starting…

to understand…

what…

everyone…

was talking about…

when they said…

the first…

trimester…

was…

exhausting…

*snore*

Yeah.  The steroids have left the body, and I’m full on into zonked-out mode.  Can I just sleep for the next 7 months?  Please?

In more amusing symptom-watch news, I have developed the silliest pregnancy symptom ever.  Actually, I’ve had it for many many weeks now, I just didn’t realize it was related to being sprogged up.

Double-sneezing.  Like: Achoo-choo!

I’ve never sneezed like this before, but all of a sudden, I’m sneezing a lot, and always these bizarro double sneezes.  But I didn’t connect it to pregnancy until I googled “double sneeze” and saw that some women start sneezing like this when they’re pregnant.  No idea why.  Way too funny.  Here – let me sneeze for you.  You’ll laugh.

Boobs aren’t as sore, but I’m trying – mostly successfully – not to freak out since I spent most of yesterday trying not to yechh.  I love nausea.  Nausea is my reassuring, can’t-be-ignored friend right now.   I’ve also had this killer headache for the last two days.  I’m thinking it’s a combination of coming off the prednisone, and a warning sign that I’m not drinking enough water.  Which is really giving me fits again.  I can stomach milk.  Or hot chocolate.  Or ginger ale.  But water?  Plain old water?  Blech.  My old standby, sparkling water?  Yechhhh.  Going to buy lemons today to see if sour works for me as well as sweet, but in the meantime, I’m just sticking close to a toilet while I drink.

Yuck.

Other than that, it’s another boring, drama-free post.  I’m still spotting, but I’ve become as accustomed to that as it’s possible to be.  You know – I’m creeping up on 10 weeks here.  Which is astonishing to me.  And I get another ultrasound in a few days (which is wonderful and I heart my new doctor for understanding the terror, as well as understanding what alleviates the terror!)

Now I just have to figure out how I’m going to go eat brunch, polish the silver, buy candles, buy flowers, buy new knitting needles (since the one I’m using right now is cracked & likely to die at any point.) arrange flowers, buy cheese, buy whiskey, consider buying new napkins, buy a new pie pan (since mine never came back from Christmas), buy pie ingredients, make the pie, set the table, and TAKE A NAP all in the next ten hours.

So far, the napping part looks like the most fun…

Zzzzzzzzzzzz…………

Boobs took over another couple of counties while I slept – which I did for a full 9.5 hours.  OMG, I am so happy to be on a more moderate prednisone dosage.  Even though I’m still waking up to pee once or twice, I can sleepwalk to the toilet & back, and be asleep again before I even have a chance to look at the clock.  Let me reiterate this:  Nine and a half hours of sleep.  No crazy insomniac musings at 3am.  No counting to 3876-3877-3879 to try to trick myself into falling asleep.  Bliss!!!

Everything else pregnancy-symptom-wise continues apace.  I’m feeling calmer than I have in weeks – I think because I’m past the bad week.  And because I felt so wretched last night.  I was interested to notice that I’ve gained three pounds, and it’s all in my belly, which is poochy in a way it’s never been poochy before.  I should start taking photos, but I’m sort of self-conscious about my giant Lovenox hematomas.  Maybe I could go for some sort of tasteful draping effect with a sheet?  (a big sheet.)  Or maybe I should display the bruising proudly and use it to guilt/blackmail Sprog into doing her/his homework, cleaning his/her room, etc. when s/he’s at an age to properly appreciate maternal sacrifice.  So many artistic and/or therapy-requiring possibilities…

Off to the Branch of Sanity today, with, perhaps a stop in Manhattan to buy more china so I can play Perfect Hostess to my in-laws this weekend and serve everyone their pie on matching dessert plates.  Because I am enough of a geek that I care about such things even though they probably don’t, so long as they get the pie.   And because, for the moment anyway, dessert-plate stress is such a welcome change from pregnancy stress that I’m sort of reveling in it.  Going to try to go a full day without freaking out about anything not-dessert-plate related, in fact.  I’ll let you know how that works out for me…

But I think I’m over the worst of that, and I was able to (almost) sleep through the night.  Sleeplessness for a mere 15 minutes is purely amazing when one has gotten used to (?) being awake for 2-3 hours every time the bladder makes a demand.  I feel well rested (as opposed to hyperactive) for the first time in a long time.

And here we are at 9 weeks, 3 days (give or take a day or two).  I’m experiencing serious, serious relief at having made it this far.  We’re now into record-breaking territory, and I can’t express how good that feels.  Especially since the yechh seems to be waning and the boobs are settling down into their new voluptuousness without quite so much constant, reassuring agony.  Actually, I was gearing up for some nervousness with that, but then the dog obligingly kicked me several times last night.  Oh yeah.  They’re still there.  Oh yeah.

