We were discharged on Friday, Dec. 4. Mark was DJing winter formal for my school, and Alicia had offered to come give me a hand. I was so grateful. She did a few things and helped me out.
You don't realize how much you rely on your nether regions until they are stitched up and recovering from a trauma, no matter how "normal" that biological process may be. I couldn't get out of the chair or bed. I had so much trouble shifting once I was seated. It was almost impossible while holding J. It got better as the days passed, but holy crap.
That night, I asked Alicia to be his godmother. She squealed and hugged me so hard that she bent my glasses haha.
We discovered that the baby swing was the key to us doing anything so quickly.
We decided that since it was so hard for me to get up and move, the best case scenario was to put him in the Rock 'N' Play next to the bed on my side. We are strongly opposed to the concept of cosleeping. ESPECIALLY at the newborn and infant stages. Don't try to tell me benefits and convince me otherwise. What works for you may not be what works for me. So back off and get your own blog.
Anyway, I barely slept all night. Infant breathing patterns are terrifying. They pause. They gasp. They breathe in different speeds. It's insane. And woke me up immediately every time. I managed to get some sleep and woke up to that beautiful little face staring back at me on Saturday morning.
When I opened my eyes and saw that little face, I melted. He was here. He made it home. He made it through the first night! This wasn't a dream.
People always complain about the baby keeping them up all night, but other than my own insecurities and terrors, he slept about six hours. We had the best baby everrrr. We thought.
That day I realized I could reenter the world of deli meats. I'm not a vegetarian, but I don't eat a lot of meat. I went through a brief period of craving meat and had Mark make a lot of meatloaf and burgers and tacos and chicken and stuff. It's weird how every pregnancy is different. One pregnancy had an aversion to chicken. This one couldn't get enough meat. That is highly unusual. It also made me grossed out by cheese. I always keep microwaveable mac and cheese that has a long shelf life at school just in case I forget my lunch. One day, I reached into my bin to grab one early on and was repulsed by it. I could handle shredded cheese or cubes or wedges or whatever. But melty liquidy cheese turned my stomach. I had to walk down the block to get a sandwich that day haha. Cheese is my favorite food. That was rough.
Anyway, I never really want meat. But because I wasn't allowed to have deli meat, I had Mark order po-boys for us. While we ate, the delivery men brought my glider and ottoman. We ordered it from a local store on Halloween and it took that long to come in. We had registered for a chair and then it was discontinued and we didn't get the email in time. It was the only chair I liked that I found comfortable and would be good for anyone to sit in with the baby. I didn't find out until the day we went to buy it. I was heartbroken. I hated all of the other chairs. We tried chairs in so many stores. None were good. But this furniture store had a great saleswoman who asked what chair we had wanted. They carried that brand but not that chair. She brought me the catalogue and we found one very similar and ordered it. She was my hero. I'm sitting in it right now, waiting for him to go back to sleep. I love this chair.
In addition, my friend Michelle dropped by with a gift. She had her third son in September and couldn't stay long. We also had a visit from my brother and his new girlfriend. They started dating about halfway through my pregnancy. She only knew me as pregnant. It dawned on me that a lot of people at work only knew me that way. Very odd to think about.
Most people never knew they knew me as pregnant. We kept it so low key. If you knew, it was because you saw us frequently or you were a relative. We didn't ever publicize it anywhere. After he was born, Mark took a picture of him. While we were enjoying our hour of skin-to-skin, he sent it to me and I finally got to talk about the baby on social media.
We blew a lot of people away with the news. They had no clue. Some people thought they missed it. Some people were a little annoyed. Almost everyone was surprised and ecstatic. When I shared his birth, I just explained that we had a hard time getting him here and that I never felt comfortable sharing it. That is 100% true. I didn't want it posted and have people see it, then have something go wrong, then have people not see the follow-up. I didn't want to be subjected to Timehop pulling those statuses up. I just didn't want any trace of it online. Almost everyone was very understanding and kindly did not push for details.
It has taken more than two years since giving birth for me to put any of this down. I wasn't sure I wanted to go public. But I think it is extremely important to do so. So many people suffer in silence. I want to be able to be there for them the way that my pen pal was there for me. Because try though they might, unless you've been through it, you WILL say the wrong thing. You won't mean it. But you will. I have a thing typed up on The Care and Feeding of a Habitual Miscarrier. I wrote it way before J. I'll dig it up one day and add it here.
Anyway, back to that weekend.
On Sunday, Mark had to go to work. Craig and Aryanna came to help me around the house for part of the time. We never truly had it ready for J because I was on bedrest, sort of. I couldn't lift or carry. Bending was no good. Sweeping made me bleed that one time. So the house just wasn't ready. Honestly, two years later, it still isn't haha. His room is finally complete, so there's that. But we moved my office into the back room, which is now the room where things go to die. Also where the cats mostly hang out. My office became the nursery. But because I couldn't do a lot, it wasn't really ready. He was sleeping in our room at first, so it was okay if it was not ready.
The Saints were playing (hence Mark having to work) and normally that meant going to my parents' house. But for the first two weeks, they came to me instead.
They lost that day, so that was disappointing.
Mark and my mom had both taken off the next week. I wish they had staggered things better. She was able to run a few errands for us, though, so that was nice.
The one week doctor appointment found that he wasn't gaining weight. When the doctor heard he was sleeping for six hours at a time, she put a stop to it. We had to wake him every three hours and feed him without fail in order to get his weight up. He hadn't pooped since the hospital and was a bit jaundiced. She said once he pooped, it would probably clear up. She wanted to see us two days later.
He still hadn't gained weight and still hadn't pooped. He wasn't constipated. He just was using up his food. The problem was me. I wasn't producing enough milk. He was sleeping so much because he was essentially giving up on eating because he knew he wouldn't get any more. We started using the supplemental formula in addition to breastfeeding. I was an emotional wreck. How could my body, which finally didn't fail by successfully carrying a baby to term, fail that baby in this way? How could I, as a mother, fail my child in this way?
It was decided that I needed to exclusively pump. That way, I knew what he was eating and I knew how much to supplement. The most I ever got in the beginning was one and a half ounces in an hour of pumping. That was a good day. I drank so much water and ate so many lactation cookies. I ate oatmeal and took fenugreek supplements. I drank that disgusting Mother's Milk tea (I hate licorice and it tastes like licorice). I massaged and hand pumped and everything. I was on a tight schedule of pumping. And it didn't help. Not. One. Bit.
But I wanted him to get what he could. I set a goal of getting him what I could for six months. I limped across that finish line. It didn't take long for it to dry up when I stopped. I'll revisit this later.
He did poop that afternoon though. Jessica and her husband and their 5-week-old stopped by to visit. While they were there, poop! We had a hearty chuckle over how excited all four of us were.
That following weekend was the first visit from my in-laws. In it, they said they planned to come every weekend. Mark didn't even have to see my panic-stricken face. He said that since he's only off on Saturdays, that was not going to work. We needed our four days a month to be a family and adjust to each other. They offered every other weekend. He gave them a "We'll see." He told me later that he had no intention of saying yes. He just wasn't playing all of his cards immediately. He didn't feel like an argument.
It took a lot of us telling them no and then a pretty major incident in February to get them to quit asking for that visitation schedule. I'll get there.
When they came to visit, they insisted on whispering. We kept telling them that we wanted noise. It's unrealistic to make a baby sleep in silence. Keep your normal routines and make them learn to sleep in chaos. They'll be better sleepers as a result. But they insisted on whispering. They bought a car seat base and had it installed by local police. We had already said multiple times that they shouldn't. They live an hour and a half away. We're not leaving him there without us. Save your money. But they didn't listen. Every sound this newborn made, his mom asked if he had a gas pain. Every. Single. Noise. No. No he didn't. You would KNOW if he did. There was one day where I snapped that at her. I said please don't say that any more. Why? Because she was holding him and he made a content sigh in his sleep. And she asked him "oh, do you have a little pain?" NO! Have you never seen a happy baby? Lord.
These little things were the first pebbles in a major avalanche that was on its way.
Thursday, December 28, 2017
Tuesday, December 26, 2017
Hospital days.
I was essentially awake from 10 a.m. Tuesday, December 1 until J was born at 3:07 p.m. Wednesday, December 2, 2015. And I still wasn't able to sleep. We waited for me to be sewn up after the episiotomy, for the room to be cleaned, for the baby to be checked and cleaned, for an attempt at breastfeeding, and for an hour of skin-to-skin. Then the families came in to visit. And I was finally able to eat. I scarfed down the sandwich like there was no tomorrow.
I mentioned how my in-laws burst in first and monopolized everything. They took photo after photo of themselves holding J. And of Mark holding him. And not one single person took one of me or the three of us. I was so out of it that I didn't think to ask. I think they would have followed us to my room, but my parents made a big deal about letting me get some rest and giving the three of us time to be alone. I guess they actually got the hint for once.
It was about 7 p.m. and we were finally alone. But could we rest? No. Nurses kept coming and checking on the two of us. Mark went home at one point to feed the cats. He returned a little after visiting hours were over.
Our friend's ex-husband worked in the hospital. They were still married and he was working there when I had my first miscarriage. He was the friend who came to check on us a few times that night. When my dad had his heart attack a few years ago, he checked on him. And his girlfriend was the one who was due two days after me but had the baby four weeks early. He had seen on social media that J was here and came to visit, which was nice, even if we don't see each other any more.
Every time we almost dozed off, a nurse would come in for one of us. I was not having success with breastfeeding due to his tongue-tie. We got a nipple shield and a lactation consult. They decided I should try pumping and consider having a frenulectomy done on J to make things better.
It was at least 1 a.m. by the time I could finally doze off. I woke up all night long to check on J because we delivered at a baby-friendly hospital and he was rooming in. So I was basically awake and delivered a baby during the hours of 10 a.m. 12/1-1 a.m. 12/3.
They woke us a few times during the night. At 7:30 or so, L came to check on us on her way to the hospital. And right after she left, the photo people arrived. We were not prepared and I should have asked them to come back later but rolled with it. I'm wearing my hospital gown still. Mark needed to shave. Poor J is in 0-3 month pajamas because we didn't realize that was different than newborn. So they rolled his sleeves and tucked the pajamas as best they could
Not long after that, the pediatrician came in. He was one from our practice, but not the doctor we fell in love with when we interviewed pediatricians. He said if we wanted the frenulectomy, let them know. We wanted to try breastfeeding again first and would then decide. But I was bleeding from it already.
As soon as visiting hours started, my in-laws burst onto the scene. And they stayed the whole day, except for when we were under the hospital's cuddle hour. An hour for us to do whatever with no visitors and no doctors. Exceeeept he needed his 24-hour labs done during that time. So they took him. I got to shower finally. We tried pumping again. And as soon as cuddle time was over, there they were again, loaded down with gifts. Cause that's exactly what every new mother needs: a ton of shit to take home in addition to the tiny baby.
My friend Melissa showed up, as did my cousin Alicia. Mom came by after work. The small room was crowded so his parents actually left. They were staying in a hotel nearby and had to start the hour and a half drive home. They took J to get circumcised, and so she and I were able to privately visit. L stopped by to say he'd done well and was recovering. She did the surgery herself. And every doctor had compliments for her on how well it was done. Go figure. My aunt, uncle, and cousin stopped by for a while. Mark had gone to dinner with his parents during this and then he was heading home to feed the cats again. He also put the baby swing together.
J finally got to return right before my last visitors left. After Mark came back, we had one last visit from our best friends, Craig and Aryanna. They brought me a bottle of Moët which I saved for a while because Mark doesn't drink champagne. I needed someone to savor it with.
We had another restless night with one sweet night nurse sneaking us a few bottles of Similac supplement formula. Thank god. I was hurting. He couldn't latch properly. It was a miserable situation all around. As a baby-friendly hospital, they push breastfeeding on you. It's insane. I was already on board for trying it and had no plans to do otherwise. I was sold. You didn't have to be so...militant.
The next day, we had a different doctor from the pediatric group. She suggested the one we saw the day before to do the frenulectomy because he apparently enjoys doing that. J was gone for a while for that. I got to eat lunch and then we left a couple hours later. It was time to head home.
I mentioned how my in-laws burst in first and monopolized everything. They took photo after photo of themselves holding J. And of Mark holding him. And not one single person took one of me or the three of us. I was so out of it that I didn't think to ask. I think they would have followed us to my room, but my parents made a big deal about letting me get some rest and giving the three of us time to be alone. I guess they actually got the hint for once.
It was about 7 p.m. and we were finally alone. But could we rest? No. Nurses kept coming and checking on the two of us. Mark went home at one point to feed the cats. He returned a little after visiting hours were over.
Our friend's ex-husband worked in the hospital. They were still married and he was working there when I had my first miscarriage. He was the friend who came to check on us a few times that night. When my dad had his heart attack a few years ago, he checked on him. And his girlfriend was the one who was due two days after me but had the baby four weeks early. He had seen on social media that J was here and came to visit, which was nice, even if we don't see each other any more.
Every time we almost dozed off, a nurse would come in for one of us. I was not having success with breastfeeding due to his tongue-tie. We got a nipple shield and a lactation consult. They decided I should try pumping and consider having a frenulectomy done on J to make things better.
It was at least 1 a.m. by the time I could finally doze off. I woke up all night long to check on J because we delivered at a baby-friendly hospital and he was rooming in. So I was basically awake and delivered a baby during the hours of 10 a.m. 12/1-1 a.m. 12/3.
They woke us a few times during the night. At 7:30 or so, L came to check on us on her way to the hospital. And right after she left, the photo people arrived. We were not prepared and I should have asked them to come back later but rolled with it. I'm wearing my hospital gown still. Mark needed to shave. Poor J is in 0-3 month pajamas because we didn't realize that was different than newborn. So they rolled his sleeves and tucked the pajamas as best they could
Not long after that, the pediatrician came in. He was one from our practice, but not the doctor we fell in love with when we interviewed pediatricians. He said if we wanted the frenulectomy, let them know. We wanted to try breastfeeding again first and would then decide. But I was bleeding from it already.
As soon as visiting hours started, my in-laws burst onto the scene. And they stayed the whole day, except for when we were under the hospital's cuddle hour. An hour for us to do whatever with no visitors and no doctors. Exceeeept he needed his 24-hour labs done during that time. So they took him. I got to shower finally. We tried pumping again. And as soon as cuddle time was over, there they were again, loaded down with gifts. Cause that's exactly what every new mother needs: a ton of shit to take home in addition to the tiny baby.
My friend Melissa showed up, as did my cousin Alicia. Mom came by after work. The small room was crowded so his parents actually left. They were staying in a hotel nearby and had to start the hour and a half drive home. They took J to get circumcised, and so she and I were able to privately visit. L stopped by to say he'd done well and was recovering. She did the surgery herself. And every doctor had compliments for her on how well it was done. Go figure. My aunt, uncle, and cousin stopped by for a while. Mark had gone to dinner with his parents during this and then he was heading home to feed the cats again. He also put the baby swing together.
J finally got to return right before my last visitors left. After Mark came back, we had one last visit from our best friends, Craig and Aryanna. They brought me a bottle of Moët which I saved for a while because Mark doesn't drink champagne. I needed someone to savor it with.
We had another restless night with one sweet night nurse sneaking us a few bottles of Similac supplement formula. Thank god. I was hurting. He couldn't latch properly. It was a miserable situation all around. As a baby-friendly hospital, they push breastfeeding on you. It's insane. I was already on board for trying it and had no plans to do otherwise. I was sold. You didn't have to be so...militant.
The next day, we had a different doctor from the pediatric group. She suggested the one we saw the day before to do the frenulectomy because he apparently enjoys doing that. J was gone for a while for that. I got to eat lunch and then we left a couple hours later. It was time to head home.
Induction
Recap: Dr. L said that based on what Dr. C recommended, she felt it was best to induce a week early so that the baby would not get any bigger. If she couldn't use any tools to assist in delivery, the baby needed to get out. Otherwise, I'd have to have a C-section.
I didn't want a section, but more than that, I wanted a safe, healthy delivery of a safe, healthy baby. Whatever my doctors thought was best, I was on board 100%.
