The Story of Charlie

It is seriously blowing my mind that we have been parents for two whole months. It both seems like yesterday and forever ago that Charlie came to us. Yes, yes, I am a walking cliche, I am well aware. I kept thinking today about what I was doing exactly two months ago, and I wanted to write it all down before my little diary notes have lost all meaning with my sieve of a memory. So here it is, in all of its overly wordy glory: Charlie's birth story.

Wednesday, May 28, 2014

I was scheduled for an induction at 40w5d, which is earlyish for induction, but I had a dear friend lose a full term baby due to placental insufficiency and the thought haunted me. My doctor was not overly comfortable going past the 41 week mark anyway, and the baby was looking robust, so we were in agreement that an induction at this point was a reasonable approach. I was to check in on the night of the 28th, and would hopefully have the baby out within 24-30 hours. I spent the day working from home, as the insane back and rib pain was too much to endure for even one more commute. I studiously ignored the fact that I was checking into the hospital that night until Mark came home and was all, "Seriously? You still haven't packed your bag?" Apparently making lists and pulling out a wee coming home outfit and a hand-knitted hat with matching booties wasn't considered "packing" in his mind. We ate Thai takeout, I threw together my list items, and we were off. 

8:30 pm: Who am I kidding? I was definitely late for my scheduled check-in; it was more like 8:39. Mark dropped me off at reception and went to park the car. The information desk people checked me in and directed me upstairs to labor and delivery. (Yikes.) I waited in a reception area upstairs until Mark joined me, then a nurse brought us back to my room. She instructed me to change into a gown, but then made no move to leave the room. I stood there awkwardly, not sure if I was supposed to just change there with her in the room. She had to point out the fact that there was a bathroom in the room. (She was not my favorite nurse of my stay, as we'll see in a moment.) Once I was gussied up in my hospital finery, she got me into bed, strapped to multiple monitors, and an IV started.

9:30 pm: The induction plan called for a course of Cervadil overnight to hopefully soften and prepare the cervix. Prior to inserting the Cervadil, the nurse wanted to ensure that the baby was still head down, so she brought in the ultrasound machine. She couldn't find the baby's head (wha?), so she called in a resident, who pointed out that the head was still there, but was just very low, so we could go ahead with the Cervadil. 

10:00 pm: The nurse began attempting to insert the Cervadil while I nearly jumped off the bed, it was so painful. It felt like the little tea bag-like suppository was made of razor blades. Nurse Scissorhands just couldn't figure out why I was in so much pain, as it no one else had everrrrrr protested in the slightest previously. (I was cutting a bitch mentally in that moment. Did she seriously just attempt to shame me?) Eventually she gave up and said something passive aggressive about hoping it works since it wasn't in as far as it was supposed to be. A ray of sunshine, that woman. 

11:45 pm: I was half dozing to a rerun of the Colbert Report when the whoosh-whooshing of the baby's monitor slowed waaaay down. I had just shifted positions and thought the monitor had slipped enough to pick up my heart instead of the baby's. I was fiddling with the belt when nurses flooded into the room. One slipped an oxygen mask onto my face and took my blood pressure while another started IV fluids and a third called my doctor. The baby's heart rate had apparently dropped out in response to a long contraction (confusing, as it only felt like light period cramping at that point), but it came right back up after shaving a few years off of my life. Apparently the Cervadil was working after all, so suck it, Nurse Scissorhands.

Thursday, May 29, 2014

12:30 am: The cramping was becoming more uncomfortable. I thought to myself that, if it were an impending period, I would have gotten out of bed to find some Advil at that point. But then it would lessen significantly. And then pick back up. And then lessen. Huh.

4:00 am: A nurse comes in to start a penicillin drip (thanks, Group B Strep!). It buuuurned so badly going into my hand and the pain in my joints was insane. Within minutes, I was shaking uncontrollably. This completely freaked me out (I work in health law products liability; I was imagining Stevens-Johnson syndrome or some other nightmarish drug reaction, of course). Mark was even more freaked and ran out to find a nurse. The nurse assured me that penicillin is supposed to hurt, but she slowed the drip way down and soon the aching and shaking slowed as well. 

6:30 am: Nurse disconnects my IVs so that I can use the bathroom. I shuffle over and pee faster than I ever have in my life, so freaked out was I by the crazy pressure downstairs. I was not about to have my baby fall into the toilet, so I hustled back to my little bed. 

7:30 am: My OB stops in to check on me before office hours. Contractions were feeling like pretty serious period cramps at that point, but I was managing well enough. My doctor was really pleased by the results of the Cervadil, so he said to leave it in until 10, then pull it and start Pitocin. He said he would be back to check in at lunch.

8:00 am: My new nurse (hooray for shift change!) comes in to check on me and said my doctor gave the ok for a light breakfast tray. I ordered a strawberry yogurt and an English muffin, but by the time the food arrived, I was in no mood for eating, as things were picking UP. I had one bite of a dry English muffin before setting the tray aside.

8:45 am: I was worried about asking for drugs too soon, so I started moving around in an attempt to get some relief. Standing felt better than lying down, at least until the pressure became too much. I moved to sitting on the side of the bed.

