I realized yesterday that we only have nine weeks left. We've been doing lots of things we don't usually do, like preparing a nursery, but the part of my brain that deals with emotional perception hasn't caught on just yet. I've been tidying up the extra room; I do that all the time. I've been building furniture; I do that all the time. I've been painting walls; I do that all the time. I've been painting and decoupaging decorative canvases; I do that all the time. I'm used to pregnancy being a sort of incidental bodily function that eventually resolves itself and disappears without any long-term consequences. Eventually it will seem real, but in the meantime there's lots of puttering around to do.
I'm still going in every week for a progesterone injection, and every two weeks now I have to get my cervix looked at just to be sure nothing untoward is happening. So far, so good. JoJo apparently weighs 2+ pounds and is right on target.
Showing posts with label pregnancy. Show all posts
Showing posts with label pregnancy. Show all posts
Monday, January 12, 2015
Friday, December 26, 2014
Uncharted Territory
We have finally made it past 24.5 weeks, which is as far as we've ever been. Everything still seems to be going well so long as I show up for my progesterone shot each week. I've actually been brave enough to decorate what will hopefully be the nursery with a coat of paint and some wall hangings. I was able to use a lot of stuff we had already and some basic supplies from the craft hoard, so the whole room was done over for just an additional $47. Johanna will be a thrift store baby, for sure, but that doesn't mean she can't have nice things.
A good Christmas was had by all, but unfortunately the most outstanding gift we received was a rear-ender fender bender on Christmas Eve from a woman who doesn't believe in stopping before a right on red. We're hoping to get Dave in a rental before work starts next week. That poor little car has had its butt crunched too many times.
A good Christmas was had by all, but unfortunately the most outstanding gift we received was a rear-ender fender bender on Christmas Eve from a woman who doesn't believe in stopping before a right on red. We're hoping to get Dave in a rental before work starts next week. That poor little car has had its butt crunched too many times.
Tuesday, November 11, 2014
Gift Registries and Other Updates
In response to popular demand, and the need for more detailed guidelines than "not pink," we have created a few baby gift registries. They are by no means the be-all-end-all lists of what we want or need, but they're a start. If somebody finds a cute outfit at the thrift store and washes it a few times, that's cool too. But we really do love the Burt's Bees stuff.
- Burt's Bees Baby
- Amazon
I'm told they usually deliver people in my circumstances around 36 weeks, which would be the week of March 15, the dog's birthday. I'm seeing some very cute birthday snapshots in our future.
Thursday, October 30, 2014
Johanna
Nothing appears to be seriously abnormal, so thank goodness for that. My cervix is behaving itself so far, but they want to see me again in two weeks just to make sure it stays that way. The progesterone seems to be doing its job effectively.
Oh, and this time I have placenta previa. If it had to be something, it might as well have been that, because it doesn't change our plans at all. We were already definitely having a caesarian because of the classical incision they did on me before, so another reason labor could be life-threatening is purely academic.
Here's hoping for the best. Just once, please.
Thursday, October 16, 2014
Thoroughly Disenchanted
I used to imagine I would enjoy pregnancy. I was going to scrupulously take my vitamins and eat lots of wholesome fruit and veggies. It was going to be fun and exciting.
Well, I officially hate it. It has been nothing but miserable and traumatic ALL FIVE TIMES. I thought the worst was finally over, but we had a spectacular relapse on Tuesday, and I've been vomiting six times daily ever since. I essentially starved until noon yesterday just to make it stop, and it seems like today will be the same. I try to take my vitamins, but they tend to make me sick. Food makes me sick, water makes me sick, being hungry and thirsty makes me sick. All things being equal, I'd rather vomit on an empty stomach than otherwise, so I just don't eat or drink at all. Fruit makes me sick. Vegetables make me sick. Juice makes me sick. The smell of my shampoo makes me sick. Showers make me sick, but not showering also makes me sick. Brushing my teeth makes me sick. My own pulse makes me sick. The only thing that seems to stay down is salty corn puffs, but they give me high blood pressure, which is also undesirable. There is no winning.
I did not sign up for this. I was willing to be sliced and diced and stapled back together again. I was willing to risk miscarriage and uterine rupture. I was willing to be fussed over and violated by extra tests and shots and whatnot. I was NOT willing to be desperately sick for three to six months. The plan was that the Zofran would work and I would be semi-independent and at least able to eat properly. That failed spectacularly, so now I am essentially a shut-in. I'm lucky if I get off the couch. The dog has started giving me long earnest looks, wondering if napping all day and going to bed early is going to be the rest of our lives. I can barely make my own food, and now even that seems like a wasted effort. If I am going out, especially to church, I have to starve myself first so that I know any vomit that happens can fit into a paper cup I keep in my purse. The only thing that can make this situation any worse is the onset of autumn hay fever, which occasionally gives me chronic bloody nose, and always makes vomiting a truly epic experience of sinus pressure. I'd be chugging liquid Tylenol to cope with the headaches if I thought I could keep it down.
I know other women have it worse than I do, and I've heard of some risking liver and kidney failure just to have children. More power to them, but I am done. I hate going to bed at night, and I hate waking up in the morning. If I could finish this experience in an induced coma, I would. Once this kid is out, one way or another, I hope to never, ever, ever, EVER experience this misery again.
Pardon me, I feel like I have to go throw up.
Well, I officially hate it. It has been nothing but miserable and traumatic ALL FIVE TIMES. I thought the worst was finally over, but we had a spectacular relapse on Tuesday, and I've been vomiting six times daily ever since. I essentially starved until noon yesterday just to make it stop, and it seems like today will be the same. I try to take my vitamins, but they tend to make me sick. Food makes me sick, water makes me sick, being hungry and thirsty makes me sick. All things being equal, I'd rather vomit on an empty stomach than otherwise, so I just don't eat or drink at all. Fruit makes me sick. Vegetables make me sick. Juice makes me sick. The smell of my shampoo makes me sick. Showers make me sick, but not showering also makes me sick. Brushing my teeth makes me sick. My own pulse makes me sick. The only thing that seems to stay down is salty corn puffs, but they give me high blood pressure, which is also undesirable. There is no winning.
I did not sign up for this. I was willing to be sliced and diced and stapled back together again. I was willing to risk miscarriage and uterine rupture. I was willing to be fussed over and violated by extra tests and shots and whatnot. I was NOT willing to be desperately sick for three to six months. The plan was that the Zofran would work and I would be semi-independent and at least able to eat properly. That failed spectacularly, so now I am essentially a shut-in. I'm lucky if I get off the couch. The dog has started giving me long earnest looks, wondering if napping all day and going to bed early is going to be the rest of our lives. I can barely make my own food, and now even that seems like a wasted effort. If I am going out, especially to church, I have to starve myself first so that I know any vomit that happens can fit into a paper cup I keep in my purse. The only thing that can make this situation any worse is the onset of autumn hay fever, which occasionally gives me chronic bloody nose, and always makes vomiting a truly epic experience of sinus pressure. I'd be chugging liquid Tylenol to cope with the headaches if I thought I could keep it down.
I know other women have it worse than I do, and I've heard of some risking liver and kidney failure just to have children. More power to them, but I am done. I hate going to bed at night, and I hate waking up in the morning. If I could finish this experience in an induced coma, I would. Once this kid is out, one way or another, I hope to never, ever, ever, EVER experience this misery again.
Pardon me, I feel like I have to go throw up.
Wednesday, October 1, 2014
Transitions and Precautions
Twelve and a half weeks now, for real. Next obgyn appointment is on Monday, and I'm going to have to make a case for a new progesterone prescription. Had the Little Dave debacle not happened, they would be taking me off the hormones now, but I'm not interested in just waiting around for my cervix to crap out on me again. I think we have a pretty strong case, but I'm prepared to make a scene if I have to.