Both doctors seemed to think the early induction would be enough to let me deliver safely. I was glad to hear it.
My due date was December 8. They like to induce a week early, so that meant December 1: my dad's birthday. It was also the day my coworker was being induced.
Unfortunately, it looked like I was getting a 10 p.m. slot. The hospital was full of sections and inductions already. My coworker had a morning slot, so her daughter was born the same day. There was a slight chance that some women would deliver early, clearing the way for me. But no.
On Saturday, we went to dinner for my dad's birthday. We went back to their house for cake. Then, my nesting instinct was kicking in. We went to buy a table for the humidifier, a rug for the room, and blinds for the room. A student's mom dropped off a baby gift while we were gone. She hadn't realized that the Friday before Thanksgiving was my last day. It wasn't originally, but when we scrapped the due date in favor of the induction, it didn't make sense to me to go back for one day. So when I went on Thanksgiving break, I was on maternity leave.
Sunday had Mark working and so I went to my parents' house, as usual. Monday had us taking care of things around the house, resting, and my final NST appointment. I also had to go to my pre-op appointment. History, blood pressure, paperwork signing.
I woke up Tuesday and couldn't believe that that night was hospital time. I was nervous but scared but excited but terrified but pleased. I was tired of hauling myself in and out of bed, of needing Mark to shave my legs, of having to consider ingredients, of peeing so many times a day. But how terrifying is birth? Especially when our country has such high rates of mortality during childbirth.
I haven't mentioned it yet, but we didn't know what we were having. I didn't want to know for a few reasons. One was that if it was a girl, I didn't want pink everything. Oh it would happen later, but if I could head it off at the pass, then I would. Another reason is that if we're doing this only once, we should enjoy the full ride. Another reason: There's so few real surprises any more. Another? It pissed off my in-laws. Another? If I knew what I was having, I would get attached. I'd think of the baby by name. I'd imagine activities with him or her. And if something went wrong, well...
It drove everyone crazy. Surprisingly, Dr. L couldn't stand it haha. After I'd been to Dr. C for the big anatomy scans, she looked at the notes and knew.
When the baby had the reversed urine flow, I looked it up. 90% of the time, or something like that, it happens to boys. I originally felt I was having a girl. I'd changed my mind and started thinking it was a boy. Once I heard that, I was convinced it was a boy. But I had no proof.
It was exciting to finally know what this little person would be and look like. The last 4D ultrasound was close. I couldn't imagine life with this little person and was hoping I would get that chance.
We got IHOP for dinner because they said I could and should eat something, just nothing major. Pancakes sounded perfect. I took a shower and watched Mark hang one set of blinds. I intended to help, but I was too uncomfortable. Soon enough, it was time to go. We grabbed our bags and got in the car. We checked in on the women's floor and were hurried to my room. I had my SLR camera with me, and I wanted Mark to do a picture. But I had to take everything off and put on the gown and get in bed. I was so nervous that I forgot.
For about three weeks I was dilated about a centimeter. I had a lot of work to do.
My nurses were all dolls. One was new to the hospital and one was new and had someone paired with her at all times. Every one of them was just awesome.
The new girl went to do my IV and missed. Then blew the vein. Then the other nurse blew the vein on my right hand. And finally got it on the side of my left hand. So that was fun.
The nurses got the little pill in me, which was also fun. They checked me later and decided I did need the second dose of it. Because I tested positive for group B strep, I had to get antibiotics in my IV.
I tried to get some sleep, but between the IV and the early contractions that had started and the fact that if I tried rolling over, the baby would get off the monitor and a nurse would have to come in to reposition things, it didn't happen more than about five minutes probably. Meanwhile, Mark was out for a good while.
Around 2 a.m. I was ready for the epidural. It wasn't bad yet. But it was starting to give me flashbacks to my first loss. And my third. And my fourth. And I was feeling anxiety. A lot of it.
I sent Mark to tell the nurses. I was first in line. It would take 45 minutes for the anesthesiologist to arrive and it takes a while for the procedure. They had me curl up like a shrimp and sent Mark out of the room. For the best. He passed out once watching me get two stitches on my arm. The relief was so quick and amazing. I loved it. But I did have to get a catheter, which I thankfully couldn't feel. I tried to sleep again, but the baby kept getting off the monitor.
I had already said I didn't want anyone but Mark in the room. Around 7:30, the visitor worst case scenario happened. Mark was on his way out of the room to get some breakfast, and I watched as he walked to my door. The door opened, and there were his parents. We didn't give them my room number on purpose. He said he told them not to come in, but there they were. Breaking rules and ignoring decorum, as usual. He escorted them out with him and I was saved.
I texted my mom to complain and then my parents showed up. I didn't really want them there, but at least they're MY parents. I had given them my room number. While they were there, L came to check on me on her way to work. She said I was at 3 cm finally, and was going to break my water to see if she could move things along. She would be back at lunch to check on me. My parents left when she went to break my water and I didn't let them back.
A weird thing that happened with the epidural was that I felt like I was wearing velour pants. I know that makes no sense. I had no pants on, and I certainly don't own velour pants. But for whatever reason, I was convinced I had some on. It all had to do with how numb my legs felt. I still think that's hilarious.
Anyway, when L came back at 11-ish. I was only 5 cm. Everyone was disappointed. Mark found Criminal Minds on TV and I was watching that. I was fine. Why not go get lunch? Just take your phone.
About five minutes after he finally left, a nurse came in.
"How are you doing?"
"I'm okay."
"How are you feeling? Any pressure?"
"Uh, I don't know."
"Well, do you feel like you need to, uh, use the bathroom?"
Embarrassed, I admitted that I did feel like I could, so I wasn't looking forward to the fact that was going to poop while delivering.
"Ummmm I'm going to check you. I've been seeing some things on your monitor that we only see when it's time to push."
She checked me and said that half an hour after being only at 5 cm, I was suddenly at 10 and ready to push.
I panicked. I tried texting Mark but it didn't go through. I called him. They were calling L. I was startingg to feel contractions despite the epidural. They got the anesthesiologist to add something to my IV to take the edge off. They sat me up like a frog. I felt like the baby was going to slide out, so I crossed my ankles and squeezed.
I don't know why they don't tell you that if you feel like you need to take a huge shit, it's time to push. Everything is just called pressure. Or urge to push. No one mentions you think you're going to crap.
L made it from her office and I started 3 hours of pushing. The baby was stuck under my pubic bone for half an hour. They were about to give up on me but he shifted.
I started to tear, so I got a nice big episiotomy.
At 3:07 p.m., I delivered a healthy 7 lb., 14 oz. baby boy after 17 hours of labor.
I held my breath until he cried. I stared at him in wonder. I delivered the placenta. They took him to bathe him and my doctor stitched me up. I lost count at six stitches. Ugh. When they finally sat me up, I was shocked. It looked like an episode of Dexter. I thought it was weird that they had the tarp all over the place. But then I saw why. Holy hell. Blood everywhere.
They tried to get him to nurse, but the lactation lady basically gave up. She got me a plastic spoon and squirted a small amount of milk on it and spoon fed him.
He was tongue-tied, which gave him a lot of trouble.
While I was being stitched, Mark went to tell our parents and siblings that we had a son. When he came back, we had our hour of skin-to-skin. Finally the families could come in. And who led the way? HIS parents. Not the people whose daughter's life was hanging in the balance. But the assholes who have no social skills. I was so hungry. I had sent word to my parents to please bring me food. They went and got me a chicken salad sandwich. It was probably the best I've ever eaten but only because I was ravenous.
I had to get the catheter back in because I hadn't urinated. Once that happened, they wheeled me to my room. It was room 468. And everyone made the joke of it being easy because it was 2 4 6 8 blah blah stupid lameness.
Everyone finally left. They were all so busy holding him and my in-laws were so busy taking pictures of them holding him that NO ONE took a picture of me with him or of the three of us as a family. I'm still very bitter.
But he was here. He was healthy. We both survived. I was exhausted but got basically no sleep.
I didn't want a section, but more than that, I wanted a safe, healthy delivery of a safe, healthy baby. Whatever my doctors thought was best, I was on board 100%.
Both doctors seemed to think the early induction would be enough to let me deliver safely. I was glad to hear it.
My due date was December 8. They like to induce a week early, so that meant December 1: my dad's birthday. It was also the day my coworker was being induced.
Unfortunately, it looked like I was getting a 10 p.m. slot. The hospital was full of sections and inductions already. My coworker had a morning slot, so her daughter was born the same day. There was a slight chance that some women would deliver early, clearing the way for me. But no.
On Saturday, we went to dinner for my dad's birthday. We went back to their house for cake. Then, my nesting instinct was kicking in. We went to buy a table for the humidifier, a rug for the room, and blinds for the room. A student's mom dropped off a baby gift while we were gone. She hadn't realized that the Friday before Thanksgiving was my last day. It wasn't originally, but when we scrapped the due date in favor of the induction, it didn't make sense to me to go back for one day. So when I went on Thanksgiving break, I was on maternity leave.
Sunday had Mark working and so I went to my parents' house, as usual. Monday had us taking care of things around the house, resting, and my final NST appointment. I also had to go to my pre-op appointment. History, blood pressure, paperwork signing.
I woke up Tuesday and couldn't believe that that night was hospital time. I was nervous but scared but excited but terrified but pleased. I was tired of hauling myself in and out of bed, of needing Mark to shave my legs, of having to consider ingredients, of peeing so many times a day. But how terrifying is birth? Especially when our country has such high rates of mortality during childbirth.
I haven't mentioned it yet, but we didn't know what we were having. I didn't want to know for a few reasons. One was that if it was a girl, I didn't want pink everything. Oh it would happen later, but if I could head it off at the pass, then I would. Another reason is that if we're doing this only once, we should enjoy the full ride. Another reason: There's so few real surprises any more. Another? It pissed off my in-laws. Another? If I knew what I was having, I would get attached. I'd think of the baby by name. I'd imagine activities with him or her. And if something went wrong, well...
It drove everyone crazy. Surprisingly, Dr. L couldn't stand it haha. After I'd been to Dr. C for the big anatomy scans, she looked at the notes and knew.
When the baby had the reversed urine flow, I looked it up. 90% of the time, or something like that, it happens to boys. I originally felt I was having a girl. I'd changed my mind and started thinking it was a boy. Once I heard that, I was convinced it was a boy. But I had no proof.
It was exciting to finally know what this little person would be and look like. The last 4D ultrasound was close. I couldn't imagine life with this little person and was hoping I would get that chance.
We got IHOP for dinner because they said I could and should eat something, just nothing major. Pancakes sounded perfect. I took a shower and watched Mark hang one set of blinds. I intended to help, but I was too uncomfortable. Soon enough, it was time to go. We grabbed our bags and got in the car. We checked in on the women's floor and were hurried to my room. I had my SLR camera with me, and I wanted Mark to do a picture. But I had to take everything off and put on the gown and get in bed. I was so nervous that I forgot.
For about three weeks I was dilated about a centimeter. I had a lot of work to do.
My nurses were all dolls. One was new to the hospital and one was new and had someone paired with her at all times. Every one of them was just awesome.
The new girl went to do my IV and missed. Then blew the vein. Then the other nurse blew the vein on my right hand. And finally got it on the side of my left hand. So that was fun.
The nurses got the little pill in me, which was also fun. They checked me later and decided I did need the second dose of it. Because I tested positive for group B strep, I had to get antibiotics in my IV.
I tried to get some sleep, but between the IV and the early contractions that had started and the fact that if I tried rolling over, the baby would get off the monitor and a nurse would have to come in to reposition things, it didn't happen more than about five minutes probably. Meanwhile, Mark was out for a good while.
Around 2 a.m. I was ready for the epidural. It wasn't bad yet. But it was starting to give me flashbacks to my first loss. And my third. And my fourth. And I was feeling anxiety. A lot of it.
I sent Mark to tell the nurses. I was first in line. It would take 45 minutes for the anesthesiologist to arrive and it takes a while for the procedure. They had me curl up like a shrimp and sent Mark out of the room. For the best. He passed out once watching me get two stitches on my arm. The relief was so quick and amazing. I loved it. But I did have to get a catheter, which I thankfully couldn't feel. I tried to sleep again, but the baby kept getting off the monitor.
I had already said I didn't want anyone but Mark in the room. Around 7:30, the visitor worst case scenario happened. Mark was on his way out of the room to get some breakfast, and I watched as he walked to my door. The door opened, and there were his parents. We didn't give them my room number on purpose. He said he told them not to come in, but there they were. Breaking rules and ignoring decorum, as usual. He escorted them out with him and I was saved.
I texted my mom to complain and then my parents showed up. I didn't really want them there, but at least they're MY parents. I had given them my room number. While they were there, L came to check on me on her way to work. She said I was at 3 cm finally, and was going to break my water to see if she could move things along. She would be back at lunch to check on me. My parents left when she went to break my water and I didn't let them back.
A weird thing that happened with the epidural was that I felt like I was wearing velour pants. I know that makes no sense. I had no pants on, and I certainly don't own velour pants. But for whatever reason, I was convinced I had some on. It all had to do with how numb my legs felt. I still think that's hilarious.
Anyway, when L came back at 11-ish. I was only 5 cm. Everyone was disappointed. Mark found Criminal Minds on TV and I was watching that. I was fine. Why not go get lunch? Just take your phone.
About five minutes after he finally left, a nurse came in.
"How are you doing?"
"I'm okay."
"How are you feeling? Any pressure?"
"Uh, I don't know."
"Well, do you feel like you need to, uh, use the bathroom?"
Embarrassed, I admitted that I did feel like I could, so I wasn't looking forward to the fact that was going to poop while delivering.
"Ummmm I'm going to check you. I've been seeing some things on your monitor that we only see when it's time to push."
She checked me and said that half an hour after being only at 5 cm, I was suddenly at 10 and ready to push.
I panicked. I tried texting Mark but it didn't go through. I called him. They were calling L. I was startingg to feel contractions despite the epidural. They got the anesthesiologist to add something to my IV to take the edge off. They sat me up like a frog. I felt like the baby was going to slide out, so I crossed my ankles and squeezed.
I don't know why they don't tell you that if you feel like you need to take a huge shit, it's time to push. Everything is just called pressure. Or urge to push. No one mentions you think you're going to crap.
L made it from her office and I started 3 hours of pushing. The baby was stuck under my pubic bone for half an hour. They were about to give up on me but he shifted.
I started to tear, so I got a nice big episiotomy.
At 3:07 p.m., I delivered a healthy 7 lb., 14 oz. baby boy after 17 hours of labor.
I held my breath until he cried. I stared at him in wonder. I delivered the placenta. They took him to bathe him and my doctor stitched me up. I lost count at six stitches. Ugh. When they finally sat me up, I was shocked. It looked like an episode of Dexter. I thought it was weird that they had the tarp all over the place. But then I saw why. Holy hell. Blood everywhere.
They tried to get him to nurse, but the lactation lady basically gave up. She got me a plastic spoon and squirted a small amount of milk on it and spoon fed him.
He was tongue-tied, which gave him a lot of trouble.
While I was being stitched, Mark went to tell our parents and siblings that we had a son. When he came back, we had our hour of skin-to-skin. Finally the families could come in. And who led the way? HIS parents. Not the people whose daughter's life was hanging in the balance. But the assholes who have no social skills. I was so hungry. I had sent word to my parents to please bring me food. They went and got me a chicken salad sandwich. It was probably the best I've ever eaten but only because I was ravenous.
I had to get the catheter back in because I hadn't urinated. Once that happened, they wheeled me to my room. It was room 468. And everyone made the joke of it being easy because it was 2 4 6 8 blah blah stupid lameness.
Everyone finally left. They were all so busy holding him and my in-laws were so busy taking pictures of them holding him that NO ONE took a picture of me with him or of the three of us as a family. I'm still very bitter.
But he was here. He was healthy. We both survived. I was exhausted but got basically no sleep.
Sunday, December 24, 2017
Hitting the third trimester
Once I hit the third trimester, things started feeling like maybe they would work out. I didn't relax, but I did slowly start releasing that breath I'd been holding. At the same time, my anxiety went up. I couldn't bear the thought of what would happen if something went wrong at this point.