9:30 am: Things turned very, very quickly from strong but manageable period cramps to HOLY SHIT OW. I gave in and asked for the epidural at that point. They removed the Cervadil and started pushing IV fluids in preparation for the epidural, which was to be administered by an anesthesiologist very shortly. Spoiler alert: The anesthesiologist was NOT in shortly. Unfortunately, there was an emergency on the floor, so it was all hands on deck for a while there. A nurse would occasionally pop in and say that the anesthesiologist was coming soon. In the meantime, I moaned through contractions that were coming without a break. Poor Mark's arms were ready to fall off from two hours of massaging my butt and hips.

11:30 am: The anesthesiologist arrived and promptly threw a hissy fit over my (doctor sanctioned and uneaten) breakfast tray. For the love, woman, I had one bite of a shitty English muffin three hours ago; I think we're good, just as long as you insert the goddamn drugs. It was a little painful going in, and the sensation of the tube snaking along my spine was super unpleasant, but OMG. 15 minutes later, I'd have done anything she asked. ANYTHING. Epidurals are magical; I was high on the sense of relief for daaaaaays.

12:45 pm: My OB returned to break my water. He was thrilled by my progress on the Cervadil; I was fully effaced and 4 cm dilated. He estimated an early morning delivery. Unfortunately there was meconium in the amniotic fluid, but my doctor was unconcerned. He said it was pretty common and that they would be sure to have NICU staff present at delivery to suction him and ensure all was well. (Stuff like this makes me so glad I chose him. I am a pro worrier and he is very much not an alarmist, but the key is that he tells me WHY he's not alarmed, like I am an intelligent person, not a silly little patient to be patronized.) Of course, the baby's heart rate bottomed out again after some tough contractions, but it came right back up with oxygen and halting the Pitocin. 

2:00 pm: I started to feel some uncomfortable cramping again, so they gave me an epidural booster. The pain was much better within 15 minutes, and we spent the afternoon dozing and watching a "Law & Order: SVU" marathon. Hospitals are truly spectacularly awful places to try to sleep.

3:30 pm: The baby jumped and there was a huge, gross gush of fluid. It seems he was acting as a stopper in an attempt to preserve his beloved hot tub. (Cherish every moment.)

4:00 pm: My doctor returned to check on things again. I mentioned feeling a lot of pressure and he thought that was a great indicator of progress. He was expecting that I'd be around 6 cm, but I was at 9 -- progress indeed! The baby's head was still really high though, so he said he'd be back to see me in an hour.

5:00 pm: I was declared ready to push (OMG). 

5:30 pm: Began pushing. So weird, so much grossness. I would describe the contractions as intense pressure, so intense that it was nearly impossible not to push. I was expecting more pain, even with the epidural, but I was never overly uncomfortable. Or maybe I'm beginning to forget the discomfort? I don't know. Regardless, the kid never left my pelvis, so I wouldn't go by my account. 

8:00 pm: After pushing for 2.5 hours with zero progress, my doctor gently suggested that the baby was unlikely to emerge vaginally. I was really reluctant to have a c-section, but once my doctor described the baby's wee noggin as looking like a cantaloupe on a coffee cup (eww, but illustrative), I agreed. I hated the idea of his little head getting mushed with so little likelihood of progress, plus I was really worried about mushing his head further only to have him get stuck. I needed a little time to come around, but once I agreed to the c-section, things whipped into festive action. My doctor left to prep while a new (and awesome this time) anesthesiology team rolled in to prep me for surgery. Everyone was very cheerful and soothing, which was just what I needed. The epidural was already placed, so they just needed to up the drugs so that I would feel nothing and HOO BOY, mission accomplished. I was so numbed up that when they asked me to move my legs in preparation for moving to the OR, I could say nothing but, "Um, nope! I'm going to need some help here. Sorry!" I was also telling everyone and their brother that I didn't want Demerol (it makes everyone in my family vomit relentlessly, so not exactly ideal for post-abdominal surgery). The weird things that stick with you...

8:30 pm: They rolled me over to the OR and used a skateboard-like device to roll me on to the operating table. The curtain went up and I awkwardly realized that my whole lower half was exposed to the (rather jovial) surgical team. Despite the jolly team, I was still pretty nervous. Jeff, the nurse anesthetist, was great. I was asking for some kind of anxiolytic, but all he could offer was Versed, which was stronger than I wanted, so he helped me tough it out without the meds. Thanks to his care I actually remember my baby's birth. I was pretty desperate for Mark to show up, and it felt like forever before he was there next to me, but then there he was and we were off. There was a lot of tugging and a LOT of strange sensations. It seemed to go on forever, and then...

9:04 pm: He's here! I listened and listened, then heard the sweetest little squeaky cry that quickly turned into his now-familiar BELLOWING. (This child was literally born hangry.) It was the most surreal moment of my life; I'm still not sure I've fully processed things. 

(Poor Mark had no idea that they come out blue and then pink up as they oxygenate by breathing on their own, so when he looked over the curtain and saw a totally blue Charlie, then heard my doctor ask for someone to call the time, he thought for sure that the baby hadn't made it. My heart just breaks for him every time I think of this. Conveniently Charlie debuted his extraordinarily healthy lungs just then, reassuring his dad that there was much Lego building and baseball playing to come, thank GOD.)

