Hah.

And then I went to the bathroom after dinner and had a small heart attack.  I am starting to wonder if it’s cervical irritation, rather than anything else.  I sure am shoving a lot of medication up there on a thrice-daily basis, so maybe I’m just not being careful enough to steer clear of Ms. Sensitive Cervix.

Bitch.

Bleeding bitch.

In other craptastic news, I got called on my day off to go into the Realm of Pain today.  I am not pleased. Actually, I threw what could only be called a tantrum yesterday, both on the phone to the assistant manager who was tasked with making the call, and then after I all but threw the phone across the room, in front of my poor, long-suffering husband.  The Princess is being vindictive and making me pay for admitting that I’d rather be anywhere than in her reach.  I just want out of this situation, internets.  It’s only getting worse.

Going to go analyze toilet paper one last time before I have to go ride the Train of Doom to the Realm of Pain so I can take abuse and witness the craziness of the Princess of Romania.

It sounds like more fun when I type it out like that.  Humor me.  This is my life.  Sheesh.

I’ve decided to put my trust in nausea and boobs that I swear to god grew a cup size overnight.  I’m thinking of going to buy some cheap get-me-by bras today, but I’ll probably be too lazy to actually stir myself to do so.  That’s ok.  It’s good to have some long-term goals around here besides “try not to lose your mind.”

It’s my day off, so I’m going to try to make an appointment to see the OB my doc recommended – yes, I believe he is the OB to the stars! (or at least Brooke Shields.)  But my insurance claims he honors my plan, so what the heck.  And my doc vouches for his personality, which is, to me, almost as important as his qualifications (or his ultrasound capabilities!)  I wonder if he’ll let me come in every week til 13 weeks?  I’ll have to ask. If nothing else, it would get me out of the Realm of Pain for a few hours each week.

Which at this point would be worth almost anything to me.

Work has gotten unbearable again, with my return to the demesne of the Romanian Princess.  In a way, it’s reassuring to realize that I don’t actually hate my profession, just my current work environment.  Being in a branch where sanity is the rule of the day instead of the exception has really clarified a lot of things for me – namely that I need to get out of the Realm of Pain.  The problem being (for of course there has to be a problem) that all transfers have been frozen due to big budget issues that are not likely to be resolved anytime soon.

And if all goes well, I’ll be dropping out of the librarian-game in late summer anyway.

And so that’s what I’ll try to keep focused on.  I’ll try to remember that this – like so much – is temporary, and that I can endure it, get past it, ignore it if I will.

And, barring that, I can bitch and moan until everyone knows just how unhappy I am.  Because I’m generous with my moods like that.

You’re welcome.

Not at all.

Instead of living week to week for ultrasounds, or even hanging in there til my first trimester is over (hah!) I’m living pretty much bathroom-trip to bathroom-trip, based on the color of the toilet paper.  And thanks to the overactive bladder, that’s pretty much hour to hour.

And oh-my-fucking-god can I just tell you right now how much I hate this?  Feeling fine, feeling great, in fact, because the sick just keeps getting blechier, and the boobs keep getting sorer, but then – hey, what’s this?  More blood.  Red blood, brown blood, pinkish blood.  Never a lot, never enough to make me say, “Whoa!  This looks like a miscarriage!”  But it’s blood.  Coming from the womb of death.  I hate it all.

Plus I’ve got a zit on my forehead, and since I break out when I’m NOT pregnant, it’s got me panicking over more than whether or not the Boy will ask me to the Valentine’s Day dance looking like this.

I’m just so damned weary of being afraid.  Scared sucks, and what’s almost worse is that I’m not even heart-poundingly panicked – I just feel resigned, somehow.  Fatalistic.  Like, if I’m going to lose this pregnancy too, can’t I just do it now instead of it dragging on for another week or two?  And that is so unlike me that it just annoys the hell out of me – when I can be bothered to feel annoyed.

I’m thinking of going in to the clinic tomorrow, instead of waiting til my day off on Thursday, just because I’m tired of the suspense.  I’m tired of waiting for a shoe to drop on my head, tired of waiting for the punchline that will make me cry.

