The arrival of the babies' Social Security cards leaves me with an odd question.
Instructions on the card tell the designee to sign immediatly and put away in a safe place. The safe place is no problem, but the signature part is a quandry.
Do I wrap their miniature fingers around a pen and shakily assist them in signing, so that upon entry into school I can assure them that they did sign them with their own authentic signature? or do I sign their names now to make the cards "secure"? or leave them blank for the kids to sign when they're older?
If I have a Social Security card, I don't have a clue where it is so who knows if it's signed. Hmmmm??
Wednesday, June 28, 2006
How it All Went Down (PART 2)
We’re sitting in an exam room at the pediatric ophthalmologist a few weeks back. A nurse is filling out information on a computerized form, asking us questions with her back to us. I feel a tinge, then a dampness, then look to the front of my, thankfully black, tee shirt, to see that I’m just leaking away. Still answering questions, I reach into my bag and extricate two tissues. I stuff them surreptitiously into my bra, praying that the nurse doesn’t turn around. At which point J asks me, quite loudly, “Kind of takes you back to your high school days, doesn’t it?”
Thank goodness the nurse doesn’t turn around, and I give him a big old wallop across the chest.
My sense of humor has returned in some capacity, so I guess I’m ready to finish up the Very Important Birth Story, Part Deux.
***************************
… I remember asking the doctor to tell me what she was doing as she went along (something I’d read in a childbirth book). She laughed a bit, and said she’d try. That was the last lighthearted moment I remember. Apparently, she began the incision, because I did feel a twinge. I spoke up, slightly alarmed, recalling the recent tale of a good friend (also an L&D nurse) whose C-section “wore off” and she was left with sensation on half of her body. The anesthesiologist jumped right on it, and upped my meds, and the pain went away.
So they’re working away, planning to pull My Boy out. All seems to be going as it would, and things get tense. I’m really in LaLa land, feeling good, kind of floaty. There are two distinct moments I recall about My Boy’s birth. First (and in no particular order):
All of a sudden, J is no longer to my right. I realize that they nurses have instructed him to sit down on the floor and take deep breaths. He has gone pale and begun to look ill, and the nurses are concerned he is going to pass out. And given what is going on, I realize later, there is no one to take care of him should he fall over. He later tells me that this was the most scared he has ever been. He was overwhelmed by the amount of blood, the urgency of the situation, and feared that I would die, that our son would die. His concerns were probably slightly more than necessary, but I’ve never seen such a display of vulnerability as I did when he later told me about this. In the OR, he told me that “it’s so much different than the Discovery Channel.” He sat on the floor for a bit, and got himself together before I knew what was going on.
Before they can pull My Boy out, his left arm pops up and out. It is grossly bruised, a solid purple mass. They don’t know that this affects just his arm, and fears that his whole body is purple.
I hear my doctor’s strong, confident voice in a tone unfamiliar to me. I hear panic, and I hear fear. She says, “Get another surgeon. Now.” She repeats it. “There are no other surgeons on right now,” one of the nurses or neonatologists replies. She needs another set of hands.
I come to find out later, My Boy was at +2 station, meaning he was way far down in the birth canal, quite eager to head out. His head had formed such suction, that my doctor couldn’t break it to pull him out. Her hands are quite small, which was good in this situation, as they could fit around his head, were getting cramped and tired and unable to move. She told me the next day, that her arms and wrists were quite sore.
We don’t know the cause of the bruised (and I mean from fingertip to shoulder) arm – perhaps it was stuck inside at a funny angle. He had some additional bruising on his head and around his ankles, which we did figure out later were from the actual delivery.
No additional surgeon is necessary, as he finally gives way and they are able to yank him out. I realize later that my incision extends and good three inches on the right side, in a kind of jagged pattern. This is from an additional cut they had to make in order to get him out. My doctor commented on it, in an “oops” sort of way at my 6-week appointment, but I realize it was necessary to get him out with speed.
I never saw him, as they whisked him away to the team of neonatologist, respiratory therapist and NICU nurses. Honestly, I was so unaware of the situation, I don’t remember being very concerned. Perhaps concerned in an “it’ll all work out” kind of way.
My Girl had a less traumatic, but interesting birth. Apparently the uterus clamps down quickly after the first child is taken out, not realizing that there is another to be born. In the current mode of tension, they want to take no chances. So they pull her out, full in her amniotic sac. They just plop it right on top of me and splice it open. She emerges beautifully pink and clean. No mess, no fuss. J got a picture, albeit quite fuzzy, of her sac sitting on top of me, and he said that it was kind of transparent, that you could see her inside before they broke it.
I don’t know any of this has happened, the circumstances of her birth, but she is quickly wrapped up, and brought up to my right side. The nurse holds her right at my face, as I gaze at her in amazement. I kiss her and I stare at her for what seems like hours. But then I think, “Okay, enough is enough. I can’t touch or hold her, take her away and let’s get this show on the road.” I cringe as I look back, realizing that I wasn’t particularly concerned about My Boy. I was so out of it, and I hate that.
At this point, J has headed to the back of the OR to go watch over the babies. My Boy is having breathing problems, and is put on the ventilator. My Girl is a-okay, just a little pink mass of love. I smelled burning. I tell no one in particular that it smells like the dentists office. The doctor replies “You really don’t want to know what that smell is … don’t ask.” It was cauterizing. Ugg. As she finishes up, my doctor comes to the right side of the table. I remember that she was covered in blood. She tries to talk to me, and I can’t concentration, because I am fixated on the blood that covers her hands and gown. I tell her as much, and I think she is put off. I ask if my babies are going to die, and I remember so clearly that no one answered me. Did I even ask the question?
I’m taken back to my labor & delivery room to recover. J goes with the babies to the NICU, and takes lots and lots of pictures … I’m so grateful that he did that, because it helped me piece the whole morning together. He returns and we make a list of names – we’d pretty much decided on the first names, but chose the names of our two oldest siblings as the babies middle names.
Soon it’s time to transfer me to my postpartum room, and on the way, they pull my stretcher into the NICU. I am a mess, all tears and worries. I see my gorgeous son, so bruised and traumatized. He has a huge ventilator coming out of his mouth, his head askew to one side under the weight of it. The number of tubes and wires overwhelms me, although I realize later that there aren’t that many. My girl is pert and pink in her isolette, also with a requisite number of tubes and wires, but no ventilator.
*****************************************
The children, my children, are fine. As far as premature babies go, they are quite healthy. And I realize this as I look at many of the other NICU babies. All of their medical problems can pretty much be attributed to their 9-week prematurity. Over the course of their five weeks in the NICU, they spent almost two weeks under the biliruben lights to treat jaundice. My Boy’s jaundice was much worse that hers, and required more time and more lights. It was so frustrating, as their faces were covered with masks, and we couldn’t remove them from the isolettes more than once a day, in order to ensure that they received enough light treatment.
He was on the ventilator for a few days, and then on supplemental oxygen for a few days more, but his breathing was quickly under control. Eventually, his purple arm faded and he was able to move it around, and there is no lasting damage as we can tell. They dealt with some gastrointestinal issues, apnea, bradycardia, temperature control and weight gain issues.
Those five weeks were alternately the longest, and the shortest, of my life. I spent every single day there, usually from 9 until mid afternoon, and back in the evening. For weeks, I couldn’t hold them more than once or twice a day, but I sat by their isolettes, just because I had to be there. I crocheted some hats, I read them stories, I sat and stared. And every two to three hours, I trudged down the hall to the lactation room to pump milk that would eventually be fed through nasogastro tubes, and later through doll-sized bottles.
*********************************
My babies are home, and life goes on. I hope to catch up, retroactively, on this blog, and fill in some of the gaps and memories from the past eight weeks while recording the activities and thoughts that now make up our very different life. This has been my only journal of the struggle to conceive, of my interrupted pregnancy, and I hope to continue with the stories of the lives of My Boy and My Girl.
Thank goodness the nurse doesn’t turn around, and I give him a big old wallop across the chest.
My sense of humor has returned in some capacity, so I guess I’m ready to finish up the Very Important Birth Story, Part Deux.
***************************
… I remember asking the doctor to tell me what she was doing as she went along (something I’d read in a childbirth book). She laughed a bit, and said she’d try. That was the last lighthearted moment I remember. Apparently, she began the incision, because I did feel a twinge. I spoke up, slightly alarmed, recalling the recent tale of a good friend (also an L&D nurse) whose C-section “wore off” and she was left with sensation on half of her body. The anesthesiologist jumped right on it, and upped my meds, and the pain went away.
So they’re working away, planning to pull My Boy out. All seems to be going as it would, and things get tense. I’m really in LaLa land, feeling good, kind of floaty. There are two distinct moments I recall about My Boy’s birth. First (and in no particular order):
All of a sudden, J is no longer to my right. I realize that they nurses have instructed him to sit down on the floor and take deep breaths. He has gone pale and begun to look ill, and the nurses are concerned he is going to pass out. And given what is going on, I realize later, there is no one to take care of him should he fall over. He later tells me that this was the most scared he has ever been. He was overwhelmed by the amount of blood, the urgency of the situation, and feared that I would die, that our son would die. His concerns were probably slightly more than necessary, but I’ve never seen such a display of vulnerability as I did when he later told me about this. In the OR, he told me that “it’s so much different than the Discovery Channel.” He sat on the floor for a bit, and got himself together before I knew what was going on.
Before they can pull My Boy out, his left arm pops up and out. It is grossly bruised, a solid purple mass. They don’t know that this affects just his arm, and fears that his whole body is purple.
I hear my doctor’s strong, confident voice in a tone unfamiliar to me. I hear panic, and I hear fear. She says, “Get another surgeon. Now.” She repeats it. “There are no other surgeons on right now,” one of the nurses or neonatologists replies. She needs another set of hands.
I come to find out later, My Boy was at +2 station, meaning he was way far down in the birth canal, quite eager to head out. His head had formed such suction, that my doctor couldn’t break it to pull him out. Her hands are quite small, which was good in this situation, as they could fit around his head, were getting cramped and tired and unable to move. She told me the next day, that her arms and wrists were quite sore.
We don’t know the cause of the bruised (and I mean from fingertip to shoulder) arm – perhaps it was stuck inside at a funny angle. He had some additional bruising on his head and around his ankles, which we did figure out later were from the actual delivery.
No additional surgeon is necessary, as he finally gives way and they are able to yank him out. I realize later that my incision extends and good three inches on the right side, in a kind of jagged pattern. This is from an additional cut they had to make in order to get him out. My doctor commented on it, in an “oops” sort of way at my 6-week appointment, but I realize it was necessary to get him out with speed.