Charlie was whisked over to the warmer with the NICU team as promised, though he remained in my line of sight. I shooed Mark over to be with Charlie while he aced his APGARs (9 and 9!) and within minutes, he was back and a nurse was shoving a burritoed Charlie into Mark's arms, much to Mark's terror. Sink or swim, buddy! 

The nurses took our first photo as a family of three right there:

Charlie and Mark were then whisked down to the recovery room while I was reassembled, which seemed to take forever. I definitely regret glancing over and seeing the suction tubes and collection containers. I also regret not asking for a touch of lipo while they were already in there. I was pretty distracted though, as I had begun shaking like crazy. Normally Demerol is used to control the shaking, but where I had refused it, they were limited to oxygen, which helped somewhat but not totally. 

9:30 pm: I was reunited with Mark and Charlie in the recovery room, where Charlie was SCREAMING in fury. The poor thing was ravenous and I was in no position to nurse given the wicked shaking. I asked if anyone had a pacifier, which worked for a few minutes, but lawsy, the SCREAMING. Eventually a nurse offered a wee bottle of formula, which finally quieted the poor starving thing. The hangry has been his defining characteristic from minute one. Mark had called my mom to tell her I had surgery (after it was over -- I come by my anxiety honestly), so I talked to my shaky, teary mom briefly to convince her I was ok.

Friday, May 30, 2014

12:00 am: The recovery team loaded us up in preparation to head up to our room. I had Charlie wedged in beside me (I was still shaking like a leaf and terrified of dropping him) and an oxygen tank between my legs, while Mark schlepped all of my labor stuff. Finally, we arrived in Room 601. 

The Aftermath

I had a surprisingly rough start following surgery. I was on oxygen for the shakes through much of Friday, and I struggled with low blood pressure until Saturday. I would feel really dizzy and lightheaded upon sitting unassisted/getting out of bed. I was finally able to get up and walk to the bathroom early Saturday morning with help and after a couple bags of fluids. I worked really hard at hydrating (such a chore for me) and was doing much better by Saturday night into Sunday. I debated discharge on Sunday vs. Monday. I really wanted to sleep in my own bed, but decided to stay until Monday because of the rough start and because my own doctor would be back to discharge me if I waited until Monday. The on call doc and my amazing nurses agreed; apparently I had given them quite a scare with all of the BP issues. 

We were able to head home around noon on Monday, June 2nd, and we've been living on fast-forward ever since. It seems impossible that it has been two months already, but here we are! This whole experience was nothing like what I expected, but as it brought me a healthy, happy baby, I can be nothing but grateful, even for the grossness. Ok, maybe not all of the grossness...

(What did I tell you? WALKING CLICHE.)

(Lookit that fat baby!)

The Last Days

It's such a strange feeling to know you're standing on the precipice of a truly life-changing event. It happens so rarely; even marriage wasn't that way for me. Marriage has been surprising in many ways, and I'm sure it will continue to surprise me, but it never felt life-changing; it was like coming home. I think the only time I can really compare this to is leaving for college. That feeling of leaving behind the only life you have ever known for something entirely unknown, knowing that you're about to meet people who will change your whole future and be central to who you are for the rest of your days. This is kind of like that, but exponentially bigger. 

I am kind of terrified of what's coming. What if something happens to you? What if something happens to me? What if we both make it through just fine, but daddy gets hit by a bus or something? What if I'm a terrible boy mom? What if I'm not a good enough mom for what you need? (Oh, my sweet boy, I pray every day that you do not inherit my crazy. I have enough "what ifs" to cover us both until the end of time. Maybe be a little less robotic than your dad, but oh please God, may you be spared my crazy.)

Selfishly, though, I am running head first (metaphorically, of course; I only waddle these days) toward the scary parts because I'm just so excited to meet you. I want to see who you look like and if your personality is as feisty and funny on the outside as it was on the inside. I want to snuggle you and snorfle your little neck. (I hope you're a snuggler, kiddo, because HOO BOY, there will be snuggles. Mama comes from a very large family of baby hogs, and they haven't had their mitts on a baby in years. You are EAGERLY anticipated to say the least.) Not going to lie, I'm pretty nervous about baths; we may let Nana roll with the first one -- she's a pro. Oh, also the nursing thing. I have concerns that the boobs won't work, but don't worry, we'll sort that out. I promise you won't go hungry. In short, other than sleep deprivation and unfathomable amounts of poop and laundry, I have no idea what to expect, and I really hope we don't eff things up. (I could probably start by working on the swearing thing.)

Mostly, I just want you to know how very loved you have been for your entire existence, even when you were just a robust little clump of cells:

And look how far we've come since then! You're measuring a whole 7 lbs (give or take a pound or so) now!

You know, I remember one night pretty early on, back when I was thoroughly convinced you were a girl, when I had some scary bleeding and ended up weeping with terror in the office bathroom. Rationally I knew it was very early and that taking you home was far from a guarantee, and I knew that we had frozen embryos and could try again, but it didn't matter. I wanted YOU. I didn't know you then like I do now or like we will once you're out and growing up before our eyes, but you have always been the one we were waiting for. I love you, sweet bear, and we can't WAIT to meet you. 