I just want something to be easy – or at least not the hardest thing ever.  I keep doing what feels like the hardest thing ever, and it keeps not being enough to make any of this work.  This is a fucking donor egg pregnancy.  This is supposed to be cake.  Cake made from the fluffy, happy eggs of a sweet young thang.  And my ancient woodburning-oven can’t even bake it properly?  Someone get me a new recipe, damnitall.

Internets, I’m just so very tired.  And I want to stop bleeding.  And I want to stop waking up in the middle of the night, needing to pee, and just lying there until my bladder is ready to goddamned well explode, because I’m too scared to go into the bathroom where I might find more blood than my brain can rationalize away.

I just want to be pregnant.  With a baby.  A baby that I can feel somewhat confident might be around in another week or two.  Or month or two.  Or year or two.  Or decade or two.  And I’m seriously starting to wonder if that’s something I’m ever going to be allowed to have.

And I hate that.

Going to think about going in to pee now.

Maybe.  But I’ll bet it can wait anothe r 2o minutes if I put my mind to it.

Which isn’t really working out all that well for me.  As you might have guessed.

I am a worrier by nature and by inclination, and blood during early pregnancy just aint right.  So mostly, I’m just trying to ignore it.  My symptoms – boobs & blech – are still going strong, and in the last couple of days I’ve been tired like I’m getting less, rather than more, sleep than usual. Which is undeniably reassuring.  But a lot of the giddy’s gone.  Anything can happen, and I’m coming up on the 2-weeks-of-death that’s been the end of every single one of my pregnancies.  I’m at 7w1d today, and that feels an awfully long way away from anywhere I want to be.

So I’m distracting myself with non-pregnancy-related things.  Walks and trips to a museum, and trying to convince the dog that she won’t turn into a whippetsicle if she goes outside in the bitter, bitter cold.  Maybe find a good recipe for beet cake, as per step-daughter’s request for her next visit down here.  Possibly spending some time writing fiction.  Tidying my office.  Buying some tomato planters.  You know.  Other stuff.  Not-so-important stuff.

I’ll let you know how that works out for me.

Ahem.  I have no idea how I’m going to survive today at work, since the badness doesn’t kick in until after lunch.  At least it’s been disappearing by late afternoon, which is when the majority of my programs are.  Urgh.  

On a more interesting (at least to me) topic, I’ve been seriously compiling lists of baby gear.  Which is somewhat odd for me since we do not, at the moment, have a room in which to put Sprog once he vacates my womb, let alone a room to be painted and cooed over and decorated.  This is New York, and the house is not particularly well set up for, you know, human families.  Grrrr.  All of which bitching I shall save for another post, but it’s important for today’s ponderings because I don’t really understand where this urge to nest out is coming from.

And it’s not like I’m doing it wholeheartedly.  Well, I’m doing the research wholeheartedly, but not the buying.  I’ve been buying picture books for years.  And I crocheted a baby blanket about 3 years ago.  Other than that – nada.  So yesterday I thought that it might be fun to, you know, go buy some cute little baby stuff – rectal thermometer, nasal aspirator, breast pads etc.  

Not only did I not make it out of the house to the terrifyingly large Babies ‘R’ Us, (which, in all fairness was almost entirely due to the fact that the mere thought of being on a subway train for half an hour made me ill,) but I wasn’t even able to commit to hitting the “purchase cart” button on Amazon.  I got all twitchy, at the thought of actually buying baby gear.  Like the Fates might be unable to resist the irony of making me miscarry on the very day that baby gear was delivered to the house?  I dunno.  It was weird.  I think I might need to go slowly on this one – baby steps, so to speak.  

I did read today that the chances of carrying a pregnancy to term after a heartbeat’s been seen at 8 weeks go up to like 98%.  Which was encouraging.  

Just not encouraging enough to allow me to buy a onesie without wetting myself out of superstitious fear, I guess.

Next appointment is on Thursday, which is exciting.  I feel like I ought to buy my doctor a thank you present like you do for realtors or school counselors or anyone else who guides you through one of life’s slalom courses.  Is that just weird and creepy?  I mean, the man’s already been “thanked” in the form of the giganto checks that I and my insurance company have regularly deposited into his bank account for the last year.  It just feels weird to walk away without a gesture of personal thanks. 

