Life with Piper is settling down. She is still getting used to us and us to her, but every day it gets a little easier. Not that it's hard in the first place; so far she's been a really easy baby. I have come to accept the fact that she does not sleep between midnight and four a.m. - at all. But it's okay, because then she crashes for a big long stretch, and I can get a few hours' solid sleep in before the day starts.
Far more stressful than the baby is our impending move and my medical status. I am constantly freaking about about how we're going to get everything done in time, and I run into the bathroom ten times a day to look at my incision and make sure it's getting less red and angry-looking instead of more. My husband keeps telling me not to stress because that won't help anyone or anything, but I can't stop it.
Pumping sucks donkey balls. It's difficult enough taking care of a tiny baby, but also finding the time every 2-6 hours to attach cones to my boobs so they can get drained of their poisonous milk is a pain in the ass. Doing all this while trying not to rupture my stitches and pack for a cross-country move is not fun, either. What is the next level of suckage above donkey balls?
Showing posts with label pregnancy. Show all posts
Showing posts with label pregnancy. Show all posts
Friday, June 15, 2007
Wednesday, June 13, 2007
Terrific.
Well, I have an infection. In my c-section incision. Over the weekend, I noticed it getting a little red, and then it started weeping yellowish fluid. On Monday I called the doctor. They wanted me to come in and see the surgeon who did my c-section, but I can't drive yet and Max was at work so we couldn't get there in time. They told me to go to the urgent care place ASAP. I showered, got the baby ready, and we took off. When we arrived at the urgent care center, I got out of the car and felt something wet on the front of my clothes. I looked down and saw that fluid from my incision had soaked through the front part of my yoga pants, tank top, AND hoodie on the fifteen-minute car ride over. I started to panic.
When they checked me in, the nurse who did my intake took one look at my soaked clothes and the now very-angry-looking wound and said she'd find me a room right away. The look on her face made me want to throw up because oh, shit was written there plain as day. We got a room, but then we waited over an hour before a doctor saw us. And when he did, he scared the shit out of me by saying I'd have to be hospitalized and they would probably transfer me right away, tonight, right now. It was one of the hardest things I've ever done to maintain any semblance of calm, because I really just wanted to freak out and cry. We are moving back to Michigan in less than two weeks. I can't be sick right now, I just can't.
But they called the OB on call, who happened to be my regular OB (though not the one who did my surgery) and he said that since I had no fever and my white cell count was normal, I should be managed as an outpatient. So they gave me some IV antibiotics and some super-strong oral antibiotics to take home. Hopefully these will clear it up. Unfortunately, they're all too strong for the baby, so I can't breast-feed until I'm done with them. I have to pump & dump for the next two and a half weeks so my milk doesn't dry up. Which is fabulous, because now am I not only taking care of a baby and trying to coordinate a cross-country move while recovering from major abdominal surgery, I have to find the time to pump. Piper's still so young, we hadn't quite worked out the breastfeeding thing yet, so I'm not even sure how often/how much to pump. She's doing okay on the formula, although the first couple times she looked at us like "what the hell is THIS?!" It will be frustrating, though, because when I'm done with the antibiotics we'll basically be starting all over with the breastfeeding. It wasn't going badly, it was just not easy. I never knew so many things could prevent a baby from getting milk out of a boob properly.
When they checked me in, the nurse who did my intake took one look at my soaked clothes and the now very-angry-looking wound and said she'd find me a room right away. The look on her face made me want to throw up because oh, shit was written there plain as day. We got a room, but then we waited over an hour before a doctor saw us. And when he did, he scared the shit out of me by saying I'd have to be hospitalized and they would probably transfer me right away, tonight, right now. It was one of the hardest things I've ever done to maintain any semblance of calm, because I really just wanted to freak out and cry. We are moving back to Michigan in less than two weeks. I can't be sick right now, I just can't.
But they called the OB on call, who happened to be my regular OB (though not the one who did my surgery) and he said that since I had no fever and my white cell count was normal, I should be managed as an outpatient. So they gave me some IV antibiotics and some super-strong oral antibiotics to take home. Hopefully these will clear it up. Unfortunately, they're all too strong for the baby, so I can't breast-feed until I'm done with them. I have to pump & dump for the next two and a half weeks so my milk doesn't dry up. Which is fabulous, because now am I not only taking care of a baby and trying to coordinate a cross-country move while recovering from major abdominal surgery, I have to find the time to pump. Piper's still so young, we hadn't quite worked out the breastfeeding thing yet, so I'm not even sure how often/how much to pump. She's doing okay on the formula, although the first couple times she looked at us like "what the hell is THIS?!" It will be frustrating, though, because when I'm done with the antibiotics we'll basically be starting all over with the breastfeeding. It wasn't going badly, it was just not easy. I never knew so many things could prevent a baby from getting milk out of a boob properly.
Thursday, May 31, 2007
41 Weeks: Baby, it's Cold Outside...
...but would you get the hell out, please?
As you may have guessed, Monday was not the day. It was the day we went to a gigantic outlet mall and walked around for more than four hours. Tuesday I did not do a lot of walking, because three full days of it left my back and tailbone screaming for relief. I did have Thai for lunch and Mexican for dinner on Tuesday, however. Wednesday I went to my doctor's appointment and discovered that none of it had done any good, as I am "still about the same as last week." Which is to say, the baby is apparently not dropped quite all the way and there is nothing else going on. Not even enough room for him to do a membrane sweep. I was disappointed but not surprised. He asked me if I've been feeling contractions and I had to say "uhh...maybe?" because I really don't know. After all that walking I was sore and achy, but every twinge or pain I feel is easily explained away so I've still not had a single identifiable contraction in all this time.
Apparently I am doing a great job keeping the baby comfortable and fed, because she seems uninterested in coming out. We are going to the hospital tomorrow morning for an induction. I am a little nervous, since they are going to use Pitocin to try and take me from almost-zero to liftoff, and I have heard that it can be nasty stuff. I have also heard that since it's an induction I'll need continual monitoring, which means no getting out of bed. I don't know if this is true or not, but it's not quite what I had in mind - I have accepted that the Pitocin will probably mean I'll opt for medicated pain relief at some point, but I didn't anticipate having to sit around the whole time. Hopefully I just need a little jump-start and it won't take two or three days to get the kid out. My husband was unaware that even with an induction, it can take that long. He said he knew it wouldn't be like Instant Baby Magic, but he thought if we started in the morning it would mean a baby by nightfall. Let's hope so.
As you may have guessed, Monday was not the day. It was the day we went to a gigantic outlet mall and walked around for more than four hours. Tuesday I did not do a lot of walking, because three full days of it left my back and tailbone screaming for relief. I did have Thai for lunch and Mexican for dinner on Tuesday, however. Wednesday I went to my doctor's appointment and discovered that none of it had done any good, as I am "still about the same as last week." Which is to say, the baby is apparently not dropped quite all the way and there is nothing else going on. Not even enough room for him to do a membrane sweep. I was disappointed but not surprised. He asked me if I've been feeling contractions and I had to say "uhh...maybe?" because I really don't know. After all that walking I was sore and achy, but every twinge or pain I feel is easily explained away so I've still not had a single identifiable contraction in all this time.
Apparently I am doing a great job keeping the baby comfortable and fed, because she seems uninterested in coming out. We are going to the hospital tomorrow morning for an induction. I am a little nervous, since they are going to use Pitocin to try and take me from almost-zero to liftoff, and I have heard that it can be nasty stuff. I have also heard that since it's an induction I'll need continual monitoring, which means no getting out of bed. I don't know if this is true or not, but it's not quite what I had in mind - I have accepted that the Pitocin will probably mean I'll opt for medicated pain relief at some point, but I didn't anticipate having to sit around the whole time. Hopefully I just need a little jump-start and it won't take two or three days to get the kid out. My husband was unaware that even with an induction, it can take that long. He said he knew it wouldn't be like Instant Baby Magic, but he thought if we started in the morning it would mean a baby by nightfall. Let's hope so.
Monday, May 28, 2007
Not Yet Either
No baby yet. We did a lot of walking Fri and Sat and a little yesterday. I find myself feeling a little awkward sometimes, because everyone else is growing more and more impatient waiting for the baby (my sister says "come out already! come out NOW!" in a very loud and cross way to my belly at least 3 times a day) and I am growing less so. The relatives keep calling (and calling and calling) to ask if I've had the baby yet - like we're not going to call people or something. People keep telling me things they think I should do to bring on my labor. I ignore them all. I'm perfectly okay with the induction on the 1st. We can go in at a certain time and things will proceed in an at least kind-of-orderly fashion; it won't be the middle of the night or I won't have to call my husband home from work and scramble to get all the stuff together while telling everyone yeah, I'm okay, can you just let me organize my suitcase please? No, you can't do it for me, I'd like to do it myself, if that's alright. Yes, that was a contraction, no there's nothing you can do. No, I'm okay, I just need some space. Yes, that was another one. Yeah, I'm okay...and so on. I can feel good about getting an epidural and my three helpers can stop telling me they wish I'd get one because they hate to see me in pain. I know they're concerned for me, and it's just because they care, but I'm sure the doctors/nurses will be pushing for all that hard enough.
I guess I'm just cranky - I am trying to enjoy my last few days as a non-parent, although it's a little hard to do when I feel like the most closely-watched pot in history. Everyone asks me every day if I feel anything and I always have to tell them no, I'm pretty sure I'm not in labor yet, I'm pretty sure I'd know if this was The Business or not. My mom is going stir-crazy sitting around waiting, and I'm trying to find things for her to do. She wants to help pack up the house before she leaves, but we're having trouble getting boxes and a lot of the stuff around here we still need for the next month. I finally agreed to let her do the laundry so she'd feel useful, but it took me half an hour to explain which things get washed with baby detergent and which do not, and which things can't go in the dryer. I am inventing projects for her, like mending a pair of Ryan's pants, crocheting me a scarf, or turning some shelf-bra tanks into nursing tanks with needle, thread, and swimsuit-hook clasps. I'm about to run out of projects, and I feel bad because she came here to help pack and get some Baby Action, not work in my own personal sweatshop. But I don't know what else to tell her to do.
