This morning Bruno and I each stepped on the scale. I'm up 14 lbs now in as many weeks. Bruno thought about this for a moment, grinned, and then came out with the following pronouncement:
"You're going to weigh more than I do by end of this".
Grrumph grrr son of a....
Next time, he gets to carry the pregnancy :)
Thursday, December 31, 2009
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
Publically Pregnant
So today is a good day: we had an appointment with the OB and my cervix is long and strong, the babies are kicking around growing well and my worry-o-meter should be fed for the next week or so. My appointments are scheduled every two weeks, but I notice that I only seem to be able to make it about a week before my outer shell of resilience is worn through and every little thing becomes a potential symptom to get hysterical about. My docs know this and understand, and so I schedule with them every two weeks but there is a tacit agreement that if I start going mental before that, I just call the office staff and they squeeze me in. So far, it has been an appointment every 5-7 days or so. So be it.
So, today should be a good day. But apparently there is something more going on with me today than just post-traumatic stress worrying, something terrifically hormonal and very, well, pregnant. I am just extremely, extremely emotional today. Everything is making me edgy and weepy, from TV commercials to the way my new haircut looks to the woman working at the kitchen-wares store where we stopped on the way home from the doctor's to return a flawed holiday gift.
My lovely mother has been trying to buy a wine decanter for my husband for more than a year now. She keeps asking what kind he wants, and he offers nebulous mutterings, avoiding a firm answer. So this Christmas, Mom simply went out and bought him one at a local store. And after one use, and with no egregious bumpings of any kind, the thing cracked. Oft.
So back we bundle it into its original packaging, complete with gift receipt, and bring it back to the store for a refund on a flawed product. And by we, I mean me because I'm the one who typically handles these kinds of interactions for our family. I approach the counter with my box and gift receipt and explain the situation to the saleswoman who comes over to "help" us.
Actually, it turns out, this woman didn't come over to help us; she came over to say "can't " to us. I have a real aversion to people like this under normal circumstances, but apparently I am REALLY put out by people like this when I am under the hormonal influence.
"I remember inspecting this item before it left the store. It didn't leave the store like this." These are the first words our friendly customer service representative speaks to me after I explain why I am here. She then goes to consult another store worker, who says, loudly enough for Bruno and I to hear "The store was really busy that day. There was a huge line. I got the item off the shelf for the woman but I have no idea whether it was damaged or not."
Our gal returns and flatly says to me "I can't return this." I suggest that we could just exchange it for another of the same kind. "We don't have any more" she crows. Bruno pipes in that he would consider taking a different kind. "We don't sell any others" our saleswitch lobbies back.
Why do people like this chose to work in customer service industries?
I remind her that her boss has said that the store was too busy that day to properly have checked out the object, and that we are assuring her that we did not mishandle it. She snaps as her only response, "That's not my boss." Oh, I truly dislike people who delight in saying no to everything, who refuse to think around corners, who have no interest in satisfying their customers. I can feel my rising hysteria, disproportionate to the, albeit frustrating, not in any way tear-worthy situation. And yet I feel the tears a comin'. I push away from the counter, say to Bruno, "I'm pregnant....I can't...can you...?" and head toward the exit. I flee the scene before I become disastrously inappropriate (images of knocking the decanter off the counter, enjoying the sounds and sights of its shattering, and leaving this stringy haired she-hag to clean up the mess have flitted through my hormonally afflicted mind), and I hear our friendly representative growl, "What did she say?!"
I pace the cool streets trying not to cry, reminding myself of the relative importance of successfully returning this decanter in the face of all else. I'm doing OK, until Bruno pops out of the store moments later, waving a small white piece of paper. He takes one look at my face and bursts out laughing, which causes me to burst out crying. "I hate people who say can't so much!" I wail. "I know," he comforts, as he takes me into his arms, continuing to laugh. "Let's get you fed," he suggests.
On the way home, he explains that we now a have a store credit for the full amount of the decanter and that, upon hearing that I was pregnant, the woman apologized to Bruno for upsetting me. I stew for a bit about why we couldn't just have gotten the freakin' refund for my Mom, and then Bruno reminds me of the good doctor's report we've just had, and assures me that I'll feel a lot better after lunch.
And as always, he is right.