I never saw him, as they whisked him away to the team of neonatologist, respiratory therapist and NICU nurses. Honestly, I was so unaware of the situation, I don’t remember being very concerned. Perhaps concerned in an “it’ll all work out” kind of way.
My Girl had a less traumatic, but interesting birth. Apparently the uterus clamps down quickly after the first child is taken out, not realizing that there is another to be born. In the current mode of tension, they want to take no chances. So they pull her out, full in her amniotic sac. They just plop it right on top of me and splice it open. She emerges beautifully pink and clean. No mess, no fuss. J got a picture, albeit quite fuzzy, of her sac sitting on top of me, and he said that it was kind of transparent, that you could see her inside before they broke it.
I don’t know any of this has happened, the circumstances of her birth, but she is quickly wrapped up, and brought up to my right side. The nurse holds her right at my face, as I gaze at her in amazement. I kiss her and I stare at her for what seems like hours. But then I think, “Okay, enough is enough. I can’t touch or hold her, take her away and let’s get this show on the road.” I cringe as I look back, realizing that I wasn’t particularly concerned about My Boy. I was so out of it, and I hate that.
At this point, J has headed to the back of the OR to go watch over the babies. My Boy is having breathing problems, and is put on the ventilator. My Girl is a-okay, just a little pink mass of love. I smelled burning. I tell no one in particular that it smells like the dentists office. The doctor replies “You really don’t want to know what that smell is … don’t ask.” It was cauterizing. Ugg. As she finishes up, my doctor comes to the right side of the table. I remember that she was covered in blood. She tries to talk to me, and I can’t concentration, because I am fixated on the blood that covers her hands and gown. I tell her as much, and I think she is put off. I ask if my babies are going to die, and I remember so clearly that no one answered me. Did I even ask the question?
I’m taken back to my labor & delivery room to recover. J goes with the babies to the NICU, and takes lots and lots of pictures … I’m so grateful that he did that, because it helped me piece the whole morning together. He returns and we make a list of names – we’d pretty much decided on the first names, but chose the names of our two oldest siblings as the babies middle names.
Soon it’s time to transfer me to my postpartum room, and on the way, they pull my stretcher into the NICU. I am a mess, all tears and worries. I see my gorgeous son, so bruised and traumatized. He has a huge ventilator coming out of his mouth, his head askew to one side under the weight of it. The number of tubes and wires overwhelms me, although I realize later that there aren’t that many. My girl is pert and pink in her isolette, also with a requisite number of tubes and wires, but no ventilator.
*****************************************
The children, my children, are fine. As far as premature babies go, they are quite healthy. And I realize this as I look at many of the other NICU babies. All of their medical problems can pretty much be attributed to their 9-week prematurity. Over the course of their five weeks in the NICU, they spent almost two weeks under the biliruben lights to treat jaundice. My Boy’s jaundice was much worse that hers, and required more time and more lights. It was so frustrating, as their faces were covered with masks, and we couldn’t remove them from the isolettes more than once a day, in order to ensure that they received enough light treatment.
He was on the ventilator for a few days, and then on supplemental oxygen for a few days more, but his breathing was quickly under control. Eventually, his purple arm faded and he was able to move it around, and there is no lasting damage as we can tell. They dealt with some gastrointestinal issues, apnea, bradycardia, temperature control and weight gain issues.
Those five weeks were alternately the longest, and the shortest, of my life. I spent every single day there, usually from 9 until mid afternoon, and back in the evening. For weeks, I couldn’t hold them more than once or twice a day, but I sat by their isolettes, just because I had to be there. I crocheted some hats, I read them stories, I sat and stared. And every two to three hours, I trudged down the hall to the lactation room to pump milk that would eventually be fed through nasogastro tubes, and later through doll-sized bottles.
*********************************
My babies are home, and life goes on. I hope to catch up, retroactively, on this blog, and fill in some of the gaps and memories from the past eight weeks while recording the activities and thoughts that now make up our very different life. This has been my only journal of the struggle to conceive, of my interrupted pregnancy, and I hope to continue with the stories of the lives of My Boy and My Girl.
Sunday, May 07, 2006
How it All Went Down (PART 1)
It was totally unexpected, but deep down inside, I think I knew, but was in denial. Throughout the entire process. I wasn't ready to have babies. Certainly not at 31 weeks. Thirty-five, yes, 31, hell no.
It was a regular Thursday. I was having another thrilling day, hanging out on the living room couch. On one of my morning trips to the bathroom, I noticed a little bit of wetness in my underpants. Not big - maybe the size of a stick of gum. I called the doctor and left a message with her nurse. When I spoke with her, I explained that I wasn't sure if my water was leaking, or if I just did a little pee in my pants. She thought it must be pee, and to watch and call her if I noticed it again. To be safe, I changed my undies, and kept an eye on the situation. And it happened again. Same amount. Same drill. Left message, returned call. Nurse reported that she'd spoken to my doctor, and thought it nothing by leaking urine. As I look back now, I realize that my back was a little achy, but why would that be a worry? I'd just had a doctor's appointment, and while my cervix was a little shorter, it wasn't dilated, and of course, I'd had the negative fetal fibronectin test. So of course, I wasn't in labor.
Early in the evening, my sister-in-law and nephew came to drop off dinner and visit for a bit. They left around 7:30, and no later than 15 or 20 minutes later, it happened. I shifted position on the couch, and all of a sudden, had a nice warm feeling inside. Kind of indescribable, but I guess I knew enough to head to the bathroom.
I pulled down my pants, and woosh! My pants were soaked, there was dripping into the toilet. I was despondent and devastated that this was happening. In between sobs, curses, and desperation, I called for J., and for the telephone. This time, a call to the answering service, and a return call from my doctor. I am so thankful that she was the one on call that evening ... I have been quite worried that she wouldn't be the one to see me through the end of this pregnancy. I didn't realize quite how important it was to me.
With the calm demeanor that only an experienced OB/GYN can muster, she talked me out of my toilet-top hysteria, and told me to get myself together and over to Labor & Delivery. She said that they'd keep an eye on me, but wouldn't check my cervix just yet, since every physical check is simply an opportunity to introduce more infection. It is also quite common, she said, to be able to keep a patient with broken membranes in the hospital for up to a week. However, if I was to deliver, she confirmed that I would have to have a C-Section, since Little Girl (baby B) was still breech. So, planning for another week of bedrest, I packed some comfy clothing and books. I'm a pro now, I think.
Just like they taught us in childbirth class, J. races up to the nursery and tears open the package of newborn diapers, bringing me a few to put inside my pants for the trip to the hospital. They were right - it works!
The ride to the hospital is now fuzzy in my mind, but I think it was full of tears and anguish. J was an ever-calming presence, but I wasn't really open to his "it's all going to be okay" attitude.
They checked me into L&D, set me up with all the paperwork, and a sweet young nurse, a newlywed "who just got a puppy!!!" !! !! I'm not totally sure she knew what she was doing. But she was real sweet. I remember asking if I should continue taking the Niphedipine that I'd been on 4x a day to help prevent premature labor. Oh yes, they assured me...we're just checking things out right now. Are you having pain, they ask? Oh no, I assure them ...these are the same kinds of contractions that I've been having for at least a month. I never feel them. I insist that J take a photo of my belly ... documenting the rest of this pregnancy.
The babies heartbeats are strong and tracking well. My contractions are visible on the monitor at the same levels they were on my previous hospital stays and doctors visits. But honestly, they don't hurt. I insist that I don't need any pain meds. This is normal. Besides, I'm not having any babies tonight.
J. hung out in the bedside chair. I thanked the nurse profusely for not requiring a catheter, and was pleased when she brought me the bedside toilet. Strangely enough, I remember wondering if it would be inappropriate to turn on some Thursday night TV. After all, I'm not having any babies tonight.
Hours go by ... I can't honestly be sure of the timeframe from this point forward, but I imagine it's about midnight or so. My lower belly and lower back are cramping, similar to really bad period cramps. I'm doing a little bit of whimpering and such. A repeated offer from the nurse for some narcotics (I can't remember the exact name of the drug) is met with my positive response. I'll just try it to "take the edge off." Off of what, I'm not sure. Noone has insinuated that I am having babies tonight. As far as I'm concerned, this is just par for the course, and it will slow down. When asked to rate my pain on a scale of 1-10, I classify my cramping as a 4, maybe. I haven't seen a doctor, so this must be no big deal. I'm not having any babies tonight. Maybe next week.
Oh, the warm and happy feeling when those drug run through the IV and make contact with the bloodstream. I giggle and report that I'm having a happy little buzz ... it's a two-martini evening. Just for a bit, I'm happy and content. I watch the monitors and the contractions rise and fall, and I'm not concerned.
Up until this point, I was certain that, once in labor, I did not want to take any of the narcotics during labor. I knew that I was up for an epidural, once reaching the recommended 4 to 5 cm dilation. But in this instance, I didn't mind taking the narcotics, because I wasn't planning to have any babies. This was just a false start. So I vigorously rejected the repeated offers of epidural, since it didn't apply to my situation.
By this point, J. is dozing in his chair, and I'm clutching the side of the bed, attempting to breathe. On the nurse's next visit, I ask for another shot. Yea, it didn't work much.
Continued clutching, moaning, writhing. J still asleep, and I moan a bit louder to try and wake him up. But I am still IN DENIAL that this is actually happening. I'm not sure how this has happened, how I'm ignoring all of the obvious signs. I took the classes, I read the books. I'm prepared. But I completely fail to recognize that I'm in labor. What the hell? Still, I'd not had my cervix checked, so I didn't know if I was dilated or not. I think, perhaps, that if I'd had a number to associate with my pain, it might have snapped me into the reality.
The nurse checks in again, asks me to rate my pain, and I'm sure I give her a higher number. She and the others decide that it's time to check my cervix, and surprise! I'm 10 cm dilated. Can you believe it? I never planned to go that far without an epidural, and I'm shocked that I did.
Blurring, rushing, more people in the room, and J. is most definitely awake. I remember urgent voices instructing the nurse to call my doctor, to get her to the hospital ASAP. I ask if I'm having the babies now, and am told yep, that's what's happening. I happily accept the epidural, and it seems like the anesthesiologist is there in a snap. They did the epidural right there in the L&D room, and I found it odd, since they are usually done in the OR. I started out leaning over on to the Newlywed Nurse's shoulder, but when J. looked confused and lost in the rush, she asked him to replace her, and he held me steady. It was so hard to hold still during the contractions, but the anesthesiologist was patient, and J was strong.
