The Main Event

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.

Turning Point

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.

The Pregnant Card

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.

The Whole Truth

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.

Phew 2: Ultrasound Boogaloo

7-17-09

I awake at 3:50 a.m. for the last of my three middle-o’-the-night potty breaks. (After traversing the length of the house in the dead of night thrice nightly, I now appreciate why a bathroom in the master bed is a smashing idea.) I return to bed and assume my favored and short-lived sleeping position, on my stomach. I close my eyes and there he is: Dr. #2 in the Audrey Hepburn ultrasound room, “I’m sorry, things are not going well.” Shit. The ghosts of ultrasounds past have been visiting me the past few days and this morning they are relentless. I flip over and breathe into my belly (Yoga breathing! Yoga breathing!!), but it’s no use. I’m awake. Thank g-d I only have another hour to wait until the alarm sounds.

Then yoga, which pushes back the clamoring thoughts. Lucky for me my yoga teacher decides today is the day that he’ll focus in on the weaknesses in my chaturanga dandasana to upward dog transition. Yay? At least his focus on my asanas lets my mind go to the “please leave me alone, hard yoga teacher” place instead of thinking of the doomed scenarios that could result from this afternoon’s ultrasound. When I say good-bye to my teacher and yoga pals, I leave out my usual “See you tomorrow” in case I don’t.

Work carries me along on its tide of to-dos although I can barely concentrate. I surf the web in search of distraction. Thank you, dlisted.com. I lunch with my pal, Naomi, and am so so happy to talk about the happenings in her life instead of mine. I sum up my day with, “It’s nerve-wracking and scary, but what can you do?”

2:30 rolls around. I go to unlock my bike and find that another bike is wedged in against mine, making it impossible to remove my bike without some serious wrangling. “Thanks, asshole. Maybe try not being a total fuckwad next time,” I say loudly. I glance at the parking attendant’s station. Not there. Good. I’ll be the crazy lady who talks to herself soon enough around these parts, but I try to keep a decent rep while I can. Finally I extract my bike, reconnect my brake cable, which my removal gymnastics had pulled loose, and kick the tire of the offending bike. “Fucker.” Misplaced aggression anyone?

Mr. Crud rolls into the loading lane and packs me and my banged up chariot into the car.

“You okay?” He asks.

“I think so.”

We kiss and head up to the Perinatology Center on the hill.

“I wonder if they brought Audrey with them from the other office,” I say.

“I hope not.”

After a short wait, Super Tall Ultrasound Dude (STUD) from our first ultrasound of doom appears in the door. “Katherine?” (I do mean super tall—he’s easily 6’6”*.)

We stand up. Shit. Did it have to be him again? I wonder if he is praying almost as hard as we are that everything is normal, that he doesn’t have to use his prepared bad news speech (“I’m not seeing what I expect here. I’ll be back with the doctor.”) a second time.

“How are things going?” He asks as I lay down on the table.

“So far so good,” I say.

“We met about a year ago, right?” He says.

“Yep,” I say, fighting the urge to add “on one of the worst days of my life in fact.”

“You’ve had 2 losses, correct?” He says as he flips on the machine and grabs the warm goo for my belly.

“Yes.”

“I bet you’re feeling pretty anxious.”

“Oh yes,” I say. Understatement of the year. I’m surprised that I haven’t crapped my pants to be honest.

I roll down the waistband of my pants. He tucks in the towel and covers my potbelly with goo. This time I don’t look away from the screen but stare head-on. Come on, Purvis. You were here just 2 weeks ago. Don’t let me down.

He rubs the sensor over my belly and finds what he’s looking for. “Things look good,” he says quickly.

“Thank you,” I say.

As he moves the sensor around, finding Purvis’ body: arms, legs (crossed at the ankle), head, heartbeat and various markers of an 11-week ultrasound, he clicks pictures and reassures me. “Everything looks normal.”

“Thank you,” I say every time. Thank you, G-d. Thank you, STUD, for telling me over and over again and not letting me stew in my fear.