So, today should be a good day. But apparently there is something more going on with me today than just post-traumatic stress worrying, something terrifically hormonal and very, well, pregnant. I am just extremely, extremely emotional today. Everything is making me edgy and weepy, from TV commercials to the way my new haircut looks to the woman working at the kitchen-wares store where we stopped on the way home from the doctor's to return a flawed holiday gift.
My lovely mother has been trying to buy a wine decanter for my husband for more than a year now. She keeps asking what kind he wants, and he offers nebulous mutterings, avoiding a firm answer. So this Christmas, Mom simply went out and bought him one at a local store. And after one use, and with no egregious bumpings of any kind, the thing cracked. Oft.
So back we bundle it into its original packaging, complete with gift receipt, and bring it back to the store for a refund on a flawed product. And by we, I mean me because I'm the one who typically handles these kinds of interactions for our family. I approach the counter with my box and gift receipt and explain the situation to the saleswoman who comes over to "help" us.
Actually, it turns out, this woman didn't come over to help us; she came over to say "can't " to us. I have a real aversion to people like this under normal circumstances, but apparently I am REALLY put out by people like this when I am under the hormonal influence.
"I remember inspecting this item before it left the store. It didn't leave the store like this." These are the first words our friendly customer service representative speaks to me after I explain why I am here. She then goes to consult another store worker, who says, loudly enough for Bruno and I to hear "The store was really busy that day. There was a huge line. I got the item off the shelf for the woman but I have no idea whether it was damaged or not."
Our gal returns and flatly says to me "I can't return this." I suggest that we could just exchange it for another of the same kind. "We don't have any more" she crows. Bruno pipes in that he would consider taking a different kind. "We don't sell any others" our saleswitch lobbies back.
Why do people like this chose to work in customer service industries?
I remind her that her boss has said that the store was too busy that day to properly have checked out the object, and that we are assuring her that we did not mishandle it. She snaps as her only response, "That's not my boss." Oh, I truly dislike people who delight in saying no to everything, who refuse to think around corners, who have no interest in satisfying their customers. I can feel my rising hysteria, disproportionate to the, albeit frustrating, not in any way tear-worthy situation. And yet I feel the tears a comin'. I push away from the counter, say to Bruno, "I'm pregnant....I can't...can you...?" and head toward the exit. I flee the scene before I become disastrously inappropriate (images of knocking the decanter off the counter, enjoying the sounds and sights of its shattering, and leaving this stringy haired she-hag to clean up the mess have flitted through my hormonally afflicted mind), and I hear our friendly representative growl, "What did she say?!"
I pace the cool streets trying not to cry, reminding myself of the relative importance of successfully returning this decanter in the face of all else. I'm doing OK, until Bruno pops out of the store moments later, waving a small white piece of paper. He takes one look at my face and bursts out laughing, which causes me to burst out crying. "I hate people who say can't so much!" I wail. "I know," he comforts, as he takes me into his arms, continuing to laugh. "Let's get you fed," he suggests.
On the way home, he explains that we now a have a store credit for the full amount of the decanter and that, upon hearing that I was pregnant, the woman apologized to Bruno for upsetting me. I stew for a bit about why we couldn't just have gotten the freakin' refund for my Mom, and then Bruno reminds me of the good doctor's report we've just had, and assures me that I'll feel a lot better after lunch.
And as always, he is right.
Saturday, December 26, 2009
The Day Of A Thousand Cheetos
OK, not really Cheetos. The Whole Foods all natural version of Cheetos. But still...
It started out innocently enough: after breakfast and second breakfast, and our trip the Farmer's Market and lunch and my 20 minute walk and second lunch (hey, don't judge until you've been pregnant with twins), I climbed into bed with my book and my water bottle for my doctor mandated mid-day lie down. Oh, and I also brought my cell phone and the land line, and the as of yet unopened bag of Cheetos.
I propped myself on my pillows, arranged the phones, took a swig of water, lay down, opened my book and opened the bag of Cheetos. Bliss: reading my trashy vampire novel (hey, I've already plowed through the first three, and it has now become apparent that the only way out is through), lying in my warm bed, eating Cheetos one by one, licking my fingers clean when the powdery orange build-up reaches just the right level. Bruno is out taking a hike, so I have a uniquely unmonitored afternoon: no one is walking in to the room to switch out my Cheetos for persimmons or some such nonsense. I take advantage, and continue to indulge.