J wasn't given scrubs to wear into the OR, but was presented with a white, one-piece zip up space suit. By that point, I guess the epidural kicked in, because I remember laughing at him, and insisting that I needed to take a picture of him. I think we sat together and said a prayer. But I'm not sure. I hope we did.
Somehow, I made it to the OR. It was full of people, and I wasn't surprised by that. There was a team for each baby, a team for me, the anesthesiologist, and a few other nurses. I think it was all women, except for the anesthesiologist, and they asked him for his help to pick me up and transfer me to the operating table. I asked where J was, deathly afraid that they were going to barr him from the OR at the last minute. Why, I have no earthly idea. He showed up soon, and I asked the doctor to please let me know what she was doing.
She told me to expect some tugging and pressure, and that she was going ahead to make the incision. ...
It was a regular Thursday. I was having another thrilling day, hanging out on the living room couch. On one of my morning trips to the bathroom, I noticed a little bit of wetness in my underpants. Not big - maybe the size of a stick of gum. I called the doctor and left a message with her nurse. When I spoke with her, I explained that I wasn't sure if my water was leaking, or if I just did a little pee in my pants. She thought it must be pee, and to watch and call her if I noticed it again. To be safe, I changed my undies, and kept an eye on the situation. And it happened again. Same amount. Same drill. Left message, returned call. Nurse reported that she'd spoken to my doctor, and thought it nothing by leaking urine. As I look back now, I realize that my back was a little achy, but why would that be a worry? I'd just had a doctor's appointment, and while my cervix was a little shorter, it wasn't dilated, and of course, I'd had the negative fetal fibronectin test. So of course, I wasn't in labor.
Early in the evening, my sister-in-law and nephew came to drop off dinner and visit for a bit. They left around 7:30, and no later than 15 or 20 minutes later, it happened. I shifted position on the couch, and all of a sudden, had a nice warm feeling inside. Kind of indescribable, but I guess I knew enough to head to the bathroom.
I pulled down my pants, and woosh! My pants were soaked, there was dripping into the toilet. I was despondent and devastated that this was happening. In between sobs, curses, and desperation, I called for J., and for the telephone. This time, a call to the answering service, and a return call from my doctor. I am so thankful that she was the one on call that evening ... I have been quite worried that she wouldn't be the one to see me through the end of this pregnancy. I didn't realize quite how important it was to me.
With the calm demeanor that only an experienced OB/GYN can muster, she talked me out of my toilet-top hysteria, and told me to get myself together and over to Labor & Delivery. She said that they'd keep an eye on me, but wouldn't check my cervix just yet, since every physical check is simply an opportunity to introduce more infection. It is also quite common, she said, to be able to keep a patient with broken membranes in the hospital for up to a week. However, if I was to deliver, she confirmed that I would have to have a C-Section, since Little Girl (baby B) was still breech. So, planning for another week of bedrest, I packed some comfy clothing and books. I'm a pro now, I think.
Just like they taught us in childbirth class, J. races up to the nursery and tears open the package of newborn diapers, bringing me a few to put inside my pants for the trip to the hospital. They were right - it works!
The ride to the hospital is now fuzzy in my mind, but I think it was full of tears and anguish. J was an ever-calming presence, but I wasn't really open to his "it's all going to be okay" attitude.
They checked me into L&D, set me up with all the paperwork, and a sweet young nurse, a newlywed "who just got a puppy!!!" !! !! I'm not totally sure she knew what she was doing. But she was real sweet. I remember asking if I should continue taking the Niphedipine that I'd been on 4x a day to help prevent premature labor. Oh yes, they assured me...we're just checking things out right now. Are you having pain, they ask? Oh no, I assure them ...these are the same kinds of contractions that I've been having for at least a month. I never feel them. I insist that J take a photo of my belly ... documenting the rest of this pregnancy.
The babies heartbeats are strong and tracking well. My contractions are visible on the monitor at the same levels they were on my previous hospital stays and doctors visits. But honestly, they don't hurt. I insist that I don't need any pain meds. This is normal. Besides, I'm not having any babies tonight.
J. hung out in the bedside chair. I thanked the nurse profusely for not requiring a catheter, and was pleased when she brought me the bedside toilet. Strangely enough, I remember wondering if it would be inappropriate to turn on some Thursday night TV. After all, I'm not having any babies tonight.
Hours go by ... I can't honestly be sure of the timeframe from this point forward, but I imagine it's about midnight or so. My lower belly and lower back are cramping, similar to really bad period cramps. I'm doing a little bit of whimpering and such. A repeated offer from the nurse for some narcotics (I can't remember the exact name of the drug) is met with my positive response. I'll just try it to "take the edge off." Off of what, I'm not sure. Noone has insinuated that I am having babies tonight. As far as I'm concerned, this is just par for the course, and it will slow down. When asked to rate my pain on a scale of 1-10, I classify my cramping as a 4, maybe. I haven't seen a doctor, so this must be no big deal. I'm not having any babies tonight. Maybe next week.
Oh, the warm and happy feeling when those drug run through the IV and make contact with the bloodstream. I giggle and report that I'm having a happy little buzz ... it's a two-martini evening. Just for a bit, I'm happy and content. I watch the monitors and the contractions rise and fall, and I'm not concerned.
Up until this point, I was certain that, once in labor, I did not want to take any of the narcotics during labor. I knew that I was up for an epidural, once reaching the recommended 4 to 5 cm dilation. But in this instance, I didn't mind taking the narcotics, because I wasn't planning to have any babies. This was just a false start. So I vigorously rejected the repeated offers of epidural, since it didn't apply to my situation.
By this point, J. is dozing in his chair, and I'm clutching the side of the bed, attempting to breathe. On the nurse's next visit, I ask for another shot. Yea, it didn't work much.
Continued clutching, moaning, writhing. J still asleep, and I moan a bit louder to try and wake him up. But I am still IN DENIAL that this is actually happening. I'm not sure how this has happened, how I'm ignoring all of the obvious signs. I took the classes, I read the books. I'm prepared. But I completely fail to recognize that I'm in labor. What the hell? Still, I'd not had my cervix checked, so I didn't know if I was dilated or not. I think, perhaps, that if I'd had a number to associate with my pain, it might have snapped me into the reality.
The nurse checks in again, asks me to rate my pain, and I'm sure I give her a higher number. She and the others decide that it's time to check my cervix, and surprise! I'm 10 cm dilated. Can you believe it? I never planned to go that far without an epidural, and I'm shocked that I did.
Blurring, rushing, more people in the room, and J. is most definitely awake. I remember urgent voices instructing the nurse to call my doctor, to get her to the hospital ASAP. I ask if I'm having the babies now, and am told yep, that's what's happening. I happily accept the epidural, and it seems like the anesthesiologist is there in a snap. They did the epidural right there in the L&D room, and I found it odd, since they are usually done in the OR. I started out leaning over on to the Newlywed Nurse's shoulder, but when J. looked confused and lost in the rush, she asked him to replace her, and he held me steady. It was so hard to hold still during the contractions, but the anesthesiologist was patient, and J was strong.
J wasn't given scrubs to wear into the OR, but was presented with a white, one-piece zip up space suit. By that point, I guess the epidural kicked in, because I remember laughing at him, and insisting that I needed to take a picture of him. I think we sat together and said a prayer. But I'm not sure. I hope we did.
Somehow, I made it to the OR. It was full of people, and I wasn't surprised by that. There was a team for each baby, a team for me, the anesthesiologist, and a few other nurses. I think it was all women, except for the anesthesiologist, and they asked him for his help to pick me up and transfer me to the operating table. I asked where J was, deathly afraid that they were going to barr him from the OR at the last minute. Why, I have no earthly idea. He showed up soon, and I asked the doctor to please let me know what she was doing.
She told me to expect some tugging and pressure, and that she was going ahead to make the incision. ...
I Am
It's a rainy day outside, but my heart is full and bright, my optimism overflowing, and my thankfulness abundant.
I spent most of the day with my gorgeous babies, and am overwhelmed by the progress they are making. They are still quite small, and have yet to regain their birth weight, but it seems as though most major hurdles are passed. They are breathing on their own, they are both off the biliruben lights, and she is feeding voraciously while he is trying to catch up.
I am feeling more confident about my place as "mother," among all of the very qualified nurses and doctors. These are my babies, and I am their mother.
"Hello, sweetheart. It's mommy. I'm here to take care of you, and I love you so much. I am so proud of you, and of all the work you're doing. I'm your mommy."
I say this to assure them of my presence. I say this to assure myself of my new role in this world. I am your mommy.
I spent most of the day with my gorgeous babies, and am overwhelmed by the progress they are making. They are still quite small, and have yet to regain their birth weight, but it seems as though most major hurdles are passed. They are breathing on their own, they are both off the biliruben lights, and she is feeding voraciously while he is trying to catch up.
I am feeling more confident about my place as "mother," among all of the very qualified nurses and doctors. These are my babies, and I am their mother.
"Hello, sweetheart. It's mommy. I'm here to take care of you, and I love you so much. I am so proud of you, and of all the work you're doing. I'm your mommy."
I say this to assure them of my presence. I say this to assure myself of my new role in this world. I am your mommy.
Thursday, May 04, 2006
It's Amazing
Friday, April 28 in the early morning hours, we met our little boy and girl. They are spectacular and amazing, gorgeous in every detail, in every possible way.
I'll get back with more details later, but here are the basics:
Born at 31 weeks
Baby Boy: 5:02 a.m. * 3 lb, 14 oz
Baby Girl: 5:03 a.m. * 3 lb, 3 oz
There was definetly some trauma involved, but both are muddling through nicely. Looks like they'll be in the NICU for a month or more ... we'll see.
I look at them, so tiny in their plastic bubbles, and can't imagine that they were actually inside me. And that, technically, they still should be inside me. I'm torn between wishing it hadn't happened, but delighted that it did, and that my impatient self was given the opportunity to meet my babies even sooner.
I'm amazed.
I'll get back with more details later, but here are the basics:
Born at 31 weeks
Baby Boy: 5:02 a.m. * 3 lb, 14 oz
Baby Girl: 5:03 a.m. * 3 lb, 3 oz
There was definetly some trauma involved, but both are muddling through nicely. Looks like they'll be in the NICU for a month or more ... we'll see.