And every grunt or wheeze or whatever I make, I get "are you okay?" with the underlying "is that a contraction? are you in labor? is it time?" factor. I'm used to doing for myself, and having people hover over me is making me a little crabby. Of course, the not sleeping is also making me crabby. I managed to sleep most of yesterday, which was nice, because I barely got any Friday night and Saturday I finally sacked out for a nap (it took a fortress made of 5 pillows and 2 thick comforters for me to get comfortable enough to doze off) but everybody woke me up after 10 minutes because they wanted to go eat. Then all three of them kept asking me if I was okay all night and what's wrong and are you sure you're okay?
I am also fine with Her Royal Kickiness putting off her debut for a couple days because Max and I seem to have contracted dueling sinus infections. I don't know if it's because of the season, the weather, the fact that we've been running the a/c a lot, or just really shitty timing, but we are both sniffly and sneezy and croaking. I've had a sore-and-or-scratchy throat for a couple of days and I feel like my head is full of ooze. Max has been mainlining Zicam, in the form of chewable tablets which he thought would taste like Starburst candies but which he was quite disappointed to find are actually flavored like Strawberry Death. I feel like I am going to float away on a sea of orange juice and peppermint tea. This is not adding sunshine to my general mood and sense of well-being, as you may imagine.
But my mother is convinced that today's the day, so we'll see...
I guess I'm just cranky - I am trying to enjoy my last few days as a non-parent, although it's a little hard to do when I feel like the most closely-watched pot in history. Everyone asks me every day if I feel anything and I always have to tell them no, I'm pretty sure I'm not in labor yet, I'm pretty sure I'd know if this was The Business or not. My mom is going stir-crazy sitting around waiting, and I'm trying to find things for her to do. She wants to help pack up the house before she leaves, but we're having trouble getting boxes and a lot of the stuff around here we still need for the next month. I finally agreed to let her do the laundry so she'd feel useful, but it took me half an hour to explain which things get washed with baby detergent and which do not, and which things can't go in the dryer. I am inventing projects for her, like mending a pair of Ryan's pants, crocheting me a scarf, or turning some shelf-bra tanks into nursing tanks with needle, thread, and swimsuit-hook clasps. I'm about to run out of projects, and I feel bad because she came here to help pack and get some Baby Action, not work in my own personal sweatshop. But I don't know what else to tell her to do.
And every grunt or wheeze or whatever I make, I get "are you okay?" with the underlying "is that a contraction? are you in labor? is it time?" factor. I'm used to doing for myself, and having people hover over me is making me a little crabby. Of course, the not sleeping is also making me crabby. I managed to sleep most of yesterday, which was nice, because I barely got any Friday night and Saturday I finally sacked out for a nap (it took a fortress made of 5 pillows and 2 thick comforters for me to get comfortable enough to doze off) but everybody woke me up after 10 minutes because they wanted to go eat. Then all three of them kept asking me if I was okay all night and what's wrong and are you sure you're okay?
I am also fine with Her Royal Kickiness putting off her debut for a couple days because Max and I seem to have contracted dueling sinus infections. I don't know if it's because of the season, the weather, the fact that we've been running the a/c a lot, or just really shitty timing, but we are both sniffly and sneezy and croaking. I've had a sore-and-or-scratchy throat for a couple of days and I feel like my head is full of ooze. Max has been mainlining Zicam, in the form of chewable tablets which he thought would taste like Starburst candies but which he was quite disappointed to find are actually flavored like Strawberry Death. I feel like I am going to float away on a sea of orange juice and peppermint tea. This is not adding sunshine to my general mood and sense of well-being, as you may imagine.
But my mother is convinced that today's the day, so we'll see...
Thursday, May 24, 2007
No Babies Here
Well, today is my due date, and I don't think there's a baby in sight. I had an appointment yesterday and it was the same as Friday - the baby hasn't dropped and nothing else is going on, either. In fact, the baby is still high enough he said an induction would not be favorable at this point. I am scheduled for one on June 1st, in case things don't happen on their own, so we will have a baby in-hand by next Friday at the latest.
Hear that? That's the sound of my brain trying to grasp the fact that we're about to be parents. I mean, duh, we knew it wasn't just an extra bowl of Cap'n Crunch here and there that has made my belly go all basketball-shaped and caused our house to fill with tiny clothes and flannel receiving blankets. It is, however, an entirely different feeling to walk into our bedroom and see the bookshelf with its bins of miniature t-shirts and hats and think soon my daughter will fill these clothes. The pack n' play is set up right next to our bed and as I fall asleep I realize that this plastic-and mesh contraption? With its cute mod circle design and sunshade? This is where my baby will sleep.
It's really weird.
Hear that? That's the sound of my brain trying to grasp the fact that we're about to be parents. I mean, duh, we knew it wasn't just an extra bowl of Cap'n Crunch here and there that has made my belly go all basketball-shaped and caused our house to fill with tiny clothes and flannel receiving blankets. It is, however, an entirely different feeling to walk into our bedroom and see the bookshelf with its bins of miniature t-shirts and hats and think soon my daughter will fill these clothes. The pack n' play is set up right next to our bed and as I fall asleep I realize that this plastic-and mesh contraption? With its cute mod circle design and sunshade? This is where my baby will sleep.
It's really weird.
Friday, May 18, 2007
An Inside Perspective
Well, I went to the doctor today and he said there's not much happening, I have "at least" a few more days. The baby has not fully dropped, and my first thought after he said this was oh, fabulous, it gets WORSE?! How much more uncomfortable do I have to be?!. But I consoled myself by thinking that maybe as the baby gets lower, the weight won't be hanging off the front of me, forcing bits of my tailbone to rub together, but rather in the middle, putting enough pressure on everything to keep the bones apart.
He also said I'm not dilated much at all. Now, logically I knew that there's really only one way doctors check this sort of thing, and this is why I have been refusing internal exams up to this point. I figured there will be enough people sticking their hands and whatnot up there before this is over with, so there's no need to seek it out. I tried to get out of it this time, too, but they wouldn't let me. And logically I knew that having someone reach up there and poke around would not be comfortable. "Uncomfortable" is not quite the word for it. When he did this, he was also pushing the baby down so he could make sure her head was in the right spot. I think that was the worst part - my entire midsection felt squeezed like the filling of a Baby Sandwich.
My husband was with me, and afterwards he said the exam looked really uncomfortable. "It did not look like fun," he said. "Your eyes sort of bugged out."
Then I showed him just how much of the doctor's hand had been prodding around in there, and his eyes bugged out.
He also said I'm not dilated much at all. Now, logically I knew that there's really only one way doctors check this sort of thing, and this is why I have been refusing internal exams up to this point. I figured there will be enough people sticking their hands and whatnot up there before this is over with, so there's no need to seek it out. I tried to get out of it this time, too, but they wouldn't let me. And logically I knew that having someone reach up there and poke around would not be comfortable. "Uncomfortable" is not quite the word for it. When he did this, he was also pushing the baby down so he could make sure her head was in the right spot. I think that was the worst part - my entire midsection felt squeezed like the filling of a Baby Sandwich.
My husband was with me, and afterwards he said the exam looked really uncomfortable. "It did not look like fun," he said. "Your eyes sort of bugged out."
Then I showed him just how much of the doctor's hand had been prodding around in there, and his eyes bugged out.
Wednesday, May 16, 2007
Unless of Course Your Mom Is Cool With The Porn
I have been cleaning (or attempting to clean) like mad lately, although if I hear the word "nesting" one more time, have one more person tell me it must be my hormones, or get one more vehment insistance that this means I am about to go into labor any second, I may buy a gun and climb a clock-tower. That's saying a lot these days, since the hip/back/tailbone pain is back again and so bad I can't do one lap around Target without resting twice, but I swear I will find a way.
I am not feeling a crushing sense of "oh my God baby almost here must clean clean clean NOW!" Rather, what has me re-discovering the joys of organized living and overuse of Scrubbing Bubbles is the impending arrival of my mother and sister. They will be here in just over a week, and they are staying for more than two weeks. Two weeks is plenty of time for my mother to find all the piles of dirt I've swept under the rugs, realize that I never clean my oven unless the crud covering the bottom is actually on fire, open the hallway closet so all the junk I've shoved in there falls on her head cartoon-style, and generally confirm her long-held suspicions that I am the world's most disorganized person.
My mother and sister are also going to help us pare down and pack up our posessions while they're here, so I am frantically vaccuming up golf-ball-sized wads of cat hair from under the furniture, cleaning clutter off all the flat surfaces, and making sure there are no porn DVDs or dirty socks stuffed in random places. Nobody wants to explain to their mom what they're doing with a copy of Jenna Jamison's Greatest Clits or why they didn't pick up the dirty clothes that got kicked under the bed two months ago.
Nobody believes me when I tell them this. I have had several people insist that it MUST be "the hormones." Strangers, relatives, acquaintances - they all are all pregnancy experts apparently, because they all like to tell me how crazy pregnant ladies go crazy with the crazy hormonal pregnant cleaning right before they pop out a baby. Yes, thank you for the info, I've seen sitcoms and read the "funny stories" section of Reader's Digest too. They continue to tell me I am suffering from hormones no matter what I say. I will be sure to call these people up and ask when I need to take a piss and what flavor of ice cream I would prefer, since they seem to know my body and mind better than I do.
I don't get it - nobody wants their mother to know how much of a slob they really are. Do you want your mom finding your copy of 365 Sex Positions or a pair of dirty socks behind The Chronicles of Narnia in your bookscase? If your mother was coming to stay with you, would you feel okay about letting her brush her teeth over a soap-scummy sink or shower in a tub that, while it is in the guest bathroom and therfore rarely used, has inexplicably developed a visible dirt ring? What would your mom say if she knew that you hate putting away laundry so much that you frequently skip this step altogether and chuck it wholesale into the pile at the bottom of your closet or wear clean-but-horribly-wrinkled items straight out of the basket until it is empty again?
Mmm-hmm, that's what I thought. Must be your hormones.