Anyone do anything for an RE you had a great relationship with when you graduated?  Anyone think my hormones are completely whacked to even be thinking about this?  Heartfelt card or letter?  Sterling silver & 14K gold replica of the old city of Jerusalem?  (Oh yeah, that one’s already been done.  It’s in his lobby, because really, what else was he gonna do with it?)  See?  I mean, that’s laughable.  Really goofy.  Whereas I’d – of course – come up with something tasteful yet touching.  

Hah.

Either that or I could just shake the man’s hand, apologize for totally screwing up their stats in my age range, and thank him for keeping me out of the way of Herr Bigshot as much as he did.

Sprog is straightening out, looking less like a hunchbacked embryo every day and more like a fetus.  Ah, they grow up so fast, these little ones…  

Seriously, I remain in awe of the rate of progress in there.  Hell, I remain in awe of the fact that there’s anything in there at all.  I have my last RE appointment on Thursday, at which I can expect an ultrasound, and I suppose that might be my last one for a few weeks.  *gulp*  I don’t know how normal women do it.  The time between checks on the baby is pretty unbearable, and since I’m too early to feel like anything much is going on in there, I spend half of each week convinced that nothing is.   Anyone rent one of those Doppler heartbeat checkers?  I cannot convince myself that it would be safe to bombard Sprog with whatever sort of waves it uses as often as I would feel compelled to check it.  Input, anyone?  Talk me out of it / talk me into it?  At the moment I’m leaning toward “no” (though that’s easy to say while I have another ultrasound on the calendar & while it’s still too early to hear anything on a rented doppler machine.)

Urrrk.  Hmmm.  The Sick seems to have gotten a head start on me this morning.  Looks like maybe English muffins weren’t the best possible breakfast.  Or perhaps the gut is objecting to the prune juice?  Blech.  Looks like I’ll be holding very still for a couple of hours.  Of course, that means I could go back to sleep, which is always an enticing option.   

This just might be the most boring blog ever.  No trauma, no stress, nothing particularly exciting to read about, though I swear that the prospect of more sleep has me nearly giddy with joy.  I do apologize, only not really.  It’s sort of fun having nothing to bitch about for a change.  Maybe I’ll spend the day knitting a pair of booties.  

Or maybe I’ll just take a nap.  I have been awake for a whole hour…

I got sunburned, falling asleep in clouds/sun.  Uncomfortable today, but it was so nice yesterday.  I honestly didn’t do much besides eat and sleep.  More sleeping than eating, but not by much.

So, um, yeah.  The Tired has hit with a vengeance.  Not just “exhausted” tired, but “I can’t physically keep my eyes open” tired.  Sleepy.  At like ten in the morning.  Weird.  

And thank you everyone who has offered up suggestions on how to deal with the, er, slow state of my digestive functions.  I’m on my way out the door for prune juice as soon as I post.  Ulp.  

Not a lot else to report.  Boobs hurt 24/7 now, instead of just at night.  The vein-i-ness is really like something out of a horror show.  Or at least an anatomy handbook.  Fingernails continue to grow like they’re somehow important to this process.  (Hard to say with the hair, though I have to assume it’s keeping pace with the fingernails.  I have long hair, so an extra millimeter a week just doesn’t show up.)  The nausea still visits me after lunch and into the late afternoon, but it hasn’t been bad.  If I weren’t watching for it, I might not notice it many days, though I’ve also had a few instances of waking up out of a dead sleep in the middle of the night convinced I was going to vomit right then.  Dashing for the toilet at 3am is not fun at all, though it makes me oddly nostalgic for my party-girl days…  The Hunger has eased, which is good.  The Thirst is still with me, but not as bad as it was a couple of weeks ago.  Oh, and my complexion has never been better.  Ditto my oily hair – I now seem to have, er, normal hair.  Cool!  Looks like I’m going to get lucky on one pregger-symptom, at least.  

I have tomorrow off, and a list of errands as long as the turkey feather I brought home with me.  I figure I might get a chicken feather’s worth done, and the rest can just wait til my next day off.  Next appointment is on Thursday, and my first midwife’s appointment is next week.  I’m rather deliriously happy about that one.  Otherwise?  It’s been a slow couple of days at the Sprogblogger household, (being unconscious for 30 out of the last 40 hours will do that to one’s perception of life!) and that’s quite a nice space to be right now.  