And I read and I snack and I curl my toes with the decadence of it all. And at some undefined point that I always fail to notice when left alone with a bag of powdered cheese covered corn puffs, the tide begins to turn. I start feeling a little repulsed, a little sloth-like, a little depressed, even. Which makes me want more Cheetos, to get that bright cheddar high back. Now I notice that I'm thirsty, so I start guzzling water. Which makes me have to pee a lot. Which makes me start to get afraid that maybe I've got an infection. I talk myself off that ledge, and I reach for more Cheetos, just to take the edge off, you know?
And now I'm nearing the bottom of the bag. I don't want another day of cheesy corn snack temptation, so I feel I'd do better just to finish them off. And I loathe myself a little with each crunch, but I protect my future days by polishing off that wicked bag. I clean myself up, clean up the bed, hide the evidence, and drink water to the point where I'm swollen up like a balloon. I have a momentary panic attack and pull the bag out of the trash just to check whether "yeast" is one of the ingredients: it isn't, phew. Crisis averted.
Bruno comes home, ready to make me first dinner. I can't! I've just consumed a thousand calories of all-natural food of the devil. I'm grouchy and bloated and strung out on sodium and powdered cheese. As he begins listing possible dinner options and my stomach starts swimming in a highly dangerous fashion, I realize I'm going have to 'fess up. Bruno looks half dismayed, half amused, and we compromise on a punitive salad, to be choked down by me any time between then and bedtime.
I have just about finished that salad now, dear readers. And as I force my last bite of arugula and shredded carrot, I swear I will never eat Cheetos again!
Well, at least not a whole bag of them all in one sitting.... :)
It started out innocently enough: after breakfast and second breakfast, and our trip the Farmer's Market and lunch and my 20 minute walk and second lunch (hey, don't judge until you've been pregnant with twins), I climbed into bed with my book and my water bottle for my doctor mandated mid-day lie down. Oh, and I also brought my cell phone and the land line, and the as of yet unopened bag of Cheetos.
I propped myself on my pillows, arranged the phones, took a swig of water, lay down, opened my book and opened the bag of Cheetos. Bliss: reading my trashy vampire novel (hey, I've already plowed through the first three, and it has now become apparent that the only way out is through), lying in my warm bed, eating Cheetos one by one, licking my fingers clean when the powdery orange build-up reaches just the right level. Bruno is out taking a hike, so I have a uniquely unmonitored afternoon: no one is walking in to the room to switch out my Cheetos for persimmons or some such nonsense. I take advantage, and continue to indulge.
And I read and I snack and I curl my toes with the decadence of it all. And at some undefined point that I always fail to notice when left alone with a bag of powdered cheese covered corn puffs, the tide begins to turn. I start feeling a little repulsed, a little sloth-like, a little depressed, even. Which makes me want more Cheetos, to get that bright cheddar high back. Now I notice that I'm thirsty, so I start guzzling water. Which makes me have to pee a lot. Which makes me start to get afraid that maybe I've got an infection. I talk myself off that ledge, and I reach for more Cheetos, just to take the edge off, you know?
And now I'm nearing the bottom of the bag. I don't want another day of cheesy corn snack temptation, so I feel I'd do better just to finish them off. And I loathe myself a little with each crunch, but I protect my future days by polishing off that wicked bag. I clean myself up, clean up the bed, hide the evidence, and drink water to the point where I'm swollen up like a balloon. I have a momentary panic attack and pull the bag out of the trash just to check whether "yeast" is one of the ingredients: it isn't, phew. Crisis averted.
Bruno comes home, ready to make me first dinner. I can't! I've just consumed a thousand calories of all-natural food of the devil. I'm grouchy and bloated and strung out on sodium and powdered cheese. As he begins listing possible dinner options and my stomach starts swimming in a highly dangerous fashion, I realize I'm going have to 'fess up. Bruno looks half dismayed, half amused, and we compromise on a punitive salad, to be choked down by me any time between then and bedtime.
I have just about finished that salad now, dear readers. And as I force my last bite of arugula and shredded carrot, I swear I will never eat Cheetos again!