I am not feeling a crushing sense of "oh my God baby almost here must clean clean clean NOW!" Rather, what has me re-discovering the joys of organized living and overuse of Scrubbing Bubbles is the impending arrival of my mother and sister. They will be here in just over a week, and they are staying for more than two weeks. Two weeks is plenty of time for my mother to find all the piles of dirt I've swept under the rugs, realize that I never clean my oven unless the crud covering the bottom is actually on fire, open the hallway closet so all the junk I've shoved in there falls on her head cartoon-style, and generally confirm her long-held suspicions that I am the world's most disorganized person.
My mother and sister are also going to help us pare down and pack up our posessions while they're here, so I am frantically vaccuming up golf-ball-sized wads of cat hair from under the furniture, cleaning clutter off all the flat surfaces, and making sure there are no porn DVDs or dirty socks stuffed in random places. Nobody wants to explain to their mom what they're doing with a copy of Jenna Jamison's Greatest Clits or why they didn't pick up the dirty clothes that got kicked under the bed two months ago.
Nobody believes me when I tell them this. I have had several people insist that it MUST be "the hormones." Strangers, relatives, acquaintances - they all are all pregnancy experts apparently, because they all like to tell me how crazy pregnant ladies go crazy with the crazy hormonal pregnant cleaning right before they pop out a baby. Yes, thank you for the info, I've seen sitcoms and read the "funny stories" section of Reader's Digest too. They continue to tell me I am suffering from hormones no matter what I say. I will be sure to call these people up and ask when I need to take a piss and what flavor of ice cream I would prefer, since they seem to know my body and mind better than I do.
I don't get it - nobody wants their mother to know how much of a slob they really are. Do you want your mom finding your copy of 365 Sex Positions or a pair of dirty socks behind The Chronicles of Narnia in your bookscase? If your mother was coming to stay with you, would you feel okay about letting her brush her teeth over a soap-scummy sink or shower in a tub that, while it is in the guest bathroom and therfore rarely used, has inexplicably developed a visible dirt ring? What would your mom say if she knew that you hate putting away laundry so much that you frequently skip this step altogether and chuck it wholesale into the pile at the bottom of your closet or wear clean-but-horribly-wrinkled items straight out of the basket until it is empty again?
Mmm-hmm, that's what I thought. Must be your hormones.
Thursday, March 29, 2007
New Doctor, Same Old Tricks
So I managed to switch doctors and have had 2 visits with the new practice. I am unimpressed. The new guy is younger and more hippie-ish than the old one, but he annoyed me by trying to make me feel stupid every time I asked a question or voiced a concern. I told him I was a little tiny bit concerned about pre-eclampsia, since my mom had it with me. He blew me off saying that it was nothing to worry about and "just because your mom had it doesn't mean you will." Well, yes, I know that part, but my mom having it with me does mean I'm at a higher risk, as does the fact that this is my first pregnancy. But he didn't mention that. His tone indicated that I was wasting his time by even saying anything because of course I could not possibly have it. He could've just said "well, everything's fine so far, but we'll keep an eye out" but no, he had to treat me like a moron.
I asked about the call rotations, trying to get an idea of how many doctors there are in the practice and how often they rotate, since I could potentially end up with any one of them. I'm not bothered by this, I was just curious. He responded by telling me that they have on-call doctors because he cannot be expected to just leave in the middle of a surgery or procedure. Um, no kidding? Wow, I thought you'd just ditch that emergency c-section to come running every time I feel a twinge! All I wanted was some useful information, and again got treated like an idiot for even asking.
Questions about monitoring were handled in a similar fashion. I was told that "it will be a few minutes every hour until your water breaks, but after that you shouldn't be out of bed anyway." To which I later told my husband: to Hell with that. I will get up if I bloody well feel like it and am able. Part of the reason we went through this pain-in-the ass 3-rd Trimester game of doctor-hopping was because of Old Doc's monitorning policies (all internal, all the time) and his accompanying hospital's "no getting out of bed EVER for any reason after your water breaks" policy. After Old Doc's internal monitoring policy, I wanted to make sure this guy wasn't in the same camp, so I asked. New Doc looked at me like I had two heads and said external. I tried to explain that our last doctor had been a superfreak about internal monitoring, but New Doc really didn't care. I'm not even sure he listened long enough for me to finish my sentence.
New Doc did mention this no-out-of-bed thing is to prevent cord prolapse, which blindsided me. I mean, I know what it is (umbilical cord comes out ahead of baby) but not a single one of the dozen books we have laying around the apartment have mentioned that Southern California doctors are apparently hysterically paranoid about it. None of the books, or my friends, or the half-dozen websites, or the multiple baby blogs I read have even mentioned that a doctor could try and force me to stay in bed to prevent it. I have to say, I feel a little betrayed that The Books have let me down. They could've at least warned me.
My husband, my mother, my aunt, my best friend, my sister, and practically everyone else around me are always nagging at me to tell my doctor every little thing. I usually respond with "he won't care, and he won't do anything." And they never believe me, until I am at the appointment begging for some sleep medicine and my husband watches the doctor totally blow me off for the third time in a row. I'm not sure if it's that nobody believes me that my doctors are so indifferent, or that nobody believes me when I say I research things like a mofo and I'm pretty sure I'll know when something is seriously wrong. We got into a car accident and smashed up the front end of our beloved little car at the beginning of the month, and my husband was freaking out about the fact that I refused to call the doctor afterwards. I think he would've been happy to trot me down to the ER and get checked out, but I said no. My best friend and my mom were horrified that I didn't even call the doctor's office and let them know. "Why would I do that?" I asked. "They'll just get mad and ask me why I'm even calling." There was no bleeding, I felt fine (I helped push the car out of the road because it wouldn't start, actually), and the baby was moving just like normal. I had my first appointment with New Doc coming up a week after the accident, so at the urging of about 15 people, I told him we were in an accident. As I expected, I got almost no response. Baby still moving? No bleeding? You're fine, end of story ok gotta go. Once again, I got the impression that he thought I was dumb for even mentioning it.
Most of the time, my doctors make me feel like I am wasting their time for even being there. So when my friends and family pester me to tell the doctor that I have a stuffy nose or describe how my hips hurt or make sure they write down in my chart that I was born 10 weeks early by emergency C-section, I roll my eyes and say I'll mention it, but I almost never do. My husband has been with me at every appointment up 'til now, and sometimes he'll say something if I don't, but he always gets blown off too. It took him a lot longer to accept that the doctors just don't give a shit - it's only been since the car accident mention that he's started to agree with me. Long ago I stopped seeing these "healthcare providers" as my first and best resource during this pregnancy. Whenever one of my books says "check with your healthcare provider" or "talk to your doctor," I roll my eyes and snort "yeah, right." I view the doctors as a necessary...not evil, that's not the world I want...more like obligation. I have to go, so I'll go. They're there to point out any huge red flags, but other than that it's all me. If I have a problem or a question, I have to find my own solution/answer/consultant, because "consulting my healthcare provider" usually results in no answer to my query and being made to feel stupid for even asking.
After my last appointment, during which the nurse-practitioner (New Doc was out of town) wouldn't give me a straight answer when I asked if it was okay to take Pepto-Bismol, all I could think was thank God everything's been going fine so far. I can't even imagine the uphill battle I'd have getting these turkeys to pay attention to me if I had an actual problem.
I asked about the call rotations, trying to get an idea of how many doctors there are in the practice and how often they rotate, since I could potentially end up with any one of them. I'm not bothered by this, I was just curious. He responded by telling me that they have on-call doctors because he cannot be expected to just leave in the middle of a surgery or procedure. Um, no kidding? Wow, I thought you'd just ditch that emergency c-section to come running every time I feel a twinge! All I wanted was some useful information, and again got treated like an idiot for even asking.
Questions about monitoring were handled in a similar fashion. I was told that "it will be a few minutes every hour until your water breaks, but after that you shouldn't be out of bed anyway." To which I later told my husband: to Hell with that. I will get up if I bloody well feel like it and am able. Part of the reason we went through this pain-in-the ass 3-rd Trimester game of doctor-hopping was because of Old Doc's monitorning policies (all internal, all the time) and his accompanying hospital's "no getting out of bed EVER for any reason after your water breaks" policy. After Old Doc's internal monitoring policy, I wanted to make sure this guy wasn't in the same camp, so I asked. New Doc looked at me like I had two heads and said external. I tried to explain that our last doctor had been a superfreak about internal monitoring, but New Doc really didn't care. I'm not even sure he listened long enough for me to finish my sentence.
New Doc did mention this no-out-of-bed thing is to prevent cord prolapse, which blindsided me. I mean, I know what it is (umbilical cord comes out ahead of baby) but not a single one of the dozen books we have laying around the apartment have mentioned that Southern California doctors are apparently hysterically paranoid about it. None of the books, or my friends, or the half-dozen websites, or the multiple baby blogs I read have even mentioned that a doctor could try and force me to stay in bed to prevent it. I have to say, I feel a little betrayed that The Books have let me down. They could've at least warned me.
My husband, my mother, my aunt, my best friend, my sister, and practically everyone else around me are always nagging at me to tell my doctor every little thing. I usually respond with "he won't care, and he won't do anything." And they never believe me, until I am at the appointment begging for some sleep medicine and my husband watches the doctor totally blow me off for the third time in a row. I'm not sure if it's that nobody believes me that my doctors are so indifferent, or that nobody believes me when I say I research things like a mofo and I'm pretty sure I'll know when something is seriously wrong. We got into a car accident and smashed up the front end of our beloved little car at the beginning of the month, and my husband was freaking out about the fact that I refused to call the doctor afterwards. I think he would've been happy to trot me down to the ER and get checked out, but I said no. My best friend and my mom were horrified that I didn't even call the doctor's office and let them know. "Why would I do that?" I asked. "They'll just get mad and ask me why I'm even calling." There was no bleeding, I felt fine (I helped push the car out of the road because it wouldn't start, actually), and the baby was moving just like normal. I had my first appointment with New Doc coming up a week after the accident, so at the urging of about 15 people, I told him we were in an accident. As I expected, I got almost no response. Baby still moving? No bleeding? You're fine, end of story ok gotta go. Once again, I got the impression that he thought I was dumb for even mentioning it.