P.S. Can you do Mama a solid and take it easy on your way out? It would be much appreciated, bubs.

Full Term

Hello! It has somehow been more than two months since I checked in over here. Well, it should really only have been 6 or so weeks, but Blogger ate my vacation update (in short: GLORIOUS and TROPICAL), and then I got busy, um, being mired in third trimester misery. You're welcome for my not sharing. 

However, it recently occurred to me that I need to record the state of things these last couple of weeks. You know, so I can properly guilt my beloved child later. I mean, remember every precious moment. So here it is, in highlight form:

🔹The baby stayed relatively internal for a good long while, but he did a whoooole lot of growing in the last month or so. So much growing so quickly that he managed to rip some stuff in my upper rib region. I now have a big patch of numb skin, but the tissue underneath it is itchy and painful. The cherry on top is that, because the top skin is numb, it doesn't register scratching. It's pretty awesome. 

🔹He finally flipped head down last week (OW), and the poor little guy is totally out of room. This has not stopped the wiggling, however. He remains very active, but now we can see all of his wiggles from the outside, Alien-style. He likes to wiggle his butt back and forth, though it generally resides high up on my right side. The new development is a rogue elbow that he likes to shove way out on my left side. He's very sensitive about the elbow, though. Touch it and he'll yank it back in. It's a fun game. 

🔹My back has just about given up on me. Sitting upright is a killer (omg, the desk chair is nauseating by the end of the day, it hurts so much), standing for any significant length of time is a Bad Idea, and even driving gets pretty painful. Basically the one comfy place for me is in the big, ugly man chairs we have in the basement. Its degree of comfort is equal to its hideousness, so I spend a lot of time here, reclining. 

🔹I have reached the beached whale phase. Rolling over in bed requires effort and grunting, getting out of bed on my own requires generation of momentum via frog leg kicking, and my husband often wanders the house looking for me and finds me stuck under my own girth. It's not a huge belly, but it popped up so rapidly that I don't think I had time to adjust properly. Unwieldy is the name of this game.

🔹I went to bed last night able to walk just fine, albeit with a pronounced waddle. However, upon waking this morning, something had very definitely changed. There was a distinct increase in pressure and heaviness in the pelvic region, and MAN, does that hurt. Huuuuurt. At my appointment this afternoon, the doctor declared that the baby had definitely dropped and that his head is quite low, which explains the vast improvement in heartburn recently, as well as my new inability to waddle with any modicum of grace or lack of pain. 

🔹I am still taking Phenergan daily at 37+ weeks, and without it, the gags come back to haunt me. It's awesome. Food-wise, I haven't had a ton of cravings or aversions. In the beginning, the nausea was all-consuming, but nothing in particular really turned my stomach. I ate a Starbucks breakfast sandwich every morning for a while there, so those kind of gross me out now. Also, I think because we hadn't been in our house for very long before the nausea hit, I came to associate a lot of the inherent new house smells with feeling like death was nigh, so it has been fun walking into certain areas and feeling the ugh wash over me anew. Cravings have rarely been of the "I MUST have this one specific thing RIGHT NOW" variety. There was the one night I truly needed Coldstone, but otherwise? It has mainly been an intense sweet tooth situation. Danish (specifically and uniquely Wegmans Kuchen, either apple, raspberry, or cheese) has been very special to me. Reese's Peanut Butter Eggs are always my holiday candy of choice, but I kind of hoarded them this year. I have eaten a metric ton of brownies, but those were for the baby. Brownies, preferably frosted ones, make him lose his fool mind, and the dancing that ensues is too hilarious to resist. Oh! And fruit! Ice cold apple slices were my life in the first trimester. Once clementine season rolled around, I was putting back about a crate a week. Now that berries are looking less winter anemic, giant blackberries are my thing, though raspberries and blueberries are also welcome. Beverages have been tough. I hate water (haaaate), so I've struggled with getting enough fluids in. There has been a lot of watered down Gatorade, some Coke Zero (sorry, baby), and so much squirty water flavoring crap (my #1 is Nestea's Arnold Palmer). Now that the heartburn has abated somewhat, I am favoring the madras (hold the vodka, replace it with water). 

🔹The heartburn was pretty gruesome for a bit there. It was so bad it actually caused referred pain in three spots -- my right ear, the back of my neck, and a spot on my right arm. So weird, and so awful. My voice was hoarse one week, and there was a dark night when I ended up sobbing in frustration. I am beyond grateful that that phase seems to have passed. I did learn one thing, though: vanilla ice cream is a pretty excellent, if temporary, heartburn remedy. But in those 30 excruciating minutes while you're waiting for the Zantac to kick in? Ain't nothing better than a vanilla frosty. (You're welcome.)

So there you have it -- so many moments to "treasure." It's such an odd position to be in, to be so grateful for something that you wanted so desperately and feared would never work out, but that is so physically crappy. I do love love love the wiggling, especially when I see his little butt pull my whole belly up into a lopsided point or when he plays keep away with that wee elbow, but the rest of it all? Thbbbbbttt. Swistle's luckiness/suckiness statement? Truer words have never been written. 

PS -- Baby's room is almost done, so I'll try to post some photos soon. It's looking pretty cute!