I've mentioned before that August 29 is evil. It's the anniversary of Katrina. It's the weekend I started losing my first baby. It's the due date of the second lost baby. It causes me anxiety every year.
So in 2015, we decided to take it back.
I had resisted doing a registry. But now it was about three months until my due date and my cousin and my best friend were planning a shower. I needed to get some things on the registry. I decided that August 29, which was the tenth anniversary of Katrina, would be the day we would go. It had been such an awful day for ten years. We were going to give it a good event and would also keep my mind off of things.
We made it through almost the whole store and ended at the breastfeeding stuff. I was worn out and my feet hurt and I was just ready to give up because I had no idea what I needed and what I didn't need. So Alicia said she'd go back and walk me through it another day. She called while we were registering to ask my opinion on a few things for the shower because she and Yanna were planning the party at the same time. And while that happened, her son took his first steps. 😁
Anyway, other than being so tired and dealing with a sizeable amount of round ligament pain, we went home. It was as close to at peace as I'd felt on this day in ten years.
Slowly, my friends were having their babies. All of the summer ones were here. The August one was here. September was gearing up. And as each baby came, I moved further up to the front of the line.
I failed the first glucose test and passed the second. I started my NST tests twice a week at week 34. At 36 weeks, I saw my MFM specialist for the last time. More on that later.
I was working my ass off at school. I had to keep up with my extracurricular activities as usual.
That meant bowling with six teams of four kids every Wednesday and keeping stats. Thankfully, my friend Doris, who was in her second year at school, had decided to be my assistant coach. So I started training her to handle all of the bowling responsibilities: schedules, stat tracking, rules and regulations, etc.
That meant coming up with a schedule of events for the year and making sure a journalism kid was assigned to take pictures at every event, as well as assigning yearbook pages through February.
That meant coming up with lesson plans for the week before Thanksgiving (just in case) until Mardi Gras break. And compiling everything for all four preps into a huge binder. That meant running copies so the sub wouldn't have to worry about it.
That also meant directing the school play. I had to hold auditions in August and begin rehearsals in September. Rehearsals started ending at four and ran Monday, Tuesday, Thursday, and Friday until November. I moved the play up a week just in case, too, so I had one less week to prepare the kids. By the week of dress rehearsals, I was there until 6 p.m. Every day. I was also 36 weeks pregnant at the time.
The play was Romeo and Juliet. Doris was my art director and also the person I was training to take over in case I got put on actual bed rest or went into labor early.
I had to get two senior parents who always helped with set builds and Doris to help me out. I couldn't be around the paint, sonart teacher Doris handled it. I came up with designs and she made them come to life. I couldn't lift anything or carry anything. The year before, when we did Aladdin, I made most of the costumes. This year I had the kids get their own. Doris was my angel. She did everything she could to keep the kids from raising my blood pressure haha. It was one of our best shows ever.
The weekend of our final build, we were building Juliet's balcony. I brought the giant cardboard box the baby's dresser arrived in to cut up and paint. And then the blade slipped and cut my left hand pretty bad. I almost went to the ER, but I got the bleeding under control. May have needed a stitch or two, but liquid bandages helped a lot and I survived. I was up-to-date on my tetanus shots anyway.
But the best thing of all? The dresser's name was on the box. It was: Verona.
Too good.
The play was amazing. Probably the best show we ever did. I was so proud of them. They presented me with flowers, a card, a Babies R Us gift card, and a framed collage of goofy pics of the cast and crew (including me). It was so wonderful. I love those kids.
That night, we left the play and went straight to Morgan City for his grandparents' 60th anniversary dinner. I thought my bladder would burst. That's an hour and a half in a car at 36 weeks. I don't know why I thought that was a good idea. I was so uncomfortable. But we weren't really given a choice. Remember that several posts from now.
In addition to work stress, I had emotional stress. I mentioned that my Dad's ulcerative colitis was at its worst. We really thought we would lose him. His doctor finally said she'd done all she could and that surgery was the only thing left. He finally had come to terms with this possibility about a month prior. His surgery was scheduled for mid-October. They moved it up a week when he went for his next appointment. Then, they moved it up again. The hospital didn't want to do the surgery then, we found out later, because he was so dangerously anemic. The doctor and the surgeon fought for him and said that if he didn't have his colon removed, he would die. It was an emergency. And so they let it happen.
I left work early that day to keep my mom company at the hospital. Everything went well. It took hours for them to let us see him. They finally let us go to the recovery room. He looked awful and you could see he was in terrible pain. They moved him to his real room and we went to see him. He was so groggy and kept saying to the nurses "That's my grandbaby there."
The next day, I had an MFM appointment. We had my mom come with us since it was at the same hospital where my dad was. She was so excited to see that little face in 4 D.
When that was over, we went to see Dad. He kept saying things like "Take care of that grandbaby for me."
Please note that my dad thinks ultrasounds are disgusting and that he refused to look at any of them. He didn't even want to hear about that appointment, not even drugged up, haha.
Every Halloween, the faculty dressed in costumes to a theme. I started that my second year there, and it was my responsibility to pick the theme. I usually picked it based on a costume I had for camp already, or for a costume I just wanted to do. This year, I had to consider my new body. What would I be? I'd been googling pregnant costumes, and everything sucked. Well, I did see Carl from Aqua Teen Hunger Force, so I would do that for our friend Halloween party. But what could I do at school?
Watching a Saints game one day, there was a shot where I went "Who's that pregnant woman?" Then I realized it was defensive coordinator Rob Ryan in profile. I knew. That was my costume. I bought a grey wig and a maternity Saints shirt. I got sweatpants, too. I borrowed Mark's headset mic for his computer and got grey face paint to make a beard. I decided the theme was celebrities. Our religion teacher came as Sean Payton and the secretary upstairs was Drew Brees. A lower school teacher was Marques Colston. So that was a fun group costume. We had a half day that day, so we went to Fat Harry's for lunch. I was a huge hit in my costume.
I was Carl for our friends' party and then I was a black cat on Halloween.
My school held a Thanksgiving Feast the Thursday before Thanksgiving break. There's a picture of me and the girl due right after me standing in the hallway. We both look so done. I was 37 weeks, she was 36. She had a girl. The bellies we have prove that. I had a boy and carried him so low. Her girl was up very high. I also had dropped already. The Friday of the performance, one of my coworkers came to congratulate me after the show and she said "Somehow, you look way more pregnant tonight than you did this morning!" That's when I knew he dropped.
I was thankful that when he dropped, he turned. More on that in a minute.
The Feast was a half day, and then we had a staff meeting. I was very annoyed until I found out that the staff meeting was a cover for a small party for the two of us. Kelsey had a scheduled induction on December 1 to make sure her mom would be in town for the birth. I had an appointment that afternoon and would see what my doctor had planned.
The week before, I went to the MFM. Some good news: the baby had a urine issue early on. That had completely resolved itself. She was very serious as she told me important information that had me slightly worried, though. She said the baby was breech and also that the stomach looked bigger than the head. While that didn't mean anything was wrong with him, it did present a problem for delivery.
The head is supposed to be the biggest part. It paves the way for the rest of the body. The birth canal adjusts to the head size. So if the head is bigger, the rest should come out easily. But if the belly is bigger, it presents a problem. The birth canal will have trouble adjusting to release the rest. It didn't mean that I had to have a c-section. But my doctor would not be allowed to use forceps, vacuums, etc. to remove him. She would have to go slow and be careful.
But other than that, I was done with her.
The Monday of Thanksgiving week, my doctor basically said the MFM had her scared on the phone that day. She thought she'd have to cancel her appointments and scrub up haha. But she did agree that we should probably induce a week early, which would be December 1, my Dad's birthday. The same day as Kelsey from work. That meant we had a week and a day to prepare.
Thanksgiving was an NST day for me. My doctor would be having Thanksgiving with her family in Cut Off and was bringing my MFM doctor with her, since it was Dr. C's first holiday without her parents around. That's incredibly sweet, but I was concerned. L told me not to go into labor, because they would be together and the food was too good to leave and/or miss. So since neither of them could do my NST, I had to go to the hospital. I parked on the women's center floor of the garage and walked all the way down to the entrance only to realize that because it was a holiday, the entrance was closed. Waddled all the way back to the car and drove to an open level. Cruel!
So an NST is easy. You lay on the exam table propped up. They attach two Velcro belts around your middle. It measures heart rate and movement. You hang out quietly and listen to the heartbeat. The test checks fetal movements. You get left alone for a while and they have the volume up loud enough that they can hear it down the hall. One day, he had hiccups and kept smacking the monitor. So you heard the heart beat and then what sounded like someone smacking a microphone over and over again. L came in at one point to see what was going on, because you could hear him in the lobby!
I used to love listening to him and watching him move then.
It was at one of those appointments after he dropped that we discovered that he was no longer in breech. We know because when the nurse went to hook me up to the machine, she couldn't get it in the right spot to find the heartbeat. She said "oh maybe it flipped!" and she put it cattycorner to where he normally was. Boom. Nailed it. I was so excited.
Oh and one day, I was trying to put the sheets on the crib, but I misjudged the space I had. I turned badly and smacked the hell out of my belly. I bruise easily anyway, and since I take aspirin for the MTHFR, I bruise spectacularly. The nurse had a hearty laugh when I explained my disgusting belly bruise.
Have I mentioned that nurse is named Hope?
Anyway, the test went quickly Thanksgiving morning. I had to go alone because Mark was at work. The test went quickly because he was so active. The nurse running the test at the hospital would be working while I was being induced. As I left, she said "See you Tuesday night!" It was Thursday. Holy crap. Things were getting real.
Confident that I was going to make it to Thanksgiving across the lake at my aunt and uncle's house, I happily left. I had been nervous about the drive, but my aunt and their two daughters are nurses and my cousin's husband was in anesthesiology school, so I knew I'd be in good hands if I went into labor. Spoiler alert: I didn't.
But guys. God's gift to pregnant women is 9-months-pregnant Thanksgiving. I ate all the things. I had on a maternity dress, so there was no tight pants situation. I could just eat. And eat I did.
They wanted to take a group picture of the great-grandkids and they wanted my stomach in there. I didn't want that all over FB. I also didn't want the memory if something went wrong in the next few days. I regret it now. But at the time, I couldn't handle it.
The next day was Black Friday. Mom and I always have lunch and hit sales in the afternoon. We went to The Esplanade because it would be practically empty. I barely made it out of Macy's. We needed pajamas I could wear in the hospital that buttoned. We slowly made our way to Target and I had to take a break. The end was near and I just couldn't do it. So we went back to their house for dinner.
The countdown was on. One last NST on Monday, and checking into the hospital Tuesday night with hopefully a baby Wednesday morning.
I've mentioned before that August 29 is evil. It's the anniversary of Katrina. It's the weekend I started losing my first baby. It's the due date of the second lost baby. It causes me anxiety every year.
So in 2015, we decided to take it back.
I had resisted doing a registry. But now it was about three months until my due date and my cousin and my best friend were planning a shower. I needed to get some things on the registry. I decided that August 29, which was the tenth anniversary of Katrina, would be the day we would go. It had been such an awful day for ten years. We were going to give it a good event and would also keep my mind off of things.
We made it through almost the whole store and ended at the breastfeeding stuff. I was worn out and my feet hurt and I was just ready to give up because I had no idea what I needed and what I didn't need. So Alicia said she'd go back and walk me through it another day. She called while we were registering to ask my opinion on a few things for the shower because she and Yanna were planning the party at the same time. And while that happened, her son took his first steps. 😁
Anyway, other than being so tired and dealing with a sizeable amount of round ligament pain, we went home. It was as close to at peace as I'd felt on this day in ten years.
Slowly, my friends were having their babies. All of the summer ones were here. The August one was here. September was gearing up. And as each baby came, I moved further up to the front of the line.
I failed the first glucose test and passed the second. I started my NST tests twice a week at week 34. At 36 weeks, I saw my MFM specialist for the last time. More on that later.
I was working my ass off at school. I had to keep up with my extracurricular activities as usual.
That meant bowling with six teams of four kids every Wednesday and keeping stats. Thankfully, my friend Doris, who was in her second year at school, had decided to be my assistant coach. So I started training her to handle all of the bowling responsibilities: schedules, stat tracking, rules and regulations, etc.
That meant coming up with a schedule of events for the year and making sure a journalism kid was assigned to take pictures at every event, as well as assigning yearbook pages through February.
That meant coming up with lesson plans for the week before Thanksgiving (just in case) until Mardi Gras break. And compiling everything for all four preps into a huge binder. That meant running copies so the sub wouldn't have to worry about it.
That also meant directing the school play. I had to hold auditions in August and begin rehearsals in September. Rehearsals started ending at four and ran Monday, Tuesday, Thursday, and Friday until November. I moved the play up a week just in case, too, so I had one less week to prepare the kids. By the week of dress rehearsals, I was there until 6 p.m. Every day. I was also 36 weeks pregnant at the time.
The play was Romeo and Juliet. Doris was my art director and also the person I was training to take over in case I got put on actual bed rest or went into labor early.
I had to get two senior parents who always helped with set builds and Doris to help me out. I couldn't be around the paint, sonart teacher Doris handled it. I came up with designs and she made them come to life. I couldn't lift anything or carry anything. The year before, when we did Aladdin, I made most of the costumes. This year I had the kids get their own. Doris was my angel. She did everything she could to keep the kids from raising my blood pressure haha. It was one of our best shows ever.
The weekend of our final build, we were building Juliet's balcony. I brought the giant cardboard box the baby's dresser arrived in to cut up and paint. And then the blade slipped and cut my left hand pretty bad. I almost went to the ER, but I got the bleeding under control. May have needed a stitch or two, but liquid bandages helped a lot and I survived. I was up-to-date on my tetanus shots anyway.
But the best thing of all? The dresser's name was on the box. It was: Verona.
Too good.
The play was amazing. Probably the best show we ever did. I was so proud of them. They presented me with flowers, a card, a Babies R Us gift card, and a framed collage of goofy pics of the cast and crew (including me). It was so wonderful. I love those kids.
That night, we left the play and went straight to Morgan City for his grandparents' 60th anniversary dinner. I thought my bladder would burst. That's an hour and a half in a car at 36 weeks. I don't know why I thought that was a good idea. I was so uncomfortable. But we weren't really given a choice. Remember that several posts from now.
In addition to work stress, I had emotional stress. I mentioned that my Dad's ulcerative colitis was at its worst. We really thought we would lose him. His doctor finally said she'd done all she could and that surgery was the only thing left. He finally had come to terms with this possibility about a month prior. His surgery was scheduled for mid-October. They moved it up a week when he went for his next appointment. Then, they moved it up again. The hospital didn't want to do the surgery then, we found out later, because he was so dangerously anemic. The doctor and the surgeon fought for him and said that if he didn't have his colon removed, he would die. It was an emergency. And so they let it happen.
I left work early that day to keep my mom company at the hospital. Everything went well. It took hours for them to let us see him. They finally let us go to the recovery room. He looked awful and you could see he was in terrible pain. They moved him to his real room and we went to see him. He was so groggy and kept saying to the nurses "That's my grandbaby there."
The next day, I had an MFM appointment. We had my mom come with us since it was at the same hospital where my dad was. She was so excited to see that little face in 4 D.
When that was over, we went to see Dad. He kept saying things like "Take care of that grandbaby for me."
Please note that my dad thinks ultrasounds are disgusting and that he refused to look at any of them. He didn't even want to hear about that appointment, not even drugged up, haha.
Every Halloween, the faculty dressed in costumes to a theme. I started that my second year there, and it was my responsibility to pick the theme. I usually picked it based on a costume I had for camp already, or for a costume I just wanted to do. This year, I had to consider my new body. What would I be? I'd been googling pregnant costumes, and everything sucked. Well, I did see Carl from Aqua Teen Hunger Force, so I would do that for our friend Halloween party. But what could I do at school?
Watching a Saints game one day, there was a shot where I went "Who's that pregnant woman?" Then I realized it was defensive coordinator Rob Ryan in profile. I knew. That was my costume. I bought a grey wig and a maternity Saints shirt. I got sweatpants, too. I borrowed Mark's headset mic for his computer and got grey face paint to make a beard. I decided the theme was celebrities. Our religion teacher came as Sean Payton and the secretary upstairs was Drew Brees. A lower school teacher was Marques Colston. So that was a fun group costume. We had a half day that day, so we went to Fat Harry's for lunch. I was a huge hit in my costume.