Most of the time, my doctors make me feel like I am wasting their time for even being there. So when my friends and family pester me to tell the doctor that I have a stuffy nose or describe how my hips hurt or make sure they write down in my chart that I was born 10 weeks early by emergency C-section, I roll my eyes and say I'll mention it, but I almost never do. My husband has been with me at every appointment up 'til now, and sometimes he'll say something if I don't, but he always gets blown off too. It took him a lot longer to accept that the doctors just don't give a shit - it's only been since the car accident mention that he's started to agree with me. Long ago I stopped seeing these "healthcare providers" as my first and best resource during this pregnancy. Whenever one of my books says "check with your healthcare provider" or "talk to your doctor," I roll my eyes and snort "yeah, right." I view the doctors as a necessary...not evil, that's not the world I want...more like obligation. I have to go, so I'll go. They're there to point out any huge red flags, but other than that it's all me. If I have a problem or a question, I have to find my own solution/answer/consultant, because "consulting my healthcare provider" usually results in no answer to my query and being made to feel stupid for even asking.
After my last appointment, during which the nurse-practitioner (New Doc was out of town) wouldn't give me a straight answer when I asked if it was okay to take Pepto-Bismol, all I could think was thank God everything's been going fine so far. I can't even imagine the uphill battle I'd have getting these turkeys to pay attention to me if I had an actual problem.
Friday, February 16, 2007
The second child
Last week, we finally got the long-awaited ultrasound and discovered the sex of the baby. It's a girl. I was pretty surprised by my reaction to the news. Which was no reaction at all. After all this time, waiting and waiting to find out and both of us wanting a girl so much, all I said was "Oh." I didn't high-five my husband. I didn't pump my fist enthusiastically and shout "YESSSS!" Nope. Just "oh." I know we've been saying for weeks that at this point it wasn't really that important anymore, but I wasn't entirely sure if it was true. Apparently it was.
As we walked across the parking lot at the OB's office, clutching our pictures of the grainy V that revealed a lack of boy-parts on the child inside my belly, we discussed the news. max said he'd felt like it was a girl, but he knew I'd had a strong hunch all along about which way the pendulum (or lack thereof) would swing, but I had steadfastly refused to say anything for fear of jinxing it. I am terribly paranoid about jinxing things, a paranoia that closely matches the superstition of wizened old ladies with herbs drying in their kitchens and horseshoes above their doorways. My husband asked me if I would, at long last, reveal honestly what my hunch had been.
"Iknew thought it was a girl."
"What, like today? Before he told us?"
"No, the whole time. From the very start. Like how I had that really strong feeling we'd succeeded and I was pregnant on the first try, but I didn't want to say anything because I didn't want to jinx it. This was the same. I just really, really felt it was a girl. Even when your mom was running around saying that she was so sure it was a boy. I kept quiet, but I knew."
"I have another...feeling. I mean, the same thing that made me think it was a girl is telling me we'll do this again."
I stopped walking, in the middle of the parking lot. "AGAIN? Are you crazy? You want another one already?" I probably sounded panicked. We've been in agreement for a long time that one is plenty, and if we do get the urge for another we fully intend to pursue fostering or adopting. We debated long and hard about adopting this one, but didn't have the patience or outlay of cash needed to adopt an infant, and he really wanted the whole Infant Experience. So what the hell was this shit?
"No, it's not that," he said, tugging my arm and pulling me toward the car. "I just...have a feeling. I have a feeling that we'll do this again. And that if we do, that one will be a boy."
"You have a feeling I'm going to accidentally get pregnant? Because after all we've discussed, 'doing this again' would mean the next one really will be a surprise."
"No, it's not that, it won't be accidental..." He was floundering.
"We're going to do this again on PURPOSE? I'm going to get hit with those supposedly-huge post-baby hormones and beg you for another baby? Or you're going to beg me for one and I'll give in?" I was definitely starting to panic. Even in the supposedly-magical second trimester, I have not been a big fan of pregnancy. I spend a lot of time wondering if I'll ever feel like "myself" again, and as time goes by I have forgotten what "myself" feels like. On top of that, I often wonder how we'll manage this baby with everything else we have going on.
"No, it's not that I super-want another one already or anything, I just have a feeling."
I let the discussion fade away as we got in the car and went on our way, but he has mentioned it several times since then. After a commercial featuring siblings and cellphones: "See? See what we'd be depriving our kid of if it's an only child?" Veiled references to "the next one," "next time" or "when we do this again."
It struck me that when people become parents for the first time, there is always an assumption that there will be another kid somewhere along the way. The parents themeselves assume it, their friends and relatives assume it, everyone takes it for granted that there will be more than one. The only question seems to be "when?"
I'm not one of those people. I think that one kid is a good number, for us anyway. The assumption that there will be another has always somewhat mystified me. Why? If you like the one you have and things are going great, why throw another one into the mix? The responses I get when I ask this question always seem to involve women's out-of-control-hormones, men's manly desires for a son, or the woe and tragedy of the pitiful only child.
And when they don't cover those options, there's always "well, I wanted First Kid to have someone to play with." Which makes me think on all the times my brother and sister and I played together. Much of that "playtime" involved one of us beating the everloving crap out of another, or two of us torturing the third. I also think about all the times we nearly drove my mother to choke us out of sheer frustration. I remember how hard it was when I was responsible for the two younger ones, how hard it was to get them to shut the fuck up and stop bickering. We all love each other fiercely, but we still fight. When I'd come home from college on breaks, my brother and I frequently got into fistfights over control of the television remote control. When I was 25, I got into a screaming match at 3:00 am with my sister over useage of the word "bridezilla." And then I thought of my mother's siblings, how they cannot go three months without fighting and rumor-spreading and "I'm not talking to you"-ing. Even my grandfather and his siblings spent a good part of our last family reunion bitching about who got what when their mother died thirty years ago.
So when my husband talks about "the next one," I have to wonder about his sanity. I'm just not sure I'm up for hearing my kids fighting every day until I die, and then having to spend my afterlife listening in as they bitch about who got my collection of carnival glass.
As we walked across the parking lot at the OB's office, clutching our pictures of the grainy V that revealed a lack of boy-parts on the child inside my belly, we discussed the news. max said he'd felt like it was a girl, but he knew I'd had a strong hunch all along about which way the pendulum (or lack thereof) would swing, but I had steadfastly refused to say anything for fear of jinxing it. I am terribly paranoid about jinxing things, a paranoia that closely matches the superstition of wizened old ladies with herbs drying in their kitchens and horseshoes above their doorways. My husband asked me if I would, at long last, reveal honestly what my hunch had been.
"I
"What, like today? Before he told us?"
"No, the whole time. From the very start. Like how I had that really strong feeling we'd succeeded and I was pregnant on the first try, but I didn't want to say anything because I didn't want to jinx it. This was the same. I just really, really felt it was a girl. Even when your mom was running around saying that she was so sure it was a boy. I kept quiet, but I knew."
"I have another...feeling. I mean, the same thing that made me think it was a girl is telling me we'll do this again."
I stopped walking, in the middle of the parking lot. "AGAIN? Are you crazy? You want another one already?" I probably sounded panicked. We've been in agreement for a long time that one is plenty, and if we do get the urge for another we fully intend to pursue fostering or adopting. We debated long and hard about adopting this one, but didn't have the patience or outlay of cash needed to adopt an infant, and he really wanted the whole Infant Experience. So what the hell was this shit?
"No, it's not that," he said, tugging my arm and pulling me toward the car. "I just...have a feeling. I have a feeling that we'll do this again. And that if we do, that one will be a boy."
"You have a feeling I'm going to accidentally get pregnant? Because after all we've discussed, 'doing this again' would mean the next one really will be a surprise."
"No, it's not that, it won't be accidental..." He was floundering.
"We're going to do this again on PURPOSE? I'm going to get hit with those supposedly-huge post-baby hormones and beg you for another baby? Or you're going to beg me for one and I'll give in?" I was definitely starting to panic. Even in the supposedly-magical second trimester, I have not been a big fan of pregnancy. I spend a lot of time wondering if I'll ever feel like "myself" again, and as time goes by I have forgotten what "myself" feels like. On top of that, I often wonder how we'll manage this baby with everything else we have going on.
"No, it's not that I super-want another one already or anything, I just have a feeling."
I let the discussion fade away as we got in the car and went on our way, but he has mentioned it several times since then. After a commercial featuring siblings and cellphones: "See? See what we'd be depriving our kid of if it's an only child?" Veiled references to "the next one," "next time" or "when we do this again."
It struck me that when people become parents for the first time, there is always an assumption that there will be another kid somewhere along the way. The parents themeselves assume it, their friends and relatives assume it, everyone takes it for granted that there will be more than one. The only question seems to be "when?"
I'm not one of those people. I think that one kid is a good number, for us anyway. The assumption that there will be another has always somewhat mystified me. Why? If you like the one you have and things are going great, why throw another one into the mix? The responses I get when I ask this question always seem to involve women's out-of-control-hormones, men's manly desires for a son, or the woe and tragedy of the pitiful only child.
And when they don't cover those options, there's always "well, I wanted First Kid to have someone to play with." Which makes me think on all the times my brother and sister and I played together. Much of that "playtime" involved one of us beating the everloving crap out of another, or two of us torturing the third. I also think about all the times we nearly drove my mother to choke us out of sheer frustration. I remember how hard it was when I was responsible for the two younger ones, how hard it was to get them to shut the fuck up and stop bickering. We all love each other fiercely, but we still fight. When I'd come home from college on breaks, my brother and I frequently got into fistfights over control of the television remote control. When I was 25, I got into a screaming match at 3:00 am with my sister over useage of the word "bridezilla." And then I thought of my mother's siblings, how they cannot go three months without fighting and rumor-spreading and "I'm not talking to you"-ing. Even my grandfather and his siblings spent a good part of our last family reunion bitching about who got what when their mother died thirty years ago.
