Posts filed under 'Infertile Myrtle'
On two occasions recently, I’ve had disagreements with people, and on BOTH occasions, my reactions were off, and I’m stewing inappropriately about it. I’m not averse to confrontation, nor am I averse to admitting when I’m wrong, but the thing is, I had the OPPOSITE reaction to the one I wanted to have in both situations.
To wit: It seems I only go one of two ways in a disagreement lately, which is to dig my heels in entirely and declare my righteousness, or to fall on my sword completely, and in BOTH recent cases, I have had the OPPOSITE reaction to what I now think I SHOULD have had. As in, when I should have taken full responsibility and apologized, I dug my heels in, but when I should have dug my heels in and told the person to eff off because THEY were being totally inappropriate, *I*, instead, fell on my sword and declared MYSELF to be the inappropriate one. And now I want to go BACK to both parties and rectify the situation, but THAT would just be STUPID, because NO ONE WANTS TO REHASH AN ARGUMENT.
And yet, there it is. I think in the case of saying hey, I was wrong back then, would be fine, but in the case of saying hey, remember when I apologized and acted like I WAS in the wrong? HA HA, just kidding, YOU ARE A TOTAL DOUCHE! I don’t think that would work out so well.
Anyway, I should tell you that I got my wish, and it turns out I’m a carrier for MTHFR, but, well, it seems to be a non-issue, as it’s not active, and please don’t make me go into any more detail than that, because I don’t have it. I am DETAIL-LESS on the topic, mostly because everyone seems to think that it’s a carrier issue (which an alarming number people have) and not an active condition. This, combined with my fetal chromosomal defects — which are the kind that account for up to 40% of miscarriages, leading it to be a non-carrier issue — makes everyone STILL believe that it’s dumb-shit luck, but lo, off to the geneticist I go anyway, and I’m not even sure why. It all seems to be CYA at this point, but I also have to tell you that for all the insensitivity of my doctor’s office (mean nurses! incompetent medical assistants! receptionists lacking brain cells!), I am BEYOND impressed with my actual DOCTOR, and the way she’s treating this, and me, with such thoroughness, to make sure that I move forward knowing we did all we could.
Is your head spinning after reading that paragraph? Because my God, seriously, I suddenly feel like those people who post every detail of their fertility numbers, including betas and progesterone and all these things I don’t understand, but read with rapt attention like I do. But despite all the bullshit, having a doctor who seems to actually be paying close attention to me feels really good, even if it took two flipping MONTHS to get to this point.
So! Three pop culture points, and then I’m out like a MTHFR:
1) I am stupidly both surprised and NOT surprised by the JLo-Marc Anthony divorce. I mean, I always got the impression they were FRIENDS before they got married, like, for YEARS and that has to suck. On the other hand, remember when JLo was basically the Runaway Bride and married EVERYBODY? On the THIRD hand, I heard that he was a controlling, borderline-abusive bag of dicks, and for some reason, with her serial dating/monogamy history, I could somehow SEE JLO putting up with such shenanigans, because despite her attitude, she’s always seemed fairly insecure and conciliatory.
For example, who says that men don’t compliment you on your body because “they’re afraid of [your husband]”, as she did in People magazine ? NO ONE SAYS THAT, unless you think your man is insecure and/or YOU are afraid of him. If I were a celebrity, I wouldn’t say that about Adam. I mean, Adam is definitely protective of me and WOULD kick some ass on my behalf it was warranted, but it’s not like MEN ON THE STREET are just cowering from his presence. (Sorry, honey.)
Also, what’s with his creepy negotiations in getting his DISGUSTING SKELETOR FACE on American Idol ALL SEASON LONG? At least with the divorce, his foul mug will be off the show, although my God, he’ll probably figure out a way to work that in to the DIVORCE SETTLEMENT. WHY DID YOU HAVE CHILDREN WITH THIS MAN, JENNIFER? DIDDY WAS A BETTER CHOICE.
You see the analysis I’ve put in here, yes? Are you afraid? THIS IS WHAT YOU SHOULD BE AFRAID OF. Not Marc Anthony. THIS. The amount of time I’ve spent thinking about the two of them is criminal.
2) January Jones is having a baby, father unknown. I am DYING to know who the father is, and if he’s MARRIED, like, say, Bobby Flay, as everyone is speculating, then MY GOD, COME ON, JANUARY. Quit being an amoral asshole. Also, can someone PLEASE tell me how these goddamn celebrities just keep FALLING PREGNANT right and effing left by these MYSTERY MEN? Or, in the case of Arnold, just GETTING people pregnant? HOW? I mean, obviously this has never been my personal strong suit, but COME ON.