I look at them, so tiny in their plastic bubbles, and can't imagine that they were actually inside me. And that, technically, they still should be inside me. I'm torn between wishing it hadn't happened, but delighted that it did, and that my impatient self was given the opportunity to meet my babies even sooner.
I'm amazed.
Sunday, April 23, 2006
Ramblings from the Couch
Who knew that a Sunday, at home on bedrest (and therefore no different than any other day of the week) could be so exciting? And it's only 3:45!
After a sleepless night, I woke up as J was getting ready for church. I slid my way over the the bathtub, finished reading Operating Instructions - for the second time, and slithered my way into some clothes. I've taken to doing any primping (rudimentary makeup and hair arrangement, i.e. ponytail) sitting on my bathroom floor mat, with makeup mirror propped on the tub surround. This way, I'm technically not fully upright, although not totally reclined. Is that cheating?
I moved my way over to the upstairs office, excited to await the arrival of the computer repair guy who was to fix the networking problem that has plagued my laptop for months now. I've had to use J's and it's been more than inconvenient for him.
In the interim, J's sister, her husband, 3-year old son, and brand new baby (one month today!) came for a visit and thoroughly entertained me for the next hour with stories from last night's cocktail party, general gossip, and lots of baby stories and advice. She feeds the baby with such ease and confidence, I often wonder how in the hell I'm going to do that with two. My little nephew made me a wonderful painting, complete with handprints and indecipherable messes. Love it. They oohed and ahhed over the newly painted (one coat last Friday, the next on Monday!) nursery, and got me excited to get that going.
So yes! Fully regaled in "Geek" attire, the guy from a certain service that promotes themselves with the geeked out image, arrived, and managed to diagnose my silly problem in a matter of minutes and fix me right up. Slightly embarrassing, and a wonderful per-hour rate for them, but relief at just having it done. At this point, I'm learning that outsourcing is the quickest and most efficient way to get things done when physically incapable of doing them yourself, and verbally incapable of explaining them to your husband.
A good friend and his girlfriend are coming over for pizza and Sunday night TV tonight, which I'm looking forward to. And tomorrow ... an exciting day for sure!
The painters are coming to finish up the baby room and get to work on some other areas (repairing damage from a huge storm two years ago ... we thought it easier to just live with bubbly, peeling walls, but no more!). My mom is coming to take me to my 1:00 doctor's appointment. She's never seen an ultrasounds, so I'm excited she'll get that opportunity, but I'm sure she'll recoil in horror at the coochie cam wand, which I'm sure I'll be lucky enough to experience again. I'm crossing my fingers for an uneventful (read: elongating or static cervix) visit, and a good report from my doctor.
However, just to plan for the unhappy, I am going to take a small bag with us, containing any essentials that would be needed should I be instructed to head on over to Labor & Delivery like last time. Strangely and superstitiously, I feel like if I plan for the negative outcome, I'll surely receive good news. But if I'm counting on good news, I'll be tragically caught off guard by the bad news that will inevitably present itself. Murphy's law, right?
After a sleepless night, I woke up as J was getting ready for church. I slid my way over the the bathtub, finished reading Operating Instructions - for the second time, and slithered my way into some clothes. I've taken to doing any primping (rudimentary makeup and hair arrangement, i.e. ponytail) sitting on my bathroom floor mat, with makeup mirror propped on the tub surround. This way, I'm technically not fully upright, although not totally reclined. Is that cheating?
I moved my way over to the upstairs office, excited to await the arrival of the computer repair guy who was to fix the networking problem that has plagued my laptop for months now. I've had to use J's and it's been more than inconvenient for him.
In the interim, J's sister, her husband, 3-year old son, and brand new baby (one month today!) came for a visit and thoroughly entertained me for the next hour with stories from last night's cocktail party, general gossip, and lots of baby stories and advice. She feeds the baby with such ease and confidence, I often wonder how in the hell I'm going to do that with two. My little nephew made me a wonderful painting, complete with handprints and indecipherable messes. Love it. They oohed and ahhed over the newly painted (one coat last Friday, the next on Monday!) nursery, and got me excited to get that going.
So yes! Fully regaled in "Geek" attire, the guy from a certain service that promotes themselves with the geeked out image, arrived, and managed to diagnose my silly problem in a matter of minutes and fix me right up. Slightly embarrassing, and a wonderful per-hour rate for them, but relief at just having it done. At this point, I'm learning that outsourcing is the quickest and most efficient way to get things done when physically incapable of doing them yourself, and verbally incapable of explaining them to your husband.
A good friend and his girlfriend are coming over for pizza and Sunday night TV tonight, which I'm looking forward to. And tomorrow ... an exciting day for sure!
The painters are coming to finish up the baby room and get to work on some other areas (repairing damage from a huge storm two years ago ... we thought it easier to just live with bubbly, peeling walls, but no more!). My mom is coming to take me to my 1:00 doctor's appointment. She's never seen an ultrasounds, so I'm excited she'll get that opportunity, but I'm sure she'll recoil in horror at the coochie cam wand, which I'm sure I'll be lucky enough to experience again. I'm crossing my fingers for an uneventful (read: elongating or static cervix) visit, and a good report from my doctor.
However, just to plan for the unhappy, I am going to take a small bag with us, containing any essentials that would be needed should I be instructed to head on over to Labor & Delivery like last time. Strangely and superstitiously, I feel like if I plan for the negative outcome, I'll surely receive good news. But if I'm counting on good news, I'll be tragically caught off guard by the bad news that will inevitably present itself. Murphy's law, right?
Thursday, April 20, 2006
A Change of Scenery
I floated in the warm tub, free of wires, tubes, monitors, and other encumbrances. Feeling weightless, feeling tired, but also energetic. Thankfully, still pregnant and healthy. Thankfully at home.
What a wild few weeks it’s been. Two weeks ago Friday, I guess that makes it April 7th, I show up for a regular doctors visit. Just a stop at the lab for my glucose monitoring and a quick ultrasound to check on the babies and on my cervix, which at all previous visits had been declared “Perfect!” “Award-winning” and “Just like we like to see them.” I was ready to add my perfectly formed and withstanding cervix to the list of accomplishments on my resume. Lest we not get ahead of ourselves.
The perinatologist who monitors my ultrasounds thought something awry, that my formerly strong and elongated cervix was starting to show some wear and tear, in the form of effacement, not dilation. The formerly 4 cm long cervix was starting to shrink, inching (or centemetering?) down to 3. Not so great at 29 weeks. Being the lovely, proactive woman that she is, she orders a fetal fibronectin test, to be performed on Monday. The jist of this test is that it detects secretions that indicate if you are in danger of going into labor in the next two weeks.
We have a lovely, carefree weekend, with no thoughts of any misdoings occurring in my body. We babysit nieces and nephews on Friday night and enjoy a dinner with J’s sister and husband. I drive to my hometown for a lovely baby shower on Saturday, and enjoy a leisurely pizza with the family that evening. I spend Sunday ripping through all of my thank-you notes and eagerly organizing the fifteen-zillion baby washcloths that I’ve received. (Really … I should have the cleanest damn babies this side of the Mississippi).
Late Monday morning, I arrive at the doctors office with the plan to take the test, and skip on over to get a bagel sandwich for lunch and perhaps a gratuitous stop at Target for nothing in particular. I meet with another doctor in the practice, as mine is out of town (for the first time in the 10 years I’ve been seeing her, I think!) She performs the fetal fibronectin (results to arrive in two days or so), and checks my cervix manually. Completely unhappy with what she finds, she sends me over to ultrasound yet again, for another wanding. A quick coochie cam from the technician, and I’m sent back to Dr. Fill-In. When they send me to her office, as opposed to an exam room, I know I’m done. I hear her distinct European accent on the phone in the hallway, asking Labor and Delivery to find a room for me please, as we’ll be right over. Smiling on her way into the office, she asks if I’ve overheard, and suggests we walk over together, as she has another patient to check on.
Apparently, Le Cervix is not behaving AT ALL. Not dilating, thank goodness, but not behaving.
Labor and delivery is a scary place when you’re not prepared for it. And at 29 weeks, I’m not sure who is ever completely prepared for it. “But I’m supposed to go over to the bagel shop and get lunch,” I announce to everyone who enters my room. “I’m not supposed to be here!” Quite obviously. Duh.
Hooked up to three monitors, one for each baby and one for contractions, J. arrives, much to my relief. I see that I’m contracting every three minutes, which is a surprise to me, since I don’t feel squat. My belly has always been pretty hard, which we attributed to me being not a particularly large person carrying twins. Oh no, these are contractions.
Honestly, the next two days are a bit of a blur. I know that they involved large doses of magnesium sulfate, hot flashes and wooziness, insertion of IVs and catheters, steroid shots in my ass, antibiotics drained through my IV, J’s fascination with following the contractions on the monitor, pills every few hours, and finally, a kind nurse noticing that I was still in one of those L&D beds and switching me out to a regular, more comfy hospital bed.
Apparently, the drugs did their job, and on Wednesday, I was sent over to the ante partum unit, where women go to wait and wait and wait to deliver their babies, with the directive that I was likely to be incarcerated for a minimum of four weeks.
It is hard to describe the despair and lack of control that overtook me. I have total faith that they babies will be okay. I don’t know why I feel this way, but I know – I just know – that they will be born healthy and be well taken care of.
The despair has been of the selfish variety. For myself. For J. For what we’re missing out on. I think that I’ve tempered this despair and refocused my priorities, but the shock of it all was pretty overwhelming. I think I’ll talk about this a bit later … it gets me down to even think about it.
I’ve gone on and on quite enough for now, so let me wrap it up. A wanding on the 13th showed that my cervix was stretching back out a bit (who knew it could reverse itself!?), and with my pleadings and confirmations that J., who works from home, could take care of me quite well at home, my doctor (who was finally back in town!) agreed to reassess the situation on Monday. Easter in the hospital was just fine … a pizza and a basket full of goodies was quite a treat!, and on Monday, she agreed that I could take my show on the road – just long enough to get me home.
My days are spent on the living room couch, avoiding my new obsession with the Food Network and attempting to read all the books that I know I should enjoy, what with all this time on my hands. I consume copious amounts of water, all in an effort to keep contractions at bay, yet find that I still have to get up almost every hour to let it out.
Life is okay. I am so lucky. I have good friends, a wonderful husband, and this second chance to keep these babies inside for a few weeks longer.