So when my husband talks about "the next one," I have to wonder about his sanity. I'm just not sure I'm up for hearing my kids fighting every day until I die, and then having to spend my afterlife listening in as they bitch about who got my collection of carnival glass.
Thursday, February 01, 2007
The quickening
In the past couple weeks, I have started to feel the baby move. It has grown from "Hmm...is that gas or the baby?" to "What are you DOING in there?!"
It did not feel like "flutters" or "butterflies" or "bubbles" or any of the other froofy language the books used to describe it. It felt like tiny muscle spasms down in my abdomen.
Last week, I lay down with Max for a late-afternoon nap. I snuggled up to him, with my front against his back. I could feel the tiny spasms very low down. The baby was kicking just above my pelvic bone. I started to laugh.
"What's so funny?" Max asked.
"The baby is kicking you in the butt right now."
"Damn. Kid's not even born yet and it's already kicking my ass."
It did not feel like "flutters" or "butterflies" or "bubbles" or any of the other froofy language the books used to describe it. It felt like tiny muscle spasms down in my abdomen.
Last week, I lay down with Max for a late-afternoon nap. I snuggled up to him, with my front against his back. I could feel the tiny spasms very low down. The baby was kicking just above my pelvic bone. I started to laugh.
"What's so funny?" Max asked.
"The baby is kicking you in the butt right now."
"Damn. Kid's not even born yet and it's already kicking my ass."
Thursday, January 25, 2007
OB woes
I am starting to understand why someone would opt for an unassisted homebirth.
Two nights ago, I sat in my living room with a heating pad tied around my head. I turned it on high, draped it over my head, and then used a long tiki-print scarf to tie it in place. I sat like that for over two hours, while the pain in my head subsided a little, until I could finish my homework without having to stop and massage my skull every thirty seconds to dull the throbbing.
I'm sure I looked entirely stupid - in spite of (or perhaps because of) the small bow I'd tied in the scarf. I probably gave myself some sort of brain tumor, or my child will be born with two heads now. At this point, I don't really care, because when the baby is born I expect the headaches to cease immediately. At least the ones caused by pregnancy.
They started when I was less than a week pregnant, if you do the math. Blinding, pounding pain, usually in the front or top of my head. If the headache went on for long enough, eventually I'd get nauseous and sometimes sparkling flashes of light would dance at the edges of my vision. I tried chugging water, I tried peppermint tea, I tried laying in a dark, quiet room. I tried having a caffeinated beverage or two, I tried hot washcloths and hot showers. The only thing that helped even a little was VERY hot steam - I'd hold my head over a hot of boiling water with a towel over my head and inhale, my nasal passages searing and my face turning lobster-red. It usually provided enough relief for me to fall asleep and hope it would be gone in the morning.
When I started regular visits with my OB, I told him about the headaches. He said there was nothing to be done for it. Drink lots of water, take only regular-strength Tylenol for the pain. I just had to put up with it. I followed his advice, I drank lots of water. The two times I cracked and broke my oath to keep this pregnancy as chemical-free as possible, I immediately puked my guts out. Not so much with the Tylenol, then. Meanwhile, the headaches increased in frequency and duration, the average number climing to two or three per week. Sometimes they lasted for days. I told my doctor at every visit and asked over and over if there was something he could do, something I could take, anything. I got the same response every time: drink lots of water, take Tylenol.
I got the same response from him when I told him about my insomnia, another symptom that started after less than a week of pregnancy. I can't sleep. I can't fall asleep, I can't stay asleep. I have rarely slept more than four hours at a stretch since mid-August. I have asked about it at every visit, and again got "nope, nothing can be done." I specifically asked if there's anything I can take, because although I wanted to stay chemical-free, exhaustion is not healthy for me or the baby. A friend's midwife gave her Ambien during her pregnancy, and both she and the baby were fine. But he blew me off. One time he said "maybe try walking more during the day," but that's all I got. Not even "try yoga" or a handout with stretches and relaxation exercises or anything.
My husband has tried to step in and press the issue, and been similarly blown off. My best friend has advised me to get bitchy with the doctor, to just say "Look. I know I can have Ambien, it's perfectly safe, so just write me a damn scrip already." But I don't feel comfortable doing that. Truth is, I don't feel comfortable with my doctor at all. We barely speak at my visits, which are usually very short (less than seven minutes). The two times he's done ultrasounds, they were also pretty short - "okay, there it is, everything's fine, okay bye." If we hadn't pinned him down and asked him a bunch of questions at the first visit, we never would've known about the internal monitoring issue, or anything else about his regular practices.
I wanted to switch right away after that first visit, because neither I nor my husband was cool with the internal monitoring thing. I was bothered that the history they took was only about three questions long, with nothing about my own birth. But I thought I'd give it a few more visits with this guy, because when my primary care office referred me, the girl on the phone said he was well-liked, and he seemed personable enough. Switching meant picking another random name off the insurance company's list, so what if I wound up with somebody worse? I didn't want to be hasty. I figured I'd give it another visit or two and see how it went. If we liked everything else with this doc and I developed a rapport with him, we could deal with the internal monitoring thing one way or another.
But things have gotten worse, not better. I feel less confident in this doctor now than I did after that first visit. My mom told me that she also had headaches when she was pregnant with me, and was also blown off by her doctors. It's nothing, they told her. It happens. Then, whoops, sorry, ma'am, you have preeclampsia, we're going to to do an emergency c-section 10 weeks early. And that's how I was born. This means that my risk of developing preeclampsia is much higher than normal - four times higher, according to some studies. It's also my first pregnancy, which is when most cases appear. But my doctor has no idea my risk is higher, because he's never asked. And I never get a chance to volunteer the information - our visits are so short and I don't feel comfortable bringing it up. I don't feel comfortable bringing anything up, in fact. At the last visit I didn't even bother telling him the headaches were worse. My husband did tell him, and pointedly asked if there was anything that could be done about that or the insomnia. And again got blown off, the same "there's nothing to be done for it" as the doctor was on his way out the door.
I just feel so helpless and angry. I don't want this man delivering my baby. I want to switch to a midwife, but our insurance doesn't cover either the traveling midwives or the nice birth center nearby and there are no others in the area.
I called another OB to try and switch, except this time I was going to to do like the books advise, and interview them first. I called a clinic with three doctors listed, two of whom were female. I wanted a woman this time, to see if that would make me feel more comfortable. I was going to do things right and do my homework before I came in as a patient. I was going to be prepared.
Except those doctors don't do that, apparently. I called and asked if I could come in and talk to the doctors before making an appointment, but was told that I need to drop off the records from my current doctor for their doctor to review, and then he will decide if he wants to take me as a patient. The girl who answered the phone kept saying "he," and I gathered that it was the male doctor I'd be seeing if I'd even be accepted as a patient. One of the female doctors, although listed with this clinic's name and phone number, doesn't work there, she only works at their office in another city. The girl also seemed incredulous that a) I wanted to switch doctors at 22 weeks along, b) I wanted to switch just because I was unhappy with the care I'm currently getting, and c) I'd called up wanting to talk to the doctor at all.
So, basically, I'm screwed.
The message board I hang out on has members in other countries. The women on there who live in places with universal healthcare make it seem so effortless - they just ring up whoever they want and make an appointment. If they want a homebirth with a water tub and a crunchy-granola midwife, they get it. If they want the most sterile hospital environment possible, they can have it. Meanwhile I am stuck with no way to get what I want, no control over how this is going to go. My hopes for a nice, friendly midwife-attended birth are just silly fantasies. It's enough to make a person go buy obstetrics textbooks and take a crash-course in baby delivering.
Two nights ago, I sat in my living room with a heating pad tied around my head. I turned it on high, draped it over my head, and then used a long tiki-print scarf to tie it in place. I sat like that for over two hours, while the pain in my head subsided a little, until I could finish my homework without having to stop and massage my skull every thirty seconds to dull the throbbing.
I'm sure I looked entirely stupid - in spite of (or perhaps because of) the small bow I'd tied in the scarf. I probably gave myself some sort of brain tumor, or my child will be born with two heads now. At this point, I don't really care, because when the baby is born I expect the headaches to cease immediately. At least the ones caused by pregnancy.
They started when I was less than a week pregnant, if you do the math. Blinding, pounding pain, usually in the front or top of my head. If the headache went on for long enough, eventually I'd get nauseous and sometimes sparkling flashes of light would dance at the edges of my vision. I tried chugging water, I tried peppermint tea, I tried laying in a dark, quiet room. I tried having a caffeinated beverage or two, I tried hot washcloths and hot showers. The only thing that helped even a little was VERY hot steam - I'd hold my head over a hot of boiling water with a towel over my head and inhale, my nasal passages searing and my face turning lobster-red. It usually provided enough relief for me to fall asleep and hope it would be gone in the morning.
When I started regular visits with my OB, I told him about the headaches. He said there was nothing to be done for it. Drink lots of water, take only regular-strength Tylenol for the pain. I just had to put up with it. I followed his advice, I drank lots of water. The two times I cracked and broke my oath to keep this pregnancy as chemical-free as possible, I immediately puked my guts out. Not so much with the Tylenol, then. Meanwhile, the headaches increased in frequency and duration, the average number climing to two or three per week. Sometimes they lasted for days. I told my doctor at every visit and asked over and over if there was something he could do, something I could take, anything. I got the same response every time: drink lots of water, take Tylenol.
I got the same response from him when I told him about my insomnia, another symptom that started after less than a week of pregnancy. I can't sleep. I can't fall asleep, I can't stay asleep. I have rarely slept more than four hours at a stretch since mid-August. I have asked about it at every visit, and again got "nope, nothing can be done." I specifically asked if there's anything I can take, because although I wanted to stay chemical-free, exhaustion is not healthy for me or the baby. A friend's midwife gave her Ambien during her pregnancy, and both she and the baby were fine. But he blew me off. One time he said "maybe try walking more during the day," but that's all I got. Not even "try yoga" or a handout with stretches and relaxation exercises or anything.
