Exile from Babyville

Holding Pattern

Last week, when I went in for my 35 week appointment, I really expected to hear that a final trip to Labor and Delivery was imminent.  However, Dr. Don't Call Me Mark only found that I had progressed to 2cm of dilation and my non-stress test showed only minor unterine irritability.  So now I'm really just waiting around until things do start to happen.  At the appointment, we discussed my hope to deliver vaginally, and after a lot of haggling I agreed to have an epidural at the last minute in case things didn't go so well with B's delivery. 

Since last week, I've been feeling really antsy for the actual birth thing to really happen.  On the other hand, my anxiousness has been tempered by Dr. Don't Call Me Mark's vacation plans that took him out of town until today as well as the gigantic food festivus that takes over this city every year around the 4th of July.  Our neighborhood is right near Grant Park, which is where the fest actually happens, so I knew we would be likely be pretty stuck if I did go into labor.  Of course the doomsayer in me had concluded that this would probably be the most likely time for labor to happen, just because the timing would be so shitty.

But that didn't happen, so now I'm even more resolved that these kids will be born asap.  At this point, I'm really starting to feel like the wheels are falling off of this pregnancy train.  I'm exhausted and I haven't had a decent night's sleep in months (yes, I know I'll never sleep when the babies come, but at least it would be a physical possibility once they are born), my hands, feet and legs are so swollen and uncomfortable it's making me crazy, and I just feel gigantic.  To make matters possibly more complicated, I've been getting really itchy lately, and Dr. Don't Call Me Mark thinks I may have something called cholestastasis.  It definitely would explain the itchiness, tiredness and lots of other things I've been noticing lately, but it would also mean that I have something possibly bad going on.  I'll find out at tomorrow's appointment if my bloodwork actually shows this to be a problem or not. 

I'm also hoping that somehow things will have progressed so much by tomorrow that the doctor will tell me it's time to head to the hospital.  But I'm not going to hold my breath.  In the meanwhile, I'll be alternating light exercise with laying on the couch with my feet propped up over my head.  I may even try out some of the goofy old wives tales floating around out there about things that can supposedly bring on labor, but that depends on how desperate I get.  But I promise not to try them all in one evening, even I'm not that desperate.

I'm A Bad, Bad Girl

Yes, it's now officially been forever since I last posted.  If anyone should win the dubious award of world's biggest deadbeat blogger, it really should be me.  I have a few excuses, I suppose.  Our home computer has been misbehaving an awful lot lately, and I can at least blame it (but only in part) for my absence recently.  (By the way, are there any techie types out there who can offer a quick fix?  Basically, every time we leave this computer on for too long it makes lots of weird clicking noises and then freezes up.  Any takers?)  The rest of the blame falls squarely on me being too lazy to overcome the computer obstacles and post more than once a decade or so.

In the meanwhile, there have been some possibly significant developments in this whole pregnancy thing.  I lost the dreaded mucous plug  about three long weeks ago, although Dr. Don't Call Me Mark doubted my initial self-diagnosis until I described it in exceedingly gory detail.  Since then, the contractions have continued to be been numerous but supposedly insignificant.  If my sarcasm is not transparant enough, then I'll come right out and say it here and now that I actually think I've been having a very prolonged and weird kind of stealth early labor.  Last week's exam found my cervix to be 80% effaced and 1cm dilated, despite all of the reassurances from the medical community that none of these things would start to take place until I was in labor for real.

Dr. Don't Call Me Mark was actually pretty surprised by last week's cervix check, and he admitted that he thought I would go into real labor within a week or so.  It's been a week since that appointment, and so far no babies.  Although my cervix feels like it's been going crazy since my last appointment, I have no idea what I'll hear when Dr. Don't Call Me Mark does his weekly cervix probing this afternoon.   I'm officially 35 weeks today, so I've definitely come about as far as I can go for a twin pregnancy and I have to admit I'm feeling awfully ready to give birth already.

The doctor also ordered me to stop working last week at Monday's appointment.  I broke the news to my crazy boss Tuesday morning, finished my billing, and handed over my files to the newly responsible parties.  While I had been wanting to quit working for a while now, it was nice to have the support of Dr. Don't Call Me Mark's orders to actually make that happen.  It sucks to lose the income, but I definitely don't miss my job or my kooky boss.

In other developments, my mom/MIL baby shower extravaganza was actually really nice.  I got some good stuff, and spent a very pleasant afternoon with friends and family.  I had been kind of dreading the gift we were supposed to be getting from M's dad and step-mother because in his typical style, M's dad initially wanted to get us the stroller he thought we should get.  The stroller M's dad had in mind was one of the least expensive double strollers out there, and only accomodated babies over 6 months old.  We offered to forgo the whole stroller gift at all so that there wouldn't be any hurt feelings, but M's dad is a very umm, determined man.   Thankfully, in the end they got us the stroller we had initially planned to purchase on our own and peace was maintained for the day.  (We also had a near miss when the step-MIL insisted on getting us "bring the babies home outfits", and which from her description M and I were left picturing odd little baby-sized mansuits.  We were so relieved when they turned out to be cute little sleep-suits with matching hats and blankets.) 