What a wild few weeks it’s been. Two weeks ago Friday, I guess that makes it April 7th, I show up for a regular doctors visit. Just a stop at the lab for my glucose monitoring and a quick ultrasound to check on the babies and on my cervix, which at all previous visits had been declared “Perfect!” “Award-winning” and “Just like we like to see them.” I was ready to add my perfectly formed and withstanding cervix to the list of accomplishments on my resume. Lest we not get ahead of ourselves.
The perinatologist who monitors my ultrasounds thought something awry, that my formerly strong and elongated cervix was starting to show some wear and tear, in the form of effacement, not dilation. The formerly 4 cm long cervix was starting to shrink, inching (or centemetering?) down to 3. Not so great at 29 weeks. Being the lovely, proactive woman that she is, she orders a fetal fibronectin test, to be performed on Monday. The jist of this test is that it detects secretions that indicate if you are in danger of going into labor in the next two weeks.
We have a lovely, carefree weekend, with no thoughts of any misdoings occurring in my body. We babysit nieces and nephews on Friday night and enjoy a dinner with J’s sister and husband. I drive to my hometown for a lovely baby shower on Saturday, and enjoy a leisurely pizza with the family that evening. I spend Sunday ripping through all of my thank-you notes and eagerly organizing the fifteen-zillion baby washcloths that I’ve received. (Really … I should have the cleanest damn babies this side of the Mississippi).
Late Monday morning, I arrive at the doctors office with the plan to take the test, and skip on over to get a bagel sandwich for lunch and perhaps a gratuitous stop at Target for nothing in particular. I meet with another doctor in the practice, as mine is out of town (for the first time in the 10 years I’ve been seeing her, I think!) She performs the fetal fibronectin (results to arrive in two days or so), and checks my cervix manually. Completely unhappy with what she finds, she sends me over to ultrasound yet again, for another wanding. A quick coochie cam from the technician, and I’m sent back to Dr. Fill-In. When they send me to her office, as opposed to an exam room, I know I’m done. I hear her distinct European accent on the phone in the hallway, asking Labor and Delivery to find a room for me please, as we’ll be right over. Smiling on her way into the office, she asks if I’ve overheard, and suggests we walk over together, as she has another patient to check on.
Apparently, Le Cervix is not behaving AT ALL. Not dilating, thank goodness, but not behaving.
Labor and delivery is a scary place when you’re not prepared for it. And at 29 weeks, I’m not sure who is ever completely prepared for it. “But I’m supposed to go over to the bagel shop and get lunch,” I announce to everyone who enters my room. “I’m not supposed to be here!” Quite obviously. Duh.
Hooked up to three monitors, one for each baby and one for contractions, J. arrives, much to my relief. I see that I’m contracting every three minutes, which is a surprise to me, since I don’t feel squat. My belly has always been pretty hard, which we attributed to me being not a particularly large person carrying twins. Oh no, these are contractions.
Honestly, the next two days are a bit of a blur. I know that they involved large doses of magnesium sulfate, hot flashes and wooziness, insertion of IVs and catheters, steroid shots in my ass, antibiotics drained through my IV, J’s fascination with following the contractions on the monitor, pills every few hours, and finally, a kind nurse noticing that I was still in one of those L&D beds and switching me out to a regular, more comfy hospital bed.
Apparently, the drugs did their job, and on Wednesday, I was sent over to the ante partum unit, where women go to wait and wait and wait to deliver their babies, with the directive that I was likely to be incarcerated for a minimum of four weeks.
It is hard to describe the despair and lack of control that overtook me. I have total faith that they babies will be okay. I don’t know why I feel this way, but I know – I just know – that they will be born healthy and be well taken care of.
The despair has been of the selfish variety. For myself. For J. For what we’re missing out on. I think that I’ve tempered this despair and refocused my priorities, but the shock of it all was pretty overwhelming. I think I’ll talk about this a bit later … it gets me down to even think about it.
I’ve gone on and on quite enough for now, so let me wrap it up. A wanding on the 13th showed that my cervix was stretching back out a bit (who knew it could reverse itself!?), and with my pleadings and confirmations that J., who works from home, could take care of me quite well at home, my doctor (who was finally back in town!) agreed to reassess the situation on Monday. Easter in the hospital was just fine … a pizza and a basket full of goodies was quite a treat!, and on Monday, she agreed that I could take my show on the road – just long enough to get me home.
My days are spent on the living room couch, avoiding my new obsession with the Food Network and attempting to read all the books that I know I should enjoy, what with all this time on my hands. I consume copious amounts of water, all in an effort to keep contractions at bay, yet find that I still have to get up almost every hour to let it out.
Life is okay. I am so lucky. I have good friends, a wonderful husband, and this second chance to keep these babies inside for a few weeks longer.
Thursday, March 30, 2006
I'm baaaaaaaaaack! Kind of.
Wow, I've been gone a long time. I hadn't realized how long it had been since I'd written, and I'm remiss that I have no totally thrilling and exciting news to share.
We're in the final week of closing up/transitioning our business, as I'd written about earlier. It's hard work, thrilling yet kind of heartbreaking at the same time.
Anyhow, that's my excuse for my absence, and I'm still in the throws of it through early next week. I'll be back to a psudo-normal schedule by next Thursday, and hope to update a bit about a crazy, scary car accident experience, thoughts about closing the business/not working, our babies, other babies, secret infertility (should I pry?), all kinds of good stuff. Do check back.
We're in the final week of closing up/transitioning our business, as I'd written about earlier. It's hard work, thrilling yet kind of heartbreaking at the same time.
Anyhow, that's my excuse for my absence, and I'm still in the throws of it through early next week. I'll be back to a psudo-normal schedule by next Thursday, and hope to update a bit about a crazy, scary car accident experience, thoughts about closing the business/not working, our babies, other babies, secret infertility (should I pry?), all kinds of good stuff. Do check back.
Thursday, March 16, 2006
If I Could, I Would
"Ladies and Gentlemen! We politely request that you please check your seat assignments. It appears that passengers A & B have been mistakenly seated directly over the water tank. The turbulence and bouncing are causing extreme discomfort for the pilot. Please check your seat assignments and move seats as warranted."
I am so tired of peeing.
Up until now, the one daily task that I've always dreaded and wished that I could outsource has been blowdrying my hair. I find it boring, tedious, and never creating the desired result. Realizing that this is chronologically and financially irresponsible, I've made the task a better experience (albeit slower) by reading a good book or magazine as I dry.
I would gladly pass the baton to a more qualified and patient individual, if I could find someone to pee for me. My mother suggested that Depends could really come in handy, a notion I rejected before it was even out of her mouth. So the question is, like blowdrying, how do I make the experience more enjoyable? Reading is out, as the actual act of peeing takes only seconds, and if I'm into a good book, I'll just sit there reading until the next time I have to go. Crochet? Too messy. Anyone? Bueller? Bueller?
Not that I'm complaining. Really.
* * *
On the positive front, J is really stepping up to the plate and helping me get things organized around the house and such. He spent all Saturday installing shelves in the disaster-that-is-technically-a-mudroom, so that all our cleaning supplies and such are off the floor and such. And he must have enjoyed it so much, that the next day, he tackled the same task in the garage. God bless him.
I am so tired of peeing.
Up until now, the one daily task that I've always dreaded and wished that I could outsource has been blowdrying my hair. I find it boring, tedious, and never creating the desired result. Realizing that this is chronologically and financially irresponsible, I've made the task a better experience (albeit slower) by reading a good book or magazine as I dry.
I would gladly pass the baton to a more qualified and patient individual, if I could find someone to pee for me. My mother suggested that Depends could really come in handy, a notion I rejected before it was even out of her mouth. So the question is, like blowdrying, how do I make the experience more enjoyable? Reading is out, as the actual act of peeing takes only seconds, and if I'm into a good book, I'll just sit there reading until the next time I have to go. Crochet? Too messy. Anyone? Bueller? Bueller?
Not that I'm complaining. Really.
* * *
On the positive front, J is really stepping up to the plate and helping me get things organized around the house and such. He spent all Saturday installing shelves in the disaster-that-is-technically-a-mudroom, so that all our cleaning supplies and such are off the floor and such. And he must have enjoyed it so much, that the next day, he tackled the same task in the garage. God bless him.
Monday, March 13, 2006
Need, want, whatever!
Do you ever have the overwhelming urge to just buy something?
It doesn't matter what it is, where it is, you just need to go shopping? The siren song of Target is hard to resist, and as I was driving home from the fabric store, I heard the calling.
With a mile to go, I thought, "hmmm...what do I need?" Surely, there must be something I could pick up, something I've run out of and cannot live with out. Deodorant? Nope. Greeting cards? No need. Laundry detergent? I have plenty. Well, I would sure like a Snickers bar.
And that was enough justification to get my car into the righthand turn lane and into the shopping center. And as I wandered the aisles, decorated with red bullseyes and bright displays, I was largely unsatisfied. Looking was fun, but it wasn't thrilling as I'd hoped. Nothing jumped out at me. Nothing screamed "Take me home with you!" Cheap maternity clothes (a pink cardigan sweater and a chocolate brown skirt) ultimately won out, and a garden magazine and the justified Snickers bar made their way onto the conveyer belt, but total satisfaction? I never found it.
It doesn't matter what it is, where it is, you just need to go shopping? The siren song of Target is hard to resist, and as I was driving home from the fabric store, I heard the calling.
With a mile to go, I thought, "hmmm...what do I need?" Surely, there must be something I could pick up, something I've run out of and cannot live with out. Deodorant? Nope. Greeting cards? No need. Laundry detergent? I have plenty. Well, I would sure like a Snickers bar.
And that was enough justification to get my car into the righthand turn lane and into the shopping center. And as I wandered the aisles, decorated with red bullseyes and bright displays, I was largely unsatisfied. Looking was fun, but it wasn't thrilling as I'd hoped. Nothing jumped out at me. Nothing screamed "Take me home with you!" Cheap maternity clothes (a pink cardigan sweater and a chocolate brown skirt) ultimately won out, and a garden magazine and the justified Snickers bar made their way onto the conveyer belt, but total satisfaction? I never found it.
Tuesday, March 07, 2006
Mixed Feelings ...
but ultimatly happy.
Girl ends bad marriage. Girl meets wonderful young man 10+ years her junior. Boy and girl court, date, move in. Delight and happiness abound, friends rejoice for good fortune and true love. Boy and girl plan to marry, but first plan to start "trying," expecting, as responsible folks might, that it could take awhile due to her age. Surprise! First try! Boy and girl announce upcoming wedding. Boy and girl announce upcoming baby. Friends and family delighted, as they were already tuned-in on the plan. What prosperity, what luck!