My husband has tried to step in and press the issue, and been similarly blown off. My best friend has advised me to get bitchy with the doctor, to just say "Look. I know I can have Ambien, it's perfectly safe, so just write me a damn scrip already." But I don't feel comfortable doing that. Truth is, I don't feel comfortable with my doctor at all. We barely speak at my visits, which are usually very short (less than seven minutes). The two times he's done ultrasounds, they were also pretty short - "okay, there it is, everything's fine, okay bye." If we hadn't pinned him down and asked him a bunch of questions at the first visit, we never would've known about the internal monitoring issue, or anything else about his regular practices.
I wanted to switch right away after that first visit, because neither I nor my husband was cool with the internal monitoring thing. I was bothered that the history they took was only about three questions long, with nothing about my own birth. But I thought I'd give it a few more visits with this guy, because when my primary care office referred me, the girl on the phone said he was well-liked, and he seemed personable enough. Switching meant picking another random name off the insurance company's list, so what if I wound up with somebody worse? I didn't want to be hasty. I figured I'd give it another visit or two and see how it went. If we liked everything else with this doc and I developed a rapport with him, we could deal with the internal monitoring thing one way or another.
But things have gotten worse, not better. I feel less confident in this doctor now than I did after that first visit. My mom told me that she also had headaches when she was pregnant with me, and was also blown off by her doctors. It's nothing, they told her. It happens. Then, whoops, sorry, ma'am, you have preeclampsia, we're going to to do an emergency c-section 10 weeks early. And that's how I was born. This means that my risk of developing preeclampsia is much higher than normal - four times higher, according to some studies. It's also my first pregnancy, which is when most cases appear. But my doctor has no idea my risk is higher, because he's never asked. And I never get a chance to volunteer the information - our visits are so short and I don't feel comfortable bringing it up. I don't feel comfortable bringing anything up, in fact. At the last visit I didn't even bother telling him the headaches were worse. My husband did tell him, and pointedly asked if there was anything that could be done about that or the insomnia. And again got blown off, the same "there's nothing to be done for it" as the doctor was on his way out the door.
I just feel so helpless and angry. I don't want this man delivering my baby. I want to switch to a midwife, but our insurance doesn't cover either the traveling midwives or the nice birth center nearby and there are no others in the area.
I called another OB to try and switch, except this time I was going to to do like the books advise, and interview them first. I called a clinic with three doctors listed, two of whom were female. I wanted a woman this time, to see if that would make me feel more comfortable. I was going to do things right and do my homework before I came in as a patient. I was going to be prepared.
Except those doctors don't do that, apparently. I called and asked if I could come in and talk to the doctors before making an appointment, but was told that I need to drop off the records from my current doctor for their doctor to review, and then he will decide if he wants to take me as a patient. The girl who answered the phone kept saying "he," and I gathered that it was the male doctor I'd be seeing if I'd even be accepted as a patient. One of the female doctors, although listed with this clinic's name and phone number, doesn't work there, she only works at their office in another city. The girl also seemed incredulous that a) I wanted to switch doctors at 22 weeks along, b) I wanted to switch just because I was unhappy with the care I'm currently getting, and c) I'd called up wanting to talk to the doctor at all.
So, basically, I'm screwed.
The message board I hang out on has members in other countries. The women on there who live in places with universal healthcare make it seem so effortless - they just ring up whoever they want and make an appointment. If they want a homebirth with a water tub and a crunchy-granola midwife, they get it. If they want the most sterile hospital environment possible, they can have it. Meanwhile I am stuck with no way to get what I want, no control over how this is going to go. My hopes for a nice, friendly midwife-attended birth are just silly fantasies. It's enough to make a person go buy obstetrics textbooks and take a crash-course in baby delivering.
Monday, January 08, 2007
Pregnant Island
One thing I was totally unprepared for about being pregnant was how lonely it would feel. We moved from the Midwest to Southern California almost a year and a half ago, and I haven't made any friends at all. I had a gig for a bit as a nanny, and while I at least got to interact with another person during the day, she was only four months old, so our conversations were somewhat limited. Other than that, all my work has been done at home. I have a few acquaintances, people I know through my husband's job and chat with if I see them around town, but there is not a single person here I can call up and ask out for coffee. I have searched the Internet and the posted notices at coffeehouses to try and find groups I might join, but have had no luck. Having a baby on the way only limits my options further; it's not like I can open up our apartment for an all night booze-fest with the clean-faced Freshmen in my Sociology class. Nor would I want to if I could, I'm just not at the all-night booze-fest stage of my life anymore. It would just be nice to talk to another human being once in a while, that's all.
Even the human beings I do talk to, though phone calls back to friends and family, leave me feeling like I'm marooned on my own little island. My mom and sister have been polite and concerned when asking about my symptoms, and my mom laughs when I ranted about how tired I was of throwing up, but I often feel like they're checking my growth as an experiment-in-progress, with most of their focus on the end result. My childless friends, aside from some curiosity, don't want to hear me talk nonstop about my pregnancy (nor do I blame them for that). My few friends with kids either offer up their own tales of gestational woe or sit back with a smug "Yep, you'll have that" when I talk about some new symptom or sign. I get a lot of "well, you could have it a lot worse, my cousin's friend's sister puked for her entire pregnancy and lost 50 pounds and could only eat wildflowers from the slopes of the Andes..." I also pick up from one or two friends in particular a vibe of superiority, as though since they've had a kid or two they are now the ultimate expert on pregnancy and birth, and I should be grateful for their sage wisdom.
My friends with kids are pretty out of sync with our lofty first-time parenting ideals as well. I have a friend who absolutely can't fathom our plans to cloth diaper; I get the impression that she thinks we'll be doing some sort of irreparable harm to our baby by not buying bulk packages of Pampers and running with it. None of our childed friends can understand our dislike of ruffles and pastels and ducks and bunnies (and this is a lost cause as far as most of our family members - especially the grandmothers-to-be - are concerned. They just don't understand why we don't want everything in sight covered with baby animals and big, squishy-looking letters and huge bows) or our attempts to keep the "baby-looking" baby crap to a minimum. Limiting TV time? Fuhgeddaboutit. Many of my friends' kids knew what Elmo's favorite food was and all the words to the Spongebob Squarepants theme song before they took their first steps. I'm trying not to be critical of their choices, since I realize that in a year or two we could be viewing Elmo as our Lord and Savior and popping in that DVD at every opportunity. It would be nice, though, if even my best friend didn't make me feel like I was from Jupiter when I mention I don't want an epidural and I don't like baby toys with flashing lights and loud noises.
The Internet has been no saving grace, either. The message board I joined expecting to find camraderie and support has not quite panned out. The women there are busy talking about how they're decorating their nurseries and what they're all registering for and going on about the fabulous birthing centers inside their hospitals and how great their midwives are. I read it all but don't respond much, since I am sitting here not planning to do a room for the baby at all, with no plans to purchase furniture or register at The Den of Satan (otherwise known as Babies R Us) and an obstetrician I don't even feel very comfortable talking to. It sort of makes me depressed, because I look around my own situation and it's so very far from how I wanted all this to go.
It all makes me feel very alone, like I'm on some tiny desert island in the middle of a vast ocean. My husband Max is wonderful, he's been very excited and supportive and pays as much attention to me as he can, but it's not the same as having a trusted circle of friends to talk to. I just wish I could talk to somebody who was on the same page as me, somebody who likes modern baby things and is a bit unsure about this whole parenting gig. Somebody who isn't getting the ideal set of options but has figured out how to make the most of it. Somebody who isn't going to make me feel hopelessly uncool for not being a hipster or sit in smug judgement when I say I'm tired of throwing up and feeling exhausted. But I don't have that, and I can't figure out how to get it, short of cloning myself.
Even the human beings I do talk to, though phone calls back to friends and family, leave me feeling like I'm marooned on my own little island. My mom and sister have been polite and concerned when asking about my symptoms, and my mom laughs when I ranted about how tired I was of throwing up, but I often feel like they're checking my growth as an experiment-in-progress, with most of their focus on the end result. My childless friends, aside from some curiosity, don't want to hear me talk nonstop about my pregnancy (nor do I blame them for that). My few friends with kids either offer up their own tales of gestational woe or sit back with a smug "Yep, you'll have that" when I talk about some new symptom or sign. I get a lot of "well, you could have it a lot worse, my cousin's friend's sister puked for her entire pregnancy and lost 50 pounds and could only eat wildflowers from the slopes of the Andes..." I also pick up from one or two friends in particular a vibe of superiority, as though since they've had a kid or two they are now the ultimate expert on pregnancy and birth, and I should be grateful for their sage wisdom.
My friends with kids are pretty out of sync with our lofty first-time parenting ideals as well. I have a friend who absolutely can't fathom our plans to cloth diaper; I get the impression that she thinks we'll be doing some sort of irreparable harm to our baby by not buying bulk packages of Pampers and running with it. None of our childed friends can understand our dislike of ruffles and pastels and ducks and bunnies (and this is a lost cause as far as most of our family members - especially the grandmothers-to-be - are concerned. They just don't understand why we don't want everything in sight covered with baby animals and big, squishy-looking letters and huge bows) or our attempts to keep the "baby-looking" baby crap to a minimum. Limiting TV time? Fuhgeddaboutit. Many of my friends' kids knew what Elmo's favorite food was and all the words to the Spongebob Squarepants theme song before they took their first steps. I'm trying not to be critical of their choices, since I realize that in a year or two we could be viewing Elmo as our Lord and Savior and popping in that DVD at every opportunity. It would be nice, though, if even my best friend didn't make me feel like I was from Jupiter when I mention I don't want an epidural and I don't like baby toys with flashing lights and loud noises.
The Internet has been no saving grace, either. The message board I joined expecting to find camraderie and support has not quite panned out. The women there are busy talking about how they're decorating their nurseries and what they're all registering for and going on about the fabulous birthing centers inside their hospitals and how great their midwives are. I read it all but don't respond much, since I am sitting here not planning to do a room for the baby at all, with no plans to purchase furniture or register at The Den of Satan (otherwise known as Babies R Us) and an obstetrician I don't even feel very comfortable talking to. It sort of makes me depressed, because I look around my own situation and it's so very far from how I wanted all this to go.