Spotting’s still there too, it just is.  I’m trying to ignore it and concentrate on important things.

Like Cadbury eggs.

And like the fact that my middle SD’s boyfriend emailed me – at her suggestion – to pick my brain about buying a dog.  This is momentous for many reasons.  A)  Middle SD used to refer to me as ‘she who must not be named.’  Yeah, seriously.  And, no, she’s old enough to know better (24)  Relations have thawed over the last couple of years, but then there was this week’s revelation, so I’m purely delighted that she at least pronounced my name in the safety of her boyfriend’s arms when the topic of ‘dog’ came up.  B)  If ever a human being needed a pet to care for and cuddle, it’s this young woman.  C)  Her having a dog means we’ll be dogsitting rather often, I suspect.  This is a good thing.

The other girls didn’t take it as well.  Eldest is just slightly melancholy, because it means the construct of her family is changing and she doesn’t really like change.  But she will be kind, and she will deal with it.  Youngest SD was pissy about her father telling her on the phone instead of waiting til she was down here next weekend.  However, if he’d waited and one of her sisters had told her, she’d've been cranky about that.  It’s a no-win, but I feel bad for him.  I really think they’ll be fine.  They are all more maternal than not, and the irresistibility of new baby-toy will likely be all they need to be delighted, once Sprog is actually here.  But I do feel sorry for them.  I’d've been a nutjob if my dad had gotten married and had another kid once I was grown.  It’s a lot to wrap your head around, that your daddy is also someone else’s – someone not your mom’s – husband.  This’ll be ok, but I wish it wasn’t so hard for all of us.

Off to the Realm of Pain today, and hoping that there’s good news in my inbox regarding the fruit of all my hell-raising.  And if not, hoping that the Albanian deli sells Cadbury eggs…

SuperStarOB is great.  I really like him and his assistant and his receptionist.  I think we’re going to do just fine together.  He’s funny and compassionate and kind and while I was waiting for him, a previous patient came in and it was kisses and hugs all around.  His past patients really like him, which is a great recommendation in & of itself.  He used to work with my RE, which is how they know each other, and he actually reminds me of him a great deal.  He spent about an hour talking to me – while other folks were waiting (sorry, other folks!) because he wanted to be sure he understood everything we would be dealing with.

He’s not worried about the spotting.  Since it’s mucosy, and not just blood, he seems to think that’s a good thing (?)  He told me not to worry about exercising, but not to do more than walk.
“Walk as much as you want, but no hanggliding.  No parachuting.  No deepsea diving.”  Um, ok.   Told me not to worry about being a few pounds overweight, “You’re lighter than an awful lot of my patients, and that is the least of our worries at this point.”  Ok.  I can live with that.

Sonogram was fine – hearts beating away at 190bpm, one measuring 9w5d & one measuring 9w1d.  He told me to stay on the meds that my doc has me on, and that he might keep me on Lovenox throughout the pregnancy just because it can’t hurt and might help.  He went out of his way to tell me to relax.  ”You want a glass of wine on a special night?  Drink the wine!  You want a cup of coffee to get rid of a headache?  Drink the coffee.  As you know, nothing you’re doing will or won’t save a pregnancy that’s going to fail.”  I found his attitude rather refreshing, though I can’t imagine downing a glass of wine.

Asked him about my due date (Yom Kippur) since he’s a solo practitioner – would this be a problem?  ”Nah, they call me the Shabbos doctor at Beth Israel.  If you’re there, I’ll be there.”  I asked him about renting a doppler, and he said he hates them, that they’re tricky to use, and cause unnecessary worry.  I tried to explain to him that I am pretty convinced on a daily basis that the pregnancy has failed, and so he said, “I was going to have you come back in 2 weeks – would you rather come back next week?  I’m not trying to make extra money off you, but we could do an ultrasound every week til you’re feeling movement, if you like.”

Um, yes please!

I like this man.  I like him very very much indeed.  And, as I had hoped, he has an ultrasound machine and he likes to use it.  I think we’re going to get along just fine.

“Your boobs are huge!”
“I know.”
“No, I mean they’ve grown since Friday.”
“I know.”

Fortunately, the giant rack of breast-flesh somewhat camouflages the poochy tummy directly south.  I’m inclined to call it bloating, rather than anything more interesting, but it’s cuter than my usual bloaty-shape.  (This is called “making friends with my fat,” and I’ll be doing rather a lot of it over the next few months, I suspect.)