Infertile friend thrilled and tearful at prospect of lifelong and perfect love for girl, who has been through a very bad five years. Infertile friend can't help but be jealous at the romanticism of it all, and wonders if she'd been so "responsible" in her planning and thoughts, if she might've had a romantic time of it.
Infertile friend has dream about visiting her RE to plan ahead for the "next one," and was greeted with hugs, kisses, and open arms full of congratulations. Ironic since the man barely cracked a smile at the positive beta test and ultrasound almost six months ago.
Girl ends bad marriage. Girl meets wonderful young man 10+ years her junior. Boy and girl court, date, move in. Delight and happiness abound, friends rejoice for good fortune and true love. Boy and girl plan to marry, but first plan to start "trying," expecting, as responsible folks might, that it could take awhile due to her age. Surprise! First try! Boy and girl announce upcoming wedding. Boy and girl announce upcoming baby. Friends and family delighted, as they were already tuned-in on the plan. What prosperity, what luck!
Infertile friend thrilled and tearful at prospect of lifelong and perfect love for girl, who has been through a very bad five years. Infertile friend can't help but be jealous at the romanticism of it all, and wonders if she'd been so "responsible" in her planning and thoughts, if she might've had a romantic time of it.
Infertile friend has dream about visiting her RE to plan ahead for the "next one," and was greeted with hugs, kisses, and open arms full of congratulations. Ironic since the man barely cracked a smile at the positive beta test and ultrasound almost six months ago.
Wednesday, March 01, 2006
I am *so* not a joiner ...
It is with cautious trepidation that I tiptoe down the path into motherhood. In trying to find a transition between business-owner-career-woman I am and at-home-mother-of-two I will become, I found myself in a place I'd never thought I'd be.
A Mothers of Multiples group meeting. Support meeting!! Snacks!! Followed by a program -- board games!!
A newish acquaintance offered me a ride and an introduction to the group, which I had heard from another twin mom described as "the worst sorority meeting you can imagine." I gratefully accepted the invitation, as I knew I'd never manage to show up on my own. Other friends and acquaintances passed along information from friends who had said it was a great group to get involved with, so I had some positive validation.
All in all, it was a good experience (although we both, very gratefully, ditched out before the game-night began). There was a group of about 8 expectant mothers, with a really nice group leader. When talk turned to a bitch session about husbands (not from me, of course. J is perfect :-)), she got the discussion back on track and tried to turn it into a positive discussion.
Ahhh... the infertile in me never sleeps. I am amazed, although I shouldn't be at this point, at the amount of misinformation about infertility that is out there. One woman commented, with the utmost authority, that most multiples that are the result of IF treatment and IVF are identical. Didn't you know?
Oh no, I interjected. Let me explain the basics about how identical twins are usually formed (one egg splits to make two babies.) And then let me explain how fraternal twins are typically created (multiple eggs are fertilized and implant). I'm aware of the complex variables that go into my simple explanation, but just wanted to put the basic facts out there for this crazy-ass woman. I'm living IVF proof, I exclaim, thereby immediately outing myself as an infertile among a group of fertile ladies with nurseries full of children already at home.
I wanted everyone to know that this wasn't easy. I was the only one in the group who was having her first child/ren. I needed for them to know. The hostile infertile rears her ugly head.
To which the group leader transitions into a discussion about how, in this group, you're free from the nagging questions about how your children were conceived. It doesn't matter. Yes, in reality, it doesn't matter. But in my world, it does. Not totally sure why, but it really matters.
I had a strange thrill last week, when at a cocktail party, a friend/acquaintance asked me quietly who my specialist was. Knowing totally what she meant, I told her all about my RE, what I liked and didn't like, about his partner, the nurses, etcetera. I didn't need to ask the how, why, what of her situation. She quietly volunteered that infertility wasn't a surprise to her and her new husband. They knew they would be interviewing REs and just wanted some scoop before her upcoming consultation. And while I hate it that she's found herself in this undesirable situation, I was quietly delighted that she confided in me for information.
Back to my current transitional world ... I did enjoy the meeting. There were a lot of people who are "like me" and even more who seem to reside in a totally different world (although we all live in the greater metropolitan area of a not-huge city). I can see where the benefits of this group might lie, and know that I can be a total joiner, a drop-in kind of person, or I can just show up for the semi-annual yard sale. Whatever works. If I can figure out what that is, exactly.
* * * * *
If you've hung around long enough to read this far, I thank you for persisting. As a reward, I will pass along the news at which I hinted in my last post:
This One has a penis and That One has a Vee-Jay-Jay, as Dr. Bailey from Gr*y's Anat*my would say.
And I am thrilled. Duh.
A Mothers of Multiples group meeting. Support meeting!! Snacks!! Followed by a program -- board games!!
A newish acquaintance offered me a ride and an introduction to the group, which I had heard from another twin mom described as "the worst sorority meeting you can imagine." I gratefully accepted the invitation, as I knew I'd never manage to show up on my own. Other friends and acquaintances passed along information from friends who had said it was a great group to get involved with, so I had some positive validation.
All in all, it was a good experience (although we both, very gratefully, ditched out before the game-night began). There was a group of about 8 expectant mothers, with a really nice group leader. When talk turned to a bitch session about husbands (not from me, of course. J is perfect :-)), she got the discussion back on track and tried to turn it into a positive discussion.
Ahhh... the infertile in me never sleeps. I am amazed, although I shouldn't be at this point, at the amount of misinformation about infertility that is out there. One woman commented, with the utmost authority, that most multiples that are the result of IF treatment and IVF are identical. Didn't you know?
Oh no, I interjected. Let me explain the basics about how identical twins are usually formed (one egg splits to make two babies.) And then let me explain how fraternal twins are typically created (multiple eggs are fertilized and implant). I'm aware of the complex variables that go into my simple explanation, but just wanted to put the basic facts out there for this crazy-ass woman. I'm living IVF proof, I exclaim, thereby immediately outing myself as an infertile among a group of fertile ladies with nurseries full of children already at home.
I wanted everyone to know that this wasn't easy. I was the only one in the group who was having her first child/ren. I needed for them to know. The hostile infertile rears her ugly head.
To which the group leader transitions into a discussion about how, in this group, you're free from the nagging questions about how your children were conceived. It doesn't matter. Yes, in reality, it doesn't matter. But in my world, it does. Not totally sure why, but it really matters.
I had a strange thrill last week, when at a cocktail party, a friend/acquaintance asked me quietly who my specialist was. Knowing totally what she meant, I told her all about my RE, what I liked and didn't like, about his partner, the nurses, etcetera. I didn't need to ask the how, why, what of her situation. She quietly volunteered that infertility wasn't a surprise to her and her new husband. They knew they would be interviewing REs and just wanted some scoop before her upcoming consultation. And while I hate it that she's found herself in this undesirable situation, I was quietly delighted that she confided in me for information.
Back to my current transitional world ... I did enjoy the meeting. There were a lot of people who are "like me" and even more who seem to reside in a totally different world (although we all live in the greater metropolitan area of a not-huge city). I can see where the benefits of this group might lie, and know that I can be a total joiner, a drop-in kind of person, or I can just show up for the semi-annual yard sale. Whatever works. If I can figure out what that is, exactly.
* * * * *
If you've hung around long enough to read this far, I thank you for persisting. As a reward, I will pass along the news at which I hinted in my last post:
This One has a penis and That One has a Vee-Jay-Jay, as Dr. Bailey from Gr*y's Anat*my would say.
And I am thrilled. Duh.
Tuesday, February 21, 2006
Deep thoughts & Big Decisions
Many thanks for your thoughts and comments a few months ago about the home vs. work dilemma.
Identity has always been an issue for me. Not in a particularly negative way, as in "I need to find myself," or "I just don't know who I am" kinds of crises, but in applying loose labels to myself.
In high school, identity went according to which crowd you hung with and in which sports you participated. Identity at my small, liberal arts college, was largely determined by your Greek affiliation and your academic major. All of those loose labels were ones I picked, and enjoyed. Never did I feel mislabeled, just comfortably ensconced in my crowd, my world.
Along with great friendship, love, and opportunity, marriage brought about the biggest identity crisis I'd experienced thus far. Who was I? Would I just become known as"J's wife"? I legally dropped my last name to take his, and this was scary to me. My mom was quick to point out, and it is a truth I've held dear to my heart ever since, that my maiden name always belongs to me, and just because I don't sign it on my checks, it is who I am. It always will be. J had thoughts of moving back to the town where he grew up, and the mention of it sent me into a tailspin, as he is part of a large, well-known family in a very small town. I knew I would simply become "J Smith's new wife" without a moment's investigation into who I really was and what made me interesting.
Luckily, it never came to that, as I am determined live my life in some semblance of a metropolitan area. And now, six years after marriage, I'm quite confident of who I am, in relationship to my husband. I haven't ever felt slighted, or identified as simply "the wife of ... "
But for the past ten years, my identity has been very much wrapped up in what I do professionally. I think it's a hazard of our culture, at least here in the mid-Atlantic area. The first thing out of people's mouths at any social occasion around here is "Nice to meet you, SusieQ. What do you do?" And it's so easy to spit out your job, rank, title, affiliation, whatever, and bam! You're identified.
What to do when the professional identification is gone?
Just before the new year, I made the decision that I want to stay home with the babies and give full-time motherhood a chance. For many, many reasons, but mostly acknowledging that this may be my only pregnancy/children and I really don't want to miss out on a single moment. It may be the only moment.
So. Having confidently made my decision, I presented it to my business partner, and told her I would do whatever necessary to support her in her decision about what to do with the business. I think she was surprised, and thought I would try to stick it out with some sort of a part-time presence.
We have made the plans, and are in the final month or so of our fabulous business creation. We will transition it into a business that she can run on her own, and that suits her skills and interests. I find that each day I alternate between sadness that we are closing this wonderful entity, anticipated loneliness for the people I have so enjoyed, and pure elation that the responsiblity will no longer drag me down, and awaken me at night.
Don't get me wrong, I am a fairly interesting person. I have interests, hobbies, friends, etc. I have no doubt I can carve out a new spot for myself in this big world and smallish community. But that takes time, and I'm worried about the meantime, the transition time. Who will I be in the interim? Who will I become? Mother - yes. Wife - still. Volunteer extraordinerre? Artist? Advocate? Sloth? Regular person?