I was Carl for our friends' party and then I was a black cat on Halloween.
My school held a Thanksgiving Feast the Thursday before Thanksgiving break. There's a picture of me and the girl due right after me standing in the hallway. We both look so done. I was 37 weeks, she was 36. She had a girl. The bellies we have prove that. I had a boy and carried him so low. Her girl was up very high. I also had dropped already. The Friday of the performance, one of my coworkers came to congratulate me after the show and she said "Somehow, you look way more pregnant tonight than you did this morning!" That's when I knew he dropped.
I was thankful that when he dropped, he turned. More on that in a minute.
The Feast was a half day, and then we had a staff meeting. I was very annoyed until I found out that the staff meeting was a cover for a small party for the two of us. Kelsey had a scheduled induction on December 1 to make sure her mom would be in town for the birth. I had an appointment that afternoon and would see what my doctor had planned.
The week before, I went to the MFM. Some good news: the baby had a urine issue early on. That had completely resolved itself. She was very serious as she told me important information that had me slightly worried, though. She said the baby was breech and also that the stomach looked bigger than the head. While that didn't mean anything was wrong with him, it did present a problem for delivery.
The head is supposed to be the biggest part. It paves the way for the rest of the body. The birth canal adjusts to the head size. So if the head is bigger, the rest should come out easily. But if the belly is bigger, it presents a problem. The birth canal will have trouble adjusting to release the rest. It didn't mean that I had to have a c-section. But my doctor would not be allowed to use forceps, vacuums, etc. to remove him. She would have to go slow and be careful.
But other than that, I was done with her.
The Monday of Thanksgiving week, my doctor basically said the MFM had her scared on the phone that day. She thought she'd have to cancel her appointments and scrub up haha. But she did agree that we should probably induce a week early, which would be December 1, my Dad's birthday. The same day as Kelsey from work. That meant we had a week and a day to prepare.
Thanksgiving was an NST day for me. My doctor would be having Thanksgiving with her family in Cut Off and was bringing my MFM doctor with her, since it was Dr. C's first holiday without her parents around. That's incredibly sweet, but I was concerned. L told me not to go into labor, because they would be together and the food was too good to leave and/or miss. So since neither of them could do my NST, I had to go to the hospital. I parked on the women's center floor of the garage and walked all the way down to the entrance only to realize that because it was a holiday, the entrance was closed. Waddled all the way back to the car and drove to an open level. Cruel!
So an NST is easy. You lay on the exam table propped up. They attach two Velcro belts around your middle. It measures heart rate and movement. You hang out quietly and listen to the heartbeat. The test checks fetal movements. You get left alone for a while and they have the volume up loud enough that they can hear it down the hall. One day, he had hiccups and kept smacking the monitor. So you heard the heart beat and then what sounded like someone smacking a microphone over and over again. L came in at one point to see what was going on, because you could hear him in the lobby!
I used to love listening to him and watching him move then.
It was at one of those appointments after he dropped that we discovered that he was no longer in breech. We know because when the nurse went to hook me up to the machine, she couldn't get it in the right spot to find the heartbeat. She said "oh maybe it flipped!" and she put it cattycorner to where he normally was. Boom. Nailed it. I was so excited.
Oh and one day, I was trying to put the sheets on the crib, but I misjudged the space I had. I turned badly and smacked the hell out of my belly. I bruise easily anyway, and since I take aspirin for the MTHFR, I bruise spectacularly. The nurse had a hearty laugh when I explained my disgusting belly bruise.
Have I mentioned that nurse is named Hope?
Anyway, the test went quickly Thanksgiving morning. I had to go alone because Mark was at work. The test went quickly because he was so active. The nurse running the test at the hospital would be working while I was being induced. As I left, she said "See you Tuesday night!" It was Thursday. Holy crap. Things were getting real.
Confident that I was going to make it to Thanksgiving across the lake at my aunt and uncle's house, I happily left. I had been nervous about the drive, but my aunt and their two daughters are nurses and my cousin's husband was in anesthesiology school, so I knew I'd be in good hands if I went into labor. Spoiler alert: I didn't.
But guys. God's gift to pregnant women is 9-months-pregnant Thanksgiving. I ate all the things. I had on a maternity dress, so there was no tight pants situation. I could just eat. And eat I did.
They wanted to take a group picture of the great-grandkids and they wanted my stomach in there. I didn't want that all over FB. I also didn't want the memory if something went wrong in the next few days. I regret it now. But at the time, I couldn't handle it.
The next day was Black Friday. Mom and I always have lunch and hit sales in the afternoon. We went to The Esplanade because it would be practically empty. I barely made it out of Macy's. We needed pajamas I could wear in the hospital that buttoned. We slowly made our way to Target and I had to take a break. The end was near and I just couldn't do it. So we went back to their house for dinner.
The countdown was on. One last NST on Monday, and checking into the hospital Tuesday night with hopefully a baby Wednesday morning.
Saturday, December 23, 2017
The doctor is in ... and in ... and in ...
So when you are over 35 and pregnant and when you have a history of loss, you spend way too much time with doctors. And we didn't even get to fertility specialists because we couldn't afford that.
It was never my intention to be what some doctors call a "geriatric pregnancy," but which my amazing doctor so thoughtfully labeled it, AMA, or Advanced Maternal Age. I mean it's not much better, but geriatric? Lord.
Yeah, it took me a long time to come around to the idea of having a child. In elementary school, I loooved Cheaper By the Dozen and thought 12 kids sounded great but clearly, I came to my senses.
When we were engaged, Mark refuuuhuused to cut his hair before our wedding because "I want our kids to see how cool their dad used to be." 🙄
When we got married, the inevitable "So when are you going to have kids?!?" reared its ugly head probably at our wedding. And my answer was always 6-7 years.
But three years in, Katrina left us homeless and with nothing but our cats, my photo albums, and the clothes on our backs. We spent two years with my parents before buying our home. That brought us to 5 years.
Somewhere in all of that mess, my depression spiral was too great and I lost the ability to care about a lot of things. Having a child became one of those things. I didn't see how we could. We had to rebuild our lives. I pushed it out of my head and decided that whatever, I didn't want kids. And I truly believe that I truly didn't.
The year of our tenth anniversary, I was surprised to discover I was pregnant. 99% effective, my ass. But by that point, I'd started wondering already whether or not I did maybe want kids. It didn't take long to warm to the idea. I was pregnant. This was happening. I was excited. I was destroyed. Not once. Not twice. But five times. And with each loss, I wanted it more fiercely and felt the futility deepen.
My regular OB/GYN, Dr. L, I'll call her, because while I don't call her by her first name to her face, I would always refer to her to the friend who recommended her to me, to my mom, and to Mark by her first name. I saw her so often, we really should have been on a first-name basis.
In fact, in her office, all patients are "Ms. Lastname." Very rarely do they use your first name. Which is fine, unless you have a name that gets mispronounced a lot. And when there's someone you don't see often enough, you don't bother correcting them because whatever. You see her once a year and she doesn't usually say your first name anyway. But then you go lord knows how many times for constant testing and growth checks and ultrasounds and follow-up appointments through four pregnancies and losses (remember, five was so early and it handled itself quickly, so I didn't call her about it), then a successful pregnancy that is high risk for a bunch of reasons... and you wish you'd gotten her to not say Amy all this time.
Anyway, with each loss, she would offer comfort and encouragement. She ran tests and sent me to her friend, the Maternal-Fetal Medicine Specialist. Also a Dr. C last name. That's why I've decided to use L as my regular doctor here. She's from Down the Bayou and has a pronounced Cajun accent. She is divorced and didn't have kids. But she has a cat and had a boyfriend with kids during most of this time. She's utterly ridiculous and I love her. She's seen me cry and made me laugh over and over and over again, more than anyone who has never shared my home.
I used to go to the same doctor as my mom. He delivered my brother. His brother was my dentist. Annnnd they grew up with my dad. Awk-warrrrrd. I never wanted to go to him but wasn't given a choice. He was moving out of patients of child-bearing age, and I could tell he wasn't really interested in seeing me (even though, at the time, that was years away). I asked around and had a friend tell me about L. I went and was immediately in love with this crazy doctor. And I really don't think there's any medical professional I'd rather have in my corner.
When she did my D and C, she showed up in a rhinestone Saints hoodie and her scrubs. She talked all about her boyfriend's kids and the trips they would take. She came out and fussed at Mark in the parking lot (more on that later) and apologized profusely to me in person and on the phone and through a staff member haha. She also potty-trained her cat and told me about it. Basically, that made her a goddess in my eyes.
Anyway, my first visit ended up being at 9 weeks because the tornado postponed my original appointment at 8 weeks. Remember, she usually saw me the day I tested positive, but I didn't want the false hope again and waited to call her.
Because it was still early, I got that lovely transvaginal ultrasound for a while. It was really the only kind I'd ever had at that point. She wanted me every week through the first trimester, for sure. So I went once a week every week until week 34 (more later). There were two weeks in a row with the bleeding (see earlier post). Then I had four trips to the MFM doctor. Plus blood work every week through the first trimester. And the genetic blood work at a whole different lab. (The joys of getting pregnant at 35...) as we entered the second trimester, we also entered my summer break. She started to say that I didn't have to come in every week and could go every other week. I think she saw the fear in my eyes She offered that since I WAS high risk and since it WAS summer and since she knew I'd be home worrying all summer, she would go ahead and see me every week "to give me something to do." She was going to slack off once I felt him move more consistently.
Those early movements, by the way, are so weird. It's like someone lightly dragging their fingers down the insides of your abdomen. Then it progresses to fluttery gas bubbles. Then it's a kick that moves the outside of your stomach. It's insane. And I miss it. I loved watching my stomach lurch like something was about to poke through the skin at any moment.
And you get phantom ones at first when the baby arrives. I had to keep reminding myself that he was in my arms, not my uterus.
The MFM doctor, Dr. C, is super intense. The two of them are best friends. And each talks shit lovingly about the other. It's hilarious. My cousin had twins and also saw Dr. C. This woman is something else. She told my cousin, "Your boy is very cute. But your girl has daddy's nose." My mom said her hair stylist told her her friend saw Dr. C, who told her "Oh, you baby ugly!" My friend, who works in L and D, said she's seen her in action. She told a patient "Push! You have the biggest vagina I've seen! This should be easy for you!"
So, when she kicked the ultrasound to 4D, she looked at it and said "You have very cute baby!" ... well, I was on cloud nine. She didn't just say that to everyone.
She's very thorough. She's very intimidating. But I'm glad I had her. I felt like the two of them would get me through this, and they did.
When I went for my glucose test, it was the day our seniors and their 8th grade little brothers and sisters had a get-to-know-you breakfast. I was in charge of getting the food, as senior adviser. I picked up donuts I couldn't eat. I got myself a breakfast plate of eggs and bacon, because the nurse suggested that. But my keen pregnancy nose was so jealous of the kids eating donuts.
And I failed that one-hour glucose test. I had to do the three-hour one.
On the way there, Mark's car acted up. We made it, he dropped me off, and I started my test. The lab is two doors down from my doctor. Her business manager came in the lab to see if anyone owned a car blocking parking spaces. Nope.
Come to find out, it was Mark's car. He thought maybe he had run out of gas and grabbed his gas can, then walked to fill it. That ended up not being the problem. It was the alternator. But my doctor pulled up while he was waiting for the tow truck to come, and she didn't realize who he was. I guess she had been delivering a baby at the hospital. She was pissed because he was able to push the car into three spots, parked sideways. She was pissed because the car was blocking spots in her lot. She finally realized who he was and backed down.
In the meantime, he was going to ride in the tow truck. A friend of mine was texting me encouragement. She had her kids in school and her baby in day care. She drove over to keep me company since Mark couldn't. Then she gave me a ride and we got lunch because fasting and drinking that nasty solution? While pregnant? I was ravenous.
Thankfully, I passed that test. The day that she told me that, my blood pressure was very high. The nurse brought me to the exam room and when L came in, she said she wanted to leave me there to see if I could calm down. Then if it was still high, she'd tell me what she would do. Thankfully, she didn't tell me right then that had my blood pressure been high, I would have been in the ER. Thankfully, my blood pressure went down. I had to start monitoring my blood pressure several times a day from that point on. I had my dad's old cuff, so no problem there. It was just a freak incident. Never went high again.
At 34 weeks, I had to start going to her twice a week for Non Stress Tests. I got hooked up to a monitor which watches baby movement and heartbeat. It could be half an hour. It could be an hour. Just depended. It was at a loud volume. Always funny and so loud if he kicked near the sensors. But there was nothing more hilarious than when he got the hiccups one day. L came in and said she could hear it in the triage room at the front of the office. Whoops!
He got the hiccups so often. It drove me nuts when it went on and on.
Anyway, from weeks 9-33, I had two emergency visits, three MFM visits, the glucose test days, the Downs testing, and 25 regular doctor visits. From weeks 34-39, I had one MFM visit, 12 regular doctor/NST visits, my pre-op day, and an induction. Then I had a two-week and six-week post baby visits. And at three months, I had my regular annual exam. And then pediatric visits! More on that later.
I lived in doctor's offices. And hooked up to machines. And getting blood drawn.
I went through progesterone, prenatals without DHA, aspirin, a mega-B vitamin via prescription, and all of the things you abstain from while pregnant. I had limited activity and total pelvic rest. I couldn't lift anything heavier than a milk jug.
I also did three childbirth classes with Mark and the breastfeeding class with Mark, Jessica, and her husband.
When I suddenly didn't have to do this, I was at a loss. Like I'd suffered from Stockholm Syndrome.
I found that while I didn't really miss Dr. C., I missed L. And her nurse. And the receptionist. And the business manager, who I saw frequently if the receptionist or nurse wasn't around.
It was weird but also wonderful not having to drive way to to BFE any more. To not have appointments. To have this little baby in my arms.
But the best part of all of the visits? I got several free 4D ultrasounds from Dr. C. because it was important for diagnosis and monitoring of the fetus. I also have a ton of regular ultrasounds from L because she did so many in the beginning. Then it became an every month thing.
People were jealous of how often I could see him. People were jealous of the 4D ultrasounds that I didn't pay for. But what most fail to realize is how I earned those. It wasn't easy. It wasn't fun. And it certainly wasn't fun.
It was never my intention to be what some doctors call a "geriatric pregnancy," but which my amazing doctor so thoughtfully labeled it, AMA, or Advanced Maternal Age. I mean it's not much better, but geriatric? Lord.
Yeah, it took me a long time to come around to the idea of having a child. In elementary school, I loooved Cheaper By the Dozen and thought 12 kids sounded great but clearly, I came to my senses.
When we were engaged, Mark refuuuhuused to cut his hair before our wedding because "I want our kids to see how cool their dad used to be." 🙄
When we got married, the inevitable "So when are you going to have kids?!?" reared its ugly head probably at our wedding. And my answer was always 6-7 years.
But three years in, Katrina left us homeless and with nothing but our cats, my photo albums, and the clothes on our backs. We spent two years with my parents before buying our home. That brought us to 5 years.
Somewhere in all of that mess, my depression spiral was too great and I lost the ability to care about a lot of things. Having a child became one of those things. I didn't see how we could. We had to rebuild our lives. I pushed it out of my head and decided that whatever, I didn't want kids. And I truly believe that I truly didn't.
The year of our tenth anniversary, I was surprised to discover I was pregnant. 99% effective, my ass. But by that point, I'd started wondering already whether or not I did maybe want kids. It didn't take long to warm to the idea. I was pregnant. This was happening. I was excited. I was destroyed. Not once. Not twice. But five times. And with each loss, I wanted it more fiercely and felt the futility deepen.
My regular OB/GYN, Dr. L, I'll call her, because while I don't call her by her first name to her face, I would always refer to her to the friend who recommended her to me, to my mom, and to Mark by her first name. I saw her so often, we really should have been on a first-name basis.