Prune juice and then maybe off to slee….zzzzzz…..zzzzzzzz…z.zzz.zzzzz

A very good thing.

Nothing new to report, save that the cramps that were so omnipresent at the beginning of this trip have gone away.  And when I think back on it, they’ve been gone for a while now.  I was going to try to keep better records this time around, but I definitely blew this one.  Let’s just say that I haven’t been crampy for maybe a week or two.  

I’m feeling exceedingly bloated.  Bloated enough that I’m almost ready to try the prune juice cure.  If we were here today I’d go buy a bunch of dried apricots, but who needs that kind of suspense while visiting, eh?  

Of course, if I look at it in a silver-lining kind of way, I look about 3 months pregnant, so this is a nice preview of bellies to come, I guess.  

Off to Connecticut, which has only sporadic internet access.  *sniff!*  If I don’t update tomorrow, nothing’s wrong, I just can’t find a signal.  Have a great weekend.

And me – I’m all over the damned place.  Fluctuating between giddy and complacent.  I dreamed about a little boy, about ten years old.  Blond and scrawny like the Boy and I knew he was the Sprog.  So I guess for now, I’m assuming we’ve got an XY in there.  I’ll be delighted either way, but might lean toward the masculine pronoun til we hear otherwise.  

As for my symptoms, there’s not a whole lot new going on.  Haven’t gained weight, but my pants are starting to get a wee bit uncomfortable, which sucks.  Constipated like you wouldn’t believe.  Boobs are thinking of taking off on their own and colonizing a small continent.  The Hunger has ebbed, which is good since the Yecch is here.  Never bad in the morning, but afternoon is not a good time for me.  Haven’t had the urge to actually upchuck, just a generally sour stomach all afternoon long.  About the only thing that settles it is spicy Indian food or spicy Chinese food.  Or a big glass of milk.  I can’t remember the last time that toast sounded good, which breaks my heart.  

Oh, one new thing – “normal pregnancy-related fatigue” is kicking my ass.  I got home from a late night of work last night and it took me close to an hour to get off the bed.  We’re not talking getting off the bed to work out or go for a run, we’re talking getting off the bed to drink a glass of milk and take pills so that I could go to sleep.  I just woke up a half hour ago and I could totally go back to sleep right now.  It’ll be interesting to see how long I sleep this weekend, or if I regain consciousness at all, for that matter.

Baby is, apparently, developing arm and leg buds.  Bones are starting to form.  Ove the next few weeks it’ll start looking less like a monster alien tadpole and more like a mini person.  

A mini person.  Inside me.  Who will eventually come out and I’ll get to show him my take on the world and the Boy will get to show him his take on the world and Sprog will get to show us both his take on the world, and he’ll be a part of our lives forever.  Holy shit.

This pregnancy stuff?  Pretty fucking cool.  I’m growing a kid in there!

Doc says he’s measuring right on track for everything, though this set of US pictures is kind of like looking at clouds.  ”Do you see there?  That bulge?  It’s like a head.  Or a tail.  Maybe.”

Next week will be my last appointment at the RE’s.  He said he’d release me this week because “It sure looks to me like you’re going to hold onto this one.  You’re hitting all the benchmarks perfectly.”  But I’m RH-negative and he wanted to run another series of tests to make sure we weren’t going to run into problems in the next few weeks, because of past miscarriages.  (We did use rhogam during my first miscarriage, but not after the second and third ones, because there wasn’t yet a heartbeat.)  

Which is fine by me, though I’m lightheaded from all the blood they took this morning.  Still, better safe than sorry, and I think my poor doc is a bit reluctant to turn me over to anyone who doesn’t know me and my medical history inside out – let alone a midwife!  He didn’t come out & say it, but he really wanted to know who her “backup” OB was.  If he had his way I think he’d order me to bedrest for the next 7 months, followed by a delivery by 14 high-risk specialty OBs.  Followed by a mandatory stay in NICU for purely precautionary monitoring.  *snort*  He’s a good guy, and I’m going to miss his reassuring presence.  Too bad he’s not an OB.  I’d stay with him in a heartbeat.  

A 157 beats-per-minute measuring perfectly for 7w1d heartbeat.  

I’m having a baby, folks.  I’m really & truly having a baby.