And my first OB appointment is tomorrow, which I am looking forward to & dreading in equal measure.  Looking forward to meeting this guy, looking forward to a half-day at work (because I am that much of a slacker) and looking forward to (please, dear lord!) having a relieve-my-fears-for-another-37-hours live-baby ultrasound to cling to.  Also hoping to get some good answers to important questions like,

• “Assuming this spotting ever stops, at what point could my husband and I look forward to resuming normal marital relations?”
• “You’re a solo, Jewish practitioner and I’m due to deliver on Yom Kippur.  Do you see a problem with this?”
• “What kind of exercise can I start doing ASAP so that I do not turn into a slug of vast proportions by September, but also do not frighten Sprog into leaving my womb prematurely?”
• “Do I really have to step on that scale?  In front of other people?  Really?”
• “Would you please make a note in my chart saying that I’m neurotic so that it doesn’t come as a surprise to anyone when I say or do something really stupid?  Thank you.”
• “I’m ordering a rental doppler this week.  Please see the aforementioned note in my chart for explanation as to why.”
• “Is it true you’re Brooke Shields’ OB?  Any comment as to why you didn’t notice her PP depression?”
• “How many first trimester ultrasounds are too many?  I’m thinking one a day – or maybe every other day – would be about right.  Wait – what do you mean you’re not about to give me an ultrasound every day?  Jerk.”

As you can see, I’ve put a lot of thought into how I’ll come off to this man who’s about to know my girl goods even more intimately than my husband does.  I think I’ve pretty much settled on “insane” and “Annoying-with-a-capital-’A'”  I’ll let you know how it goes.

And yeah, FUCK YOU, Fates – I said it out loud and I AM assuming there’s a live one in there, still.  I think we made it past the hump, despite the bleeding that came back yesterday after almost a 12 hour hiatus, despite the waning nausea.  My boobs and I think we’re still ok.

And it’s a good feeling.

In not-so-good news, the youngest and middle stepdaughters have, apparently, guessed at my delicate condition.  I refused wine/sake/beer once too often in Montreal, and what with the refusing to help her move, staying behind in the hotel room to sleep (vomit) etc., youngest SD voiced her suspicions to middle SD, who confronted her father yesterday when he took her & her boyfriend out to lunch in Boston.

Not the way I would have chosen to tell them – nor the time.

She was, apparently, “petulant”, which sums up her personality in a lot of ways.  The boy reminded me that there’s no way she would have taken the news well.  It’s not something she would have chosen, and in her world, things she would not have chosen are never acceptable.  In his words, “If I told her that her mother and I were going to get back together for her sake, even though we knew we’d be miserable for the rest of our lives, she would say ‘thank you’ & be just fine with that.  Actually, she probably wouldn’t even say ‘thank you’.  That’s just how she is.”

Um, yeah.  Only saving grace is that the young woman is completely baby-crazy.  Once Sprog is born, I don’t anticipate many problems, but until then?  Yikes.

Symptom-wise, I’m completely over the whole drink-all-day, pee-all-night thing.  Why can’t I pee it out within, say, six hours of drinking it?  How is it even possible that my body can somehow store liquids up all day, so I’m only peeing a tiny amount during the daylight hours, and then force me to excrete it all at 2am, and 4am, and 6am?  I mean, really, this is obviously a faulty system.

PIO went off without a hitch – or a spurt – last night.  I laid down, and manhandled my giant boobs out of the way so I could twist around to get the proper angle.  Probably looked really kinky, if anyone’d been able to see it.  Take my word for it – not my most graceful or dignified hour.  Oh, and yeah, stretch marks on the boobs?  They’re totally happening.  Already.  Oi.

Nausea seems to be easing, but it’s been replaced by something that I’m not sure if it’s me or if it’s the pregnancy.  I find myself overeating.  Now, don’t get me wrong – I love to eat.  Make that – I LOVE to eat.  Always have.  But I don’t tend to eat too much at any given time.  Lately though?  I’m eating too much, especially at noon.  Then I feel stuffed all afternoon, though usually not nauseous, so maybe my body’s just choosing to go for that overfed feeling rather than that vomitous feeling?

Or maybe I’m just using pregnancy as an excuse to be a big old pig.  Emotional eating, anyone?  How scary can life be if you have a mouthful of carbs & sugar to ruminate on?  Could be that too, I suppose.

The Boy’s home tonight with two friends in tow, so that should be fun.  I have to decide if I’m making Welsh Rarebit for lunch or if I’m going to try to go for something light to break this noontime cycle.

But rarebit sounds so good, and the Boy hates it, so I try not to make it when he’s around…

Mmmmm.  Rarebit. 17 slices of bread made into rarebit! How long til lunchtime?