* * * * *
I'm now at 22 weeks, and all is good. We've had our fetal scan, and both babies look great. They both have appropriate private parts, which is a delightful relief. Stay tuned for news about This One and That One.
Identity has always been an issue for me. Not in a particularly negative way, as in "I need to find myself," or "I just don't know who I am" kinds of crises, but in applying loose labels to myself.
In high school, identity went according to which crowd you hung with and in which sports you participated. Identity at my small, liberal arts college, was largely determined by your Greek affiliation and your academic major. All of those loose labels were ones I picked, and enjoyed. Never did I feel mislabeled, just comfortably ensconced in my crowd, my world.
Along with great friendship, love, and opportunity, marriage brought about the biggest identity crisis I'd experienced thus far. Who was I? Would I just become known as"J's wife"? I legally dropped my last name to take his, and this was scary to me. My mom was quick to point out, and it is a truth I've held dear to my heart ever since, that my maiden name always belongs to me, and just because I don't sign it on my checks, it is who I am. It always will be. J had thoughts of moving back to the town where he grew up, and the mention of it sent me into a tailspin, as he is part of a large, well-known family in a very small town. I knew I would simply become "J Smith's new wife" without a moment's investigation into who I really was and what made me interesting.
Luckily, it never came to that, as I am determined live my life in some semblance of a metropolitan area. And now, six years after marriage, I'm quite confident of who I am, in relationship to my husband. I haven't ever felt slighted, or identified as simply "the wife of ... "
But for the past ten years, my identity has been very much wrapped up in what I do professionally. I think it's a hazard of our culture, at least here in the mid-Atlantic area. The first thing out of people's mouths at any social occasion around here is "Nice to meet you, SusieQ. What do you do?" And it's so easy to spit out your job, rank, title, affiliation, whatever, and bam! You're identified.
What to do when the professional identification is gone?
Just before the new year, I made the decision that I want to stay home with the babies and give full-time motherhood a chance. For many, many reasons, but mostly acknowledging that this may be my only pregnancy/children and I really don't want to miss out on a single moment. It may be the only moment.
So. Having confidently made my decision, I presented it to my business partner, and told her I would do whatever necessary to support her in her decision about what to do with the business. I think she was surprised, and thought I would try to stick it out with some sort of a part-time presence.
We have made the plans, and are in the final month or so of our fabulous business creation. We will transition it into a business that she can run on her own, and that suits her skills and interests. I find that each day I alternate between sadness that we are closing this wonderful entity, anticipated loneliness for the people I have so enjoyed, and pure elation that the responsiblity will no longer drag me down, and awaken me at night.
Don't get me wrong, I am a fairly interesting person. I have interests, hobbies, friends, etc. I have no doubt I can carve out a new spot for myself in this big world and smallish community. But that takes time, and I'm worried about the meantime, the transition time. Who will I be in the interim? Who will I become? Mother - yes. Wife - still. Volunteer extraordinerre? Artist? Advocate? Sloth? Regular person?
* * * * *
I'm now at 22 weeks, and all is good. We've had our fetal scan, and both babies look great. They both have appropriate private parts, which is a delightful relief. Stay tuned for news about This One and That One.
Monday, February 20, 2006
Join the Bandwagon
I'll admit it, I totally dig Despera*e Housewiv*s ... it's part of the Sunday night decompression routine, which begins with a pineapple and ham pizza, consists of guilty pleasure tv shows, culminating in Gr*y's Anat*my, and sometimes later, some of my own snugglin' and lovin'. Sunday nights are grrrrrrreat, as Tony the Tiger might say.
Last night, I began Sunday Night Ritual with a plate of pizza nearby and laptop on my legs, catching up on some much-needed blog reading. I read a post at Fertility Now about the additional crappy storylines about infertility on prime time shows. So true, so true, I thought .
I attentively tune in to DH, and BIG SURPRISE! Gabriella and Carlos want to have a baby. But, according to her doctor, "that big fall" she took earlier has rendered her INFERTILE! Must be some tumble she took! And to make it even saucier, her crazy-ass mom shows up offering to be the gestational surrogate for their child. But add a background of sexual abuse, mother-issues, aversion to adoption, and all the expected drama. But alas! By the end of the show, it's all wrapped up with a nice, tight bow. Carlos is totally cool with adoption, Gabrielle is thrilled that she won't have to "mess up her body," and I'm sure by the end of the season, they'll oh-so-realistically have a brand new baby in their home!
Last night, I began Sunday Night Ritual with a plate of pizza nearby and laptop on my legs, catching up on some much-needed blog reading. I read a post at Fertility Now about the additional crappy storylines about infertility on prime time shows. So true, so true, I thought .
I attentively tune in to DH, and BIG SURPRISE! Gabriella and Carlos want to have a baby. But, according to her doctor, "that big fall" she took earlier has rendered her INFERTILE! Must be some tumble she took! And to make it even saucier, her crazy-ass mom shows up offering to be the gestational surrogate for their child. But add a background of sexual abuse, mother-issues, aversion to adoption, and all the expected drama. But alas! By the end of the show, it's all wrapped up with a nice, tight bow. Carlos is totally cool with adoption, Gabrielle is thrilled that she won't have to "mess up her body," and I'm sure by the end of the season, they'll oh-so-realistically have a brand new baby in their home!
Sunday, February 19, 2006
Gross Pregnancy Detail
Bellies change. I get it. Obviously, this is because a baby (or in this case, two babies) are taking up all the room that was previously occupied by internal organs and partially digested pizza. I'm thrilled about what's going on in the inside. It's what's happening on the outside that grosses me out.
1. My belly has a pulse. I can lie in bed, shirt pulled up, and watch my belly throb. It's not babies kicking or moving, it's just blood circulating. Lots of it. Making my belly move on it's own.
2. Have you ever taken a dip in the pool or bathtub and looked down at your body, noticing that any visible hairs hold tiny bubbles on them? On a recent dip in the tub, I submerged myself in the delicious warmth, and looked down, only to see tons of bubbles all over my stomach. Everywhere! Upon further investigation, outside of the tub, I see that yes, I have fur. Pale, light fur, but fur nonetheless. Uggh.
1. My belly has a pulse. I can lie in bed, shirt pulled up, and watch my belly throb. It's not babies kicking or moving, it's just blood circulating. Lots of it. Making my belly move on it's own.
2. Have you ever taken a dip in the pool or bathtub and looked down at your body, noticing that any visible hairs hold tiny bubbles on them? On a recent dip in the tub, I submerged myself in the delicious warmth, and looked down, only to see tons of bubbles all over my stomach. Everywhere! Upon further investigation, outside of the tub, I see that yes, I have fur. Pale, light fur, but fur nonetheless. Uggh.
3. And the piece de resistance ... I need to buy some stock in Band-Aid. Because I think I'm going to be purchasing them by the boatload, in order to cover the nasty, herniated sphincter that my belly button has become. I can't stand to look at it. It hasn't popped out yet, which I hear will happen, but it's previously cavernous depths are shrinking daily, and if pressed in just the right way, it looks like Jack might just pop right out of his box.
* * * * *
On the other, more positive and delightful, hand, the beings in the belly are doing way cool things. I find myself wanting to be slothful and lazy, to lie around on the couch, just so I can be still and feel the belly (averting my eyes from the orifice formerly known as Belly Button), waiting to feel a gurgle, a bump, a hard spot, or an overt jab. It is happening more and more frequently, and I'm obsessed. All I want to do is wait for it.
* * * * *
On the other, more positive and delightful, hand, the beings in the belly are doing way cool things. I find myself wanting to be slothful and lazy, to lie around on the couch, just so I can be still and feel the belly (averting my eyes from the orifice formerly known as Belly Button), waiting to feel a gurgle, a bump, a hard spot, or an overt jab. It is happening more and more frequently, and I'm obsessed. All I want to do is wait for it.
Thursday, February 16, 2006
What's up with that?
I come home from work yesterday, only to find my dear, sweet husband (formerly macho-man sports-loving husband) enthralled by the Olympic Curling match that is currently on television?
WTF? Why would a man who loves the speed of skating, the manly crunch of human bodies in football, the intense skill and inherent danger of mogul skiing, be enthralled with curling?
As I tried to engage him in our everyday repartee - "how was your day?" "What exciting things happened at work?" - I was caught in a non-stop lesson on the intricacies of block shots, stones, brooms, and tee scores. I tried, I promise I tried, to find the lesson interesting, and perhaps discover some nugget of curiosity that could prompt me to ask a question or feign interest. But alas, none. My mind was a blank.
I thought it all over when I came downstairs to breakfast. We watched the morning news, as usual, and during a commercial, someone thought it good to switch over to the other channel carrying Olympic coverage. To which the response was an overindulged "Oh yea! Curling is on!"
Oh, Turin/Turino/Torinoa, what monster have you created?
WTF? Why would a man who loves the speed of skating, the manly crunch of human bodies in football, the intense skill and inherent danger of mogul skiing, be enthralled with curling?
As I tried to engage him in our everyday repartee - "how was your day?" "What exciting things happened at work?" - I was caught in a non-stop lesson on the intricacies of block shots, stones, brooms, and tee scores. I tried, I promise I tried, to find the lesson interesting, and perhaps discover some nugget of curiosity that could prompt me to ask a question or feign interest. But alas, none. My mind was a blank.
I thought it all over when I came downstairs to breakfast. We watched the morning news, as usual, and during a commercial, someone thought it good to switch over to the other channel carrying Olympic coverage. To which the response was an overindulged "Oh yea! Curling is on!"
Oh, Turin/Turino/Torinoa, what monster have you created?
Saturday, February 11, 2006
My Infertility Bookshelf
Information is a salve. It soothes, it eases, it heals, even if only temporarily.
Dr. Google has been a boon to those dealing with medical issues, and in my own personal experiences, infertility. But books, I still love those. What's better than cuddling up with a first-person tale of woe to make you feel certain that there is hope for your situation? The laptop doesn't do so well propped up on the ledge of the tub (believe you me, I have tried), but a medical tome can pass the time while attempting to simultaneously relax and determine how the hell you're going to manage to conceive a child under the duress of ill-functioning internal organs.
So to you, I present my personal infertility library. These books hold a revered spot in my bedroom.
They are not on my regular, downstairs bookshelves, as I never achieved the confidence to discuss it all as cocktail party conversation with folks who might be perusing my bookshelves. And the bedroom just seems right. Since the babies were not to be made as per the ususal method (i.e., in the bedroom), the proximity seems somehow appropriate. Contemplative reading is best done in bed or bath.