It all makes me feel very alone, like I'm on some tiny desert island in the middle of a vast ocean. My husband Max is wonderful, he's been very excited and supportive and pays as much attention to me as he can, but it's not the same as having a trusted circle of friends to talk to. I just wish I could talk to somebody who was on the same page as me, somebody who likes modern baby things and is a bit unsure about this whole parenting gig. Somebody who isn't getting the ideal set of options but has figured out how to make the most of it. Somebody who isn't going to make me feel hopelessly uncool for not being a hipster or sit in smug judgement when I say I'm tired of throwing up and feeling exhausted. But I don't have that, and I can't figure out how to get it, short of cloning myself.
Thursday, December 14, 2006
I didn't order the side of guilt, thanks
I hang out on a message board full of other women who are around the same stage of pregnancy as I am. Sometimes it’s nice to get reassurance and commiseration; sometimes I feel like a total alien. It’s supposed to be a more independently-minded corner of the Internet than most places pregnant women congregate, but occasionally conformity rears its smoothly-shaped little head.
Someone said she’d been feeling guilty for feeling so crummy all the time; people kept telling her that she “looked good” since the start of the pregnancy and she felt bad for looking great but feeling like roadkill. Someone else said she felt guilty for feeling crappy, too, since people expected her to be super-excited and it’s hard to work up enthusiasm when you’re puking your guts out on a regular basis. She said she doesn’t discuss or even mention the I Feel Like Hammered Shit factor of pregnancy to anyone except her husband. Some women said they felt guilty for not being Ms. Happy Happy Joy Joy about being pregnant when they know there are a lot of women who want to be pregnant but are unable to be.
I piped up and said that I’m pretty candid about it. Causal acquaintances, I’ll smile and say “oh, much better” when they ask how I’m feeling, but everyone else is fair game. Maybe I just have a more understanding or intimate circle of friends and relatives, but when my mom or my college roommate asks “how are you feeling?” I can say “all I eat are pretzels and soda water, and sloths are more active than I am” without fear of reprisal or someone screaming at me that this is the happiest time of my life so I should count my blessings. My mom finds some of my symptoms funny, my extended relatives hang on every update, and my friends with kids are sympathetic, and many of my childless female friends are curious.
As soon as I mentioned that I didn’t give a bright, shining happiest-of-happies response to inquiries about my condition, I could feel the other women on the board drawing away. It was that rustle you know all too well as a girl, the sound of every other woman in the room moving the other direction and whispering about you.
I have to say I don’t get it. I’ve seen women act like pregnancy is this fabulous exclusive club we should all be so grateful to join, as though we’re all going to be canonized for pushing babies out our vaginas and are the luckiest people in the world because a sperm met an egg. I can’t quite wrap my brain around that mindset.
I am a pretty no-fuss gal. My husband and I had a ton of sex for three or four weeks straight, and I got pregnant. There was no charting of temperatures, no thermometers in my vagina, no screaming “I’m ovulating!!” into the telephone, no scheduling of sex, ordering him not to masturbate, or dictating that we do it only on certain days or only every other day. We wanted a baby, so we went at it. We just had a whole ‘lotta sex, and that was that.
So now that I am carrying what, by so many accounts, I should be viewing as a gift from God and a precious, beloved miracle, I am not one to lie about it. I don’t think pregnancy is some clandestine order full of secrets to be hidden from other women. I am not going to smile and tell someone I feel like Mary Fucking Sunshine when I’m really about to puke on their shoes. If someone tells me I look good, I can say “thanks,” but I’m not going to feel guilt about looking good while feeling shitty.
And I am certainly not going to feel guilty about getting pregnant when other women can’t. I have enough shit to feel guilty about in my life, I don’t need to make things up. I’m not insensitive; I certainly wouldn’t prattle on about how being pregnant sucks to someone I knew was having fertility problems. But I’m not going to search for guilt where there is none. I’m pretty sure my friends that have bought houses at night don’t sit around going “God, I feel so bad relaxing in my own living room when Weetzie and Max can’t even make a downpayment for what this cost.” I’m pretty sure some dude who lives in Newport Beach in a fancy condo and drives a brand-new Ferrari didn’t feel an ounce of guilt buying that car even though most people can’t afford one. There are a lot more people who can’t afford a Ferrari than people who can’t get pregnant. I don’t see why I should be expected to feel guilt over people I don’t know, have never met, will never meet. I know there are women who would give everything they have to be in my shoes, to be carrying a child, but that does not make me less tired, my muscles less sore, or quell my nausea. It does not make me feel better to dwell on the misfortunes of these women; I’d like to think that they don’t want me feeling guilt or pity for them, that they would rather I enjoy my child while they wait for their own to arrive.
Someone said she’d been feeling guilty for feeling so crummy all the time; people kept telling her that she “looked good” since the start of the pregnancy and she felt bad for looking great but feeling like roadkill. Someone else said she felt guilty for feeling crappy, too, since people expected her to be super-excited and it’s hard to work up enthusiasm when you’re puking your guts out on a regular basis. She said she doesn’t discuss or even mention the I Feel Like Hammered Shit factor of pregnancy to anyone except her husband. Some women said they felt guilty for not being Ms. Happy Happy Joy Joy about being pregnant when they know there are a lot of women who want to be pregnant but are unable to be.
I piped up and said that I’m pretty candid about it. Causal acquaintances, I’ll smile and say “oh, much better” when they ask how I’m feeling, but everyone else is fair game. Maybe I just have a more understanding or intimate circle of friends and relatives, but when my mom or my college roommate asks “how are you feeling?” I can say “all I eat are pretzels and soda water, and sloths are more active than I am” without fear of reprisal or someone screaming at me that this is the happiest time of my life so I should count my blessings. My mom finds some of my symptoms funny, my extended relatives hang on every update, and my friends with kids are sympathetic, and many of my childless female friends are curious.
As soon as I mentioned that I didn’t give a bright, shining happiest-of-happies response to inquiries about my condition, I could feel the other women on the board drawing away. It was that rustle you know all too well as a girl, the sound of every other woman in the room moving the other direction and whispering about you.
I have to say I don’t get it. I’ve seen women act like pregnancy is this fabulous exclusive club we should all be so grateful to join, as though we’re all going to be canonized for pushing babies out our vaginas and are the luckiest people in the world because a sperm met an egg. I can’t quite wrap my brain around that mindset.
I am a pretty no-fuss gal. My husband and I had a ton of sex for three or four weeks straight, and I got pregnant. There was no charting of temperatures, no thermometers in my vagina, no screaming “I’m ovulating!!” into the telephone, no scheduling of sex, ordering him not to masturbate, or dictating that we do it only on certain days or only every other day. We wanted a baby, so we went at it. We just had a whole ‘lotta sex, and that was that.
So now that I am carrying what, by so many accounts, I should be viewing as a gift from God and a precious, beloved miracle, I am not one to lie about it. I don’t think pregnancy is some clandestine order full of secrets to be hidden from other women. I am not going to smile and tell someone I feel like Mary Fucking Sunshine when I’m really about to puke on their shoes. If someone tells me I look good, I can say “thanks,” but I’m not going to feel guilt about looking good while feeling shitty.
And I am certainly not going to feel guilty about getting pregnant when other women can’t. I have enough shit to feel guilty about in my life, I don’t need to make things up. I’m not insensitive; I certainly wouldn’t prattle on about how being pregnant sucks to someone I knew was having fertility problems. But I’m not going to search for guilt where there is none. I’m pretty sure my friends that have bought houses at night don’t sit around going “God, I feel so bad relaxing in my own living room when Weetzie and Max can’t even make a downpayment for what this cost.” I’m pretty sure some dude who lives in Newport Beach in a fancy condo and drives a brand-new Ferrari didn’t feel an ounce of guilt buying that car even though most people can’t afford one. There are a lot more people who can’t afford a Ferrari than people who can’t get pregnant. I don’t see why I should be expected to feel guilt over people I don’t know, have never met, will never meet. I know there are women who would give everything they have to be in my shoes, to be carrying a child, but that does not make me less tired, my muscles less sore, or quell my nausea. It does not make me feel better to dwell on the misfortunes of these women; I’d like to think that they don’t want me feeling guilt or pity for them, that they would rather I enjoy my child while they wait for their own to arrive.
Thursday, December 07, 2006
Baby-shaped
Had my 16-week appointment yesterday. I still have not switched OB's, although I want to. I like this guy, he's very nice and personable and all, but he insists on internal monitoring from the second I get to the hospital. If my water hasn't broken, he'll break it, and then they'll poke an electrode into the baby's scalp to measure heart rate and very probably stick a probe into my uterine wall to measure contractions. None of which I am cool with. So now I have to go through the pain-in-the-ass process of switching doctors. Sigh.
Anyway, yesterday the doctor couldn't find the heartbeat with the doppler. I was unconcerned; I've heard from a couple people that sometimes they're just hard to find. I had felt sick when I woke up in the morning, which meant my hormones were probably still working, and the doctor said he wasn't worried. My husband sure was, though. Max grew more tense with every minute that slipped by, every pass of the doppler wand across my exposed stomach. I could feel his anxiety as he stood next to the exam table; he was frowning and his jaw was clenched. Finally the doctor said "oh, it's just easier to see it, let's go into the next room and just do an ultrasound."
So he did, and the baby appeared right away. The first things I saw were legs. Two skinny little legs with feet, kicking around in the grainy grey window. The wand moved across my belly, and a head appeared. "See?" said the doctor. "Still there, everything's fine. It's perfect." He started to point out the various parts, but I blurted out, "Is it sucking its thumb?!"
It was. Not only was there a recognizable head, but there were arms and hands, one of which kept flying up to the mouth.