In fact, in her office, all patients are "Ms. Lastname." Very rarely do they use your first name. Which is fine, unless you have a name that gets mispronounced a lot. And when there's someone you don't see often enough, you don't bother correcting them because whatever. You see her once a year and she doesn't usually say your first name anyway. But then you go lord knows how many times for constant testing and growth checks and ultrasounds and follow-up appointments through four pregnancies and losses (remember, five was so early and it handled itself quickly, so I didn't call her about it), then a successful pregnancy that is high risk for a bunch of reasons... and you wish you'd gotten her to not say Amy all this time.
Anyway, with each loss, she would offer comfort and encouragement. She ran tests and sent me to her friend, the Maternal-Fetal Medicine Specialist. Also a Dr. C last name. That's why I've decided to use L as my regular doctor here. She's from Down the Bayou and has a pronounced Cajun accent. She is divorced and didn't have kids. But she has a cat and had a boyfriend with kids during most of this time. She's utterly ridiculous and I love her. She's seen me cry and made me laugh over and over and over again, more than anyone who has never shared my home.
I used to go to the same doctor as my mom. He delivered my brother. His brother was my dentist. Annnnd they grew up with my dad. Awk-warrrrrd. I never wanted to go to him but wasn't given a choice. He was moving out of patients of child-bearing age, and I could tell he wasn't really interested in seeing me (even though, at the time, that was years away). I asked around and had a friend tell me about L. I went and was immediately in love with this crazy doctor. And I really don't think there's any medical professional I'd rather have in my corner.
When she did my D and C, she showed up in a rhinestone Saints hoodie and her scrubs. She talked all about her boyfriend's kids and the trips they would take. She came out and fussed at Mark in the parking lot (more on that later) and apologized profusely to me in person and on the phone and through a staff member haha. She also potty-trained her cat and told me about it. Basically, that made her a goddess in my eyes.
Anyway, my first visit ended up being at 9 weeks because the tornado postponed my original appointment at 8 weeks. Remember, she usually saw me the day I tested positive, but I didn't want the false hope again and waited to call her.
Because it was still early, I got that lovely transvaginal ultrasound for a while. It was really the only kind I'd ever had at that point. She wanted me every week through the first trimester, for sure. So I went once a week every week until week 34 (more later). There were two weeks in a row with the bleeding (see earlier post). Then I had four trips to the MFM doctor. Plus blood work every week through the first trimester. And the genetic blood work at a whole different lab. (The joys of getting pregnant at 35...) as we entered the second trimester, we also entered my summer break. She started to say that I didn't have to come in every week and could go every other week. I think she saw the fear in my eyes She offered that since I WAS high risk and since it WAS summer and since she knew I'd be home worrying all summer, she would go ahead and see me every week "to give me something to do." She was going to slack off once I felt him move more consistently.
Those early movements, by the way, are so weird. It's like someone lightly dragging their fingers down the insides of your abdomen. Then it progresses to fluttery gas bubbles. Then it's a kick that moves the outside of your stomach. It's insane. And I miss it. I loved watching my stomach lurch like something was about to poke through the skin at any moment.
And you get phantom ones at first when the baby arrives. I had to keep reminding myself that he was in my arms, not my uterus.
The MFM doctor, Dr. C, is super intense. The two of them are best friends. And each talks shit lovingly about the other. It's hilarious. My cousin had twins and also saw Dr. C. This woman is something else. She told my cousin, "Your boy is very cute. But your girl has daddy's nose." My mom said her hair stylist told her her friend saw Dr. C, who told her "Oh, you baby ugly!" My friend, who works in L and D, said she's seen her in action. She told a patient "Push! You have the biggest vagina I've seen! This should be easy for you!"
So, when she kicked the ultrasound to 4D, she looked at it and said "You have very cute baby!" ... well, I was on cloud nine. She didn't just say that to everyone.
She's very thorough. She's very intimidating. But I'm glad I had her. I felt like the two of them would get me through this, and they did.
When I went for my glucose test, it was the day our seniors and their 8th grade little brothers and sisters had a get-to-know-you breakfast. I was in charge of getting the food, as senior adviser. I picked up donuts I couldn't eat. I got myself a breakfast plate of eggs and bacon, because the nurse suggested that. But my keen pregnancy nose was so jealous of the kids eating donuts.
And I failed that one-hour glucose test. I had to do the three-hour one.
On the way there, Mark's car acted up. We made it, he dropped me off, and I started my test. The lab is two doors down from my doctor. Her business manager came in the lab to see if anyone owned a car blocking parking spaces. Nope.
Come to find out, it was Mark's car. He thought maybe he had run out of gas and grabbed his gas can, then walked to fill it. That ended up not being the problem. It was the alternator. But my doctor pulled up while he was waiting for the tow truck to come, and she didn't realize who he was. I guess she had been delivering a baby at the hospital. She was pissed because he was able to push the car into three spots, parked sideways. She was pissed because the car was blocking spots in her lot. She finally realized who he was and backed down.
In the meantime, he was going to ride in the tow truck. A friend of mine was texting me encouragement. She had her kids in school and her baby in day care. She drove over to keep me company since Mark couldn't. Then she gave me a ride and we got lunch because fasting and drinking that nasty solution? While pregnant? I was ravenous.
Thankfully, I passed that test. The day that she told me that, my blood pressure was very high. The nurse brought me to the exam room and when L came in, she said she wanted to leave me there to see if I could calm down. Then if it was still high, she'd tell me what she would do. Thankfully, she didn't tell me right then that had my blood pressure been high, I would have been in the ER. Thankfully, my blood pressure went down. I had to start monitoring my blood pressure several times a day from that point on. I had my dad's old cuff, so no problem there. It was just a freak incident. Never went high again.
At 34 weeks, I had to start going to her twice a week for Non Stress Tests. I got hooked up to a monitor which watches baby movement and heartbeat. It could be half an hour. It could be an hour. Just depended. It was at a loud volume. Always funny and so loud if he kicked near the sensors. But there was nothing more hilarious than when he got the hiccups one day. L came in and said she could hear it in the triage room at the front of the office. Whoops!
He got the hiccups so often. It drove me nuts when it went on and on.
Anyway, from weeks 9-33, I had two emergency visits, three MFM visits, the glucose test days, the Downs testing, and 25 regular doctor visits. From weeks 34-39, I had one MFM visit, 12 regular doctor/NST visits, my pre-op day, and an induction. Then I had a two-week and six-week post baby visits. And at three months, I had my regular annual exam. And then pediatric visits! More on that later.
I lived in doctor's offices. And hooked up to machines. And getting blood drawn.
I went through progesterone, prenatals without DHA, aspirin, a mega-B vitamin via prescription, and all of the things you abstain from while pregnant. I had limited activity and total pelvic rest. I couldn't lift anything heavier than a milk jug.
I also did three childbirth classes with Mark and the breastfeeding class with Mark, Jessica, and her husband.
When I suddenly didn't have to do this, I was at a loss. Like I'd suffered from Stockholm Syndrome.
I found that while I didn't really miss Dr. C., I missed L. And her nurse. And the receptionist. And the business manager, who I saw frequently if the receptionist or nurse wasn't around.
It was weird but also wonderful not having to drive way to to BFE any more. To not have appointments. To have this little baby in my arms.
But the best part of all of the visits? I got several free 4D ultrasounds from Dr. C. because it was important for diagnosis and monitoring of the fetus. I also have a ton of regular ultrasounds from L because she did so many in the beginning. Then it became an every month thing.
People were jealous of how often I could see him. People were jealous of the 4D ultrasounds that I didn't pay for. But what most fail to realize is how I earned those. It wasn't easy. It wasn't fun. And it certainly wasn't fun.
Thursday, December 21, 2017
Everyone is pregnant
I worked in a very small school for kids with special needs. ADHD, Asperger's, dyslexia, etc. kids with learning differences who needed alternative ways of learning. Not special ed, but special needs.
As a small school, there was a small staff. Early in the 2014-15 school year, a friend who shared my classroom with me for a class period while I was off came running in. "Why isn't he answering? He always answers! Just because I need him to answer, he won't!" She meant her husband. I asked what was wrong and could I help. She said "Nothing is wrong. Everything is right!" And I knew. She had a scare right before school started and ended up disappointed when she got her period. They had two kids already. She didn't even have to tell me.
A side effect to being pregnant and secretive so many times is that you get really good at knowing when other people are hiding it. You're not as good at it as you think you are, for sure. The wording of posts. The sudden drop in coffee consumption. Things you start to complain about. You stop wearing make-up. You suddenly "like" pages like Similac and Toys R Us and your local Moms Blog. You like old posts of pictures of you with friends' kids as babies. I see you. I know. And I hid you from my timeline. I was only wrong once. The big secret wasn't a pregnancy, but a move to France. I only found out when I went through and put those pregnant people back into my newsfeed. But all of the other people had babies or were about to have them. Because yes. Even though I had a successful pregnancy, I hid people while pregnant. Just in case. Once he was here, I brought them all back.
Anyway, when someone miscarried, no matter how many times, please don't be like this friend. She talked about it and complained about it constantly. She never picked up on my body language. I left my desk abruptly the day she told the class that used my room. She never noticed. And it was like a knife in my heart every time.
One day soon after she told me, she came in my room. "I'm not the only one around here! L is also pregnant!" So her next sin was telling someone else's news. But guess what? Had she not told me, I never would have known. This coworker and work friend never once told me she was pregnant. She also knew I'd lost. In fact, she was the one who made me go home that day when I returned after my d and c. So she knew very well. Don't do this, either. Leaving me in the dark hurt almost as much as oversharing.
A couple months later, my best work friend Melissa came to my room. She could barely meet my eyes. She very gently told me that she, too, was pregnant. She wanted to let me know so I could be prepared when she posted it online. She also struggled with infertility before having her first daughter. Not loss, but typical PCOS struggles. She was gentle and kind and almost apologetic. She was sensitive to my situation and needs. This. This is what you should do to share your happy news with someone struggling with infertility.
So that made three coworkers pregnant. Our staff was about 50 people. There were six married women of childbearing age at school. Hold onto your butts, because all six of us had babies that year.
Those three were due in June, July, and August.
About a month later, Melissa told me to carefully open FB because my other closest work friend, Michelle, who struggled with infertility and had her two sons through IUI, who was also the friend who was pregnant with her second four days ahead of my second loss (the d and c), posted an announcement for her third baby, due in late September.
Three friends outside of school posted pregnancy announcements. One due in June. Two due in October.
Then Jessica asked me to be her bridesmaid and told me she was due in early November.
Not long after that, an unmarried friend whose girlfriend lost a baby earlier announced that they were expecting again. This one due two days after Jessica.
I was due December 8. If the baby didn't make it, I wasn't sure I would be able to handle this.
That summer, another work friend, recently married, leaving to teach at a different school, posted an ultrasound. She was due at the end of December.
When I went to work in August, a new teacher was due the week after me.
The good news was that I had people to commiserate with in my personal life and my professional life. The bad news was that if this baby didn't make it, I would probably become a hermit.
So two babies were born in June. Two in July, because I found out another friend I don't see in person anymore was also due then. One in August. A former coworker posted photos of her adopted newborn in August. One in September. October went nuts. I had three people with due dates not close to each other have babies three days in a row. One was four weeks early (the friend who ended up marrying his girlfriend during this pregnancy). One was a scheduled C-section. One was one week overdue. And then Jessica was induced a week early, bringing her son into the world in late October. A friend we don't see anymore got a girl pregnant, and they were due two days after me. She delivered early, so there was a November baby.
When the people due after me had the baby four weeks early, things got too real haha. I was next.
The new girl at work was scheduled to induce December 1. Then my doctor scheduled an induction that same day. The other teacher went in the morning, and I got an overnight slot. More on that later, but our babies ended up born a day apart as a result.
The former coworker had her baby on Christmas Eve.
One of the other bridesmaids had a son in February. A small break, and babies were born in April, May and June. It was crazy. I don't know what was in the water in 2014-2015, but we all drank it.
As a small school, there was a small staff. Early in the 2014-15 school year, a friend who shared my classroom with me for a class period while I was off came running in. "Why isn't he answering? He always answers! Just because I need him to answer, he won't!" She meant her husband. I asked what was wrong and could I help. She said "Nothing is wrong. Everything is right!" And I knew. She had a scare right before school started and ended up disappointed when she got her period. They had two kids already. She didn't even have to tell me.
A side effect to being pregnant and secretive so many times is that you get really good at knowing when other people are hiding it. You're not as good at it as you think you are, for sure. The wording of posts. The sudden drop in coffee consumption. Things you start to complain about. You stop wearing make-up. You suddenly "like" pages like Similac and Toys R Us and your local Moms Blog. You like old posts of pictures of you with friends' kids as babies. I see you. I know. And I hid you from my timeline. I was only wrong once. The big secret wasn't a pregnancy, but a move to France. I only found out when I went through and put those pregnant people back into my newsfeed. But all of the other people had babies or were about to have them. Because yes. Even though I had a successful pregnancy, I hid people while pregnant. Just in case. Once he was here, I brought them all back.
Anyway, when someone miscarried, no matter how many times, please don't be like this friend. She talked about it and complained about it constantly. She never picked up on my body language. I left my desk abruptly the day she told the class that used my room. She never noticed. And it was like a knife in my heart every time.
One day soon after she told me, she came in my room. "I'm not the only one around here! L is also pregnant!" So her next sin was telling someone else's news. But guess what? Had she not told me, I never would have known. This coworker and work friend never once told me she was pregnant. She also knew I'd lost. In fact, she was the one who made me go home that day when I returned after my d and c. So she knew very well. Don't do this, either. Leaving me in the dark hurt almost as much as oversharing.
A couple months later, my best work friend Melissa came to my room. She could barely meet my eyes. She very gently told me that she, too, was pregnant. She wanted to let me know so I could be prepared when she posted it online. She also struggled with infertility before having her first daughter. Not loss, but typical PCOS struggles. She was gentle and kind and almost apologetic. She was sensitive to my situation and needs. This. This is what you should do to share your happy news with someone struggling with infertility.
So that made three coworkers pregnant. Our staff was about 50 people. There were six married women of childbearing age at school. Hold onto your butts, because all six of us had babies that year.
Those three were due in June, July, and August.
About a month later, Melissa told me to carefully open FB because my other closest work friend, Michelle, who struggled with infertility and had her two sons through IUI, who was also the friend who was pregnant with her second four days ahead of my second loss (the d and c), posted an announcement for her third baby, due in late September.
Three friends outside of school posted pregnancy announcements. One due in June. Two due in October.
Then Jessica asked me to be her bridesmaid and told me she was due in early November.
Not long after that, an unmarried friend whose girlfriend lost a baby earlier announced that they were expecting again. This one due two days after Jessica.
I was due December 8. If the baby didn't make it, I wasn't sure I would be able to handle this.
That summer, another work friend, recently married, leaving to teach at a different school, posted an ultrasound. She was due at the end of December.
When I went to work in August, a new teacher was due the week after me.
The good news was that I had people to commiserate with in my personal life and my professional life. The bad news was that if this baby didn't make it, I would probably become a hermit.
So two babies were born in June. Two in July, because I found out another friend I don't see in person anymore was also due then. One in August. A former coworker posted photos of her adopted newborn in August. One in September. October went nuts. I had three people with due dates not close to each other have babies three days in a row. One was four weeks early (the friend who ended up marrying his girlfriend during this pregnancy). One was a scheduled C-section. One was one week overdue. And then Jessica was induced a week early, bringing her son into the world in late October. A friend we don't see anymore got a girl pregnant, and they were due two days after me. She delivered early, so there was a November baby.
When the people due after me had the baby four weeks early, things got too real haha. I was next.
The new girl at work was scheduled to induce December 1. Then my doctor scheduled an induction that same day. The other teacher went in the morning, and I got an overnight slot. More on that later, but our babies ended up born a day apart as a result.
The former coworker had her baby on Christmas Eve.
One of the other bridesmaids had a son in February. A small break, and babies were born in April, May and June. It was crazy. I don't know what was in the water in 2014-2015, but we all drank it.