100 Days

This past Thursday, in addition to a cozy snow day, we hit the 100 Day mark -- 100 days left until the due date. I was thinking it would be kind of fun to mark. I'm due the day before the 13th anniversary of my college graduation and, as seniors, we planned a huge ball to celebrate the beginning of our last 100 days of college. I'm certainly not thinking about throwing what amounted to a very formal kegger, but I was thinking I'd take a first shot of the belly (it is still very stubbornly looking like a fat beer gut rather than a baby, so I haven't exactly been thrilled by the idea of memorializing it) and would maybe start packing up the stuff that's occupying his room so that we can get to work on a nursery. 

Instead I spent the entire day fretting that something was very, very wrong. I felt kind of off, and I had a wicked backache and vague crampiness all day. By the time we finished dinner, I was DONE and ready for the couch. There the backache developed into distinctly period-like cramps that started in my back and wrapped around my hips and went down into my thighs. It would cramp up, then relax, cramp up, then relax; this went on for over an hour, by which time I was thoroughly distraught. I took a hot shower to see if that would help, but by the time Mark came to check on me, I was all, "WE ARE GOING TO THE ER. NOW."

We headed out into round 2 of the snowstorm, and of course the roads were miserable. The highway was covered in icy slush and regular streets were even worse. We decided to go to the closer Urgent Care center operated by the hospital system rather than continuing to the hospital where the baby will be born. I figured that if things were actually dire, they could send us to the hospital by ambulance. I had barely gotten the words "25, almost 26, weeks pregnant and cramping" out before they called a nurse to bring me back and kept my husband to finish the registration stuff. 

In the exam room, I changed into a gown and they started an IV to draw blood. They had me give a urine sample and then we waited for the doctor, which took a surprising amount of time given that I seemed to be their only patient. (Given his later bedside manner, I'm thinking maybe he was googling "25, almost 26, weeks pregnant and cramping.") The doctor came in with an ultrasound machine and went to work checking out the baby. Unfortunately for us, he looked very frowny and said NOT A WORD for many minutes, until I said in a panic-stricken rush, "Um, YOUFOUNDTHEHEARTBEAT,RIGHT?" He looked at me like I was annoying him and was all, "Yes, but I cannot get a good image of the cervix." 

DUDE. YOU NARRATE THE ULTRASOUND FOR THE PANICKY PARENTS WHO ARE UNACCUSTOMED TO NOT FOLLOWING ALONG ON THEIR OWN SCREEN AND WHO ARE HOLDING THEIR BREATH WAITING TO SEE IF THEIR BABY IS STILL ALIVE.

He eventually pointed out the baby moving around, after COUNTING ON HIS FINGERS to calculate the heart rate. (This is where I reeeally started regretting not trekking to the real ER.) He said that where he couldn't get an image of the cervix, he would have to do a manual exam. I am pretty sure he had not performed a manual exam since med school, if ever. As he was lubing up to do the exam, he said to the nurse, "Oh wait, second trimester, I need sterile gloves." He then proceeded to conduct the most painful medical experience I've had since the egg retrieval. Seriously, the nurse had to remind me to breathe, it was that bad.

One funny thing -- he asked if I wanted Mark to step out while he did he exam. I was like, dude, first, he's my husband; he's familiar with that region. Second? We did IVF; I am utterly devoid of dignity at this point.

Anyway, he left the room to check lab results and then came back in with a diagnosis of -- no joke -- lower back pain. He said the urine results were negative, he couldn't feel anything "bulging around the cervix" (was he expecting to find a baby hanging out down there?), and the baby was doing fine, so he felt comfortable sending me home. The next part was my favorite. He said that he couldn't guarantee it wasn't preterm labor and that he had had one case where a fetus was later expelled (WHAAAT?!), but he thought that would be an unlikely outcome. I sat there, dumbfounded, unable to believe he had really just said that. Like, eh, it's possible your baby could fall out sometime tonight, but you know, try crossing your legs and you should be fine! After he left the room, the nurse started to go through discharge instructions and I asked whether they were going to monitor me to see whether the uterus was actually contracting. She said she thought the ultrasound could tell that, but went out to check with the doctor. Turns out the ultrasound can't see that, and they don't have that kind of monitoring equipment. AWESOME. I'M FEELING SUPER CONFIDENT IN YOUR DIAGNOSIS OF "BACKACHE," SIR.

We were released and headed back into the snow, hoping the car would get up the steep hill we live at the top of. The cramping had subsided somewhat, so we decided we'd try to get some sleep, but would go directly to the ER if anything changed. By morning, I was sore, but the cramping was gone. I called my OB to let them know what was going on. They were glad we went in to get checked, but not thrilled that they had lacked the appropriate equipment. They suspected dehydration and ordered this terrible water drinker to step it up substantially, but said to call right away if the cramping returned and they would send me to L&D to be checked. My next regular appointment is Monday, so they felt ok letting me wait through the weekend as long as there was no more cramping. I started pushing water by the giant bottle (ugh) and spent much of yesterday lying on my left side, but *knock wood* there has been no more cramping. Here's hoping it stays that way...