Meanwhile, I try to imagine my reaction if MY husband came home and told me he impregnated another famous woman, and I just CANNOT. I can’t imagine a situation that does NOT involve me just PASSING OUT COLD and never waking up.
3) Mona from Who’s the Boss? on True Blood. HA HA HAHAHAHA. Also, how in God’s name is Curb Your Enthusiasm STILL ON THE AIR?
*Jennifer Lopez. Remember Ben, Jennifer? Remember how you wrote an ENTIRE ALBUM to him, including a godawful song about him? And … AHA HAHAHAHAHAHAHA God, I am mean.
July 17th, 2011
Well! As it turns out, my tubes ‘n utes are all clear. Or at least, they are now. I got the old song and dance about how I’m getting an extra fertility boost, thanks to tubes that are freshly flushed! And then I had to explain that no, really, GETTING pregnant is not my problem, man, so even if my tubes are lubed up with an entire gallon of baby sauce, it’s KEEPING THEM that seems to be an issue. Or isn’t. Oh, I don’t even know anymore. Two miscarriages could mean DOOM! and BAD THINGS! or it could just be dumb-shit luck. You don’t know.
What I DO know is that despite Julie’s terrifying warning to me that the HSG was the single most painful gynecological procedure she’s ever had (AND THIS IS JULIE, PEOPLE), it … well, it was pretty much not that bad. I thought the whole washing of the cervix (with special soap and a … brush?) was going to be painful, along with the insertion of a balloon (YES REALLY) and a catheter (NOT THAT KIND) was going to hurt like a bitch, but instead, I felt nothing. “You’re done?” I chirped hopefully. “Uhhh, not at all,” came the reply.
It was a crazy surreal experience — and one that I now CLEARLY remember having before, albeit in a much different setting — having dye shot through my uterus and tubes and watching it go sliding on in as I, um, felt it, in the form of creepy, awful cramping. Not super-painful, necessarily, just CREEPY, knowing that there was this bright-orange iodine solution causing my discomfort and I could actually WITNESS IT. I suppose it’s why I never wanted to stick my hand down there while I was in labor, nor did I have any interest in the mirror. I’m cool with pain, so long as I don’t actually see where it’s coming from. Because EW.
What turned out to be much more miserable was the recurrent loss blood work-up I had done a full two hours later, which involved so much blood that they treated me like I was a donor. Juice, cookies, the whole nine yards. It was … kind of absurd, woozy-making and resulted in a butterfly-shaped bruise and a sore arm. Dye through the utes? Painless. Bloodwork? HOURS OF AGONY. WTF.
I might find out what, if anything, is going on as soon as tomorrow — at least part of the story, anyway — and I’m both nervous and excited and a little freaked out overall. I have no idea what’s going to happen. I have no idea if I’m 100% ready to get back into this circus. I know that I’ll wait at least a few months before hopping on the train, because you guys, I’ve been pregnant, or recovering from being pregnant, since last November. It’s JUNE. That’s eight months of my body going through a shit-ton of roller coasters, both physically and emotionally, and it’s … well, it’s a ride I am ready for the RESULTS of, but not the actual RIDING THEREOF. What I would like to do is be put into a coma during any future pregnancies — oh, and put Sam on ice, too — and then wake up and resume my life with two children, unaware of the process of getting there entirely.
Also, let’s be honest, I’ve just lost thirteen pounds through some serious blood, sweat and sinuses. I’m down a pants size. Am I all that jazzed about getting into a pair with a waistband that can only be described as VOLUMINOUS?
(Well, kind of. MAN.)
I tell you what this whole thing has cured me of: any desire whatsoever to have a third child. Once I have a second, God willing? DONE. DONE. DONE. So hilariously finished, I can’t even tell you. I don’t have the stomach for this. I cannot imagine doing this a third time. I can’t. Once was worth it, OBVIOUSLY. Twice is something I believe strongly in and want desperately. I know I can’t guarantee how I’ll feel a third time, but after this? HAAAAA NO. I am somewhat grateful that I feel this way, because I think two is an appropriate limit for me, time-wise and finance-wise, and yet honestly, I love being a mom so goddamned much that I would legitimately consider having an entire basketball team of them if it were remotely practical for us. And you know, if I’d started procreating at 23 instead of 33.