In the meantime, I'm completely paranoid about birth defects, so I've made an effort to eliminate as many toxins from the environment as possible. We use all-natural laundry soap, and we've replaced all fabric softeners and dryer sheets with wool yarn balls. We can't afford to go completely organic, but anything we can do to better the odds seems worthwhile. Natural dish soap and dishwasher detergent, organic vitamins, filtered water, toxin-free shampoo and shower soap. My favorite body bar is Zum Bar goat's milk soap; tried my new tangerine citrus bar and it was like showering with a creamsicle. No unnecessary medication, though it's been difficult to stay off my antihistamines now that the itchy season is upon us. Mainstream makeup and nail polish are strictly verboten. We've gotten rid of all our teflon cookware, and we've never owned a microwave. I think that covers most bases, or is at least a start.
In the meantime, I'm completely paranoid about birth defects, so I've made an effort to eliminate as many toxins from the environment as possible. We use all-natural laundry soap, and we've replaced all fabric softeners and dryer sheets with wool yarn balls. We can't afford to go completely organic, but anything we can do to better the odds seems worthwhile. Natural dish soap and dishwasher detergent, organic vitamins, filtered water, toxin-free shampoo and shower soap. My favorite body bar is Zum Bar goat's milk soap; tried my new tangerine citrus bar and it was like showering with a creamsicle. No unnecessary medication, though it's been difficult to stay off my antihistamines now that the itchy season is upon us. Mainstream makeup and nail polish are strictly verboten. We've gotten rid of all our teflon cookware, and we've never owned a microwave. I think that covers most bases, or is at least a start.
Friday, September 19, 2014
Good News and a Demotion
Went for an ultrasound today, and everything looks good so far. But, as I suspected, our count was two-weeks off, so technically we're only at 10 weeks. Blarg. It seems like I'll be trapped in the first trimester forever.
Monday, September 15, 2014
Some Improvement
We made it to 12 weeks. Next week will be the next major milestone, but I think most of the anxiety is gone by now. It's hard to be anxious when you're just trying to make time pass and stay hydrated. Lots of Netflix shows were watched. The good news is the 24/7 sickness has improved significantly, at least to the point that I no longer feel like primordial slime sitting on the sofa, drooling into a bowl. Zofran has pooped out completely, so I just stopped taking it. It's still rare that I get through the day without puking at all, but we're down to several non-eventful rounds on an empty stomach in the morning, and at least one like clockwork around 3 PM. Occasionally I've even felt good. This morning I was actually able to do some house chores faster than a terminally ill Galapagos tortoise. I still have the car stocked with paper cups though, because there is usually at least one good retch-fest on the way home from church. It's all about strategy.
Still no bleeding, no spotting, no cramping, and no drama. No periodic useless visits to the ER. This progesterone stuff seems to be working.
By the way, if this works, we're done. I can't do this primordial slime routine with a small child around, at least not until we can afford an awesome nanny. We may still pursue the adoption angle. We'll see. At the moment, I'm more concerned with finding something inoffensive and semi-liquid for breakfast tomorrow.
Still no bleeding, no spotting, no cramping, and no drama. No periodic useless visits to the ER. This progesterone stuff seems to be working.
By the way, if this works, we're done. I can't do this primordial slime routine with a small child around, at least not until we can afford an awesome nanny. We may still pursue the adoption angle. We'll see. At the moment, I'm more concerned with finding something inoffensive and semi-liquid for breakfast tomorrow.
Saturday, August 30, 2014
Some Rough Days
So much for the vomit-free life. There's no stopping it some days, drugs or no drugs.
Finally made it in to see my primary care doctor to confirm the pregnancy and secure my referral to the obgyn. She pointed out that my Zofran dose was half the strength I was used to, which explained why it hadn't really been working. Now it works really well at least some of the time. I'll take what I can get.
The obgyn is swamped, and can't fit me in until the end of September, and then only at the office thirty minutes away. We stayed in this apartment specifically to avoid driving thirty minutes to the doctor. Whatever. I'm not sure what they'll be checking for anyway. My experience with early checkups and emergency calls is a lot of peeking and poking and no real intervention. We'll see how that goes.
Ten weeks tomorrow. No bleeding yet.
Finally made it in to see my primary care doctor to confirm the pregnancy and secure my referral to the obgyn. She pointed out that my Zofran dose was half the strength I was used to, which explained why it hadn't really been working. Now it works really well at least some of the time. I'll take what I can get.
The obgyn is swamped, and can't fit me in until the end of September, and then only at the office thirty minutes away. We stayed in this apartment specifically to avoid driving thirty minutes to the doctor. Whatever. I'm not sure what they'll be checking for anyway. My experience with early checkups and emergency calls is a lot of peeking and poking and no real intervention. We'll see how that goes.
Ten weeks tomorrow. No bleeding yet.
Thursday, August 21, 2014
First Milestones
So, we've made it to eight weeks, which is longer than two of the other pregnancies. During all four of them I had started spotting by this point. I suppose I have the Endometrin (progesterone) to thank for this change for the better. It comes in delightful little 100 mg suppositories I have to put where the sun don't shine every twelve hours. Inevitably they eventually dissolve and come out, which always sends me running to the bathroom to check for blood. I haven't found any yet, so I'm gradually becoming less neurotic about it. I'm also becoming less convinced the baby is going to spontaneously fall out if I walk around too much. Not that it hasn't happened before.
More about Endometrin. I read all the fine print on that two-foot long piece of paper in the box, and when I was done I almost didn't want to use it. There is a long and colorful list of side-effects, some of which we're enjoying already
The boldfaced are the ones I'm familiar with so far. The constipation and abdominal pain have just about made me immune to the panic-inducing effect of cramping. The real kicker was "Call your doctor immediately if you have abnormal vaginal bleeding." I thought I was taking it to make the abnormal vaginal bleeding go away. I've been buying anything I can get in cranberry to combat the mini urinary infections, which seems to be working so far, but more later on difficulties associated with eating. Whatever. We'll see what it brings us. If the meds do what they're supposed to do and don't kill me in the process, that will be perfect.
Now, the perennial nausea. I'm not sure whether I have hyperemesis this time or not because I stay as drugged-up as possible. Even the Zofran is pooping out on me, so it must be bad. My lofty ambitions of maintaining a perfect diet are long forgotten. For alternative remedies, I found some chocolate-covered ginger at the organic market and some liquid concentrated ginger drops. That stuff is not for the faint of heart. Tastes like ginger ale but burns like battery acid. I hate ginger.
In the meantime, any day without bleeding or vomiting is a relatively good day, even if I feel like crap the whole time. I've put my face in the toilet at least four times, but always chicken out. I really hate the smell of toilet water. The problem is usually linked to the fact that I'm hungry, but nothing fresh and healthy looks even remotely palatable. No one on the brink of vomit is going to lurch into the kitchen and make a green juice. Even eating grapes is dangerous. Relying on Chipotle every day isn't feasible, so my fallback was frozen burritos. Failing, by the way, in my gluten-free aspirations. Dave has been bringing me Chick-fil-A in the evenings to take the edge off. Today I was driven to stumble out of the house in my pajamas with the cabin-fevered dog and swing by the nearest drive-through window, which happened to be Little Caesars. Salt seems to be key. The nausea keeps coming back unless I keep eating the salty fast food, and eating all the time with Endometrin-induced constipation does not do a body good. I'm about to risk the peppermint. I love peppermint, and it nukes the nausea quicker than anything else I've tried, but I read somewhere that it can cause uterine cramping. Go figure, right?