I did have a wee breakdown Friday night. I was making pizza for dinner and Mark came up to hug me from behind. Unfortunately, he also accidentally clocked me right in my junky sinus with his water glass. My eyes got teary and from there it was aaaaall over. I could not stop the waterworks. He was horrified that I was hurt and I was like, "I'm not hur-ur-urrrt; I just can't sto-o-op, I don't know what's wro-o-ong with meeeee. *SOB*" We were both laughing at how ridiculous it was, but it took me a bit to calm down. Guess my cold dead soul was pretty worried about my wee, undercooked baby. 

On the upside, there's still no more cramping AND my buddy made me breakfast in bed on Saturday. 

He actually bought an ebelskiver pan specifically for a post-Valentine's surprise! How cute is that? He is the best. 

The 100 Day mark wasn't what I expected, but then again, neither was the road to get here. We're hanging in, though, and so very grateful that this was just a minor bump in the road. Here's hoping that the next 97 days (and beyond) will be smooth and boring...

Hello, old friend!

It has been a while since I checked in over here and HOO BOY, are things better. I would like to kiss the face of whoever invented Phenergan. Seriously. I went from constant, nauseated misery coupled with crippling constipation (a giant bird to you, Zofran) to "I FEEL COMPARATIVELY MAAAAARVELOOOOOUS" with one dose. There were tears of gratitude on more than one occasion, no joke. With time, the nausea has gotten much better on its own too. I am down to one dose nightly, which gets me through the morning, and if I forget to take them, the misery is minimal. Thank GOD; the fall was a dark, dark time over here.

Conveniently, the dramatic improvement in health came just in time for the holidays. We went to Boston for the massive Irish shit show (i.e. Thanksgiving -- it's a lovely tradition, though pretty funny as the sober one). There is lots of delicious food (I come from a family of amazing cooks) and wine, and it's a great day with most of my mom's huge family. She's the oldest of nine, and 7/9 attend with all of their spouses and kids. We missed it last year, so it was great to be back. 

Once we got home, we decorated for Christmas as much as I had energy for, because Mark's parents were coming to us for faux Christmas. I loved having the decorations up; it made the house feel so cozy. 

We had a great visit. We did "Christmas" on the Sunday of their visit, with my MIL making her traditional cinnamon rolls and opening presents. I made a tenderloin roast with horseradish cream sauce for dinner with a potato gratin (Smitten Kitchen's recipe + caramelized onions -- omg) and roasted green beans with a lemon chive butter. We had boozy icebox cake for dessert and sat around on the cozy couch lit by the tree. Lovely. 

We went back to Boston for Christmas proper. We got there in time for the Christmas party with my mom's side of the family, went up to visit Mark's grandmother, and had Christmas Eve/day with my dad's family. We do the whole seven fishes thing on Christmas Eve (my mom hosts -- we have smoked salmon and fried calamari with the apps, linguini with clam sauce, scrod baked with crabmeat stuffing, and baked stuffed shrimp and scallops). It's much more formal than with my mom's family, but my cousins on this side are really funny. I'm the oldest by six years, so I wasn't really close to these cousins when we were younger; I was a babysitter rather than one of the kids. It has been really fun as they've all gotten older too. 

My tiny grandma sleeps over on Christmas Eve (she has done this since my grandfather died in 1996) and we open presents and eat leftover smoked salmon with bagels and cream cheese. We go to my uncle's house for dinner with the same crowd (SO MUCH FOOD AND TOGETHERNESS), and then on the 26th, we have the traditional Day of Sloth. We clean up the presents and arrange them under the tree, shower and change back into jammies, and then we take to the couch. Well, my mom and I do. My dad usually goes to the office and Mark went to meet up with high school friends. It was glorious. I gave mom Downton Abbey on dvd, so she powered through the first season while I napped. We had leftover baked stuffed shrimp for lunch and an afternoon snack of pie. I tried to soak up the gloriousness as much as I could, knowing that next year will (knock wood, fingers crossed) be VERY different. 

On the baby front, all is going well. My biggest issue to date has been some pubic symphysis discomfort. I sleep with a pillow between my legs and sit down to put pants on. Flipping over in bed and putting all of my weight on one foot is pretty painful, and for some reason, walking around grocery stores practically cripples me, but otherwise it's pretty manageable. Baby boy, whom we are calling Billy for the time being (it's a long story, and probably only funny if you know my dad), had his 20 week ultrasound, and he's looking perfectly healthy, which was such a huge relief. He also revealed his funny little personality. My sweet guy is a total stinker. They spent two hours checking him out and I still had to go back for a repeat because he refused to let them measure the structures in his head. He was just as much of a stinker the second time around. They were able to measure everything they needed to, but when they tried getting a 4D image of his face, he hid behind his hands, looked away, and even shook his head "no" (OMG). We did get a profile and he's adorable, of course; I think he looks just like Mark, not that you can really tell. 

The really fun stuff is that he's super active, and I love feeling him wiggling around in there. He's a big chocolate fan, so that always gets him dancing. He totally responds to his space getting squished too. He punches me when I lean over the computer, and he was pissed last week when I wore regular khakis with a belly band. They were kind of digging into the belly, and he spent a good portion of the day punching right where the pants were cramping his style, poor baby. His kicks and punches have gotten to the point where Mark can sometimes feel him too. 