Well, at least not a whole bag of them all in one sitting.... :)
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
Breaking the Surface
Last night I dreamt I was at a big pool, a pool I didn't recognize, with a bunch of female friends. The friends were mostly in the pool already, far from where I stood on the edge. They beckoned me to come join them. I took the plunge and dove in, but as I turned up to surface, I found that some force was keeping me down. I concentrated all my strength into turning my head up and moving toward the surface, but it was like it was iced over: I absolutely couldn't break through. I was getting lost in the blue, beginning not to know which way was up or down, which way had air. I finally backed up and found a place where I could surface, and came gasping up for air. My first emotion was fury, fury with the owner of the pool for not more clearly outlining the dangerous sections of the pool. Then I looked over to my friends, still so far away in the center of the pool, and wondered why I was the only one who had had trouble getting in the pool, had run into such danger. And I wondered how, and whether, I would ever make it to where they were.
So I guess right now, I'm in the middle of my dive, waiting to see whether I'll have trouble surfacing again, whether I'll run into the cruel, unyielding ice, or whether I'll gracefully, effortlessly break the surface and begin to breath again.
So I guess right now, I'm in the middle of my dive, waiting to see whether I'll have trouble surfacing again, whether I'll run into the cruel, unyielding ice, or whether I'll gracefully, effortlessly break the surface and begin to breath again.
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
Pisser
After such a happy post yesterday, I'm tempted not to put this one in at all, or at the very least to try to come off as slightly more sane by waiting a day or two before I admit to it. But what the hell: if you haven't figured out that this journey is a wicked roller coaster by now then I haven't been doing a good enough job of depicting it.
Whooooooosh! (that's the sound of the roller coaster descending from a height, leaving me screaming my head off)
Today was a less than stellar day. I suppose it truly started last night, when I had trouble sleeping. My typical action, when I find myself tossing and turning, is to do what Bruno calls "resetting": I get up, go pee, and come back and try start over with sleeping. I must have reset no fewer than 20 times last night, and the more I went to the bathroom, the less I had to use it, which made me get paranoid about feeling like I had to pee but not being able to, which quickly spiraled into fear that I actually had a urinary tract infection which would cause my cervix to shorten.
I was practically in hysterics by the time Bruno's alarm went off.
Made it through breakfast, called the doctors office, and was told to come on in for a pee-test to see if I had an infection. Gathered my stuff to leave, then went to the bathroom and...DAMMIT!! Prego brain strikes again: peeing is the last thing you want to do when you are heading to the doctors office to go pee in a cup. And now I've left myself the perfect excuse to doubt the results of the doctors test, because of course that pee will be too new: there won't have been time for the bacteria I know must be there to have built up a detectable level in my bladder. (The pee doesn't have to be held in the bladder for any amount of time for the test to work. The nurses have told me this over the phone, but what the hell do they know, right?)
Is the roller coaster at the bottom yet?
Go the doctors, pee in the cup, and of course the test comes back negative. The nurse calls me into the back to tell me this, and what do I do? I start to cry. She nabs the doctor, throws us both in the doctors office and asks me to tell the doctor my symptoms. I don't have any symptoms; I'm just a paranoid freak!! They are both incredibly sympathetic, and the doctor even offers to check my cervix for me to put my mind at ease. He is alone in the office today and his waiting room is full of pregnant women who have appointments, and I just can't do it to him or to them. I thank him, but tell him I'm sure everything is fine and I'm just having a tough day. I shuffle through the waiting room with my head hanging over my chest, and burst into tears by the elevator.
Oh, this is just so hard.
Every little thing has the potential to open my cervix. Every little pain is a potential contraction. Every new sensation is a possible symptom of pre-term labor. I am so so scared of losing this pregnancy too. I think in a weird way, this may be a backlash to having come out on the blog. I got a whole slew of congratulations e-mails, which was honestly what I was hoping for: just a little moment of normalcy and celebration, of not letting my previous tragedy take away all the joy of being pregnant again. But it has also left me feeling incredibly vulnerable and exposed, and, according to the laws of superstition, poised for another public crash and burn.
I try to remember that this is a different pregnancy. That my doctors have a great new set of plans. But the flaw in the plans is that they all rely on my being able to report the symptoms properly, to call in if I start having contractions or feel a,b, or c symptom. But am I up to the task? Will I know a real urinary tract infection if it happens? Recognize a contraction as different from the way my stomach feels when I get over zealous with the kale? The doctors can't do this part; neither can Bruno. This part, the first line of defense, is all on me.
I so wish they could just put me to sleep for the next six months, monitor my body and do whatever they need to it, and wake me up when the babies are good and properly cooked.
Oh, this roller coaster is such a freakin' pisser.