Note to the right of the books, the very large husband-stole-from-a-wedding-receiption-back-in-his-college-days-extra-large-goblet full of all the spare change. Very necessary when embarking on IF treatment with minimal insurance coverage.
A Few Good Eggs ... I liked this one a lot. Straight-out woman's perspective. Not too much total depth, but a good primer in easy going language.
Love and Infertility ... While not totally my style, I was glad to find a book that talked directly about how infertility affects your relationship with your husband/partner.
Girlfriend to Girlfriend: A Fertility Companion
Unsung Lullabies: Understanding and Coping with Infertility
Inconceivable: A Woman's Triumph over Despair and Statistics ... Wow. This woman's story is awe-inspiring in many ways. I didn't necessarily take the same paths she did, but she did inspire me to keep at it.
The Baby Trail ... Okay, it's chick lit. But it's entertaining, a story I could somewhat relate to, and kept me occupied when the last thing I wanted to do was dwell on my most recently failed IUI.
Conception Chronicles: The Uncensored Truth about Sex, Love and Marriage when You're Trying to Get Pregnant ... Cool format, very "chatty with the girlfriends" and good basic info.
Conquering Infertility ... The author is somewhat of a mind-body infertility guru. After reading this book, my only consolation to my infertility woes was that if they continued, I was going to get myself up to Boston for one of her workshops.
In Vitro Fertilization: The A.R.T.* of Making Babies ... Such a clever, clever title. Gag. The edition I read had some pretty outdated information, and I found it condescending and annoying in general. Perhaps a newer edition?
The Infertility Survival Handbook ... I loved this book. It reassured me, and gave me some coping techniques, along with information for which I was starving.
Knocked up: Confessions of a Hip Mother-to-Be ... Another chick-lit guilty pleasure to give me hope. Although I did keep the front title hidden while reading in public.
Not on the shelf, but another goodie:
The Couple's Guide to In Vitro Fertilization: Everything You Need to Know to Maximize Your Chances of Success ... The only one I found that even attempted to speak to the man in the relationship. Not that he read it anyway.
Any other nominees? Favorites? Most despised? Ones you would like to read? Books you wish someone would write?
Dr. Google has been a boon to those dealing with medical issues, and in my own personal experiences, infertility. But books, I still love those. What's better than cuddling up with a first-person tale of woe to make you feel certain that there is hope for your situation? The laptop doesn't do so well propped up on the ledge of the tub (believe you me, I have tried), but a medical tome can pass the time while attempting to simultaneously relax and determine how the hell you're going to manage to conceive a child under the duress of ill-functioning internal organs.
So to you, I present my personal infertility library. These books hold a revered spot in my bedroom.
They are not on my regular, downstairs bookshelves, as I never achieved the confidence to discuss it all as cocktail party conversation with folks who might be perusing my bookshelves. And the bedroom just seems right. Since the babies were not to be made as per the ususal method (i.e., in the bedroom), the proximity seems somehow appropriate. Contemplative reading is best done in bed or bath. Note to the right of the books, the very large husband-stole-from-a-wedding-receiption-back-in-his-college-days-extra-large-goblet full of all the spare change. Very necessary when embarking on IF treatment with minimal insurance coverage.
A Few Good Eggs ... I liked this one a lot. Straight-out woman's perspective. Not too much total depth, but a good primer in easy going language.
Love and Infertility ... While not totally my style, I was glad to find a book that talked directly about how infertility affects your relationship with your husband/partner.
Girlfriend to Girlfriend: A Fertility Companion
Unsung Lullabies: Understanding and Coping with Infertility
Inconceivable: A Woman's Triumph over Despair and Statistics ... Wow. This woman's story is awe-inspiring in many ways. I didn't necessarily take the same paths she did, but she did inspire me to keep at it.
The Baby Trail ... Okay, it's chick lit. But it's entertaining, a story I could somewhat relate to, and kept me occupied when the last thing I wanted to do was dwell on my most recently failed IUI.
Conception Chronicles: The Uncensored Truth about Sex, Love and Marriage when You're Trying to Get Pregnant ... Cool format, very "chatty with the girlfriends" and good basic info.
Conquering Infertility ... The author is somewhat of a mind-body infertility guru. After reading this book, my only consolation to my infertility woes was that if they continued, I was going to get myself up to Boston for one of her workshops.
In Vitro Fertilization: The A.R.T.* of Making Babies ... Such a clever, clever title. Gag. The edition I read had some pretty outdated information, and I found it condescending and annoying in general. Perhaps a newer edition?
The Infertility Survival Handbook ... I loved this book. It reassured me, and gave me some coping techniques, along with information for which I was starving.
Knocked up: Confessions of a Hip Mother-to-Be ... Another chick-lit guilty pleasure to give me hope. Although I did keep the front title hidden while reading in public.
Not on the shelf, but another goodie:
The Couple's Guide to In Vitro Fertilization: Everything You Need to Know to Maximize Your Chances of Success ... The only one I found that even attempted to speak to the man in the relationship. Not that he read it anyway.
Any other nominees? Favorites? Most despised? Ones you would like to read? Books you wish someone would write?
Wednesday, February 01, 2006
It just doesn't seem right
While I do believe in a woman's right to have a child, whether she is single, married, black, white, yellow, purple, tall, short, skinny, round, young or old, I can't help the fact that I am bothered by this.
I don't argue with this woman's desire. I do argue with any doctor who would perform IVF on a 67 year old woman.
I don't argue with this woman's desire. I do argue with any doctor who would perform IVF on a 67 year old woman.
Sunday, January 29, 2006
Shower Issues
I spent Saturday at a wonderful baby shower for a dear old friend. It was a nice mix of people, old and young, and although games were involved, they were short, sweet, and kind of funny. I reconnected with old friends, made some new ones, and felt the warmth of all the people that were so genuinely excited for J. & I.
Coincidentally, over the weekend, both a good friend and a relative, told me that they'd like to plan showers/parties for me/us. I freaked out. I am so, so bad at being the center of attention, and quite uncomfortable in that situation. But it's important to them, and I know both showers will be a good time, and a memory I do want to make.
But I'm worried. (apparently, I'm not the only one who has shower issues.) Friends and family are spread all around the state. Neither J or I have a traditional work environment (we own a small business, and esentially work together. With one other person), so we don't have a group of "work friends." I certainly have some good girlfriends, but honestly, most of them are out of town. Many of our friends are "couple friends". I am deathly afraid that I simply don't have enough friends to split between two parties. What if noone comes? How horrifying.
I'm so nervous, and really don't know how to handle it. But then again, weeks ago, I had a deathly fear that noone would offer a shower, and would that be disappointing too?
Such trivial concerns. I need to put them in perspective, and realize that these are problems I only dreamed I'd ever be having.
Coincidentally, over the weekend, both a good friend and a relative, told me that they'd like to plan showers/parties for me/us. I freaked out. I am so, so bad at being the center of attention, and quite uncomfortable in that situation. But it's important to them, and I know both showers will be a good time, and a memory I do want to make.
But I'm worried. (apparently, I'm not the only one who has shower issues.) Friends and family are spread all around the state. Neither J or I have a traditional work environment (we own a small business, and esentially work together. With one other person), so we don't have a group of "work friends." I certainly have some good girlfriends, but honestly, most of them are out of town. Many of our friends are "couple friends". I am deathly afraid that I simply don't have enough friends to split between two parties. What if noone comes? How horrifying.
I'm so nervous, and really don't know how to handle it. But then again, weeks ago, I had a deathly fear that noone would offer a shower, and would that be disappointing too?
Such trivial concerns. I need to put them in perspective, and realize that these are problems I only dreamed I'd ever be having.
Thursday, January 26, 2006
Who Are Those Crazy Ladies?
It’s something I’ve alternately dreaded and anticipating. I avoided it for a long time … took drastic means to skip it … rubber bands, safety pins, a few of J’s items, my “fat” clothes.
But the time came, and I had to bite the bullet at go shopping for maternity clothes. All of the above techniques only enhanced the fact that it appeared that I had overindulged during the holiday festivities, and might have gotten me nominated as a candidate on “What Not to Wear.”
Typically, I love to shop. For anything. It’s one of my favorite pastimes. In the past few years, clothing shopping hasn’t been as fun, as I haven’t been particularly satisfied with my shape. And shopping on a deadline with specific needs simply takes the fun out of impulse shopping.
So I went. Actually, my MIL wanted to take me, and we spent a wonderful afternoon together. We picked out some nice basics, and few fun pieces, and were having a great time together (which is crazy, because we really don’t spend much “alone” time together).
The seemingly innocent saleswoman had been as nice as can be. It was a small boutique, and we were the only people in there, so much chatting and making-nice had been happening. I’m not sure how the subject came up, but we were talking about the different kinds of people who shop in her store.
And then she said something to the effect of “Yea, and then sometimes you get these women who aren’t pregnant, don’t seem to want to buy the clothes, don’t talk at all, and just want to look around. It’s crazy, I don’t get what they’re doing here!”
I get it. It was me. Years of cautious wandering through baby boutiques, occasionally maternity stores, wondering if I’d ever be there shopping for myself. Nothing crazy about it.
But the time came, and I had to bite the bullet at go shopping for maternity clothes. All of the above techniques only enhanced the fact that it appeared that I had overindulged during the holiday festivities, and might have gotten me nominated as a candidate on “What Not to Wear.”
Typically, I love to shop. For anything. It’s one of my favorite pastimes. In the past few years, clothing shopping hasn’t been as fun, as I haven’t been particularly satisfied with my shape. And shopping on a deadline with specific needs simply takes the fun out of impulse shopping.
So I went. Actually, my MIL wanted to take me, and we spent a wonderful afternoon together. We picked out some nice basics, and few fun pieces, and were having a great time together (which is crazy, because we really don’t spend much “alone” time together).
The seemingly innocent saleswoman had been as nice as can be. It was a small boutique, and we were the only people in there, so much chatting and making-nice had been happening. I’m not sure how the subject came up, but we were talking about the different kinds of people who shop in her store.
And then she said something to the effect of “Yea, and then sometimes you get these women who aren’t pregnant, don’t seem to want to buy the clothes, don’t talk at all, and just want to look around. It’s crazy, I don’t get what they’re doing here!”
I get it. It was me. Years of cautious wandering through baby boutiques, occasionally maternity stores, wondering if I’d ever be there shopping for myself. Nothing crazy about it.
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