Wednesday, December 20, 2017
Second trimester for the first time ever
Crossing into the second trimester was huge for me. I'd never been there. I'd been close a few times, but no cigar. Could still fit in my own clothes if the shirts were baggy and I skipped a belt. Melissa gave me her Bella Band, and I wore my clothes a bit longer.
Nausea kept me from eating, so I lost seven pounds off the bat. I was slowly starting to gain a little again.
I was afraid to buy maternity clothes. It was summer, so I was home. Didn't need to put on real clothes if I didn't want to. I didn't want to spend money and lose the baby. I'd be stuck with wasted money and clothes I couldn't use. My cousin and another friend also gave me some things. I bought some baggy shirts because I figured if it worked out, I could wear them until I lost the weight (Spoiler: it's still hanging around) or I could just wear them to be comfortable.
My dear friend Jessica got engaged and asked me to be a bridesmaid when I was what would be considered one week pregnant and she was six. Her wedding would be July 4. I met her to go dress shopping at probably three weeks pregnant without knowing it. She was eight. I ordered a normal dress. Her wedding would happen when she was 22 weeks and I would be 17, if I made it that far. If I made it, it would be so much fun. If I didn't, I didn't know how I'd get through her wedding.
The dress thankfully was a style that would work with me if I'd popped out a bit. It was long and almost empire waisted with room for ample boobs, since all four bridesmaids were busty.
I accepted the fact that she was pregnant and was happy for her. I love her dearly, but it didn't mean I wasn't hurting about it. When I found out I was pregnant, it was both exciting and terrifying with regards to this wedding. I didn't tell her I was pregnant until the week of the wedding.
When I went for a fitting at 12 week, I had to ask the seamstress to give me a slight bit of room. I was so afraid that if I lost the baby, I would not fit. But if I didn't say something, and I kept the baby, I also wouldn't fit.
The wedding was wonderful, especially as a pregnant bridesmaid to a pregnant bride. Always mocktails available, no unpasteurized cheeses, no deli meat sandwiches, half-caf coffee... and lots of salty munchy items. No crazy bachelorette night. Just a nice bridal luncheon and a shower with a tea theme.
I finally told her that I was pregnant while shopping for a dress for the luncheon and the rehearsal dinner. I'd procrastinated to make sure I could fit in whatever. I waited until my doctor's appointment for the week (more on that in a minute) to see that everything was still good. Then I shopped and told her.
She was adopted, and when I got there, her mom gave me the warmest wishes and the most understanding kindness. It was the first time, other than "my pen pal," who had losses before her daughter, that anyone was so accepting and nonjudgmental about my need to stay private. I do not know what her history was, and it was not my place to ask. My PP - I know you're reading this, and I hope you know how much I appreciate you.
At her rehearsal dinner, we took a back-to-back bump picture. It's the only one I ever took. I have pictures where I happen to be in there, but it was the only posed belly picture I ever took.
I regret that now. But I didn't want visual reminders if things went wrong.
Once I saw my doctor at nine weeks, she wanted me weekly, at least into the second trimester. The maternal-fetal medicine specialist wanted me if I made it to 15 weeks.
She and my OB/GYN are friends. She terrifies me. My doctor said she would because she is so thorough. But thorough is what I wanted and needed. They ran genetic tests that came back fine. They wanted to monitor me again for the growth scan around 20 weeks and again around 30. Once more after that, too.
The MFM would not do delivery. I would be able to have my own doctor. She's crazy and wonderful, ridiculous and has a Cajun accent. She talks a lot and never discouraged me. Not even once.
She also knew how I felt. Since I was off for summer break during the bulk of the second trimester, she kept me around and had me pop in once a week. I have so many ultrasound pictures as a result, but once we hit the halfway point and once I was regularly feeling him move, she let me come in once a week for peace of mind. When they told me to stop the progesterone, and that terrified me, she was reassuring without being condescending.
My summer was spent on the couch, for the most part. I also worked orientation week for our incoming eighth graders. I did not say a word to the two coworkers who also worked this week. The rest of the time was obsessively making sure I wasn't bleeding, reading books, and going to the two doctors. I eventually let my mom take me shopping. But I didn't remove tags until I wore the clothes. Everything stayed in the bag until I needed to wear it. Most of it stayed there until school started.
One day, my inlaws came to town because my brother-in-law and his wife were coming in for a concert. We had brunch downtown. While we were waiting for our table, they walked up. Hugs. Kisses. And then it happened.
My FIL reached out and patted my stomach.
I froze.
No one has the right to touch anyone for any reason. I should have slapped his hand. I should have rubbed his 400-pound gut and asked him the same question: "and how are WE doing?" But I froze. My husband did the best thing he's ever done.
"Don't do that. She hates that."
I've never loved him more.
It got uncomfortable for everyone. My SIL's eyes were wide with horror when he touched me.
I loathe his parents.
Don't touch women. Of any kind. Of any relationship to you. For any reason. Don't. Touch. Women.
I also went to a Bernie Sanders rally. It was awesome. He should have won the nomination. Baby's first political rally!
As summer wrapped up, I was nervous about going to work. Once there, everyone would know. For better or for worse, everyone would know. It was obvious.
At book day, a few parents were very excited. I don't know that all of the kids knew. None of them asked me about it, but mothers did. From that point on, everyone would know if something went wrong.
During teacher prep week, I didn't say anything, except for a few people. I needed to prepare those who would have to take over my millions of responsibilities if I went on any leave: either for grief or for maternity leave. My principal didn't understand why I didn't want to announce it and even passively-aggressively attempted to get me to say it.
On the first day of school, I wore a maternity dress with a cardigan. Cardigan to hide it. But dress didn't lie. I didn't say anything. I waited to see if the kids would.
My juniors were one of my all-time favorite classes. I taught them Louisiana history in 8th, English I as freshmen, English II as sophomores, and now speech as juniors. I also had most of them in at least one extracurricular activity. They are an amazing batch of kids I love dearly.
One of them, A, once asked another teacher if she was pregnant. She was not. She also wasn't married. Yet. So if that became a rumor, it would have cost her her job (because Catholic school). So she tore him a new one.
He was in the second junior class group, and when the first class came in and asked me about it, they were very excited and then mischievous. They thought it would be hilarious if they pranked him. They would tell the other group that I was pregnant, but no one would be allowed to tell A. They tipped off anyone in any grade who would possibly mention it to him. No one was allowed to say that I was pregnant to him. Then they decided to talk about how they thought maybe I was and how someone should ask. He refused to do it. The other teacher had him terrified. This went on for a few weeks. He not only wouldn't ask me, he wouldn't make eye contact with me. And as each week passed, I grew bigger and more obviously pregnant. They finally caved and told him. He was so relieved. It was hilarious. But boy, did they make him sweat.
I am the perfect type to be a teacher based on my ability to "hold it" all day. Suddenly, I was constantly in the restroom. It was a terrifying new development. There was a teacher, new that year, due the week after me. We had a revolving door to the faculty restroom. Everyone was so annoyed with us haha.
The previous school year and current one proved incredibly fertile for my coworkers and friends. But that's for another day. This post is long enough.
Nausea kept me from eating, so I lost seven pounds off the bat. I was slowly starting to gain a little again.
I was afraid to buy maternity clothes. It was summer, so I was home. Didn't need to put on real clothes if I didn't want to. I didn't want to spend money and lose the baby. I'd be stuck with wasted money and clothes I couldn't use. My cousin and another friend also gave me some things. I bought some baggy shirts because I figured if it worked out, I could wear them until I lost the weight (Spoiler: it's still hanging around) or I could just wear them to be comfortable.
My dear friend Jessica got engaged and asked me to be a bridesmaid when I was what would be considered one week pregnant and she was six. Her wedding would be July 4. I met her to go dress shopping at probably three weeks pregnant without knowing it. She was eight. I ordered a normal dress. Her wedding would happen when she was 22 weeks and I would be 17, if I made it that far. If I made it, it would be so much fun. If I didn't, I didn't know how I'd get through her wedding.
The dress thankfully was a style that would work with me if I'd popped out a bit. It was long and almost empire waisted with room for ample boobs, since all four bridesmaids were busty.
I accepted the fact that she was pregnant and was happy for her. I love her dearly, but it didn't mean I wasn't hurting about it. When I found out I was pregnant, it was both exciting and terrifying with regards to this wedding. I didn't tell her I was pregnant until the week of the wedding.
When I went for a fitting at 12 week, I had to ask the seamstress to give me a slight bit of room. I was so afraid that if I lost the baby, I would not fit. But if I didn't say something, and I kept the baby, I also wouldn't fit.
The wedding was wonderful, especially as a pregnant bridesmaid to a pregnant bride. Always mocktails available, no unpasteurized cheeses, no deli meat sandwiches, half-caf coffee... and lots of salty munchy items. No crazy bachelorette night. Just a nice bridal luncheon and a shower with a tea theme.
I finally told her that I was pregnant while shopping for a dress for the luncheon and the rehearsal dinner. I'd procrastinated to make sure I could fit in whatever. I waited until my doctor's appointment for the week (more on that in a minute) to see that everything was still good. Then I shopped and told her.
She was adopted, and when I got there, her mom gave me the warmest wishes and the most understanding kindness. It was the first time, other than "my pen pal," who had losses before her daughter, that anyone was so accepting and nonjudgmental about my need to stay private. I do not know what her history was, and it was not my place to ask. My PP - I know you're reading this, and I hope you know how much I appreciate you.
At her rehearsal dinner, we took a back-to-back bump picture. It's the only one I ever took. I have pictures where I happen to be in there, but it was the only posed belly picture I ever took.
I regret that now. But I didn't want visual reminders if things went wrong.
Once I saw my doctor at nine weeks, she wanted me weekly, at least into the second trimester. The maternal-fetal medicine specialist wanted me if I made it to 15 weeks.
She and my OB/GYN are friends. She terrifies me. My doctor said she would because she is so thorough. But thorough is what I wanted and needed. They ran genetic tests that came back fine. They wanted to monitor me again for the growth scan around 20 weeks and again around 30. Once more after that, too.
The MFM would not do delivery. I would be able to have my own doctor. She's crazy and wonderful, ridiculous and has a Cajun accent. She talks a lot and never discouraged me. Not even once.
She also knew how I felt. Since I was off for summer break during the bulk of the second trimester, she kept me around and had me pop in once a week. I have so many ultrasound pictures as a result, but once we hit the halfway point and once I was regularly feeling him move, she let me come in once a week for peace of mind. When they told me to stop the progesterone, and that terrified me, she was reassuring without being condescending.
My summer was spent on the couch, for the most part. I also worked orientation week for our incoming eighth graders. I did not say a word to the two coworkers who also worked this week. The rest of the time was obsessively making sure I wasn't bleeding, reading books, and going to the two doctors. I eventually let my mom take me shopping. But I didn't remove tags until I wore the clothes. Everything stayed in the bag until I needed to wear it. Most of it stayed there until school started.
One day, my inlaws came to town because my brother-in-law and his wife were coming in for a concert. We had brunch downtown. While we were waiting for our table, they walked up. Hugs. Kisses. And then it happened.
My FIL reached out and patted my stomach.
I froze.
No one has the right to touch anyone for any reason. I should have slapped his hand. I should have rubbed his 400-pound gut and asked him the same question: "and how are WE doing?" But I froze. My husband did the best thing he's ever done.
"Don't do that. She hates that."
I've never loved him more.
It got uncomfortable for everyone. My SIL's eyes were wide with horror when he touched me.
I loathe his parents.
Don't touch women. Of any kind. Of any relationship to you. For any reason. Don't. Touch. Women.
I also went to a Bernie Sanders rally. It was awesome. He should have won the nomination. Baby's first political rally!
As summer wrapped up, I was nervous about going to work. Once there, everyone would know. For better or for worse, everyone would know. It was obvious.
At book day, a few parents were very excited. I don't know that all of the kids knew. None of them asked me about it, but mothers did. From that point on, everyone would know if something went wrong.
During teacher prep week, I didn't say anything, except for a few people. I needed to prepare those who would have to take over my millions of responsibilities if I went on any leave: either for grief or for maternity leave. My principal didn't understand why I didn't want to announce it and even passively-aggressively attempted to get me to say it.
On the first day of school, I wore a maternity dress with a cardigan. Cardigan to hide it. But dress didn't lie. I didn't say anything. I waited to see if the kids would.
My juniors were one of my all-time favorite classes. I taught them Louisiana history in 8th, English I as freshmen, English II as sophomores, and now speech as juniors. I also had most of them in at least one extracurricular activity. They are an amazing batch of kids I love dearly.
One of them, A, once asked another teacher if she was pregnant. She was not. She also wasn't married. Yet. So if that became a rumor, it would have cost her her job (because Catholic school). So she tore him a new one.
He was in the second junior class group, and when the first class came in and asked me about it, they were very excited and then mischievous. They thought it would be hilarious if they pranked him. They would tell the other group that I was pregnant, but no one would be allowed to tell A. They tipped off anyone in any grade who would possibly mention it to him. No one was allowed to say that I was pregnant to him. Then they decided to talk about how they thought maybe I was and how someone should ask. He refused to do it. The other teacher had him terrified. This went on for a few weeks. He not only wouldn't ask me, he wouldn't make eye contact with me. And as each week passed, I grew bigger and more obviously pregnant. They finally caved and told him. He was so relieved. It was hilarious. But boy, did they make him sweat.
I am the perfect type to be a teacher based on my ability to "hold it" all day. Suddenly, I was constantly in the restroom. It was a terrifying new development. There was a teacher, new that year, due the week after me. We had a revolving door to the faculty restroom. Everyone was so annoyed with us haha.
The previous school year and current one proved incredibly fertile for my coworkers and friends. But that's for another day. This post is long enough.
Tuesday, December 19, 2017
Sixth time's the charm?
I definitely can't move to the present on here unless I hit recent past. So yes. Let's hit the tumultuous first trimester.
I wish I'd written everything down at the time. But my repeat losses stole so much from me. I definitely lost the ability to enjoy my pregnancy. In retrospect, I'm one of those odd birds who actually LOVED pregnancy. But at the time, it was terrifying.
As usual, I was experiencing the "PMS or pregnancy phase." Happened every few months. It was almost always PMS. It was occasionally pregnancy. Early April 2015's phase seemed to lag a bit longer and feel more intense. When you've been pregnant six times in less than three years, you get very in-tune with your body and what it says to you. Sunday, April 5, was Easter. I went to a family crawfish boil. My dad grabbed Abita Strawberry Lager for me. It's my go-to crawfish boil beer. Every time I was pregnant, I faked drinking. Or just didn't. I faked it one NYE with black disposable champagne flutes full of Coke. People could see bubbles though the cup and I made sure not to let anyone see the top. Things like that.
Whenever I abstained, there was a lot of lying and subterfuge. I knew from a friend who did IUI twice that the doctors said until you can get a positive test, drinking in moderation won't hurt. So I decided to Hell with it. I'd drink a single beer slowly all day. No sense in skipping my favorite seasonal beer because I'd more than likely lose this one, too. I hadn't tested yet, but planned to do so the next day. It had me officially very late if I woke up period-free. One beer wouldn't hurt. Either I'd be not pregnant in the morning or early enough.
I know this seems terrible. But my cynicism reached new heights during these three years. I know it probably makes me seem irresponsible. Or like I have a problem. But when you do everything right and still keep losing babies, you basically quit hoping for the best. So don't judge. I know many readers aren't drinkers. And I respect that. But when turning down a caffeinated beverage will get "What, are you pregnant?!" from people, refusing a single beer at a crawfish boil would be the same. And that's the last question you want to be asked when you're trying and failing or trying and succeeding or making the choice to never be or... any situation, really. Because it's no one else's business but yours.
Anyway, I nursed that last beer all day. And bought a fresh pack of tests. And said nothing to anyone.
The next day, April 6, was our 13th wedding anniversary. Mark works in evenings. I was off of school. We had plans to have lunch because we couldn't do dinner.
I woke up first, as usual. Wanted that good FMU. Positive. Woke Mark up. Let him be up a bit. Grabbed the test. Showed him. We gave each other faint smiles, hugged, and went to get lunch at a Mediterranean place. Did I want feta on things? Yes. Should I get it? Probably not. I was pregnant. But, like the beer, it would be a short-lived pregnancy again. Why deprive myself of something enjoyable? I got the feta.
