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.
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
Friday, March 13, 2009
3 Down 2 To Go
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.
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.
Friday, February 20, 2009
Fantastic Voyage
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.
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.
Thursday, February 12, 2009
Practice Makes Perfect
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.
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.
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
Hurry!
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.
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.
Thursday, January 15, 2009
Ready...Set?
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.
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.
Thursday, January 8, 2009
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.
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.
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