Whooooooosh! (that's the sound of the roller coaster descending from a height, leaving me screaming my head off)
Today was a less than stellar day. I suppose it truly started last night, when I had trouble sleeping. My typical action, when I find myself tossing and turning, is to do what Bruno calls "resetting": I get up, go pee, and come back and try start over with sleeping. I must have reset no fewer than 20 times last night, and the more I went to the bathroom, the less I had to use it, which made me get paranoid about feeling like I had to pee but not being able to, which quickly spiraled into fear that I actually had a urinary tract infection which would cause my cervix to shorten.
I was practically in hysterics by the time Bruno's alarm went off.
Made it through breakfast, called the doctors office, and was told to come on in for a pee-test to see if I had an infection. Gathered my stuff to leave, then went to the bathroom and...DAMMIT!! Prego brain strikes again: peeing is the last thing you want to do when you are heading to the doctors office to go pee in a cup. And now I've left myself the perfect excuse to doubt the results of the doctors test, because of course that pee will be too new: there won't have been time for the bacteria I know must be there to have built up a detectable level in my bladder. (The pee doesn't have to be held in the bladder for any amount of time for the test to work. The nurses have told me this over the phone, but what the hell do they know, right?)
Is the roller coaster at the bottom yet?
Go the doctors, pee in the cup, and of course the test comes back negative. The nurse calls me into the back to tell me this, and what do I do? I start to cry. She nabs the doctor, throws us both in the doctors office and asks me to tell the doctor my symptoms. I don't have any symptoms; I'm just a paranoid freak!! They are both incredibly sympathetic, and the doctor even offers to check my cervix for me to put my mind at ease. He is alone in the office today and his waiting room is full of pregnant women who have appointments, and I just can't do it to him or to them. I thank him, but tell him I'm sure everything is fine and I'm just having a tough day. I shuffle through the waiting room with my head hanging over my chest, and burst into tears by the elevator.
Oh, this is just so hard.
Every little thing has the potential to open my cervix. Every little pain is a potential contraction. Every new sensation is a possible symptom of pre-term labor. I am so so scared of losing this pregnancy too. I think in a weird way, this may be a backlash to having come out on the blog. I got a whole slew of congratulations e-mails, which was honestly what I was hoping for: just a little moment of normalcy and celebration, of not letting my previous tragedy take away all the joy of being pregnant again. But it has also left me feeling incredibly vulnerable and exposed, and, according to the laws of superstition, poised for another public crash and burn.
I try to remember that this is a different pregnancy. That my doctors have a great new set of plans. But the flaw in the plans is that they all rely on my being able to report the symptoms properly, to call in if I start having contractions or feel a,b, or c symptom. But am I up to the task? Will I know a real urinary tract infection if it happens? Recognize a contraction as different from the way my stomach feels when I get over zealous with the kale? The doctors can't do this part; neither can Bruno. This part, the first line of defense, is all on me.
I so wish they could just put me to sleep for the next six months, monitor my body and do whatever they need to it, and wake me up when the babies are good and properly cooked.
Oh, this roller coaster is such a freakin' pisser.
Monday, December 21, 2009
Theme Song
I just got back from my prescribed 20 minute walk of freedom. And while I was out, the gray California winter sky opened, and a drizzling rain started. Kids scattered from the park I was walking through (aren't I lucky to have two parks within my 20 minute walking radius!), but I looked up at the fuzzy gray sky, and out at the strong tall Eucalyptus trees and the beautiful oaks which still have their scarlet leaves on them, and started to sing. And as I walked and sang and listened to the lyrics, with one hand on my heart and the other on my belly, I think I found my new theme song for this next section of the journey:
I'm singing in the rain
Just singing in the rain
What a glorious feelin'
I'm happy again
I'm laughing at clouds
So dark up above
The sun's in my heart
And I'm ready for love
Let the stormy clouds chase
Everyone from the place
Come on with the rain
I've a smile on my face
I walk down the lane
With a happy refrain
Just singin',
Singin' in the rain
I'm singing in the rain
Just singing in the rain
What a glorious feelin'
I'm happy again
I'm laughing at clouds
So dark up above
The sun's in my heart
And I'm ready for love
Let the stormy clouds chase
Everyone from the place
Come on with the rain
I've a smile on my face
I walk down the lane
With a happy refrain
Just singin',
Singin' in the rain
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
Out
I've been delaying doing this for a few weeks, partly out of superstition, partly out of fear, partly out of a lack of any ideas for a graceful way to do it.