There was no celebration. No tears. Just a neutral reaction. We'd been here too many times before.
Losses rob you of so much, least of all your joy and innocence. They take away the ability to relax. The ability to enjoy the ride. At my point in life, I lost a fun announcement. I lost the bravery to take belly pics. I lost the ability to just pee without fear for nine months. There are other things that will pop up later, too.
We made a game plan. I had progesterone pills to take to help sustain a pregnancy. I also had pain pills left from a previous loss. Both were well before expiration dates. I was set. I would only call my doctor at eight weeks or at the sign of bleeding. I had meds to help no matter which way things went. No need to involve her early on.
Four weeks later, I was still not bleeding. I made the appointment. My doctor always squeezes me in as soon as she can the day I get a positive test, which is around four weeks. She's the best. I will say that a million more times. I made an appointment during my planning period that afternoon. She could see me the next day. I asked for afternoon so that I could just say I had what seemed to be a normal doctor appointment and no one at work would suspect anything.
The next day found tornadoes around the metro area. I drove all the way out to the doctor, and the parking lot was empty. The trees on the street were obliterated a block down. Electrical poles were down. A tornado hit half a block away and they had no electricity and didn't know when it would return. They lost the phone lines, too, which is why I didn't get a call. A few days later I was able to rebook the appointment.
At nine weeks, I saw a bouncing blob with a strong heartbeat. I didn't believe it. I also wasn't out of the woods. I wouldn't tell anyone yet. My doctor was cautiously optimistic. We had never made it to a moving blob with a heartbeat before. I got a copy of the picture. It was only the second time I'd been able to do that.
They didn't get why I had gone so long without calling. But I did. I just couldn't take the false hope. Again. She told me to keep taking my aspirin and progesterone pills. Go back in one week.
Stepping back for a moment, April 29 was a date I dreaded. It coincided with a previous loss time period. I was also stuck on a whole school field trip in Mobile, Ala., that day. If it happened again, I knew that would be the day. I made it through, and went to the doctor for that positive appointment.
My mom's birthday and Mother's Day were close together. We decided that we would tell my family in person after dinner. My dad suffered from ulcerative colitis and was about to embark on his worst bout with it. It was eventually so bad that we thought we would lose him. In October, he ended up with an ostomy bag.
We got there and my parents had ordered a bottle of wine. I declined. No reason given. I didn't want to say it in the restaurant. We made it through dinner and my dad was getting to the point where he needed to get home quickly. So we told them in the parking lot. Dad was hitting a critical point and hurried them away so he could be home. I understood.
They called later for more information. Up until that point, I told my boss because I needed to keep leaving every week to see my doctor. I told my friend Melissa, who struggled with infertility and was five months with her second daughter. And now my parents and brother knew. But that was it.
His parents learned when we went in to see his youngest cousin graduate from college. We also told his brother and his sister-in-law.
We planned to tell the rest of my in-laws if and only if everything was still fine in June when we went to his grandfather's birthday dinner. I was fine. We bought an ultrasound frame and put a copy of the most recent one in there. He opened it at dinner, but only after a quick trip to restroom confirmed that I was not bleeding.
I let my mom call family in June. Everyone we told was under strict orders to keep things off of social media.
Jumping back to May, as senior adviser, I was in charge of graduation. The faculty gowns were brought to my room. Two heavy boxes. I knew I couldn't lift them, so I shoved one box off and caught it a little to ease it down. I figured I was safe.
The next day at work, I went to the restroom and found blood. I panicked. Why was it happening again? I found a quiet spot in the empty cafeteria and called my doctor. I waited for the return call by pacing school slowly and blindly, stopping at every faculty restroom to see how bad the bleeding was. It was slight. The nurse called back and said the doctor wanted me immediately. I arrived at her room full of big pregnant patients and fought back tears. Blood pressure elevated, but they knew why. Internal ultrasound showed a bouncing baby and a strong heart rate. Bleeding mostly gone. Only a slight dot on her wand. Gave me instructions to rest up, but cleared me to do graduation that night. Just don't overdo it. I'd had a voicemail from my principal, a nun, who was wishing me luck and praying for me. I kept that voicemail. I told my doctor about it and she said "If you've got nuns praying for you, everything will be fine." My principal loved that even if I found it silly.
I had her bring my graduation robes from my classroom and met her at church to run the show carefully. The secretary was concerned because I was pale and ran out in such a bad state. I decided I could trust her and told her what was going on. She kept it secret.
Apparently, several people, including my assistant principal, were very concerned. I was evidently very pale and looked worried or concerned or sad, depending on who you asked.
That weekend, we rented a camp with friends in Bay St. Louis, Miss. We had a blast. I faked drinking beers by bringing Abita Root Beer and a tall koozie to conceal the label. No one noticed. By this point, only our best friends knew. The circle widened probably once a week. They helped hide the fact that I couldn't lift or carry things and made sure we had one of the private rooms so that I could nap when I needed to because damn, first trimester sucks.
My nausea was subsiding at that point. I can no longer eat ginger things because I lived on ginger candy. That and Coke Icees were the only things that helped. The nausea was intense but never productive, haha. So hashtagblessed.
I didn't want to seem useless in the camping trip as we cleaned the camp. So I offered to sweep the house. That night, I was bleeding again. I went to work hoping that it was just the overexertion. I went back to the doctor. She said I had placenta previa, so I needed to seriously limit activity. Absolutely no lifting or carrying. Rest when possible, keep an eye on it. Hopefully, it would migrate up. Spoiler alert: it did, eventually. But I was on pelvic rest and limited activity until after giving birth.
I had always said that if I could just be successfully pregnant, I wouldn't complain. I would comment about nausea. I would comment about the round ligament pain. Both needed to be brought to people's attention simply because both affected my ability to move and do things. But it wasn't a complaint, though.
I continued weekly visits and ultrasounds and rejoiced when I graduated to the trans abdominal ultrasound wand. I'd never made it that far.
But my guard would never drop, even after he was in my arms, safe and sound. My history stole that from me.
I wish I'd written everything down at the time. But my repeat losses stole so much from me. I definitely lost the ability to enjoy my pregnancy. In retrospect, I'm one of those odd birds who actually LOVED pregnancy. But at the time, it was terrifying.
As usual, I was experiencing the "PMS or pregnancy phase." Happened every few months. It was almost always PMS. It was occasionally pregnancy. Early April 2015's phase seemed to lag a bit longer and feel more intense. When you've been pregnant six times in less than three years, you get very in-tune with your body and what it says to you. Sunday, April 5, was Easter. I went to a family crawfish boil. My dad grabbed Abita Strawberry Lager for me. It's my go-to crawfish boil beer. Every time I was pregnant, I faked drinking. Or just didn't. I faked it one NYE with black disposable champagne flutes full of Coke. People could see bubbles though the cup and I made sure not to let anyone see the top. Things like that.
Whenever I abstained, there was a lot of lying and subterfuge. I knew from a friend who did IUI twice that the doctors said until you can get a positive test, drinking in moderation won't hurt. So I decided to Hell with it. I'd drink a single beer slowly all day. No sense in skipping my favorite seasonal beer because I'd more than likely lose this one, too. I hadn't tested yet, but planned to do so the next day. It had me officially very late if I woke up period-free. One beer wouldn't hurt. Either I'd be not pregnant in the morning or early enough.
I know this seems terrible. But my cynicism reached new heights during these three years. I know it probably makes me seem irresponsible. Or like I have a problem. But when you do everything right and still keep losing babies, you basically quit hoping for the best. So don't judge. I know many readers aren't drinkers. And I respect that. But when turning down a caffeinated beverage will get "What, are you pregnant?!" from people, refusing a single beer at a crawfish boil would be the same. And that's the last question you want to be asked when you're trying and failing or trying and succeeding or making the choice to never be or... any situation, really. Because it's no one else's business but yours.
Anyway, I nursed that last beer all day. And bought a fresh pack of tests. And said nothing to anyone.
The next day, April 6, was our 13th wedding anniversary. Mark works in evenings. I was off of school. We had plans to have lunch because we couldn't do dinner.
I woke up first, as usual. Wanted that good FMU. Positive. Woke Mark up. Let him be up a bit. Grabbed the test. Showed him. We gave each other faint smiles, hugged, and went to get lunch at a Mediterranean place. Did I want feta on things? Yes. Should I get it? Probably not. I was pregnant. But, like the beer, it would be a short-lived pregnancy again. Why deprive myself of something enjoyable? I got the feta.
There was no celebration. No tears. Just a neutral reaction. We'd been here too many times before.
Losses rob you of so much, least of all your joy and innocence. They take away the ability to relax. The ability to enjoy the ride. At my point in life, I lost a fun announcement. I lost the bravery to take belly pics. I lost the ability to just pee without fear for nine months. There are other things that will pop up later, too.
We made a game plan. I had progesterone pills to take to help sustain a pregnancy. I also had pain pills left from a previous loss. Both were well before expiration dates. I was set. I would only call my doctor at eight weeks or at the sign of bleeding. I had meds to help no matter which way things went. No need to involve her early on.
Four weeks later, I was still not bleeding. I made the appointment. My doctor always squeezes me in as soon as she can the day I get a positive test, which is around four weeks. She's the best. I will say that a million more times. I made an appointment during my planning period that afternoon. She could see me the next day. I asked for afternoon so that I could just say I had what seemed to be a normal doctor appointment and no one at work would suspect anything.
The next day found tornadoes around the metro area. I drove all the way out to the doctor, and the parking lot was empty. The trees on the street were obliterated a block down. Electrical poles were down. A tornado hit half a block away and they had no electricity and didn't know when it would return. They lost the phone lines, too, which is why I didn't get a call. A few days later I was able to rebook the appointment.
At nine weeks, I saw a bouncing blob with a strong heartbeat. I didn't believe it. I also wasn't out of the woods. I wouldn't tell anyone yet. My doctor was cautiously optimistic. We had never made it to a moving blob with a heartbeat before. I got a copy of the picture. It was only the second time I'd been able to do that.
They didn't get why I had gone so long without calling. But I did. I just couldn't take the false hope. Again. She told me to keep taking my aspirin and progesterone pills. Go back in one week.
Stepping back for a moment, April 29 was a date I dreaded. It coincided with a previous loss time period. I was also stuck on a whole school field trip in Mobile, Ala., that day. If it happened again, I knew that would be the day. I made it through, and went to the doctor for that positive appointment.
My mom's birthday and Mother's Day were close together. We decided that we would tell my family in person after dinner. My dad suffered from ulcerative colitis and was about to embark on his worst bout with it. It was eventually so bad that we thought we would lose him. In October, he ended up with an ostomy bag.
We got there and my parents had ordered a bottle of wine. I declined. No reason given. I didn't want to say it in the restaurant. We made it through dinner and my dad was getting to the point where he needed to get home quickly. So we told them in the parking lot. Dad was hitting a critical point and hurried them away so he could be home. I understood.
They called later for more information. Up until that point, I told my boss because I needed to keep leaving every week to see my doctor. I told my friend Melissa, who struggled with infertility and was five months with her second daughter. And now my parents and brother knew. But that was it.
His parents learned when we went in to see his youngest cousin graduate from college. We also told his brother and his sister-in-law.
We planned to tell the rest of my in-laws if and only if everything was still fine in June when we went to his grandfather's birthday dinner. I was fine. We bought an ultrasound frame and put a copy of the most recent one in there. He opened it at dinner, but only after a quick trip to restroom confirmed that I was not bleeding.
I let my mom call family in June. Everyone we told was under strict orders to keep things off of social media.
Jumping back to May, as senior adviser, I was in charge of graduation. The faculty gowns were brought to my room. Two heavy boxes. I knew I couldn't lift them, so I shoved one box off and caught it a little to ease it down. I figured I was safe.
The next day at work, I went to the restroom and found blood. I panicked. Why was it happening again? I found a quiet spot in the empty cafeteria and called my doctor. I waited for the return call by pacing school slowly and blindly, stopping at every faculty restroom to see how bad the bleeding was. It was slight. The nurse called back and said the doctor wanted me immediately. I arrived at her room full of big pregnant patients and fought back tears. Blood pressure elevated, but they knew why. Internal ultrasound showed a bouncing baby and a strong heart rate. Bleeding mostly gone. Only a slight dot on her wand. Gave me instructions to rest up, but cleared me to do graduation that night. Just don't overdo it. I'd had a voicemail from my principal, a nun, who was wishing me luck and praying for me. I kept that voicemail. I told my doctor about it and she said "If you've got nuns praying for you, everything will be fine." My principal loved that even if I found it silly.
I had her bring my graduation robes from my classroom and met her at church to run the show carefully. The secretary was concerned because I was pale and ran out in such a bad state. I decided I could trust her and told her what was going on. She kept it secret.
Apparently, several people, including my assistant principal, were very concerned. I was evidently very pale and looked worried or concerned or sad, depending on who you asked.
That weekend, we rented a camp with friends in Bay St. Louis, Miss. We had a blast. I faked drinking beers by bringing Abita Root Beer and a tall koozie to conceal the label. No one noticed. By this point, only our best friends knew. The circle widened probably once a week. They helped hide the fact that I couldn't lift or carry things and made sure we had one of the private rooms so that I could nap when I needed to because damn, first trimester sucks.
My nausea was subsiding at that point. I can no longer eat ginger things because I lived on ginger candy. That and Coke Icees were the only things that helped. The nausea was intense but never productive, haha. So hashtagblessed.
I didn't want to seem useless in the camping trip as we cleaned the camp. So I offered to sweep the house. That night, I was bleeding again. I went to work hoping that it was just the overexertion. I went back to the doctor. She said I had placenta previa, so I needed to seriously limit activity. Absolutely no lifting or carrying. Rest when possible, keep an eye on it. Hopefully, it would migrate up. Spoiler alert: it did, eventually. But I was on pelvic rest and limited activity until after giving birth.
I had always said that if I could just be successfully pregnant, I wouldn't complain. I would comment about nausea. I would comment about the round ligament pain. Both needed to be brought to people's attention simply because both affected my ability to move and do things. But it wasn't a complaint, though.
I continued weekly visits and ultrasounds and rejoiced when I graduated to the trans abdominal ultrasound wand. I'd never made it that far.
But my guard would never drop, even after he was in my arms, safe and sound. My history stole that from me.
Monday, December 18, 2017
Directionally challenged
This blog has had two different purposes since it began. Well technically, three, because I technically started it almost as a joke. It moved into a place to tell my story, to keep me sane, and to be where I could document a major portion of my own life, as well as my city's life. But what now?
It disappeared while I drew into myself, got pregnant, had a baby, and parented for two years. I've resurrected the blog now, but the description seems to not fit any more.
I don't want it to be a Mom blog. I guess it can just move into observations again, with some other posts. My previous post was so very heavy. I need it to lighten up. I suppose I could start with the successful pregnancy, because I feel like that needs to go before I can discuss anything else. But then in order on Mom Blog. It will probably end up being my next post, though, simply because I feel like it can serve as hope for those still in the infertility trenches.
It disappeared while I drew into myself, got pregnant, had a baby, and parented for two years. I've resurrected the blog now, but the description seems to not fit any more.
I don't want it to be a Mom blog. I guess it can just move into observations again, with some other posts. My previous post was so very heavy. I need it to lighten up. I suppose I could start with the successful pregnancy, because I feel like that needs to go before I can discuss anything else. But then in order on Mom Blog. It will probably end up being my next post, though, simply because I feel like it can serve as hope for those still in the infertility trenches.
Wednesday, December 13, 2017
Confession time
The main reason I stopped blogging? It had always been a source of comfort when dealing with tough situations. But suddenly, it was a reminder of terrible things and failure.
You see, since my post about my grandmother dying, we adopted two cats and had a child. He's two now. But while those things, plus a few job changes, ate up my time, it was the impossible road leading to parenthood that was the true issue.
I'll say it here, semi-publicly, for the first time ever: My son is not my first child.
In fact, his siblings all fit on one hand, and he's the finger on my other hand.