More about Endometrin. I read all the fine print on that two-foot long piece of paper in the box, and when I was done I almost didn't want to use it. There is a long and colorful list of side-effects, some of which we're enjoying already
- abdominal pain
- nausea
- abdominal distention
- fluid retention
- constipation
- vomiting
- fatigue and drowsiness
- urinary tract infection
- headache
- mood swings
- depression
- irritability
- ovarian hyperstimulation syndrome
- uterine spasm
- vaginal irritation
- vaginal bleeding
- blood clots in the legs (thrombophlebitis)
- blood clots in the lungs (pulmonary embolus)
- blood clots in the eyes (blindness)
- blood clots in the heart (heart attack)
- blood clots in the brain (stroke)
The boldfaced are the ones I'm familiar with so far. The constipation and abdominal pain have just about made me immune to the panic-inducing effect of cramping. The real kicker was "Call your doctor immediately if you have abnormal vaginal bleeding." I thought I was taking it to make the abnormal vaginal bleeding go away. I've been buying anything I can get in cranberry to combat the mini urinary infections, which seems to be working so far, but more later on difficulties associated with eating. Whatever. We'll see what it brings us. If the meds do what they're supposed to do and don't kill me in the process, that will be perfect.
Now, the perennial nausea. I'm not sure whether I have hyperemesis this time or not because I stay as drugged-up as possible. Even the Zofran is pooping out on me, so it must be bad. My lofty ambitions of maintaining a perfect diet are long forgotten. For alternative remedies, I found some chocolate-covered ginger at the organic market and some liquid concentrated ginger drops. That stuff is not for the faint of heart. Tastes like ginger ale but burns like battery acid. I hate ginger.
In the meantime, any day without bleeding or vomiting is a relatively good day, even if I feel like crap the whole time. I've put my face in the toilet at least four times, but always chicken out. I really hate the smell of toilet water. The problem is usually linked to the fact that I'm hungry, but nothing fresh and healthy looks even remotely palatable. No one on the brink of vomit is going to lurch into the kitchen and make a green juice. Even eating grapes is dangerous. Relying on Chipotle every day isn't feasible, so my fallback was frozen burritos. Failing, by the way, in my gluten-free aspirations. Dave has been bringing me Chick-fil-A in the evenings to take the edge off. Today I was driven to stumble out of the house in my pajamas with the cabin-fevered dog and swing by the nearest drive-through window, which happened to be Little Caesars. Salt seems to be key. The nausea keeps coming back unless I keep eating the salty fast food, and eating all the time with Endometrin-induced constipation does not do a body good. I'm about to risk the peppermint. I love peppermint, and it nukes the nausea quicker than anything else I've tried, but I read somewhere that it can cause uterine cramping. Go figure, right?
Tuesday, August 12, 2014
So It Begins
The Sickness has finally hit me. I don't call it "morning sickness," because that is a lie. 24/7 I Hate My Life Sickness would be more accurate. I'm not going to stand for it this time. The one tiny benefit to cycling through all these miserable pregnancies so quickly is that my Zofran prescription is still good from the last one. I still have a few days' supply of pills in the drawer. I just went online and ordered the one refill it allows to tide me over until I can get a hold of the OBGYN to write a fresh order.
This is not a view I intend to enjoy very often. I've spent enough quality time there for a lifetime, thank you.
This is not a view I intend to enjoy very often. I've spent enough quality time there for a lifetime, thank you.
Thursday, August 7, 2014
Partly Cloudy With a Chance of an Infant
Because our kids only seem to be around for a limited time, here's announcing baby "Julian" at six weeks. It's kind of like naming hurricanes. They pop up on the horizon from time to time, make our lives miserable for a few weeks, put me in the hospital at least once, and then spiral off into the great beyond. Fifth time's the charm? Maybe? Whatever.
There is a slight chance this time might be different. My uterine cavity has been cleared of all abnormalities. I'm currently on a progesterone treatment, and my nutrition is much better as we've been hardcore vegetable and fruit juicing for about a month. I've decided to go gluten-free for the duration just as an extra precaution. We're really grasping at straws, but it never seems to matter what we do. Oh, well. Time will tell. In the meantime, brace for impact.
There is a slight chance this time might be different. My uterine cavity has been cleared of all abnormalities. I'm currently on a progesterone treatment, and my nutrition is much better as we've been hardcore vegetable and fruit juicing for about a month. I've decided to go gluten-free for the duration just as an extra precaution. We're really grasping at straws, but it never seems to matter what we do. Oh, well. Time will tell. In the meantime, brace for impact.
Sunday, July 13, 2014
Change of Plans
I've been looking forward to moving house for a long time. Some friends of ours moved into a lovely apartment almost two years ago and I immediately knew I wanted to join them. Unfortunately we had only just resigned our 12-month lease, so we had a long wait ahead. When our next opportunity rolled around, they served us with new papers earlier than expected, and the location Dave's new job assignment was in question, so we opted to wait another year. The move was now scheduled for next April. I was really looking forward to being closer to friends, closer to Dave's work, closer to the free dog park, in a prettier apartment with a double sink in the kitchen, long counters in the bathroom, a gym and a pool. (Our current apartment lacks both the gym and the pool, the gym being the more attractive prospect of the two.)
The de-cluttering began in earnest. We were going to paint the walls, buy new furniture, replace the glass on the dining room table. There was a whole list of exciting things that would happen "after we move." One of those things was going to be trying for another pregnancy. It seemed silly not to at least give it a shot after all the probings and scannings and surgical corrections we had done.
But you know what they say: location, location, location. As much as I wanted to just move and be done, in the end I couldn't reconcile moving away from my current doctor. It's not that I'm particularly attached to her, but both my PCP and my OBGYN are in the same building, and that building is just a few minutes up the street we live on now. The hospital is a ten-minute drive down the road and through a neighborhood. If we're going to attempt another high-risk pregnancy, it doesn't make sense to move away from this incredibly convenient set-up we have here.
So, I mourned the move for about a day. Then I bought (and built) new furniture and painted the walls. I rearranged everything in the living room and the bedroom. I made pillow covers and new table linens. A large piece of glass will be procured to keep them nice. The thought of possibly being pregnant, miserable and couch-ridden soon made me want to do all the heavy lifting now. In the meantime, we've given up our semi-celibate lives, so we'll see what happens.
Pictures of the new decor to follow, just the "afters" because I forgot to take "befores." Regardless of whether the pregnancy works out or not, I love our new blue walls.
The de-cluttering began in earnest. We were going to paint the walls, buy new furniture, replace the glass on the dining room table. There was a whole list of exciting things that would happen "after we move." One of those things was going to be trying for another pregnancy. It seemed silly not to at least give it a shot after all the probings and scannings and surgical corrections we had done.
But you know what they say: location, location, location. As much as I wanted to just move and be done, in the end I couldn't reconcile moving away from my current doctor. It's not that I'm particularly attached to her, but both my PCP and my OBGYN are in the same building, and that building is just a few minutes up the street we live on now. The hospital is a ten-minute drive down the road and through a neighborhood. If we're going to attempt another high-risk pregnancy, it doesn't make sense to move away from this incredibly convenient set-up we have here.
So, I mourned the move for about a day. Then I bought (and built) new furniture and painted the walls. I rearranged everything in the living room and the bedroom. I made pillow covers and new table linens. A large piece of glass will be procured to keep them nice. The thought of possibly being pregnant, miserable and couch-ridden soon made me want to do all the heavy lifting now. In the meantime, we've given up our semi-celibate lives, so we'll see what happens.
Pictures of the new decor to follow, just the "afters" because I forgot to take "befores." Regardless of whether the pregnancy works out or not, I love our new blue walls.
Wednesday, April 30, 2014
Upcoming Surgery
Ok. I expected to be able to post actual 3D images of the ultrasound I had recently for visual exhibits, but the CD copy they gave me is completely unreadable to my laptop. So I scoured Google for some stand-ins.