We celebrated hitting the viability mark by ordering his crib, mattress, and changing table, as well as getting baby registries started. Would you please look at these shoes I bought? Have you ever seen anything so wee and adorable?

It is all both awesome and terrifying, because he feels so real now and I love him so much already, and I am absolutely terrified (TERRIFIED) of something happening to him. I know it's out of my control, so I'm trying to focus on the fact that all is going well to this point, rather than all of the horror stories my brain has accumulated over the years and naturally prefers to fixate on. It feels so impossible that we could really be so lucky after so much disappointment; I think I'm just so used to waiting for the other shoe to drop.

24 weeks, 4 days today. We are SO EXCITED to meet you, my Billy. (We'll gladly wait until you're fully cooked, though.)

October: The Month That Wasn't

Hello! Still mired in hell over here. I totally feel guilty whining (again, still) because I know so many people have had it way worse. Thanks to my raging emetophobia, I haven't actually had the barfs, but the constant gaggy nausea is exhausting and it's a struggle to contain the whininess. 

I actually did okay last weekend. My law school BFF was in town from London with her new little guy, so it was a crazy weekend. She has one speed: frenetic. She arrived in DC from her parents' house in SC where she has been visiting. She spent time with one of her sisters and a friend before heading out to her cousin's house in the mountains. I drove out to meet them there on Saturday, about three hours through the mountains of western Maryland. It was absolutely gorgeous, and her eclectic cousins have a beautiful house. They made a fantastic dinner, complete with a ridiculously expensive bottle of wine (I had to have a little; I mean, I'm surely not buying a $250 bottle of wine anytime soon). Dessert was some amazing looking imported brie (I abstained) and some Dom Perignon (you bet I had half a flute!) while we played board games. Such a fun night!

On Sunday, we had coffee and breakfast while chatting in the kitchen, then began the long process of packing up the wee baby's belongings. For someone so tiny, he sure requires a LOT of crap. I drove like a ninny all the way home because his British car seat was freaking me out. It's a 3 point harness instead of 5, and it just didn't seem like the seatbelt was holding it in place securely, and you definitely can't break someone else's baby, so yeah, I drove like my grandmother all the way home. Upon arriving home (perfect angel baby slept the WHOLE way), the mad rush was on, as we had two hours until all of our law school friends were coming for dinner. I threw together a double batch of Ina Garten's mac & cheese (because I am pathologically incapable of preparing an appropriate amount of food for parties and always waaaaay over do) and stuck Smitten Kitchen's brisket in the oven to reheat. I biffed the brisket because I wasn't thinking and shredded it rather than slicing, but it was fine and the mac & cheese was amazing. It was great to see everyone, and the baby was lovely, being passed from person to person without complaint. 

When it was over, I was exhausted, but couldn't believe I got through it feeling ok, seeing as I had barely left the house most weekends in the previous month. I almost thought that maaaaybe I was turning a corner, but HAAAAA, NOPE. I was back to wallowing in misery in my bathtub by this weekend. I did wash a load of laundry and cleaned the kitchen, though. WIFE OF THE YEAR.

11w1d today; next appointment isn't until the 20th. PLEASE GOD, let me remain sane while waiting for the next check up, and PLEASE, PLEASE let this 12-weeks-as-turning-point rumor be true, I AM BEGGING YOU.

Coulda, Woulda, Shoulda

So it turns out I really shouldn't have spared the inlaws the worry re: last weekend's Fun With Hemorrhaging. I have since learned of several bombs the MIL dropped while I was indisposed. First, I am clearly "milking" this for all it's worth. She never experienced any nausea, so obviously it's just a myth and I just need to buck up. In the same vein, bone-crushing fatigue = urban legend, so again, buck the fuck up. My favorite? "She would feel so much better if she just got some fresh air." I believe this followed my not wanting to take a 2.5 mile walk for coffee while spotting and cramping. The kicker is that I really was trying to be a trouper while they were here. I ate dinner cheerily despite feeling like death was imminent. I grocery shopped, cooked fancy homemade pizzas, made sure they had fresh linens on their bed and plenty of freshly washed towels, made the house as nice as I could, all while feeling like shit. And I like my inlaws! I really do! Sure, week long visits are longer than I prefer, especially when I know they are just puttering around the house while we're at work, but I deal. This just felt mean, criticizing me for feeling like crap, especially when she had no idea what was really going on or how hard it was for us to get here. It just stung and made me SO angry. Ragey, really. I'm trying to let it go though. Chalking it up to total ignorance of reality. (Oopsie, that sounded bitter, didn't it?)

