00.000-07:00

The Peabody Project Chronicles was my blog-to-be about my first pregnancy. Sadly this pregnancy ended in miscarriage—technically a “missed abortion—on that most foolish of days, April 1, and I never published a word of the 60 pages I’d written. Losing the pregnancy was devastating, an experience that changed me, and the way I view my body and the world profoundly. Mr. Crud, my husband’s nom de blog, and I knew that we would try again, that the odds were in our favor for a successful pregnancy, and so after waiting the suggested three months, we did.

When I received a positive pregnancy test August 9, 2008, 8 months after the first positive pregnancy test, I was not overcome with joy or relief, but fear. Shit. What if it happens all over again? What have we gotten ourselves into this time? Shit fuck shit. The easy optimism of my first pregnancy vanished with the miscarriage. As much as I assured myself with statistics and the fact that I had no control over whether this pregnancy would end in miscarriage, my fingers went cold with terror.

During the early days of the miscarriage I found solace in hearing the voices of other women who had been through a similar experience. I emailed family members and friends who shared their experiences. I read books. I spent a lot of time googling “miscarriage” and “missed abortion” and “pregnancy after miscarriage.” I still google.

Now I feel like it is time to add my voice to the chorus by sharing my experiences with pregnancy after miscarriage. Unlike the first time, I have not waited the recommended 3 months to tell people about my pregnancy. I ended up telling everyone about my miscarriage anyway, so why hold back? Please don’t feel like you should hold back either. Comments are welcome and encouraged. The blog is about 2 months behind where I am now—about 9 weeks pregnant—as I started writing immediately upon learning I was pregnant but have been too busy to get the blog off the ground until now.

Peabody was the joke name that Mr. Crud and I gave the child we hoped to have. After the miscarriage, we soul searched to a seemingly ridiculous degree about whether the name Peabody died with the first embryo. We never really decided one way or another, but soon started using Peabody again. The name embodies the child we hoped to have and because that hope did not die, the name didn't either. I have named the miscarried soul, Primo, the Italian word for first.

Thanks to all the friends, old and new, who have shared their experiences with me.