See what I mean?

The Boy is out of town.

Which really isn’t that big a deal, I mean, I like my space, I enjoy having the occasional weekend where it’s all about me and what I want to do, watch, eat, cook, listen to.

But.

My first miscarriage happened while he was helping his daughter move to Boston.  I learned about my  most recent miscarriage while he was in Quebec at a convention.  So the combination of no-husband around + week of doom has me ready to go to panic stations at the slightest twinge or quiver.  Which sucks, but at least it makes a bit of sense to my ‘must make sense out of everything’ brain.

**

In slightly disgusting, but slightly amusing news, I came damned close to ruining our bedroom carpeting last night.  Again, with the Boy being out of town, I had to give myself my PIO.  Not a huge big deal, though certainly nothing I was looking forward to.  I’ve done it before and it’s doable.

Of course, I hadn’t really taken into account the fact that I’m a bit thicker around the middle these days and therefore, a bit less twistable.  Nor had I accounted for the fact that Curascript’s substandard syringes are kind of sticky.  So I did the shot in front of a big mirror in our bedroom so I could be sure I was hitting the right spot.  It was awkward, and it took forever to get the medicine injected, but again – sticky syringes, I didn’t think much of it.  But when I withdrew the needle, blood spurted.  Seriously.  It was like a slo-mo special effect where the murder-weapon shiv is withdrawn and the heroine’s lifeblood pumps out all at once.

Right onto our light beige carpeting.

So here I am, running around the bedroom naked, grabbing gauze and alcohol pads like crazy, and slapping them to my, at this point, really gory behind, trying to find a washcloth and some laundry soap and peroxide to try to get the – honestly, footlong – bloodstain out of the carpeting before it sets.  The dog is watching from the bed, completely bemused, and I’m torn between laughter and curses.

The laughter won.  It really was like something out of a bad cartoon.

And this morning, it looks like my heroic housekeeping efforts paid off.  There is no stain, though the carpeting’s still a bit damp.  I think it worked.

And I think tonight’s shot will take place in the tiled bathroom – hell, maybe the bathtub.  It’s not like the mirror helped me hit the right spot anyway…

God bless him for the “pretty lady” part, but seriously, he made me think.  Made me wonder.

Am I crying or am I singing?

Crying comes more naturally these days.  Crying comes with the assurance that I won’t feel duped, I won’t feel tricked by sadness.  Preemptive crying seems almost wise sometimes.

Singing, on the other hand, feels like whistling past a graveyard.  It seems like it just might attract all the wrong attention.  How dare I be happy.  How dare I imagine that the worst might not happen.  Have I learned nothing this last year?  Have I no sense of emotional self-preservation?

However, I’ve been doing a lot of crying, and it’s really not working out for me.  Going to try – or at least try to try – singing for a while.

Oh my god, I’m so lucky to be here.
Oh thank heavens that everything is going as well as it is.
Oh my goodness, this just might be what I’ve been hoping for, for such a very long time.

My life flows on in endless song
Above earth's lamentation.
I hear the real, thought far off hymn
That hails the new creation
Above the tumult and the strife,
I hear the music ringing;
It sounds an echo in my soul
How can I keep from singing?

What through the tempest loudly roars,
I hear the truth, it liveth.
What through the darkness round me close,
Songs in the night it giveth.
No storm can shake my inmost calm
While to that rock I'm clinging.
Since love is lord of Heaven and earth
How can I keep from singing?

When tyrants tremble, sick with fear,
And hear their death-knell ringing,
When friends rejoice both far and near,
How can I keep from singing?
In prison cell and dungeon vile
Our thoughts to them are winging.
When friends by shame are undefiled,
How can I keep from singing?

I tend to suffer from a single day of excessive shall-we-say “moodiness”  before almost every period.  A day in which nothing anyone says is worthwhile, where I resent everything & everyone around me, take way too much stuff way too personally, and generally try my hardest NOT to behave like a bitch (though I do not always succeed).  If people could hear my thoughts during that 24 hour time-frame I would have no friends left at all, and my husband would leave me, and small children would run screaming from me in the streets.  Even my dog would hate me if she had a window into my brain on that day.  I know this about myself and I have learned not to make any life-altering decisions during that day.  I try to keep my mouth under control.  I smile and nod and generally try not to say anything at all.  Yes, I do get that unreasonable, and even when I know that’s what’s going on, I can’t really talk myself down; I just have to slog through it while it’s happening.

That’s rather what this is like.  I know I’m being unreasonable.  I know, in my head, that the odds really are in my favor.  I know pregnancy symptoms come and go.  I know that I’m making a mountain of worry out of a molehill of boobage.