Anyway, I had the mental health ultrasound on Tuesday and the blob was still alive and well. It was measuring a couple of days ahead of schedule and had a nice, strong heart rate -- 152. The nausea kind of took off this week too, unfortunately. In the beginning, it was manageable assuming I ate often enough. Now it's just kind of constant, like my gag reflex is in overdrive, and it seems to get really bad just in time to drive home from work. The B6/unisom combo no longer seems to help, and the zofran does nothing other than cause crippling constipation. Altoids give me a few minutes of relief, and warm baths are pretty soothing, but otherwise there is a lot of sucking it up going on. Every minute at work is torture; it's one thing to feel like crap a home, but another entirely to feel that way outside of my comfort zone when I have to appear professional. I'm praying every day that this gets better soon. I have never handled nausea well (HOOOO: UNDERSTATEMENT), so the constancy of this is wearing on me. It's depressing and isolating to feel sick all the time. My sweet husband has been amazing. He cooks, cleans, brings whatever I need to wherever I am lying in a heap of misery. I feel so terrible for sucking so hard lately, but I'm sure I'll get mine -- he is planning to have rotator cuff surgery this winter and he's a notoriously terrible patient. Poor little bunny.

Summary at 8w1d: This kid better be awesome, because life sucks right now.

Hork

WARNING: This is mostly gross and TMI recorded for my own recollection, so please feel free to ignore. Damn, biology is gross.

So! Three weeks later, and I'm still alive and seemingly still pregnant. I had four betas, all with excellent numbers and doubling times (623, 1400, 4000, 10000), and despite a couple of unpleasant (read: utterly terrifying) spotting/cramping episodes, one of which earned us that 4th beta, we still saw an appropriately sized blob with a strong heartbeat at our 6w3d ultrasound. This was reassuring enough that we shared the news with our parents. Well, to be honest, we really didn't have much choice. Mark's parents are visiting right now and we have tickets to take them to a wine festival tonight. For those who know me in real life, well, my not drinking at a wine festival is about as subtle as a blinking neon sign declaring "PREGNANT" plastered to my forehead. I'm not an alcoholic by any stretch, but I ... I like wine, ok? Let's just say the jig was up. Obviously all four first-time potential grandparents are BESIDE THEMSELVES and struggling with the embargo on the big news. 

Anyhoo, things have been progressing, I guess. There is definite bloating, my bras feel snug, nausea showed up at precisely 6 weeks, like, to the hour, I am unspeakably exhausted, and I am desperately, desperately in need of some Activia. Ahem. (Apologies for the TMI, y'all.) 

What is totally freaking me out is the cramping/bleeding episode I had last night. I came up to my room late in the afternoon because I thought I was having some, um, Activia-related issues (omg, I'm sorry). What I discovered was blood. A LOT of blood. A terrifying amount, in fact. At first it was thin, then it got thicker, by morning it was brown. I didn't panic because it wasn't clotty and also because these episodes seem to happen after I've had a lot of tonic water, which I just discovered can be an anticoagulant. (MORON. Obviously that is on the No Fly List now.) My next ultrasound isn't until a week from Tuesday, so I'm going to talk to my nurse tomorrow and see if she can sneak me in for a mental health check. I am trying so hard to remain detached, because hello, still so early, but I would really, really prefer it if the blob were still there and growing happily. 

Poor Mark is stuck running interference with his parents about why I have been up in my room for nearly a day, letting them assume I'm just nauseated and sleeping it off. I think that's probably better for all than, ohh, she's on bedrest because she spent half the night hemorrhaging. I can think of better times for house guests is what I'm saying. On the plus side, I did learn while chatting with my dear MIL, who has been cooking and cleaning up for my useless ass, that when Mark was born, his dad's parents flew in before the due date and just kind of hung out for an open ended visit, awaiting his (very late) arrival. My MIL found this to be an exquisite type of torture and swore the that she would never do this to her children. They plan to make do with Skype and photos until we're ready for visitors. I had been fretting about this, as I love them and would never want to keep them from their grandbaby, but oh LORD, did I not want anyone in my house in the very early days. Huge relief! 

So, to sum up: grossness, discomfort, and anxiety, with occasional bouts of gory terror. This is life at 7w1d. 

WUT?

So can we talk about this? Because WHOA:

I have peed on so many, many dollars over the last few years, but never has THIS happened. And let's be clear -- I am certainly not operating as though this means we'll actually be bringing a baby home come May. If this is indeed accurate and not just a chemical (first beta is Tuesday), I am at a mere 4w1d. There is still so very much time in which things could go wrong.

I am dangerously, wantonly hopeful, though; I just can't help myself. We did so much to get here and I think I was just expecting it would never actually work. I feel like hope is reckless at this stage, but alas, here we are. And fucking Pinterest, you guys. The siren song of its trove of nursery photos is irresistible; I mean, imaginary decorating is MY THING. I'm not pinning anything, of course, but ohh how I look and ponder themes and paint colors. I also had a conveniently timed shopping trip to pick up a baby shower gift and was promptly overwhelmed by Buy Buy Baby. There is so much CRAP; I could research from now until May just trying to figure out what is actually necessary. It makes reading about this stuff so easy to justify when I should really just back away and ignore the fact that our whole world has shifted.

I think imaginary decorating and reading about baby gear is just my method of distraction, because the limbo never really ends, does it? First I was anxious it wouldn't work, now I'm terrified something will go wrong. The really scary thing is that, if we're unbelievably lucky, it's only going to get worse. In the best case scenario, I'm going to spend my whole life, God willing, worrying about something happening to this little person. Right now, I'm just hoping I'll get that chance. 

I can't drink, so I'm soothing my nerves with pictures of Jenny Lind cribs and nautical stripes. It'll have to do for now.