The other thing is, dude, the babysitter. I love her, Sam loved her, she emptied my dishwasher (?!) and it was perfect. I COULD GET HOOKED ON THIS. I find myself wanting to push Adam to get a major promotion so that we can hire someone more often without requiring me to work! I could have a nanny AND be a stay-at-home mom! Real Housewives of Boston’s Western Suburbs, here I come! But seriously, she was fantastic. And surprisingly, she did NOT abscond with my daughter! Whaaaaat?
Listen, I hope you have a great weekend. I’ll be catching up on email and reading A Discovery of Witches, which I LOVE.
June 23rd, 2011
First of all, I found your comments FASCINATING re: having a childcare provider bring her own kids to the job. It’s funny, I listened to all of them, and thought of the few ways that I’d be cool with it, and none of them presented themselves to me — i.e., the nannies who had babies and then BROUGHT their babies after they had them (and were well established at the family to begin with)? Well, of course, DUH, I’d be fine with that. A kid at or vaguely around Sam’s age, who would be into keeping a similar schedule who wasn’t, say, a total bully asshole? I could be OK with that, too. See also: if I were in their home and not mine, for the reasons I mentioned in the comments.
There’s something about your own kid in your own house that you can just … relax a little. I mean, of course Sam is always supervised, but I know every corner of this house. I know when her silence means she’s concentrating (i.e., in the back playroom, where her fuzzies and crayons are) and when being quiet means DEFCON 1: GUARD THE SUDAFED because she’s in the bathroom, sifting through the drawers. These are sounds, for better or for worse, you’re trained to listen for in your own house. Someone else’s, not so much.
Anyway. It’s moot, sort of, because I found at least one sitter who’s coming tomorrow (today for most of you reading this) and will be paid an ungodly money for the sole purpose of having my tubes ‘n utes shot through with dye and examined under an … I don’t even know what, as I had this before, I SWEAR, but the thing is, I HAVE NO MEMORY. I have very little memory of the whole pre-Sam shenanigans, and I don’t know why. I hope it’s the same if I get to the second baby portion of our show, that this all becomes kind of … faded.
We’ve been still, ahh, sick at our house, and it all started with Sam and her ridiculous beach-bound illnesses, and then there was me, who was misdiagnosed with a sinus infection (non-contagious! HAA!), who then passed it on to Adam, who is lying beside me right now, wheezing into his Wheat Thins. Both of us will very likely be passed out cold by 10 p.m., which happens in this house, mmm, pretty much never. Good thing I’m on antibiotics, though! I am what’s wrong with pharmacology today, man. I told you.
The flip side of all this is that I am dropping weight like a saddle bag of hot potatoes. This is what happens when you can pretty much taste nothing for two weeks. Food becomes remarkably uninteresting if you can’t taste it! Who knew? Truth is, I’ve been fantasizing about cupcakes and peanut butter bars pretty much non-stop — and I’m a savory gal! — for no other reason that they are the only things I can really remember the flavor of. I can’t smell anything either, so changing diapers, too, is a surprisingly pleasant task.
I thought about marketing this as a weight-loss tool — invite everyone to my house! Give them the disease and then VOILA! Watch the pounds fly off! There’s got to be an infomercial I can make out of this, maybe featuring Suzanne Somers. Sinus Camp 2011: It’s Infectious! I think, is our tagline. Unfortunately, I have moved beyond the contagious phase, and thus, everyone would have to get in close quarters with Adam, instead, and that’s … less appealing than you might think, although I imagined I was about as delicious-looking while I, too, was coughing until I vomited.
I think my revenue options may be limited by the gross-out factor, but I’m not ruling this shit out! WEIGHT LOSS IN A CURABLE DISEASE.
In recent days, however, I’ve been able to taste a little more, and by that, I mean I can taste sriracha, which is why my last three meals have consisted of various noodles and/or sandwiches drenched in more sriracha than a normal person could probably handle, and it burns like FIYAH, but at least I’m ALIVE. This must be why people tattoo their bodies to FEEL THE BURN! Walk on fire! LET US LIVE. GIVE US THE SRIRACHA.
(Side note: there is something depressing about losing 10+ pounds and being acutely aware that you still have, um, FORTY, or so to go. Seriously. FORTY. I am usually pretty chill about my weight/body image, and for the most part, I am — I mean, I’m not really all that consumed by it — but something about feeling my clothes FINALLY fit much looser has given me enough of a taste that I’m all LET’S GO, WEIGHT! BRING ON THE SIZE SIX!)
(HAAAA I SAID SIX. What an ass.)