Here's a normal uterus, for the sake of comparison:
Here's a normal uterus, for the sake of comparison:
 |
| Exhibit A: The Ideal |
Here's a partial septate uterus, like mine. It looks more like a Y on the inside, but the outside is almost normal.
 |
| Exhibit B: Definitely Not Ideal |
Here's the plan: surgically remove the septum. They don't know that it's THE problem, but it's something they know how to fix.
 |
| Exhibit C: Burn the Monster Out |
Whatever. It will mean a thirty minute out-patient procedure. Might as well while we have no deductible and no co-pay. It will probably mean re-instituting our semi-Josephite marriage arrangement, but we're old pros at that by now.
Tuesday, September 3, 2013
Type-Casting
We were celebrating the beginning of our mutual vacation last night with a longer than normal marathon of "CSI: NY," which resembles "Bones" and "Law and Order: Special Victims Unit" enough to be much less annoying than "CSI: Miami." Anyhow, it seems we watched one episode too many, and we ended up going to bed depressed.
The episode in question featured a plot device I've seen before, the mentally unstable housewife who has failed to have children of her own and resorts to stealing them out of other pregnant women.
Why do I always have to be type-cast as the crazy person? Is the public perception of women like me really becoming so suspicious? We've all noticed the growing tendency of the populace at large to assume all veterans are ticking PTSD time-bombs. Apparently aspiring mothers who are for whatever reason unable to produce like normal women are supposed to develop a dangerous and slightly psychotic obsession with getting a child, any child from anywhere.
Which isn't to say it hasn't happened, and just goes to show the depth of feeling and strength of the instincts involved. I am all for bringing miscarriage back into the social consciousness, because no matter how early or how physically painless it might be, it still messes us up emotionally. We might be less stereotypically crazy if we weren't so repressed.
I've mentioned it before, but secret first trimesters should not be socially mandatory. Why did that become the norm? Is it just to spare our friends and neighbors the awkwardness of hearing about miscarriage and not knowing what to say? It might be awkward for them, but it's life-changing for me, so they can just deal with it. Real friends will want to know what's going on in our lives regardless, good or bad.
Maybe we just need some kind of acknowledgement that there may be something other than a pastel-colored paradise on the other side of a positive pregnancy test. Maybe it will be nothing but emergency rooms, IVs and blood tests. Maybe it will be days on end of sitting as still as possible and praying there won't be any bleeding. Maybe it will be chronic disappointment and a special colander under the bathroom sink. Maybe you'll end up right back where you started with nothing to show for it but a ragged scar, hospital invoices and a bottle of oxycodone. We aren't allowed to even mention it, because somehow it's considered bad taste. But, seriously, every woman should consider the possibility and have a plan so she won't be broadsided the way we were the first time.
If we'd had a plan, maybe we would have been coherent enough to ask for Alexis' body rather than letting him/her be thrown out with the medical waste. Maybe we would have known about conditional baptism in case of miscarriage. Maybe we would not have felt so completely alone and defective.
This last time we were joking darkly that we'd only really start freaking out if the unthinkable happened and we actually ended up with an infant. We were just starting to get hopeful when it all fell apart, and then we wondered why we had ever expected anything different. I received my soulless paperwork diagnosing miscarriage in the mail the same day as the congratulatory pastel packet from Johns Hopkins covered pictures with happy pregnant women. The former went into the medical file, the latter into the shredder. For a brief shining moment, I was a member of the happily pregnant club, but once I inevitably miscarry I'm supposed to retire quietly to grieve in the privacy of my own home so as not to rain on anybody else's pregnancy parade.
That could just be my perception, but it's hard to shake. Fortunately many of my friends, not all of whom have experienced miscarriage for themselves, manage to not be obnoxious to me while they are pregnant. Better, they don't seem to mind me talking about it. It needs to be talked about.
When I was sending our wedding invitations, I did not imagine that almost four years later we would still be living the extended honeymoon phase, pet-parents to a toy poodle. This was not the plan. If anything, I have learned to have alternative plans, or at least to expect the unexpected and plan for the unplanned.
The episode in question featured a plot device I've seen before, the mentally unstable housewife who has failed to have children of her own and resorts to stealing them out of other pregnant women.
Why do I always have to be type-cast as the crazy person? Is the public perception of women like me really becoming so suspicious? We've all noticed the growing tendency of the populace at large to assume all veterans are ticking PTSD time-bombs. Apparently aspiring mothers who are for whatever reason unable to produce like normal women are supposed to develop a dangerous and slightly psychotic obsession with getting a child, any child from anywhere.
Which isn't to say it hasn't happened, and just goes to show the depth of feeling and strength of the instincts involved. I am all for bringing miscarriage back into the social consciousness, because no matter how early or how physically painless it might be, it still messes us up emotionally. We might be less stereotypically crazy if we weren't so repressed.
I've mentioned it before, but secret first trimesters should not be socially mandatory. Why did that become the norm? Is it just to spare our friends and neighbors the awkwardness of hearing about miscarriage and not knowing what to say? It might be awkward for them, but it's life-changing for me, so they can just deal with it. Real friends will want to know what's going on in our lives regardless, good or bad.
Maybe we just need some kind of acknowledgement that there may be something other than a pastel-colored paradise on the other side of a positive pregnancy test. Maybe it will be nothing but emergency rooms, IVs and blood tests. Maybe it will be days on end of sitting as still as possible and praying there won't be any bleeding. Maybe it will be chronic disappointment and a special colander under the bathroom sink. Maybe you'll end up right back where you started with nothing to show for it but a ragged scar, hospital invoices and a bottle of oxycodone. We aren't allowed to even mention it, because somehow it's considered bad taste. But, seriously, every woman should consider the possibility and have a plan so she won't be broadsided the way we were the first time.
If we'd had a plan, maybe we would have been coherent enough to ask for Alexis' body rather than letting him/her be thrown out with the medical waste. Maybe we would have known about conditional baptism in case of miscarriage. Maybe we would not have felt so completely alone and defective.
This last time we were joking darkly that we'd only really start freaking out if the unthinkable happened and we actually ended up with an infant. We were just starting to get hopeful when it all fell apart, and then we wondered why we had ever expected anything different. I received my soulless paperwork diagnosing miscarriage in the mail the same day as the congratulatory pastel packet from Johns Hopkins covered pictures with happy pregnant women. The former went into the medical file, the latter into the shredder. For a brief shining moment, I was a member of the happily pregnant club, but once I inevitably miscarry I'm supposed to retire quietly to grieve in the privacy of my own home so as not to rain on anybody else's pregnancy parade.
That could just be my perception, but it's hard to shake. Fortunately many of my friends, not all of whom have experienced miscarriage for themselves, manage to not be obnoxious to me while they are pregnant. Better, they don't seem to mind me talking about it. It needs to be talked about.
When I was sending our wedding invitations, I did not imagine that almost four years later we would still be living the extended honeymoon phase, pet-parents to a toy poodle. This was not the plan. If anything, I have learned to have alternative plans, or at least to expect the unexpected and plan for the unplanned.
Alexis Constans
25 June 2010
13 weeks
David Edward, Jr.
6-8 March 2011
24 weeks
Celestine Michel
13 August 2013
6 weeks
Monday, August 19, 2013
Invisible Babies
Why is it socially unacceptable to talk about miscarriages? Why are we supposed to keep early pregnancies a secret? These are important life events every bit as deserving of acknowledgment as a live birth. If the possibility of pregnancy loss wasn't considered so awkward to talk about, those of us who go through it probably wouldn't feel so alone. The burden of feeling obliged to be quiet just makes a bad situation worse.
That being said, losing baby Celestine last week wasn't so traumatic as it was exhausting. The pregnancy wasn't technically planned, but after two years of carefully avoiding the possibility, we scraped up enough optimism to be excited. Maybe this time it would be different. All the circumstances seemed too providential for it to not end well.