But I do want to do it, partly out of desire for the support of you my dear readers, partly out of eagerness to keep chronicling my journey and in a less cryptic way, partly out of the knowledge that it is time to admit and embrace what is going on.
So, perhaps I'd better just rip the band-aid off and come out:
I'm pregnant again.
One more band-aid:
It's twins again.
OK. There it is.
Pause for a moment of celebration:
(whoo hoo!! way to go!!! yeah!!!!)
Pause for a moment of gravity:
(whoa, twins again. wow. my gosh. whew.)
Here is the back story: I'll be thirteen weeks pregnant tomorrow, about to exit the first trimester. It has been a wonderful, terrifying, challenging three months. First, the exhilaration of the first blood test: we're pregnant!!! Next the suspicions with the second blood test: OK, the numbers are doubling like they're supposed to, but don't these numbers seem awfully high? Awfully like TWIN numbers. Then the terrible two week wait till the first ultrasound, to see if there is a heartbeat (or two). This is where we had out last two losses, so we were half waiting for the bottom to fall out the whole time. But at that 6 week appointment, there was the sac, and the fetal pole, and the heartbeat. And the sac and the fetal pole and the heartbeat. Twins. The room was so quiet. We were incredibly grateful to be pregnant, to have another chance, but we were positively terrified that my body made twins again. So many memories, so much higher risk.
But, the doctors assured us, we know so much more now. We know the things to look out for, and we can take so many steps to give this pregnancy an excellent chance of making it to safety. The next two weeks were filled with Dr's appointments to set baselines, make plans, reassure the prospective parents. I am being "co-managed" by an OB who has a great deal of experience with twins and high risk pregnancies, and by a perinatologist who, in addition to being the world's most confident man, specializes in cervical issues. I see one of them every two weeks: more frequently if there are problems.
And since nothing can be simple....Bruno went to Europe on a business trip when I was 8 weeks pregnant, and a few days later I woke up in the middle of the night covered in blood. I was oddly calm about the whole thing. I thought: OK, I should be panicking that it is over, they're out, and I've lost another pregnancy, but I really don't think that's what's happening here. I went to the Dr's office in the morning, accompanied by my (at the time) very pregnant sister-in-law who offered to hold my hand, and lo and behold, the babies were both fine, dancing around on the ultrasound, oblivious to the sky falling around them. The Dr. told me I had a tear in the uterine lining, a threatened miscarriage. He said it could go either way, and asked me to stay in bed for a week.
Well, I take threats from no miscarriage! Step in village: my wonderful Mom and Dad, and friends from around the globe came out in droves, literally and virtually, to keep me fed, entertained, sedentary and hopeful. And a week later, the problem had resolved itself. Phew.
Until week 10, when it happened again. This time, Bruno was in the country and we were given a different explanation for the bleeding: placenta previa, only they don't really call it that when it happens in the first trimester: one of the kids' placentas was low in the uterus and was connecting with the cervix and causing bleeding. This time the prognosis was good (it almost always resolves happily) but the prescription was the same: back to bed for a week.
And at the end of that week, with the bleeding once again abated (now my 11th week of pregnancy), we had a surgery: a cerclage, a stitch in my cervix meant to try to keep the disaster that happened last time from happening this time. The surgery went well, the stitch is in place and looking good, and my cervix is looking long and strong. Major hurdle overcome.
And that brings us to now. Monday starts my thirteenth week, so Christmas Day will be the first day of my second trimester. The doctors are being super conservative with my case. They have asked me to greatly restrict my activity. Acting is out until these children safely arrive. As is leaving the house for the most part: I've been granted a 20 minute walk per day, and while I am technically allowed to leave the house, my doctor put it to me this way, "Every time you leave the house, ask if it is really necessary". He also told me, "If anybody else can do something for you, let them". This pretty much takes laundry, dishes, housecleaning off the table. But with those chores also go cooking, gardening, and driving: things that give me pleasure, keep me sane.
Bruno and my family and friends have been absolute angels: my Mom brings dinner over several nights a week, and my Dad came over one afternoon and let me talk him through how to make my favorite bean soup for me. Bruno practically doesn't let my feet touch the floor. I'm ripping through books (any and all suggestions welcome) and have plans to bulk up my Croatian vocabulary and re-learn Calculus. And I can still tutor, thank goodness.