Anyway, I’ve GOT to tell you that I’ve been watching NOTHING on television. NOTHING. Should I be watching Game of Thrones? I mean, on HBO.com, that is, because I know it’s over. The Killing? Falling Skies? True Blood is back this week, thank GOD (well, Sunday), but that’s … all I’ve got. And I miss TV. A lot. (Already seen FNL, so it’s not NEW.)
Happy Wednesday! Or as it’s known around here, Tubes, Utes and Babysitter Day! Oh, God.
*Mumford & Sons. The Cave being my uterus. OH I KILL ME.
June 21st, 2011
First, let me say that I am not a fool, although I have been acting like one, and the fact that so many people took a few moments out of their day to think about me, leave me a comment or write me an email, is beyond meaningful to me, I can’t even tell you. What you might not know, though, is how much it means to my family. My parents read every last one of those comments, as did some of Adam’s family, and I just … well, thank you seems silly and fruitless, really, it does, but I wanted you to know that it’s not just me who reads them and appreciates them, even when I’m acting like I don’t. My mother and Adam’s Aunt Carol were particularly moved, just so you know.
Which brings me to … well, what I think strikes me the most about the past week, and was entirely unexpected, was — is, really — how quickly I turned into an ungracious asshole. I want to put it another way, but I can’t. I’m amazed and, quite honestly, totally saddened, by how fast I moved from being a person who could compose herself enough to be considerate to someone else, even with a thousand tiny darts sticking out of her chest, to someone who, frankly, did not give a shit about anyone but herself. Everyone said the wrong thing. Everyone. Sarah in Huntsville did NOT say the wrong thing, however, and captured my feelings perfectly when she said:
” I felt like dickpunching everyone who said ANYTHING to me about it, because there was nothing they could say that either didn’t make me sneer at them in derision or cry. But I also wanted to facestab the people who just kind of ignored the whole thing.”
I LAUGHED. Because my God, yes, that’s pretty much it. I also — and this is perhaps most disturbing — had this almost (and at times, more than almost) irrepressible urge to wave a verbal air horn in someone’s face after uttering something I deemed inappropriate. “WRONG!” the air horn would blat, loud and forceful, right in their foolishly loose lips. “WRONG! WRONG!” I could almost see their hair blowing back from the force of the blast, as I stomped away, stuffing the instrument back in my purse without looking back.
Oh, but if you didn’t say ANYTHING? Well, wait … this actually wasn’t so bad, I mean, unless it was one of my close friends, in which case, FLEE THE COUNTRY, IMMA COME GETCHOO WITH THE AIR HORN.
I mean, yes, there are a few people — a few that I am unwilling to forgive, like those who have publicly questioned my friendship and made demands on it until I acquiesced against my better judgment and then HA HA! never said a word to me about this. And the others, who gleefully talked about my FIRST pregnancy, over and over again, in a flurry of excited sisterly emails and then, when I lost THAT baby … nothing. Not a word since. Yes, people like that, I am finished with. But for the most part, I understand that no one knows what the fuck to say to someone in my situation, so they panic and say nothing and I don’t hold it against them.
(I am, by the way, married to a completely loving, kind, thoughtful person who tends to PANIC! and say nothing in these situations, so I understand this phenomenon more than most.)
Basically, it was just awful, I was just awful, and … well, I’m still kind of just awful, for I have these moments of outright horror at the things people say. Things that, actually, are not THAT horrifying, but in my addled state tend to be magnified to DEFCON 1: LOAD THE AIR HORNS. The problem with all of this is that it turns me into someone I don’t like, and I’m not particularly proud of, and if THAT isn’t an excellent spirit to pour into this magnificent cocktail of suckitude, I don’t know what is!
The one thing I will say is the absolute wrong thing to say is this: “I know how you feel.” No, you don’t. NO ONE DOES, because you are not me, and I am not you. Two people can go through the exact same experience on paper, and feel completely differently, and want to hear/need completely different things. I was stunned by commenter Auntie G’s revelation that she didn’t share her own happy ending with me, because when SHE went through the same thing, she wanted nothing to do with happy endings. Me, however? I drink them up like water in the desert.
So no. You don’t know how I feel, even when I describe it to you in exquisite detail.
I do, however, feel better. I am not fully healed, but it has just occurred to me that life will – and does – go on, and that life includes all the things I was looking forward to before (minus the baby). Fun things, like hitting the beach with my family and taking Sam to a summer full of water parks. And of course, the less-fun things like measuring the playroom for carpet tiles and finally getting rid of the ancient Ikea chairs. These things will, God willing, still happen, and I get to enjoy them just the same. It’s when I think about the future — the Other — that things get murky.