I admit, my first instinct was to keep this one under our hats for several months, just because of all the drama which had accompanied our first two losses. Unfortunately, we had to tell almost everyone. I had to immediately give notice at my job because all my pregnancies are high-risk and usually involve bed rest of some kind. Dave had to inform his command of the situation just because of all the drama which might possibly ensue given our history. We had to tell Dave's family because we had to cancel the trip to Disney World we were supposed to take with them in September. We had to tell my family because we had told Dave's family and also because they were supposed to watch our dog during this Disney trip. Everybody at work was ecstatic and started making all kinds of plans for me and the baby, despite my attempts to maintain a healthy strain of pessimism.
Everything went well until the sixth week. I started bleeding Tuesday morning at work. They let me go home early and I ended up calling out the rest of the week. I was convinced it was over at that point and called Dave at work just to let him know. They let him come home, too, and he brought a bag of doughnuts. We broke the news to our respective families, and apparently the trip to Disney was once again a go.
I called my OB's office and they sent me out for blood tests. The results of those tests on Wednesday showed a healthy level of hormones despite all the bleeding, and another round was ordered for Thursday. On Friday the new results showed a doubling of the hormone levels, exactly as would be expected in a healthy pregnancy. I was a bit in denial at this point because I couldn't see how anything could be hanging on in there after four days of full-on menstrual bleeding. However, the Internet said it was possible and that it happens all the time. All I had been trying to do for those four days was prove I was in fact having a miscarriage so I could pop some painkillers and have a drink, but it didn't seem to be working out that way. After my initial disappointment that I couldn't just complete the brief grieving process and then get on with my life, we were once again optimistic that we might make it through. Disney was cancelled again.
The bleeding carried on at a steady pace, but then started to taper off. I'd been having cramps, but nothing to write home about. Sometimes it only hurt around my cesarean scar. I asked the Internet about that too, and apparently it's not uncommon for cesarean scar tissue to adhere to the bladder or abdominal wall and cause chronic pain throughout pregnancy. Oh, hooray.
Sunday started out well enough. There was some more cramping, but since the bleeding had stopped, I didn't think much of it. I was scheduled for another blood test on Monday, but by 3 PM the pain had become impossible to ignore and was worst in one very specific area on my right side. All the symptoms made me suspect an ectopic, so rather than wait for a late night adventure we went ahead to the ER.
The ultrasound couldn't find any evidence of an ectopic pregnancy, or indeed of any pregnancy at all. However, the tech could point out all the cesarean scaring, that bothersome septum in the middle of everything, and some suspicious spots she thought were probably fibroids. The doctor popped in and out of our room and explained that my hormone levels had not doubled again, but had instead begun to decline. He also expressed some confusion about my changing blood-type, which he then went to go resolve. He promised me some pain meds, which I was more than happy to have, not just because the cramps were killing me but because I didn't want to have endured that stupid IV in my arm all evening for no reason.
Thank God for the military channel, because we probably would have gone stir crazy otherwise. As it turned out, the nurse who put in the order for my morphine went to lunch and her replacement forgot about me. We were hanging on the call button when she came back later with a standard dose. I eagerly awaited some relief, but it never really happened. She came back later and gave me twice the standard dose. That made me a little groggy and nauseous, but just made the cramps spread. Seriously, three shots of morphine had less effect than one Ibuprofen tablet.
They managed to roust one of my OBs from the delivery room around 9 PM and bring her down to evaluate my strange situation. She wasn't willing to rule out an ectopic just yet, but ordered another round of blood tests for Tuesday just to see if the trend was continuing. Basically it would be a matter of follow-up at this point. They asked if I was comfortable going home with the kind of pain I was in, and I said yes, trusting my Ibuprofen to do a better job. I tried to stop by the bathroom before we left, but I was literally unable to do anything because all my sphincters were cramped shut. No more morphine for me, please.
Dave made a food run to McDonald's, but I was too sick to eat anything. Fortunately this morning I woke up with no pain whatsoever, so I'll take that as a good sign. It looks like the Disney trip is back on.
Once again I feel like I've been chewed up and spit out by the situation. Dave asked me if I wanted to try again, and honestly my answer right now is no, not again, not ever. Maybe we can revisit the possibility next year. It just seems so medically hopeless that it's hard to see much point in making the effort.
That being said, losing baby Celestine last week wasn't so traumatic as it was exhausting. The pregnancy wasn't technically planned, but after two years of carefully avoiding the possibility, we scraped up enough optimism to be excited. Maybe this time it would be different. All the circumstances seemed too providential for it to not end well.
I admit, my first instinct was to keep this one under our hats for several months, just because of all the drama which had accompanied our first two losses. Unfortunately, we had to tell almost everyone. I had to immediately give notice at my job because all my pregnancies are high-risk and usually involve bed rest of some kind. Dave had to inform his command of the situation just because of all the drama which might possibly ensue given our history. We had to tell Dave's family because we had to cancel the trip to Disney World we were supposed to take with them in September. We had to tell my family because we had told Dave's family and also because they were supposed to watch our dog during this Disney trip. Everybody at work was ecstatic and started making all kinds of plans for me and the baby, despite my attempts to maintain a healthy strain of pessimism.
Everything went well until the sixth week. I started bleeding Tuesday morning at work. They let me go home early and I ended up calling out the rest of the week. I was convinced it was over at that point and called Dave at work just to let him know. They let him come home, too, and he brought a bag of doughnuts. We broke the news to our respective families, and apparently the trip to Disney was once again a go.
I called my OB's office and they sent me out for blood tests. The results of those tests on Wednesday showed a healthy level of hormones despite all the bleeding, and another round was ordered for Thursday. On Friday the new results showed a doubling of the hormone levels, exactly as would be expected in a healthy pregnancy. I was a bit in denial at this point because I couldn't see how anything could be hanging on in there after four days of full-on menstrual bleeding. However, the Internet said it was possible and that it happens all the time. All I had been trying to do for those four days was prove I was in fact having a miscarriage so I could pop some painkillers and have a drink, but it didn't seem to be working out that way. After my initial disappointment that I couldn't just complete the brief grieving process and then get on with my life, we were once again optimistic that we might make it through. Disney was cancelled again.
The bleeding carried on at a steady pace, but then started to taper off. I'd been having cramps, but nothing to write home about. Sometimes it only hurt around my cesarean scar. I asked the Internet about that too, and apparently it's not uncommon for cesarean scar tissue to adhere to the bladder or abdominal wall and cause chronic pain throughout pregnancy. Oh, hooray.
Sunday started out well enough. There was some more cramping, but since the bleeding had stopped, I didn't think much of it. I was scheduled for another blood test on Monday, but by 3 PM the pain had become impossible to ignore and was worst in one very specific area on my right side. All the symptoms made me suspect an ectopic, so rather than wait for a late night adventure we went ahead to the ER.
The ultrasound couldn't find any evidence of an ectopic pregnancy, or indeed of any pregnancy at all. However, the tech could point out all the cesarean scaring, that bothersome septum in the middle of everything, and some suspicious spots she thought were probably fibroids. The doctor popped in and out of our room and explained that my hormone levels had not doubled again, but had instead begun to decline. He also expressed some confusion about my changing blood-type, which he then went to go resolve. He promised me some pain meds, which I was more than happy to have, not just because the cramps were killing me but because I didn't want to have endured that stupid IV in my arm all evening for no reason.
Thank God for the military channel, because we probably would have gone stir crazy otherwise. As it turned out, the nurse who put in the order for my morphine went to lunch and her replacement forgot about me. We were hanging on the call button when she came back later with a standard dose. I eagerly awaited some relief, but it never really happened. She came back later and gave me twice the standard dose. That made me a little groggy and nauseous, but just made the cramps spread. Seriously, three shots of morphine had less effect than one Ibuprofen tablet.