It makes no difference.  I’m trapped, and my brain is shooting up with adrenalin delivered via a gigantic needle straight to my emotional nerve center and trying to talk myself down from that?  Might as well try to talk myself down from 3 seconds into a freefall off the Empire State Building.  By the time I’m in that place, I sort of have to wait to go splat on the ground, because nothing else is going to make an impact – so to speak – until then.

This terror I’m dealing with is sort of the same, only it’s happening a hell of a lot more often than one day out of the month.  And I’m not tempted to say unfortunate things to loved ones and strangers so much as I’m tempted to whisper horrifying thoughts to my own brain over and over again.  Awake or asleep, I’m telling my brain over and over again that this can’t work, not for me, not ever, not no matter how much I want it – especially if I want it this much – it absolutely cannot happen for me.  Etcetera, etcetera, etcetera.

But it’s exhausting and it’s getting old and I want it to stop.

Actually doing ok today thanks to yesterday’s undeniable early-afternoon-sickness.  What I want – more than almost anything – is just a few days in a row of belief that this will actually work.  Thank you to those of you who commented that they dealt with this sort of over-the-top anxiety during their early pregnancies.  It makes me feel less crazy – less out-of-control – knowing that the anxiety is temporary and that others have gone on to be productive members of society – and even mothers! – after enduring it.

I’m trying to take this one day at a time, I guess.  Get through today and tomorrow – which will be my last PIO shot!  That’s something to look forward to.  And my rental doppler will be arriving sometime this week.  Also something to look forward to, even if I’m unable to hear a heartbeat immediately upon arrival.  My next doppler exam with my midwife is on Friday, and I suspect that if we can’t hear a heartbeat then, that she will figure a way to get me an ultrasound.  (She had an IVF baby at age 41, so she knows what I’m going through.)

As for me, I’m going to try to not succumb to the crazies today.  Get some writing done.  Baby the dog.  Baby the husband.  Drink a cup of decaf.  (Mmmmm, decaf!)  Play with my new pregnancy organizer that came yesterday from Amazon.  Fill out calendar pages.  Pick out crib bumpers or some such silliness.  Do some cross stitch.  Read some SF.  Use my pregnancy workout video for the first time.  Daydream about being as adorably pregnant as the Cirque du Soleil acrobat (no, really) in the video.  Do kegels until I jist caint kegel no more.  Nap.  Enjoy the rain.  Eat toast.  Chew ginger gum.  Try to remember how to be me, mellow Sprogblogger.  At least for a while.

Thank you.

Maybe, after what’s happened this last year, I’m not actually midwife-birth material anymore.

I feel like most of my pregnancy symptoms have simply evaporated.  Boobs aren’t really all that sore.  Slightly sore.  If I squish them into my ribcage, then yes – but then, who wouldn’t be sore with treatment like that?  But they’re not as dark, they’re not as heavy.  They don’t feel pregnant.  And I don’t know if it was because of going off Estrace, or if it’s because I lost Sprog and – as is my body’s wont – the rest of me just hasn’t figured it out yet.

Nausea – which was, granted, never that pronounced – is now entirely ignorable.  I’ll still feel a little off for an hour or two a day – randomly – but that could also be the fear coming through.  Because Fear?  I’ve got fear by the bucketsful.  And that’s one way my body’s always processed it.  I have a rental doppler coming sometime next week, but it occurred to me last night, during my 4am freakout session, that due to the crazy veins on my uterus, I wonder if we’re going to have any luck with the doppler until that kid is like 20 weeks old.

I wish – and this is horrible – but I wish my body didn’t like to hold onto pregnancies so much.  The only natural miscarriage I’ve ever had was with the ectopic pregnancy.  Both other times, it’s been a missed miscarriage without so much as a spot of blood or a twinge of cramp until the event – the 5 weeks later event – itself.  So even though there’s no blood – which for most women is the sign of miscarriage, I have to worry anyway.  Because no news is not always good news, if you’re Sprogblogger.

And oh, how I wish I could just sleep the next 10 weeks away.  Whatever’s going on in there, I wish I could just fast forward to mid-autumn.

My mom sent me a lovely email urging me not to worry, and I really am trying not to.  I do ok during the day, but all night long in my dreams we were trying – and failing – to find a heartbeat.  I hate this.  Hate it hate it hate it.  I feel so precariously balanced, so unstable that I cannot get rid of the horrible fear that’s ruining this period of pregnancy for me.

Going to be a long day, I’m thinking, followed by an even longer night.  Followed by a long day, and a long night.  And a long day and a long night….