What remains, too, is this very strange, thin membrane separating me and a much sadder, emptier life than I thought I’d have. I don’t know how to put it any better than that. The membrane is not real; the alternate life isn’t even real, not even if it ends here and now with just Adam, Sam and me, which, I hasten to add, I don’t think it will. I felt this most acutely when I foolishly Googled myself into some message boards of the, uh, recurring miscarriage ilk, and got a glimpse into a world that I can’t seem to shake. A world where people — and please God help me, I am not judging, or at the very least, I am BUSTING MY ASS not to judge, for we all process grief differently — save their wee embryos (yes, I mean pre-12-week embryos) after D&C’s and dress them in hats and take pictures and hold funerals for them. It’s a culture — a cult, almost — that I can’t see myself ever being a part of, even if things had worked out differently, but God, it’s there, and it’s so close and it’s one of those things, like I said, I can’t shake.
I can’t say I would ever be the type to, um, dress my embryo in corduroy and denim (mine is, after routine chromosomal testing, being flushed with the hospital waste of the week, and maybe that seems heartless), but I guess what strikes me is that it’s so easy to see how it could happen; how CONSUMING it could be if you really dug your heels into a place like that. I feel like I am the thinnest air pocket away from being a person who buys clothes for her embryos, even though rationally, I know that’s not true.
Online communities — particularly ones that are highly specialized and focused — are extremely powerful. Please, one day let me regale you of the YEAR OF MY LIFE I spent embroiled in a — oh I can barely type it — CAT MESSAGE BOARD. WHERE PEOPLE TALKED ABOUT THEIR CATS. I DID THIS. I DID THIS. I, a perfectly well-adjusted, pretty twentysomething with lots of friends and a hot boyfriend (now husband), spent an UNGODLY AMOUNT OF TIME talking about the merits of wet food vs. canned and examining my cat’s stool for optimum health.
(If you’re wondering how it happened, it started because — surprise! — I was googling after discovering that my cat had recurrent urinary problems. And if you’re thinking that CAT MESSAGE BOARDS do not have flame wars, HA HA YOU ARE SO WRONG AND ARE YOU DYING, BECAUSE I AM DYING TYPING THIS OUT.)
(Also, I no longer own a cat, and in fact, hate cats. EVERYTHING ABOUT THIS IS HILARIOUS.)
These places are rabbit holes. RABBIT HOLES. And if I have any advice to anyone going through this, it is that maybe you should stick to blogs that talk about this kind of thing, and step away from the pinkie nail-sized knitted hats, for it struck me as a fast track to an insane asylum. Email Julie, who will probably say the perfect thing to you, even though she doesn’t know it. (To me, she simply said, “I AM APPALLED,” and honestly, I hold it with me, because it is so hilarious and so perfect, I don’t know why.)
Happy Tuesday, friends. Thanks for listening, and my apologies for my astonishingly douchey comments and written air horns over the last seven days.
*Dave Matthews Band, whatever. I’m not judging your tiny hats, so lay off my lame music.
May 23rd, 2011
I didn’t tell anyone I was pregnant, because, well, who would, after the last time, right? And as it turned out, being pregnant after a miscarriage is — well, at least for me — worse than the miscarriage itself. And by that, I don’t mean a chemical pregnancy/early miscarriage — those, too, I am familiar with. I’m talking about a post-heartbeat-viewing-ultrasound miscarriage, the one where some people feel so safe that they run out and BUY THINGS OH MY SHIT. NO NO NO. LET ME BE YOUR GUIDE IN SUCH THINGS, NO.
I knew almost immediately, even though I was in denial, avoiding taking a test until well after I’d missed my period — incidentally, just before we left for Las Vegas. Because who DOESN’T want to go on a hedonistic drinking-type vacation and NOT BE ABLE TO DRINK AT ALL? (As it turned out, I didn’t want to drink anyway, because GODDAMN, the desert is dry. I couldn’t even drink COKE. I just wanted WATER.)
I was stressed out and terrified every second of the day. I was feeling myself up to the point of insanity. Honestly, I don’t think I went five minutes without sticking my hands into my bra, desperately feeling for soreness, which, fortunately or unfortunately, was always present. I almost bankrupted us buying pregnancy tests, peeing on them so often that Sam took to opening a package herself and holding them under her crotch, peering into the wrapper for whatever she thought I was looking for. I skipped the digital tests, for they had no real GAUGE of how things were going. Pregnant or not pregnant, there was no in-between on those suckers, when by now, we ALL know you can be a little pregnant.