They managed to roust one of my OBs from the delivery room around 9 PM and bring her down to evaluate my strange situation. She wasn't willing to rule out an ectopic just yet, but ordered another round of blood tests for Tuesday just to see if the trend was continuing. Basically it would be a matter of follow-up at this point. They asked if I was comfortable going home with the kind of pain I was in, and I said yes, trusting my Ibuprofen to do a better job. I tried to stop by the bathroom before we left, but I was literally unable to do anything because all my sphincters were cramped shut. No more morphine for me, please.
Dave made a food run to McDonald's, but I was too sick to eat anything. Fortunately this morning I woke up with no pain whatsoever, so I'll take that as a good sign. It looks like the Disney trip is back on.
Once again I feel like I've been chewed up and spit out by the situation. Dave asked me if I wanted to try again, and honestly my answer right now is no, not again, not ever. Maybe we can revisit the possibility next year. It just seems so medically hopeless that it's hard to see much point in making the effort.
Monday, May 14, 2012
Godchildren, Hindsight, and Living the New Normal
Yesterday I attended the baptism of Michael Joseph, our first godchild. Unfortunately, Dave had to miss it, but we had a good friend stand as proxy. It was a gathering of the usual suspects, other young families of Christendom's class of 2008. Thankfully, I found I wasn't nearly as bothered by it as I would have been six months ago.
At this point, more than a year removed from losing Little Dave, I'm probably about as over it as I ever will be. The last few weeks in particular have been much better, all things considered. Everyone's personal tragedy has a social expiration date, after which one really shouldn't keep nagging Facebook about it, or look for ways to bring it up in conversation. The world has moved on, even if I feel like I physically haven't. Being alone has really brought it all to the forefront lately. If you've seen the movie, "Into Great Silence," that's what it's like around our apartment, and not in a good way. I got married because I was no good at the contemplative life. Yet, here I am.
They say you never think it will be you. I know I never did. My life had been picture perfect vanilla until two years ago. I had a lovely childhood with no serious injuries, illnesses, or setbacks, cruised through school, went to college, met a great guy who is so much like me he could be a long lost twin, and was engaged a year after graduation. We did have some suspicion that the matter of children could be dicey just because of certain aspects of our medical history, but we didn't let it dampen our spirits too much. We were married in January and pregnant by Easter, but then all our expectations began to crumble rapidly.
Needless to say, my expectations of my life have changed significantly. At this point, taking all my medical setbacks into consideration along with our hypothetical genetic issues and my apparent inability to carry to term, I am resigned to the fact that we'll never actually be able to raise those adorable children we were supposed to have. At least, not any that are biologically our own. Some people just knock harder when that door refuses to open. I tend to take the hint and accept the rejection before we waste a lot of money or I really hurt myself trying.
I have no problem whatsoever with adopting. That's currently the five-year plan. What actually still bothers me - more so while he's not around to tell me I'm being stupid for thinking it - is that Dave deserved to have his own family. I feel like the defective one in this relationship. He was wonderful throughout the whole ordeal, but he never asked for all this. Of course, no one does, but I was mortified, particularly because the timing could not have been worse for him, BOTH times. I married him to be a help and support, not an invalid who can't stay out of the hospital or muster up enough strength to feed herself. Part of what has scared me away from deliberately attempting another pregnancy is the thought that the black icing on the cake would be for me to die of uterine rupture and leave him completely high and dry. I can't even bear the thought. I've already failed him often enough.
In the meantime, most of our friends have budding families with all the traditional milestones, baptisms, first teeth, first steps, first birthdays. Their blogs and Facebook pages are full of happy pictures and updates. It can be extremely bittersweet. I've invested a lot of mental effort into trying to feel blessed to have two saints rather than merely deprived of viable offspring, and some days are better than others.
In order to move on and be functional we almost have to forget, but we really don't want to forget anything because we already have little enough to remember, and the only memories we have are of hospitals and heartbreak. I feel guilty when I forget. It seems particularly hard while there aren't any other children demanding my attention. Instinctively I feel like I should spend time with them now and then, but what that has basically amounted to up to this point is sitting on the couch and thinking about what we could have been doing.
One lesson I have learned, or at least finally come to accept, is that none of us is entitled to anything in this life. Their normal may not be our normal. Our normal is not what we thought it would be, but we are expected to make something of it, and in the end it will be for the best. Eventually it will be like cheese. For almost a year I went dairy free and felt painfully deprived each time I saw a pizza. But after several months I just accepted that cheese was only for other people and that I would have to be happy with something else. Eventually I forgot what cheese tasted like.
Meanwhile, I'm trying to pull it together to be the tough Navy wife with nerves of steel who can handle anything. I refuse to fail at anything else, because that would just be lame. So long as I have some meaningful human contact at least once a week, I'll stay sane. I actually don't know exactly how long Dave has been gone. I don't remember, and I haven't kept track. It's easier that way, since I don't know when he'll be back.
In any case, being alone has given me the chance to confront all my issues and pull my life back together for its own sake. My life is still awesome, even with all it's apparent flaws. I haven't been permanently traumatized, and the only substance I have ever abused is chocolate. I'm determined to get this show back on the road despite the detour. I haven't quite achieved the goal of domestic warrior demigoddess, but just you wait.
At this point, more than a year removed from losing Little Dave, I'm probably about as over it as I ever will be. The last few weeks in particular have been much better, all things considered. Everyone's personal tragedy has a social expiration date, after which one really shouldn't keep nagging Facebook about it, or look for ways to bring it up in conversation. The world has moved on, even if I feel like I physically haven't. Being alone has really brought it all to the forefront lately. If you've seen the movie, "Into Great Silence," that's what it's like around our apartment, and not in a good way. I got married because I was no good at the contemplative life. Yet, here I am.
They say you never think it will be you. I know I never did. My life had been picture perfect vanilla until two years ago. I had a lovely childhood with no serious injuries, illnesses, or setbacks, cruised through school, went to college, met a great guy who is so much like me he could be a long lost twin, and was engaged a year after graduation. We did have some suspicion that the matter of children could be dicey just because of certain aspects of our medical history, but we didn't let it dampen our spirits too much. We were married in January and pregnant by Easter, but then all our expectations began to crumble rapidly.
I had been looking forward to those kids for years. I remember a specific trash bag commercial I saw during those weeks while I was waiting to follow Dave to California after the wedding. I was sure Dave would be an excellent father and make adorable children, probably even cuter than that kid.
Needless to say, my expectations of my life have changed significantly. At this point, taking all my medical setbacks into consideration along with our hypothetical genetic issues and my apparent inability to carry to term, I am resigned to the fact that we'll never actually be able to raise those adorable children we were supposed to have. At least, not any that are biologically our own. Some people just knock harder when that door refuses to open. I tend to take the hint and accept the rejection before we waste a lot of money or I really hurt myself trying.
I have no problem whatsoever with adopting. That's currently the five-year plan. What actually still bothers me - more so while he's not around to tell me I'm being stupid for thinking it - is that Dave deserved to have his own family. I feel like the defective one in this relationship. He was wonderful throughout the whole ordeal, but he never asked for all this. Of course, no one does, but I was mortified, particularly because the timing could not have been worse for him, BOTH times. I married him to be a help and support, not an invalid who can't stay out of the hospital or muster up enough strength to feed herself. Part of what has scared me away from deliberately attempting another pregnancy is the thought that the black icing on the cake would be for me to die of uterine rupture and leave him completely high and dry. I can't even bear the thought. I've already failed him often enough.
In the meantime, most of our friends have budding families with all the traditional milestones, baptisms, first teeth, first steps, first birthdays. Their blogs and Facebook pages are full of happy pictures and updates. It can be extremely bittersweet. I've invested a lot of mental effort into trying to feel blessed to have two saints rather than merely deprived of viable offspring, and some days are better than others.