They call this a rainbow baby. I shy from the term, but only because it seems too schmaltzy. But he is quite the definition of one: a terrible rainstorm with a bright and lovely rainbow.
In 2012, you may have assumed that my big news would be a pregnancy announcement. It would have been. But while evacuated laterally at my parents' house during Isaac, just one day after heading to the entire in-laws clan to share the news, I started bleeding. I spent hours in the ER. A friend who worked there saw my name on the list and came to see us. He didn't know. Very few people knew. He tried to be encouraging. But I knew. I was 10 weeks
There was the invasive ultrasound and the silent technician. There was the long wait until my room was ready. They called us back. I spent an hour standing in the hallway because the room wasn't actually ready. They finally stuck me in a room. I waited again. They finally admitted that there were no rooms with tables capable of a pelvic exam. A doctor finally came in. They stuck a bucket under me to lift my pelvis to a better angle. The unfeeling man who saw me coldly said the pregnancy was ending and they would call my doctor to let her know. I hadn't even been in to see her yet. My husband had to go to work. My mother was with me. A nurse brought me an awful packet on grief and they sent me on my way. There was calling my husband to tell him and his boss letting him leave. My parents gave me their bed until our power was back following the storm. There was buying incontinence liners to sit on and giant pads for more than a week. I missed a week of work.
The process itself was... excruciating. I will never forget it and can never speak of it. When I was finally in labor for real, I knew that I knew labor already. I'd passed my almost 12-week fetus naturally. I vowed never again.
I missed another week of work. I came back different. Foggy. Joyless. Faking every step and smile and move. Coworkers who knew brought me food and flowers and gifts. Those who didn't know kept me at arm's length
That was September 2012. I was pregnant again right before Christmas. My friend was also pregnant, with her second. We were four days apart. My doctor always wanted me early to keep an eye on things. When she saw an empty sac, she wasn't too concerned. Come back next week! Repeat for 11 weeks, schedule a D and C. Agonize over it. You're pro-choice, it's not really an abortion. But you feel nausea and breast tenderness and exhaustion and bloat. Your body thinks it's doing its job. It's not. And pro-choice means you should be able to choose to carry the child. My choice was taken from me.
The night before the procedure, you go to the NFL experience. The Super Bowl was in town that Sunday. You walk in a daze and clutch your husband tight. The next day will be bad. You did pre-op earlier. They made you do a pregnancy test. You explain why you're there. The one nurse seems to want to convince you to wait because maybe the ultrasounds, the ones you had every week and twice that morning, and maybe the blood work, which shows high HCG are not correct. You cry. The sac is empty. You failed again.
You hear excited med students in the waiting area. They are on the ob/gyn rotation. They watched births that morning. They were reverent. You let tears pour down your face.
The day of, you silently ride to the hospital. You check in. Your doctor is late. She's not a morning person, but you love her and wait. They roll you out. When you come to, you can't stop coughing because your throat is irritated from the tube. They bring you, totally fucked up, to your room. Your husband doesn't seem well. You're bleeding for more than a week. Only pads allowed. And it's time to bring back incontinence liners again. This first weekend in February, 2013, is awful. But you're glad you opted for surgery. Easier to push forward and no laboring Just... sadness.
You go to work Monday because you need to be busy. You're probably anemic from blood loss and feeling extreme depression. The counselor passes by and sees you propping yourself up on a cabinet, pale and blank-faced. She goes to the office and arranges a sub. Sends you home. Offers to drive you. You make it home and cry.
You never are able to look at your friend's son. You constantly imagine the life you should be living you can't ha doe swing him grow up. It's nothing personal.
In June, you're pregnant again. You told many people about the first. You tell less people about the second. You've been embarrassed. People get uncomfortable. You tell minimal people. Most find out when you decline 4th of July plans. No one knows what to say.
No one, except your in-laws. Your husband waits until he can say it and calls them. He tells them bad news when they didn't even know about the good news. They tell him it's because you don't go to church. They say you need to go so you can receive blessings. They tell him he will go to Hell, and that makes them sad that he won't join them in heaven. Sorry, assholes, you've got it backward. You're not supposed to know their reaction. You secretly hate them for three years until you explode and confront them. They gaslight you. You excommunicate them from your life unless you're chaperoning their visits with your son.
You find out the next June that you're finally pregnant for a 4th time. It's 2014. Almos a whole year has passed. Surely, your body will get it right.
Your whole family goes to Philadelphia for your cousin's wedding. Well. Not everyone. One cousin had twins a month before and another cousin gave birth while you traveled. Everyone you know gets pregnant quickly and easily. You start hiding profiles from your social media timelines. You skip every baby shower and christening and kid birthday party. You become reclusive. But you're pregnant with number 4. You feel nausea and tire easily. The doctor thinks it will be good. You finally get an ultrasound printout. It's too early to see a heartbeat. You go on your trip. Doctor calls with blood work results. It's not great, but it's in viability range. You fly home and use the restroom at the airport. Blood. You give up on joy. You curse the powers that be. You meltdown when a former student announces a pregnancy. Unmarried. No degree. Bar tending. Kind of a screw up. A lovable one. But you can't look.
It's over before you can call the doctor. No time to schedule a procedure. Just like last time. June of 2014 is all despair. You're a shell of yourself.
Those are the "official ones." But there was one more in January. You were at the "PMS or pregnancy" stage. You pick a day. If I'm not bleeding by then, time to buy a test. So you start to bleed one morning. The next day, you're at work. You get what you think are the worst "day2" cramps ever. You bum pain meds off a coworker. You go home. The tampon slides out with a cascade of blood. You wipe. What is this? You know. You've only seen that one other time. You almost pass out. You are inconsolable. You know what has happened. You hate your body. You resign yourself to a different life than what you planned. You bitch online to a friend who lost three before her daughter. You're grateful for each other. No one else knows what to say or do. Number 4 was known to your doctor and your spouse. Number 5 was known by you and your husband. Clearly, it ran its course. You never mention it to your doctor.
Early April 2015 you start to wonder. You go to Easter and half-heartedly drink a beer. You've always faked abstaining when pregnant. You say to hell with it. If I am not, I miss out. If I am, it will end in heartache and you'll have missed a free beer for nothing. You still feel guilty but know you're early enough.
The next day is your 13th wedding anniversary. You test secretly. It's positive. You show it with no emotion to your husband. You hug. You go about your day. You have progesterone pills and pain pills. You're covered no matter which way it goes. You've been to your doctor and your specialist a million times. They draw so much blood. They discover you have a single copy mutation of MTHFR gene. You learn your body throws out clots that choke out your babies. You have to take aspirin every day for the rest of your life. You need a special prescription vitamin in addition to prenatals. You take the progesterone. If you can make it to eight weeks this time, you'll call your doctor. You do. They schedule you for the next day. Three work friends are pregnant. You suspect another is. She is. But you don't find out until July. One friend never tells you. You hear through the grape vine. That hurts. Another friend over shares with you. That hurts even more. The third friend tells you in person in a delicate way. She doesn't share details or complain like the second did. Another work friend ends up pregnant. This baby better survive.
The doctor appointment gets postponed a week because the office has no power since a tornado hit that street. You finally go. There's no need to bring the husband. You get a heartbeat. It's strong. Your blood work is good. You go back every week, from week 9-34. You see the specialist at 11, 15, 22, and 36 weeks. At 34 weeks, you go twice a week for NSTs. You are close personal friends with the doctor and her staff. Two more friends are pregnant. Another friend's girlfriend is pregnant. Another friend you never see is pregnant. You get asked to be a bridesmaid in another friend's wedding. It's in a hurry. She's pregnant. You don't know it, but you are one week pregnant when she tells you. Her wedding is in 16 weeks. You hope you'll still be pregnant because she'll be at 22 weeks and you'll be 17. You hide the pregnancy. Family knows. But most find out in July. Some friends know. Most don't. If you don't see a person, they don't need to know. You insist no one post about it on social media.
You make it. They induce a week early. You hold him. He cries. You're finally breathing again. You're fiercely protective. You hate that. But you're glad.
You see, since my post about my grandmother dying, we adopted two cats and had a child. He's two now. But while those things, plus a few job changes, ate up my time, it was the impossible road leading to parenthood that was the true issue.
I'll say it here, semi-publicly, for the first time ever: My son is not my first child.
In fact, his siblings all fit on one hand, and he's the finger on my other hand.
They call this a rainbow baby. I shy from the term, but only because it seems too schmaltzy. But he is quite the definition of one: a terrible rainstorm with a bright and lovely rainbow.
In 2012, you may have assumed that my big news would be a pregnancy announcement. It would have been. But while evacuated laterally at my parents' house during Isaac, just one day after heading to the entire in-laws clan to share the news, I started bleeding. I spent hours in the ER. A friend who worked there saw my name on the list and came to see us. He didn't know. Very few people knew. He tried to be encouraging. But I knew. I was 10 weeks
There was the invasive ultrasound and the silent technician. There was the long wait until my room was ready. They called us back. I spent an hour standing in the hallway because the room wasn't actually ready. They finally stuck me in a room. I waited again. They finally admitted that there were no rooms with tables capable of a pelvic exam. A doctor finally came in. They stuck a bucket under me to lift my pelvis to a better angle. The unfeeling man who saw me coldly said the pregnancy was ending and they would call my doctor to let her know. I hadn't even been in to see her yet. My husband had to go to work. My mother was with me. A nurse brought me an awful packet on grief and they sent me on my way. There was calling my husband to tell him and his boss letting him leave. My parents gave me their bed until our power was back following the storm. There was buying incontinence liners to sit on and giant pads for more than a week. I missed a week of work.
The process itself was... excruciating. I will never forget it and can never speak of it. When I was finally in labor for real, I knew that I knew labor already. I'd passed my almost 12-week fetus naturally. I vowed never again.
I missed another week of work. I came back different. Foggy. Joyless. Faking every step and smile and move. Coworkers who knew brought me food and flowers and gifts. Those who didn't know kept me at arm's length
That was September 2012. I was pregnant again right before Christmas. My friend was also pregnant, with her second. We were four days apart. My doctor always wanted me early to keep an eye on things. When she saw an empty sac, she wasn't too concerned. Come back next week! Repeat for 11 weeks, schedule a D and C. Agonize over it. You're pro-choice, it's not really an abortion. But you feel nausea and breast tenderness and exhaustion and bloat. Your body thinks it's doing its job. It's not. And pro-choice means you should be able to choose to carry the child. My choice was taken from me.
The night before the procedure, you go to the NFL experience. The Super Bowl was in town that Sunday. You walk in a daze and clutch your husband tight. The next day will be bad. You did pre-op earlier. They made you do a pregnancy test. You explain why you're there. The one nurse seems to want to convince you to wait because maybe the ultrasounds, the ones you had every week and twice that morning, and maybe the blood work, which shows high HCG are not correct. You cry. The sac is empty. You failed again.
You hear excited med students in the waiting area. They are on the ob/gyn rotation. They watched births that morning. They were reverent. You let tears pour down your face.
The day of, you silently ride to the hospital. You check in. Your doctor is late. She's not a morning person, but you love her and wait. They roll you out. When you come to, you can't stop coughing because your throat is irritated from the tube. They bring you, totally fucked up, to your room. Your husband doesn't seem well. You're bleeding for more than a week. Only pads allowed. And it's time to bring back incontinence liners again. This first weekend in February, 2013, is awful. But you're glad you opted for surgery. Easier to push forward and no laboring Just... sadness.
You go to work Monday because you need to be busy. You're probably anemic from blood loss and feeling extreme depression. The counselor passes by and sees you propping yourself up on a cabinet, pale and blank-faced. She goes to the office and arranges a sub. Sends you home. Offers to drive you. You make it home and cry.
You never are able to look at your friend's son. You constantly imagine the life you should be living you can't ha doe swing him grow up. It's nothing personal.
In June, you're pregnant again. You told many people about the first. You tell less people about the second. You've been embarrassed. People get uncomfortable. You tell minimal people. Most find out when you decline 4th of July plans. No one knows what to say.
No one, except your in-laws. Your husband waits until he can say it and calls them. He tells them bad news when they didn't even know about the good news. They tell him it's because you don't go to church. They say you need to go so you can receive blessings. They tell him he will go to Hell, and that makes them sad that he won't join them in heaven. Sorry, assholes, you've got it backward. You're not supposed to know their reaction. You secretly hate them for three years until you explode and confront them. They gaslight you. You excommunicate them from your life unless you're chaperoning their visits with your son.
You find out the next June that you're finally pregnant for a 4th time. It's 2014. Almos a whole year has passed. Surely, your body will get it right.
Your whole family goes to Philadelphia for your cousin's wedding. Well. Not everyone. One cousin had twins a month before and another cousin gave birth while you traveled. Everyone you know gets pregnant quickly and easily. You start hiding profiles from your social media timelines. You skip every baby shower and christening and kid birthday party. You become reclusive. But you're pregnant with number 4. You feel nausea and tire easily. The doctor thinks it will be good. You finally get an ultrasound printout. It's too early to see a heartbeat. You go on your trip. Doctor calls with blood work results. It's not great, but it's in viability range. You fly home and use the restroom at the airport. Blood. You give up on joy. You curse the powers that be. You meltdown when a former student announces a pregnancy. Unmarried. No degree. Bar tending. Kind of a screw up. A lovable one. But you can't look.
It's over before you can call the doctor. No time to schedule a procedure. Just like last time. June of 2014 is all despair. You're a shell of yourself.
Those are the "official ones." But there was one more in January. You were at the "PMS or pregnancy" stage. You pick a day. If I'm not bleeding by then, time to buy a test. So you start to bleed one morning. The next day, you're at work. You get what you think are the worst "day2" cramps ever. You bum pain meds off a coworker. You go home. The tampon slides out with a cascade of blood. You wipe. What is this? You know. You've only seen that one other time. You almost pass out. You are inconsolable. You know what has happened. You hate your body. You resign yourself to a different life than what you planned. You bitch online to a friend who lost three before her daughter. You're grateful for each other. No one else knows what to say or do. Number 4 was known to your doctor and your spouse. Number 5 was known by you and your husband. Clearly, it ran its course. You never mention it to your doctor.
Early April 2015 you start to wonder. You go to Easter and half-heartedly drink a beer. You've always faked abstaining when pregnant. You say to hell with it. If I am not, I miss out. If I am, it will end in heartache and you'll have missed a free beer for nothing. You still feel guilty but know you're early enough.
The next day is your 13th wedding anniversary. You test secretly. It's positive. You show it with no emotion to your husband. You hug. You go about your day. You have progesterone pills and pain pills. You're covered no matter which way it goes. You've been to your doctor and your specialist a million times. They draw so much blood. They discover you have a single copy mutation of MTHFR gene. You learn your body throws out clots that choke out your babies. You have to take aspirin every day for the rest of your life. You need a special prescription vitamin in addition to prenatals. You take the progesterone. If you can make it to eight weeks this time, you'll call your doctor. You do. They schedule you for the next day. Three work friends are pregnant. You suspect another is. She is. But you don't find out until July. One friend never tells you. You hear through the grape vine. That hurts. Another friend over shares with you. That hurts even more. The third friend tells you in person in a delicate way. She doesn't share details or complain like the second did. Another work friend ends up pregnant. This baby better survive.
The doctor appointment gets postponed a week because the office has no power since a tornado hit that street. You finally go. There's no need to bring the husband. You get a heartbeat. It's strong. Your blood work is good. You go back every week, from week 9-34. You see the specialist at 11, 15, 22, and 36 weeks. At 34 weeks, you go twice a week for NSTs. You are close personal friends with the doctor and her staff. Two more friends are pregnant. Another friend's girlfriend is pregnant. Another friend you never see is pregnant. You get asked to be a bridesmaid in another friend's wedding. It's in a hurry. She's pregnant. You don't know it, but you are one week pregnant when she tells you. Her wedding is in 16 weeks. You hope you'll still be pregnant because she'll be at 22 weeks and you'll be 17. You hide the pregnancy. Family knows. But most find out in July. Some friends know. Most don't. If you don't see a person, they don't need to know. You insist no one post about it on social media.
You make it. They induce a week early. You hold him. He cries. You're finally breathing again. You're fiercely protective. You hate that. But you're glad.
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