Were they getting darker? I swore they were, but I couldn’t be sure. I’d pee on one a day, comparing it to the previous day’s, examining every nuance in color, using that, along with my dizziness and boob soreness, as a bizarrely unscientific algorithm to determine how things were going.
I had my first ultrasound at seven weeks on the dot, according to my calculations, which, without going into detail, are close to iron-clad. The ultrasound showed up with a strong heartbeat, but a baby measuring six weeks on the dot. To them, it all looked fine. To me … not so much. It was Pete and Repeat up in here, for that is precisely, and I mean PRECISELY, how things went down the last time. I sobbed while a nurse acted as though I was insane for being upset, and tried to tell me how rare it was for people to have two miscarriages in a row, how I needed to RELAX, how every pregnancy was DIFFERENT. I was waiting for her to give me a reason NOT to punch her in the face, but she never did. Somehow I refrained, and instead, I went to the front desk and made an appointment for a viability ultrasound for exactly one week later.
The next one wasn’t any better. The baby grew, but the heart rate didn’t. Steady, but exactly the same: 115 bpm. The prognosis I was given was 50/50. “It could really go either way,” my doctor said. Obviously, they wanted it higher, but she’d seen it happen before, just like this, so I hung in there.
And then I got sick. Dry heaves at every corner, a craving for nothing but McNuggets and an affinity for Liberte yogurt. I felt … hopeful. Better. More positive! HA HA!
I went back for my third viability ultrasound feeling almost cocky. I was sick as a dog! I was about to faint! I had eaten copious amounts of McNuggets!
No heartbeat. Apparently the baby had died just after my ultrasound the week prior, but my body, in an effort to keep things pumping along, went into crazy overdrive. So basically, every comforting sign I’d ever been given about a “healthy” pregnancy was completely shattered. Visible heartbeat? Statistically worthless until 10 weeks, according to my other doctor who, as it turns out, is a renowned miscarriage expert, so I believe him. Morning sickness a good sign? A total lie, as I learned first-hand.
I really hope that the OTHER myth is that alcohol is bad in pregnancy, because I don’t see how I’m going to get through another one of these without being drunk 24/7. I plan to make mint juleps an active part of my prenatal diet, along with folic acid, because SERIOUSLY.
I mean, really. I am, rationally or irrationally, completely freaked. I’m terrified, of course. I know it happens — more often than people even know, I think — but for some reason, the majority of the stories I got in those first 24 hours were people trying to commiserate with me by sharing stories of how it happened to them/their sister/their sister’s friend/their friend and MY GOD, THE STORIES. Of how this happened, and the lonely horror that ensued! The DECADES of infertility and, in at least one case, DIVORCE. DIVORCE. And I just … well, I feel terrible saying this, but it sent me into a Very Bad Place, because it’s one thing to be able to talk about that stuff with some distance, quite another when you’re in the thick of it.
I say this not to be an unsympathetic asshole, but just to say that if you have a horror story that ended badly, I might not be in the place to hear it, OK? It’s just … where I’m at right now. I know people go through, and survive, much worse, and I know I’m lucky and BELIEVE ME, I am grateful for Sam, BELIEVE ME, OKAY? It’s just that I’m still upset. I’m still scared. And the next person to say, “Well, at least you have ONE healthy child!” gets a dickpunch, because I KNOW, but that doesn’t make this suck any less, I’m sorry, it doesn’t. And recognizing that this sucks doesn’t mean that I don’t appreciate Sam. They are two unrelated entities in my mind.
Forgive me, as I am a little sensitive bordering on crazy.
Tomorrow — well, today, Monday, by the time many of you read this — is my second D&C (D&E, really) since January. My parents were already in town for my brother’s MBA graduation in Amherst (congratulations, Justin!), so they were kind enough to make the short trip over to help us out with Sam — and me, as Adam’s traveling for business Tuesday, and I was pretty out of it for a few days afterwards last time.
At what point does this move from sympathetic journey to CIRCUS SIDESHOW!! is what I want to know. I’m thinking three might be the magic number.
Much love to everyone who’s been so kind. Your notes and tweets have meant a lot. We’ll be fine – we always are, so long as the three of us have each other. Oh, and Sunny. God, Sunny, who can forget SUNNY? I’m sure this is causing a great deal of intestinal turmoil that we’ll have to clean up later.
It’s just a bump in the road, I suppose. A sucktastic festering boil of a pothole-y bump, but a bump nonetheless.
Catch you on the flip.