In order to move on and be functional we almost have to forget, but we really don't want to forget anything because we already have little enough to remember, and the only memories we have are of hospitals and heartbreak. I feel guilty when I forget. It seems particularly hard while there aren't any other children demanding my attention. Instinctively I feel like I should spend time with them now and then, but what that has basically amounted to up to this point is sitting on the couch and thinking about what we could have been doing.
One lesson I have learned, or at least finally come to accept, is that none of us is entitled to anything in this life. Their normal may not be our normal. Our normal is not what we thought it would be, but we are expected to make something of it, and in the end it will be for the best. Eventually it will be like cheese. For almost a year I went dairy free and felt painfully deprived each time I saw a pizza. But after several months I just accepted that cheese was only for other people and that I would have to be happy with something else. Eventually I forgot what cheese tasted like.
Meanwhile, I'm trying to pull it together to be the tough Navy wife with nerves of steel who can handle anything. I refuse to fail at anything else, because that would just be lame. So long as I have some meaningful human contact at least once a week, I'll stay sane. I actually don't know exactly how long Dave has been gone. I don't remember, and I haven't kept track. It's easier that way, since I don't know when he'll be back.
In any case, being alone has given me the chance to confront all my issues and pull my life back together for its own sake. My life is still awesome, even with all it's apparent flaws. I haven't been permanently traumatized, and the only substance I have ever abused is chocolate. I'm determined to get this show back on the road despite the detour. I haven't quite achieved the goal of domestic warrior demigoddess, but just you wait.
Saturday, January 21, 2012
New Year's Resolutions and Catholic Guilt
I've finally started taking the Christmas tree down, probably six weeks sooner than the last time. At least this time it won't have a hand in inducing labor, as I suspect it did last year.
I want this year to be better than last year. Lots of good things happened last year, particularly for Dave's career, but it was an emotional train wreck. It was much like 2010, actually, but more so. It started on a hopeful note, then crashed and burned, and the nine months following March 8 were engulfed in a kind of Trauma Recovery Mode. I don't believe I'm functioning at the level Dave deserves of a wife and homemaker while constantly in Trauma Recovery Mode. (He hates that I think that, because he's awesome and thinks I'm perfect, often though I've tried to disabuse him of this notion.)
Now it's a new year all over again, and everyone is going on about resolutions. I really want to get my life back on track, but what does that even mean? Where is my track? What am I supposed to be doing with myself? I love being a wife, but it seems to me that there should be something else I should be doing besides sitting at home being a wife, doing laundry, dishes, writing fanfiction and playing online computer games. My first choice was motherhood, but obviously the traditional approach isn't working. Whenever I haven't been in Trauma Recovery Mode, I've been in Pregnancy Mode, which in my case is every bit as miserable. Pregnancy Mode excludes every other type of activity, and of course leads to Trauma Recovery Mode, and the cycle begins again. Remember the kid from Despicable Me who had his balloon animal popped? That was me last year.
So now what do I do with myself? My new year's resolution was to start functioning at 100% again. As a result of the 2010-11 cycle of pregnancy and recovery I've gained all my college weight back and my running shoes and I aren't on the best of terms. I always promised myself I would never be that overweight military wife with a host of emotional problems. I want to stop being a black hole sucking down inordinate levels of Dave's attention, sympathy, and time. All this would involve avoiding pregnancy, and that's where the Catholic guilt comes in.
Are we allowed to stop trying? It's not like we're going to start using contraception or anything, but I can't decide whether the risks to my health and well-being are grave enough to justify the indefinite use of NFP. Does this mean I have trust issues? If I could just live a normal life during pregnancy, or if it were only about losing the children over and over again, it would be another story. I would beat my head against that wall for the rest of my childbearing years if that were the case. But, since I have to play the hand God dealt me, any pregnancy would automatically be high risk and require immediate and complete bed rest. The original prognosis was a 25% chance of miscarriage just due to my condition. Now that my already faulty system has been scarred by biopsies and a cesarean, the odds are rather worse. Not being able to take care of myself is certainly not an ideal circumstance, particularly now that Dave is likely to be gone more often for the next three years. I know I have several friends in the general area who would be more than happy to help, but they don't exactly live in the neighborhood and almost all of them are pregnant themselves.
I got the usual vague recommendations from the doctors and specialists. The classic, "It could be nothing, or it could be life-threatening." Not exactly helpful, but I suppose it was the best they could do. There was a phase during which I was willing to take the risk, but we tried for four months and got nothing.
Now Dave is gone and I'm here alone trying to sort out my life. The more I sit and think about it, the more I'm inclined to believe we're just one of those families who were meant to adopt. But it seems like such a simple answer that I start second guessing myself, and wondering whether I'm interpreting the facts to suit my needs.
What are my needs? I want to lose twenty pounds and fit into all the old clothes hanging in my closet. I want to be free to go running, healthy enough to look after myself and stay out of the emergency room. I don't want to be constantly stressed about the possibility of disappointing Dave and all the family again, about every little cramp being the beginning of the end. I want to get out of this apartment now and then. I want to be free to do my own grocery shopping, to vacuum, to walk a dog, to dig my cars out of the snow, to function like a normal person. Is that something to feel guilty about? I do.
It's not that I want to simply "have a life" for myself, I'd like to have enough of a life to share it with someone else. I'm useless to everyone while I'm pregnant, and it always comes to nothing. "Always" is perhaps a strong word for only two failures, but each time feels like tempting fate. Instead of spending "the best years" of my life as an invalid, alone and feeling sorry for myself, can't we just adopt and make some other poor kid's life better? Is that so wrong?
That's what I want to do, regardless; but I can't help feeling that I'm just wimping out. I've always needed someone to tell me what to do, because if I make up my own mind, I always suspect my conclusion is biased. I feel like I need some kind of dispensation. I used to tell myself I'd rack up four or five miscarriages before I'd call quits, but at this point I'm more worried about surviving to fight another day. I want to have our own kids in the worst way, so much so that I still get physically nauseated around my pregnant friends. But I'd rather give that up if it means being able to function as a healthy parent for two or three kids who would have otherwise have been stuck in foster care.
Anyway, I have a few more weeks of being alone to think about it.
I want this year to be better than last year. Lots of good things happened last year, particularly for Dave's career, but it was an emotional train wreck. It was much like 2010, actually, but more so. It started on a hopeful note, then crashed and burned, and the nine months following March 8 were engulfed in a kind of Trauma Recovery Mode. I don't believe I'm functioning at the level Dave deserves of a wife and homemaker while constantly in Trauma Recovery Mode. (He hates that I think that, because he's awesome and thinks I'm perfect, often though I've tried to disabuse him of this notion.)
Now it's a new year all over again, and everyone is going on about resolutions. I really want to get my life back on track, but what does that even mean? Where is my track? What am I supposed to be doing with myself? I love being a wife, but it seems to me that there should be something else I should be doing besides sitting at home being a wife, doing laundry, dishes, writing fanfiction and playing online computer games. My first choice was motherhood, but obviously the traditional approach isn't working. Whenever I haven't been in Trauma Recovery Mode, I've been in Pregnancy Mode, which in my case is every bit as miserable. Pregnancy Mode excludes every other type of activity, and of course leads to Trauma Recovery Mode, and the cycle begins again. Remember the kid from Despicable Me who had his balloon animal popped? That was me last year.
So now what do I do with myself? My new year's resolution was to start functioning at 100% again. As a result of the 2010-11 cycle of pregnancy and recovery I've gained all my college weight back and my running shoes and I aren't on the best of terms. I always promised myself I would never be that overweight military wife with a host of emotional problems. I want to stop being a black hole sucking down inordinate levels of Dave's attention, sympathy, and time. All this would involve avoiding pregnancy, and that's where the Catholic guilt comes in.