With each new find, he says “This is your baby’s head. This is your baby’s heart. This is your baby’s arms.” The phrase “your baby” somehow makes me feel warm and happy and freaked out. Purvis is a baby now. Not an embryo or fetus. Baby. I feel like I am entering dangerous territory: hope, attachment, and love.

“I need to shift your position. Your baby isn’t in a good position for me to get the measurement we need.” STUD says. He tilts the bed down.

“I do yoga. I can go upside down if you need.” Finally a chance to use my yoga powers in public!

He laughs. “I think this ought to do it.”

It doesn’t. He puts me on my side, jiggles the wand around in my pelvis. “Nope, your baby is happy where he is.”

The fear creeps back in. Why isn’t he doing what STUD wants? Is something wrong? STUD senses my freak out to be and says, “Everything looks normal. I’m just trying to get a better picture for the measurement that we need.”

He leaves Mr. Crud and I alone to wait for the doctor and to see if Purvis will get into the necessary position if I rest on my side a moment.

“I wonder if it will be one of the previous doctors,” I say.

“Accent Man or Nice Jewish Lady?” Mr. Crud asks.

“They were both good,” I say.

A new doctor whose name is also Kt enters and gives us the lowdown. Everything looks good and normal, all the markers check out. The measurement that they got of Purvis’ neck is normal too and when the results of my blood test come back, we’ll have an even better idea of our chances for genetic abnormalities. I feel weird doing these tests although I was sure from the get-go that I wanted them. I don’t know what we’ll do if we are faced with a genetically abnormal baby. I used to think that I knew, but I know enough now to know what I don’t know. (A tongue twister to keep things light, alright?) For now we will wait for the blood test results before deciding if we’ll do further diagnostic testing such as amniocentesis, which carries a small risk of miscarriage. Dr. Kt says this is what most couples do.

Again she tries to coax Purvis into a more photogenic position and again she fails so the dreaded transvaginal ultrasound is invoked.

“I’d hoped to avoid this, but I guess that’s how it goes,” I say.

Dr. Kt leaves the room and I strip from the waist down.

“Does that include my shoes?” I ask Mr. Crud. “I never know if I should leave my shoes on.”

“She said waist down.” He says with a shrug.

Dr. Kt and STUD return. This time they get the shot they need. Everything still looks good. I wonder if Purvis got his workout from my morning of yoga, if she is doing spins and turns along with me in the morning and this is her nap time.

STUD gives us a CD of some choice photos of Purvis and we are on our way.

“I’m not quite sure what to do with good news,” Mr. Crud says.

“I know. I had already starting preparing for the bad,” I say.

We are both exhausted, but not too tired to call the essential parties and share the news. Mr. Crud sends the best shot of Purvis to our close family members and we smile at their joyful replies.

“You’re not going to make that picture your wallpaper, are you?” I ask.

“No. Are you?”

“No. Something about that creeps me out,” I say.

“I wonder if I’ll be the type of person who has pictures of their kids on their wallpaper,” he says.

I know I’ve said some variation of this a gajillion times, but golly, I hope we find out.


* Did I just make the same error as Spinal Tap in the Stonehenge debacle?

You're Shitting Me

6-3-09

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Trial Period**

5-26-09

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

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

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

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

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

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

I tell Kelley my symptoms.

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

“Yeah, pretty smart system.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I gotta pee,” I whisper to Mr. Crud.

“Are you going to do the thing?”

“Yep.”

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

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

“So?”

“It’s positive.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Of course.”

“You tell.” I say.

“You.” He says.

“No you.”

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

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

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

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

“I think I’m pregnant,” I say.

“You took the test at home?”

“Yes. It was positive.”

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

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

“Okay, sure. How about Wednesday?”

Tomorrow. Hmmm…

“Do you have anything on Thursday or Friday?”

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

“No, Wednesday is good. Tomorrow.”

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

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

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

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

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

Suspicious Minds

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.

Everyone's Coming Up Pregnant

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.

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

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.

Have You Heard the Good News?

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.