For the first time, I felt a little awww feeling. I have been pretty "meh" about this whole deal so far, even though it was a (meticulously) planned pregnancy and very much wanted, etc. I'm not overly sentimental about stuff like this by nature, and pregnancy is not very fun, so I have not been much for teary-eyed moments. But this was different; this was a person-shaped thing, not just blobs, and it was sucking its thumb. It was doing a thing that babies do all the time. So I felt a little "awww" and I felt a little "wow." It made it seem much more real; that grainy image of thumb-sucking sank in more deeply than all the barfing, all the insomnia and aches and strange feelings have.
Holy crap, we're having a baby.
Anyway, yesterday the doctor couldn't find the heartbeat with the doppler. I was unconcerned; I've heard from a couple people that sometimes they're just hard to find. I had felt sick when I woke up in the morning, which meant my hormones were probably still working, and the doctor said he wasn't worried. My husband sure was, though. Max grew more tense with every minute that slipped by, every pass of the doppler wand across my exposed stomach. I could feel his anxiety as he stood next to the exam table; he was frowning and his jaw was clenched. Finally the doctor said "oh, it's just easier to see it, let's go into the next room and just do an ultrasound."
So he did, and the baby appeared right away. The first things I saw were legs. Two skinny little legs with feet, kicking around in the grainy grey window. The wand moved across my belly, and a head appeared. "See?" said the doctor. "Still there, everything's fine. It's perfect." He started to point out the various parts, but I blurted out, "Is it sucking its thumb?!"
It was. Not only was there a recognizable head, but there were arms and hands, one of which kept flying up to the mouth.
For the first time, I felt a little awww feeling. I have been pretty "meh" about this whole deal so far, even though it was a (meticulously) planned pregnancy and very much wanted, etc. I'm not overly sentimental about stuff like this by nature, and pregnancy is not very fun, so I have not been much for teary-eyed moments. But this was different; this was a person-shaped thing, not just blobs, and it was sucking its thumb. It was doing a thing that babies do all the time. So I felt a little "awww" and I felt a little "wow." It made it seem much more real; that grainy image of thumb-sucking sank in more deeply than all the barfing, all the insomnia and aches and strange feelings have.
Holy crap, we're having a baby.
16 Weeks
Well, I have now officially completed 16 weeks of pregnancy. I have 24 more to go. Which seems like a really long time, especially since I don't particularly like being pregnant. I'm not anxious to have it over with and have the baby in-hand (that award goes to Max, who would like to have his wee babelet arrive...oh, some time last week), I just don't like being pregnant. It's not fun. But more on that later.
The fetus: is about 4.5 inches long (crown to rump) and weighs approximately 3.5 ounces. It's about the size of an avocado right now, which should give me something more interesting to think about than "why the fuck are they charging that much for carrots?" next time I go to the grocery store. Anyway, the lower limbs are much more developed now. The head is more erect than it has been previously, and the eyes have moved toward the front of the head. The ears are close to their final position. Some of the body systems are working, including the circulatory system (the heart is pumping roughly 25 quarts of blood per day) and urinary tract. Yep, the baby is swallowing aminotic fluid and peeing it out, right inside me. Which does not gross me out as much as you'd think, since it's basically going straight through. There's nothing in there for it to collect on its way, so it's not like actual pee. The patterning of the scalp has started, although the hair is not recognizable yet. The eyes are still fused shut, but they are moving (though slowly). It's even started growing fingernails and toenails, which will continue to grow while it gestates.
I am feeling better, although I'm starting to get the "fuzzy-brain" feeling the books and other mothers have warned me about. I'm getting more forgetful and spacy (I know, scary, right?) and my ability to multitask has gone to shit. Formerly, I wasn't happy unless I was doing two or three things at once, like watching a movie while knitting and surfing the internet. Now it's very hard for me to even surf and watch a movie at the same time, much less do anything else too. Writing, even silly blog posts, has become harder. Sometimes I have to sit for a few minutes and search for the words I want before I can even start. I leave out letters and words when I type, or type nonsense words and it takes me two or three passes to catch them.
The cats are loving this new twist, because when we're watching something I have to pay attention to, I stop doing everything else and just watch, which means my lap and my hands are free for Kitty Comfort Time. I read something in a magazine that said the baby needs a lot of the nutrient Choline right now, a nutrient that's essential for memory and brain development. If it's not getting enough from the placenta, it steals mine. And I end up feeling like a first-class space cadet.
Other things: I can feel my joints loosening, and it feels like my tailbone is shifting around when I lay on the floor. Sometimes I feel like you could take my arms and legs and pull me like a Stretch Armstrong doll. I know that my whole body loosening up is necessary if the kid is going to make it out in one piece, but I thought I'd have a little more time. That whole thing comes off like a cruel joke anway - "Ha ha ha! Not only are you going to gain weight and have your center of gravity fucked with, just for fun we'll make you as loosely-jointed as a marionette! You'll have no choice but to flail wildly, lose your balance, and fall on your ass more times than you can count!"
I can feel my stomach muscles rearranging themselves too. When I turn over in bed or when we're engaged in activities of an intimate nature, I definitely notice that things are NOT where I left them. It's bizzarre, going to move and use a muscle but finding in in a different spot. It is definitely much weirder than losing your keys or finding that missing sock in the fridge.
The fetus: is about 4.5 inches long (crown to rump) and weighs approximately 3.5 ounces. It's about the size of an avocado right now, which should give me something more interesting to think about than "why the fuck are they charging that much for carrots?" next time I go to the grocery store. Anyway, the lower limbs are much more developed now. The head is more erect than it has been previously, and the eyes have moved toward the front of the head. The ears are close to their final position. Some of the body systems are working, including the circulatory system (the heart is pumping roughly 25 quarts of blood per day) and urinary tract. Yep, the baby is swallowing aminotic fluid and peeing it out, right inside me. Which does not gross me out as much as you'd think, since it's basically going straight through. There's nothing in there for it to collect on its way, so it's not like actual pee. The patterning of the scalp has started, although the hair is not recognizable yet. The eyes are still fused shut, but they are moving (though slowly). It's even started growing fingernails and toenails, which will continue to grow while it gestates.
I am feeling better, although I'm starting to get the "fuzzy-brain" feeling the books and other mothers have warned me about. I'm getting more forgetful and spacy (I know, scary, right?) and my ability to multitask has gone to shit. Formerly, I wasn't happy unless I was doing two or three things at once, like watching a movie while knitting and surfing the internet. Now it's very hard for me to even surf and watch a movie at the same time, much less do anything else too. Writing, even silly blog posts, has become harder. Sometimes I have to sit for a few minutes and search for the words I want before I can even start. I leave out letters and words when I type, or type nonsense words and it takes me two or three passes to catch them.
The cats are loving this new twist, because when we're watching something I have to pay attention to, I stop doing everything else and just watch, which means my lap and my hands are free for Kitty Comfort Time. I read something in a magazine that said the baby needs a lot of the nutrient Choline right now, a nutrient that's essential for memory and brain development. If it's not getting enough from the placenta, it steals mine. And I end up feeling like a first-class space cadet.
Other things: I can feel my joints loosening, and it feels like my tailbone is shifting around when I lay on the floor. Sometimes I feel like you could take my arms and legs and pull me like a Stretch Armstrong doll. I know that my whole body loosening up is necessary if the kid is going to make it out in one piece, but I thought I'd have a little more time. That whole thing comes off like a cruel joke anway - "Ha ha ha! Not only are you going to gain weight and have your center of gravity fucked with, just for fun we'll make you as loosely-jointed as a marionette! You'll have no choice but to flail wildly, lose your balance, and fall on your ass more times than you can count!"
I can feel my stomach muscles rearranging themselves too. When I turn over in bed or when we're engaged in activities of an intimate nature, I definitely notice that things are NOT where I left them. It's bizzarre, going to move and use a muscle but finding in in a different spot. It is definitely much weirder than losing your keys or finding that missing sock in the fridge.
Friday, December 01, 2006
Baby Flicks
Not long after the two pink lines appeared in the window of my peed-upon stick, Max and I spent a weekend watching baby-related movies to celebrate. It was a fun, free, activity that allowed us to snuggle together and quietly get used to the idea that a third person would be joining us in less than a year (more importantly, there are two bathrooms in our apartment so I did not have to run very far when I needed to throw up or pee). Here is a list of some of our favorite movies involving babies:
Raising Arizona - my husband had never seen this! He loved it, particularly the Lone Biker of the Apocalypse and the convenience-store robbery. There is something sweetly crazy about this movie, and I don't know how anyone could hate it.
Three Men and a Baby - stereotypical gender role-stuff aside, it's pretty funny watching the baby totally trash their oh-so-hip penthouse.
The Object of My Affection - technically, a movie about a pregnant lady, not a baby necessarily, but I love it. That is more the arrangement I always had in mind when I thought of "having a family" - a bunch of people who love each other, and a kid in there somewhere. So I watch it wistfully and smile.
Willow - we were both kids of appropriate age when this originally came out, and love it just as much now as we did then. Yes, it's a mushy Ron Howard sap-fest, but the baby is cute (ours might look like that, with the curly red hair), there are funny one-liners, medieval weapons are used, and I can't think of anyone better to leave an orphaned baby with than a dwarf magician, a sorceress, and a sword-wielding Val Kilmer.
Look Who's Talking - do I even need to say more?
Raising Arizona - my husband had never seen this! He loved it, particularly the Lone Biker of the Apocalypse and the convenience-store robbery. There is something sweetly crazy about this movie, and I don't know how anyone could hate it.
Three Men and a Baby - stereotypical gender role-stuff aside, it's pretty funny watching the baby totally trash their oh-so-hip penthouse.
The Object of My Affection - technically, a movie about a pregnant lady, not a baby necessarily, but I love it. That is more the arrangement I always had in mind when I thought of "having a family" - a bunch of people who love each other, and a kid in there somewhere. So I watch it wistfully and smile.
Willow - we were both kids of appropriate age when this originally came out, and love it just as much now as we did then. Yes, it's a mushy Ron Howard sap-fest, but the baby is cute (ours might look like that, with the curly red hair), there are funny one-liners, medieval weapons are used, and I can't think of anyone better to leave an orphaned baby with than a dwarf magician, a sorceress, and a sword-wielding Val Kilmer.
Look Who's Talking - do I even need to say more?
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