Are we allowed to stop trying? It's not like we're going to start using contraception or anything, but I can't decide whether the risks to my health and well-being are grave enough to justify the indefinite use of NFP. Does this mean I have trust issues? If I could just live a normal life during pregnancy, or if it were only about losing the children over and over again, it would be another story. I would beat my head against that wall for the rest of my childbearing years if that were the case. But, since I have to play the hand God dealt me, any pregnancy would automatically be high risk and require immediate and complete bed rest. The original prognosis was a 25% chance of miscarriage just due to my condition. Now that my already faulty system has been scarred by biopsies and a cesarean, the odds are rather worse. Not being able to take care of myself is certainly not an ideal circumstance, particularly now that Dave is likely to be gone more often for the next three years. I know I have several friends in the general area who would be more than happy to help, but they don't exactly live in the neighborhood and almost all of them are pregnant themselves.
I got the usual vague recommendations from the doctors and specialists. The classic, "It could be nothing, or it could be life-threatening." Not exactly helpful, but I suppose it was the best they could do. There was a phase during which I was willing to take the risk, but we tried for four months and got nothing.
Now Dave is gone and I'm here alone trying to sort out my life. The more I sit and think about it, the more I'm inclined to believe we're just one of those families who were meant to adopt. But it seems like such a simple answer that I start second guessing myself, and wondering whether I'm interpreting the facts to suit my needs.
What are my needs? I want to lose twenty pounds and fit into all the old clothes hanging in my closet. I want to be free to go running, healthy enough to look after myself and stay out of the emergency room. I don't want to be constantly stressed about the possibility of disappointing Dave and all the family again, about every little cramp being the beginning of the end. I want to get out of this apartment now and then. I want to be free to do my own grocery shopping, to vacuum, to walk a dog, to dig my cars out of the snow, to function like a normal person. Is that something to feel guilty about? I do.
It's not that I want to simply "have a life" for myself, I'd like to have enough of a life to share it with someone else. I'm useless to everyone while I'm pregnant, and it always comes to nothing. "Always" is perhaps a strong word for only two failures, but each time feels like tempting fate. Instead of spending "the best years" of my life as an invalid, alone and feeling sorry for myself, can't we just adopt and make some other poor kid's life better? Is that so wrong?
That's what I want to do, regardless; but I can't help feeling that I'm just wimping out. I've always needed someone to tell me what to do, because if I make up my own mind, I always suspect my conclusion is biased. I feel like I need some kind of dispensation. I used to tell myself I'd rack up four or five miscarriages before I'd call quits, but at this point I'm more worried about surviving to fight another day. I want to have our own kids in the worst way, so much so that I still get physically nauseated around my pregnant friends. But I'd rather give that up if it means being able to function as a healthy parent for two or three kids who would have otherwise have been stuck in foster care.
Anyway, I have a few more weeks of being alone to think about it.
Monday, February 14, 2011
The Verdict
The good news is that everything seems to be surprisingly normal. He isn't in breech position, as we suspected he would be, although it's too early to tell which way he'll end up. All in all, we're hopeful.
In the meantime, I'm still on anti-nausea meds and enjoying the full onset of unmedicated hayfever. I look miserable with my raw nose and puffy eyes, but secretly life is pretty good. The clock is ticking down toward moving day, and our list of chores doesn't seem to be shrinking fast enough, but somehow I think we'll make it.
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
What Not to Say
Sheila put me onto this website called "My OB said WHAT?!?", a showcase of incredibly insensitive and otherwise outrageous things women have heard from their ob-gyns, nurses, hospital staff, and many more. Personally I've been blessed with a wonderful obstetrician so far, and I'm quite sorry to have to be leaving him next month after reading about some of these characters.
I've collected these little gems based on what would have been pertinent to my experiences so far, particularly with hyperemesis (nothing will stay down, even sipping water makes you vomit), multiple ER visits for emergency ultrasounds, and the miscarriage. I know pregnant mothers can be overly sensitive and emotional, but seriously . . .
Go check it out, if you have healthy blood pressure.
"So, when are we going to diagnose this eating disorder?" -- OB to a mother who reported occasional vomiting during her third pregnancy, and had suffered with hyperemesis in a prior pregnancy.
"I don't think there is anything wrong with you. I think it's all in your head, or that you're just doing it to yourself." -- OB to a mother who had been hospitalized twice before 26 weeks for hyperemesis and severe dehydration.
"This is for termination purposes, yes?" -- Ultrasound Tech to mother in for an early ultrasound for dating of her pregnancy.
"Oh, you've obviously never had a miscarriage." -- OB to mother who became upset after seeing her not living baby on the ultrasound.
"What do you mean you're not on any birth control? Why not?" -- OB to mother who just suffered a miscarriage.
"The baby was absolutely perfect; you just must have clotted off the placenta and killed her." -- OB at a follow-up appointment with a mother who miscarried at 16 weeks.
"I know she's your daughter, but she's a miscarriage to us." -- OB to mother.
"Why are you crying? That's just selfish. There was probably something wrong with the babe anyways. You would be wishing them a less than perfect life and that is pretty selfish of you." -- Family Practice doctor of mother who miscarried at 8 weeks.
"Oh, you must be so relieved! I cried when I found out I was having twins!" -- L&D Nurse to mother during an early ultrasound. The ultrasound indicated the loss of a twin.
"Oh, good! A nice, clean uterus! . . . Now we can talk birth control so you don't end up here next year!" -- OB to mother during an ultrasound after a miscarriage.
"What's going on with you?" -- OB tersely speaking to mother who came for an office visit for D&C follow-up and medications for depression after a miscarriage.
And the winner . . .
"Do you have any STDs besides your kids?" -- OB to mother.
I've collected these little gems based on what would have been pertinent to my experiences so far, particularly with hyperemesis (nothing will stay down, even sipping water makes you vomit), multiple ER visits for emergency ultrasounds, and the miscarriage. I know pregnant mothers can be overly sensitive and emotional, but seriously . . .
Go check it out, if you have healthy blood pressure.
"So, when are we going to diagnose this eating disorder?" -- OB to a mother who reported occasional vomiting during her third pregnancy, and had suffered with hyperemesis in a prior pregnancy.
"I don't think there is anything wrong with you. I think it's all in your head, or that you're just doing it to yourself." -- OB to a mother who had been hospitalized twice before 26 weeks for hyperemesis and severe dehydration.
"This is for termination purposes, yes?" -- Ultrasound Tech to mother in for an early ultrasound for dating of her pregnancy.
"Oh, you've obviously never had a miscarriage." -- OB to mother who became upset after seeing her not living baby on the ultrasound.
"What do you mean you're not on any birth control? Why not?" -- OB to mother who just suffered a miscarriage.
"The baby was absolutely perfect; you just must have clotted off the placenta and killed her." -- OB at a follow-up appointment with a mother who miscarried at 16 weeks.
"I know she's your daughter, but she's a miscarriage to us." -- OB to mother.
"Why are you crying? That's just selfish. There was probably something wrong with the babe anyways. You would be wishing them a less than perfect life and that is pretty selfish of you." -- Family Practice doctor of mother who miscarried at 8 weeks.
"Oh, you must be so relieved! I cried when I found out I was having twins!" -- L&D Nurse to mother during an early ultrasound. The ultrasound indicated the loss of a twin.
"Oh, good! A nice, clean uterus! . . . Now we can talk birth control so you don't end up here next year!" -- OB to mother during an ultrasound after a miscarriage.
"What's going on with you?" -- OB tersely speaking to mother who came for an office visit for D&C follow-up and medications for depression after a miscarriage.
And the winner . . .
"Do you have any STDs besides your kids?" -- OB to mother.
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