Emotionally, we are feeling a little more hopeful now than we were from weeks 6 to 11. Those weeks were plagued by doubt, distrust, memories upon memories upon memories of our sweet boys, our time in the hospital, our actions on the cross-country trip. I re-dream their birth; Bruno re-remembers the sound of Pedro's water breaking. We are so so scared of not getting these guys to a safe gestation. But at a certain point, you just have to acknowledge the fear and your good reasons for it, and then find your way to surrender to the path ahead. We are doing everything we can to make this pregnancy different from the last time. Now we have to sit back, stay calm, and see what unfolds. And hope that it all works out.
But I do want to do it, partly out of desire for the support of you my dear readers, partly out of eagerness to keep chronicling my journey and in a less cryptic way, partly out of the knowledge that it is time to admit and embrace what is going on.
So, perhaps I'd better just rip the band-aid off and come out:
I'm pregnant again.
One more band-aid:
It's twins again.
OK. There it is.
Pause for a moment of celebration:
(whoo hoo!! way to go!!! yeah!!!!)
Pause for a moment of gravity:
(whoa, twins again. wow. my gosh. whew.)
Here is the back story: I'll be thirteen weeks pregnant tomorrow, about to exit the first trimester. It has been a wonderful, terrifying, challenging three months. First, the exhilaration of the first blood test: we're pregnant!!! Next the suspicions with the second blood test: OK, the numbers are doubling like they're supposed to, but don't these numbers seem awfully high? Awfully like TWIN numbers. Then the terrible two week wait till the first ultrasound, to see if there is a heartbeat (or two). This is where we had out last two losses, so we were half waiting for the bottom to fall out the whole time. But at that 6 week appointment, there was the sac, and the fetal pole, and the heartbeat. And the sac and the fetal pole and the heartbeat. Twins. The room was so quiet. We were incredibly grateful to be pregnant, to have another chance, but we were positively terrified that my body made twins again. So many memories, so much higher risk.
But, the doctors assured us, we know so much more now. We know the things to look out for, and we can take so many steps to give this pregnancy an excellent chance of making it to safety. The next two weeks were filled with Dr's appointments to set baselines, make plans, reassure the prospective parents. I am being "co-managed" by an OB who has a great deal of experience with twins and high risk pregnancies, and by a perinatologist who, in addition to being the world's most confident man, specializes in cervical issues. I see one of them every two weeks: more frequently if there are problems.
And since nothing can be simple....Bruno went to Europe on a business trip when I was 8 weeks pregnant, and a few days later I woke up in the middle of the night covered in blood. I was oddly calm about the whole thing. I thought: OK, I should be panicking that it is over, they're out, and I've lost another pregnancy, but I really don't think that's what's happening here. I went to the Dr's office in the morning, accompanied by my (at the time) very pregnant sister-in-law who offered to hold my hand, and lo and behold, the babies were both fine, dancing around on the ultrasound, oblivious to the sky falling around them. The Dr. told me I had a tear in the uterine lining, a threatened miscarriage. He said it could go either way, and asked me to stay in bed for a week.
Well, I take threats from no miscarriage! Step in village: my wonderful Mom and Dad, and friends from around the globe came out in droves, literally and virtually, to keep me fed, entertained, sedentary and hopeful. And a week later, the problem had resolved itself. Phew.
Until week 10, when it happened again. This time, Bruno was in the country and we were given a different explanation for the bleeding: placenta previa, only they don't really call it that when it happens in the first trimester: one of the kids' placentas was low in the uterus and was connecting with the cervix and causing bleeding. This time the prognosis was good (it almost always resolves happily) but the prescription was the same: back to bed for a week.
And at the end of that week, with the bleeding once again abated (now my 11th week of pregnancy), we had a surgery: a cerclage, a stitch in my cervix meant to try to keep the disaster that happened last time from happening this time. The surgery went well, the stitch is in place and looking good, and my cervix is looking long and strong. Major hurdle overcome.