May 15th, 2011
One of the hidden costs of pregnancy, as it turns out, is the added toilet paper usage, which, if you’re toilet paper snobs like us (Cottonelle with Aloe & E), is not insignificant. I’m certainly not eating it or anything, but with the added trips to the bathroom to pee, there is a serious uptick in TP consumption that is no doubt impacting the bottom (HA!) line. Adam, who never notices anything, noticed we seem to be whipping through toilet paper at an alarming rate and it’s ALL MY FAULT.
Seriously, NO ONE SHOULD HAVE TO PEE THIS MUCH. No one. Yes, I drink a lot of water, but it’s almost like I’m made of one long tube where it goes in one end, winds around unimpeded for a few moments, until making its grand exit on the other side. Third trimester peeing totally trumps first trimester peeing, is what I’m saying.
Which reminds me: OMFG I’m in the third trimester. Jenny had her baby already, and Leah is on her way and by the time you read this, may already HAVE HIM HERE. (Congratulations so far to Jenny for little Clark Herbert!) These are women I saw as my pregnant brethren, and for some reason, I kept thinking we’d all be pregnant FOREVER, together in swollen solidarity. It seems that is not the case, and babies do arrive at some time or another. Huh.
Another exciting side effect of the third trimester: the near-constant low-grade nausea is back, but without any of the coping mechanisms I had before (eat protein at every meal, keep stomach full, etc.). No, no. See also: inability to eat junk food. I couldn’t even finish a COOKIE the other night. A COOKIE. I can, however, enjoy Pillsbury Toaster Strudels without incident, which are very nearly junk food-like and just as addictive. And also DELICIOUS. DELICIOUS.
In other news, the holiday party season is upon us, and I attended my first on Saturday night (Hi R! And other attendees and friends!) wherein I discovered that I am much more allergic to cats than previously realized. Near the end of the evening, I noticed my eyes and nose becoming a little irritated, which is not unusual after a few hours with certain cats, however, it quickly became clear that things were worse than expected, so I had to leave ENTIRELY ABRUPTLY. It’s a good thing, too, because by the time I got home (an approximately four second walk), my eyes were almost swollen shut to the point of needing an ice pack. It appears that I will not be getting another cat anytime soon. Or, you know, ever. (Ours had to be rehomed last year, and while it was very sad, it was better for him, as he can’t be around a) other pets; or b) CHILDREN OH MY GOD NO CHILDREN OR HE WILL EAT THEM.)
Would you like me to come to YOUR holiday party and blow up like Sherman Klump? I’m booked next Saturday at a catless party, but other arrangements can be made if needed.
Incidentally, this coming weekend’s holiday party outfit requires maternity tights, which can only be purchased in-person more than an hour and a half away. And because I am the master of poor planning, I likely won’t make it out there this week to pick some up, so ah, does anyone know if I have any other options? Like, can I just buy some L’Eggs or No Nonsense or whatever brand my local drugstore has in their biggest size (Queen? Plus-size? LARGE? Do they even MAKE tights? Because I’m not wearing pantyhose or, as some of you call them, nylons. No can do. Nothing SHEER is going on these tree trunks, my friends) and be done with it, or is that a laughable option? I’ve gained some weight in my bum/thigh region, but I don’t know if it’s enough to push me into gigundo hosiery territory the way my belly has (I believe we have moved into the “Seriously, what is that thing?” territory there.) Oy. I’m sensing a lot of hiking up in my Saturday evening future.
I also meant to add that among the myriad of strange men I find attractive (my husband is quite conventionally handsome and not at all weird-looking, for the record), Philip Seymour Hoffman tops the list, and he might be the strangest of all. He’s SLOVENLY! And a little dumpy! And unkempt! And … and kind of GROSS. And yet: so attractive. So smart. So weirdly attractive, even while playing Truman Capote and I know how vomitously weird that sounds, but I’m sorry, it’s the truth. I almost licked the screen the other night when he was on the Daily Show.
Update: Some of you pointed me to Emily and her solution of thigh highs, which is so funny, because I KNEW I’d seen L’eggs referenced somewhere recently, but my brain is no longer functioning. And … do they make thigh high TIGHTS? Because see: no no to the sheer. No no. Also, if this doesn’t point out that as pregnant women, we are all pretty much the same with the same annoying problems, I don’t know what does. Also, I’ve worn thigh highs and man, that rubber stuff seems like it would make me want to scratch my legs off in itchy rebellion. I believe the last time I attempted it was my senior prom, and they had SEAMS down the back of them for some really ill-advised retro effect.
Hey, happy Monday!