And that brings us to now. Monday starts my thirteenth week, so Christmas Day will be the first day of my second trimester. The doctors are being super conservative with my case. They have asked me to greatly restrict my activity. Acting is out until these children safely arrive. As is leaving the house for the most part: I've been granted a 20 minute walk per day, and while I am technically allowed to leave the house, my doctor put it to me this way, "Every time you leave the house, ask if it is really necessary". He also told me, "If anybody else can do something for you, let them". This pretty much takes laundry, dishes, housecleaning off the table. But with those chores also go cooking, gardening, and driving: things that give me pleasure, keep me sane.
Bruno and my family and friends have been absolute angels: my Mom brings dinner over several nights a week, and my Dad came over one afternoon and let me talk him through how to make my favorite bean soup for me. Bruno practically doesn't let my feet touch the floor. I'm ripping through books (any and all suggestions welcome) and have plans to bulk up my Croatian vocabulary and re-learn Calculus. And I can still tutor, thank goodness.
Emotionally, we are feeling a little more hopeful now than we were from weeks 6 to 11. Those weeks were plagued by doubt, distrust, memories upon memories upon memories of our sweet boys, our time in the hospital, our actions on the cross-country trip. I re-dream their birth; Bruno re-remembers the sound of Pedro's water breaking. We are so so scared of not getting these guys to a safe gestation. But at a certain point, you just have to acknowledge the fear and your good reasons for it, and then find your way to surrender to the path ahead. We are doing everything we can to make this pregnancy different from the last time. Now we have to sit back, stay calm, and see what unfolds. And hope that it all works out.
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
Studying
I have a student, the child of some dear friends, whom I am tutoring as a general homework helper. This is outside my usual ken, and I suddenly find my mornings are spent reading up on Genghis Khan, or reminding myself the conjugations of Spanish verbs (oh, once upon a time I read literature in this language), or happily, almost guiltily re-reading Catcher in the Rye.
This is not the only area in my life in which I am studying. I haven't been in perfect health lately, and the doctors have asked me to spend some time in bed. And so I find myself studying stillness. Learning how to find contentment inside the walls of my home. Practicing release: the letting go of expectations, the abandonment of forward motion. Learning to accept help.
And honestly, I am not going so gentle into that good night. I am fussing and railing and making mistakes. I am bristling against the change, weeping with embarrassment and loss of control. I am failing to let go, carping from my bedroom perch about which clothing does and does not go through the dryer and which fat content of cottage cheese I prefer. My idiosyncrasies, normally private and easily managed by me are now horribly revealed and making life more difficult for all involved. And by all involved I mean....
Bruno. Poor overworked Bruno, working a full day at work and coming home to cook for a bedridden cranky wife.
Now, on the other hand, let's be clear: yesterday I had to sit still and watch while Bruno rearranged my pantry because I hadn't arranged it properly, apparently. So now, all our vinegars are on one shelf (never mind that the shelf is so crowded you can't get to any of them without knocking the others down), and the second shelf items now fit together snug as puzzle pieces, a marvel of efficiency (except the neatly lined, and possibly alphabetized cereal boxes block the spice wheel from being able to turn). I am studying to let go and smile. And continue smiling when I hear that later in the week he'll be rearranging the fridge contents.
I'm going to have to study harder :)
This is not the only area in my life in which I am studying. I haven't been in perfect health lately, and the doctors have asked me to spend some time in bed. And so I find myself studying stillness. Learning how to find contentment inside the walls of my home. Practicing release: the letting go of expectations, the abandonment of forward motion. Learning to accept help.
And honestly, I am not going so gentle into that good night. I am fussing and railing and making mistakes. I am bristling against the change, weeping with embarrassment and loss of control. I am failing to let go, carping from my bedroom perch about which clothing does and does not go through the dryer and which fat content of cottage cheese I prefer. My idiosyncrasies, normally private and easily managed by me are now horribly revealed and making life more difficult for all involved. And by all involved I mean....
Bruno. Poor overworked Bruno, working a full day at work and coming home to cook for a bedridden cranky wife.
Now, on the other hand, let's be clear: yesterday I had to sit still and watch while Bruno rearranged my pantry because I hadn't arranged it properly, apparently. So now, all our vinegars are on one shelf (never mind that the shelf is so crowded you can't get to any of them without knocking the others down), and the second shelf items now fit together snug as puzzle pieces, a marvel of efficiency (except the neatly lined, and possibly alphabetized cereal boxes block the spice wheel from being able to turn). I am studying to let go and smile. And continue smiling when I hear that later in the week he'll be rearranging the fridge contents.
I'm going to have to study harder :)
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