*The Chemical Brothers
December 14th, 2008
I know this is old news, but I’m a little bit peeved with HBO over their decision to move Big Love to the fall. I realize it was the writer’s strike and everything, but COME ON. Big Love is not a fall show. It is a steamy summer show with multiple wives and creepy old men and lots of sex that is anything but sexy, and yet somehow it remains completely appealing, but again, not in a sexy way. It’s horribly unsexy in the way that ’70s-style pubic hair is unsexy. Which is to say, vaguely familiar and yet slightly parental and no one knows why. Does that make sense? It doesn’t. But it does remind me of a the classic 1970s female sexuality self-help book by Lonnie Barbach, “For Yourself: The Fulfillment of Female Sexuality” in which she recommends GETTING HIGH AND/OR DRUNK as a means to sexual fulfillment. And she’s so EARNEST about it, too.
“Some couples find a joint puts them in the mood!” Yes, Lonnie, I’ll bet they do. She goes on to say that booze (and she calls it booze) is also useful. No word on whether these two recommendations are in the most current edition.
By way of explanation, not that anyone asked: I collect social hygiene, self-help and cook books from the ’50s, ’60s and ’70s, hence the Lonnie Barbach. Am desperately seeking a first edition of Hints from Heloise — not the Heloise you all know, but her MOTHER. The one who explains the best way to clean a crinoline skirt and mentions that you should clean the ashtrays before your husband comes home. And for the love of God, don’t forget to put on lipstick.
Now I have to wait until AT LEAST September, which means I won’t even bother with Entourage, because, my friends, I AM OVER IT. Over Vince Chase, over Turtle, over E. Over Drama, even. I never thought this would happen, but last season sort of did it for me. Medellin indeed.
Speaking vaguely of cookbooks, I remain confused by the never-ending “summer recipe” lists that say that they don’t use the oven and keep you COOL, and yet advocate standing over a white-hot skillet sweating into your potatoes for 25 minutes. Yes, yes, an oven heats a house, but a skillet heats your FOREHEAD. That being said, might I recommend roasting carrots in the oven at 425 for 25 minutes with salt, pepper and olive oil? Doing tomato slices in similar fashion at 350 for 15 minutes is also delightful, and if you do them both in the cool of the nighttime, you can have a lovely, filling salad the next day for dinner without breaking a sweat.
Not that I’m usually one to dispense advice about sensitive matters, but if you’re infertile or a suspected infertile, not only do I recommend avoiding TTC message boards (Babydust! ~~*~~~*~~~*~~~*) (GDIAF, Babyduster!), but holy lord, the dark underbelly of infertile blogs — not most of them, mind you, but SOME — is also a minefield that you should run, not walk, away from. In some of them, you’ll find people’s lives who have been utterly destroyed by their infertility, which is sort of understandable, but not something I’m aiming to aspire to, and worse, there are too many spouses whose lack of support will do nothing but break your heart. And while I generally stray from judging others, I will say that there is a special place in hell for husbands who leave their wives for no other reason other than that they can’t produce a biological heir. Dude, I’m sorry, get over yourself. If you’re that massive of a douchebag, it’s unlikely that your legacy was worth preserving in the first place.
Mercy me, this day is over! Almost over! I had a cup of coffee last evening at 6:30 p.m. and as a result stayed AWAKE! and also ALERT! until 4 a.m., which was the last time I checked the clock, no shit. Aaand, I rose at 7:30. This, when combined with a spot of hormones, had me actually warning Adam at 3:30 this afternoon that coming home was entirely optional, and that staying at work late may be recommended. Or hey, had he considered staying at a hotel for fun? The Marriott has rooms! Yes, yes, GO TO THE MARRIOTT! Instead, I opted for creme brulee, which is available in delightful single servings at our local health food store (ha ha HAAA) and waited until 8 for the wine. And while it was too late for the obligatory whimper of “I TOLD YOU I WAS NOT RIGHT TODAY,” both salvaged the evening quite nicely. No matter the order, I’m feeling nothing short of awesome, but I’m having a hard time imagining who wouldn’t after a hefty serving of wine and heavy cream.
And suddenly, I’m craving fish sticks. Crispy ones, from the freezer section, possibly made by Mrs. Paul. With TARTAR SAUCE.
I told you I was not right today.
Hey, happy Thursday! And thank you — THANK YOU — for all of the book recommendations. Am overwhelmed, but also madly in love with you. Our vacation, PS, is now the first week of August, rather than July, which is both disappointing and thrilling, as I love looking forward to things and PLANNING things. And I now have a wonderful reading list of fluff.
June 25th, 2008