Which leads to the question what is it with people/ family members who stubbornly insist on getting you something they insist you need when you don't want it?  (Oh, and what is it with the "bring the baby home outfit" phenomenon too?  I was completely unaware of such a thing until the step-MIL brought it up recently.)  M's dad was totally one of those hands-off dads until M was in like junior high, so it's not like he has the slightest clue about babies or the gear needed to maintain them and get them from point A to point B.  Of course not knowing anything about a given subject has never stopped M's dad in the past, so I guess there's no reason for him to change his tune now.

Well, I have to pack it up and head to the doctor's office.  I swear I'll post again in the next few days with a new update on what's going on with the pregnancy thing.

Braxton Confused, The Story Continues

Ever since my freak-out a month or two ago about the Braxton Hicks situation, I've alternated between super vigilant and super lazy where keeping track of them is concerned.  If I notice them, then I try to start keeping a running count in my head.  But most of the time, I'm just too busy or preoccupied to bother.  That is until Wednesday, when something just didn't feel quite right.  Actually, that's not totally true.  I'd been having the painful variety of the BH contractions a lot more frequently since Sunday night (and usually just in the evening and nighttime), but I had been rationalizing that it wasn't a big deal.

So where was I?  Oh yes, by Wednesday afternoon I started to notice that I was way over the four contractions-per-hour limit that the doctor had previously set for me.  I decided to leave work early and I called Dr. Don't Call Me Mark's secretary to leave a message for him.  The doctor called me back an hour or so later, told me to drink lots of water and lie down, and that he would call me back in an hour to see how things were going.  An hour later the contraction tally was up to 8, and Dr. Don't Call Me Mark decided that a trip to Labor & Delivery was in order.

So M and I headed over to the hospital right away.  Because it's only like two miles from where we live, Dr. Don't Call Me Mark hadn't even had a chance yet to call and tell them to expect me.  On the drive over M and I tried to keep the talk lighthearted, even though I knew we were both feeling a little panicky.  After we got to the hospital M and I waited around for a while, I suspect because it was around shift change time for most of the nurses and staff.  When the new charge nurse heard that I was 31 weeks with twins, she rushed into action and got me into a room pretty quickly.  After I slipped into the hideous blue plaid hospital-issue gown they gave me, I was hooked up to a fetal monitor that also measured any contractions.

Because I had been trying to convince myself that I was overreacting and that nothing was really going on, I expected the nurse to tell me that I wasn't having any real contractions and then send me on my way.  Instead, she informed me that I was contracting every 1 to 5 minutes (apparently some of them were small enough that I wasn't really feeling them) and that I would have to stick around for further monitoring and checking of my cervix. 

8 hours and 3 cervix checks later, my cervix was still tightly closed even though I was still having some pretty frequent contractions (some of them really painful, and plenty that I could hardly even feel.)  The doctors determined the since the contractions weren't causing any changes in my cervix, my uterus was just being tempermental and thankfully ineffectual at making me go into real labor.  (In other words, my uterus may have been trying to pick a fight with my cervix but my cervix was determined to maintain the status quo.)  They gave me some pain meds to take the edge off and Iwas finally sent home around 3:30 am with reassurances that everything was perfectly fine. 

The lesson I guess I get to take from the whole thing is that I apparently fall into a distinct minority of pregnant women who have frequent painful BH-type contractions that don't actually do anything but cause lots of discomfort.  Apparently I'll be balancing being reassured that I'm not in pre-term labor with having to put up with these crappy and painful BH contractions for the time being.  What's even more odd and annoying is that they mostly happen during the middle of the night.  So now I get to feel reassured at least two or three times an hour between 10pm and 7am every day instead of sleeping like most people do.

I have to admit that I don't really know what to think about this situation.  It seems counterintuitive to disregard painful contractions by assuming that they're nothing to worry about.  Contractions are supposed to equal bad, and I had always thought that when they hurt it's very bad. I go back in to see Dr. Don't Call Me Mark on Wednesday and I definitely intend to grill him some more about what all of these contractions are really about and whether I should stop working sooner rather than later.  There's nothing like 4 hours of sleep a night to motivate me to reconsider working up until the kids are born.

 

The Bad And The Ugly, Mostly

Well I guess my post from last week sounded kind of neurotic, and it definitely revealed that I still have some issues where this whole miscarriage and infertility thing is concerned.  I've always been amazed (and often baffled) by people who have been randomly handed a raw deal in their lives, but still manage to maintain a positive attitude and put it all behind them.  Obviously my mind doesn't work that way.

The truth is that my miscarriage and subsequent infertility diagnosis shook me to my core, and I know now that it has forever changed me in ways that I never even imagined.  It does bother me that I'm so much more pessimistic, angry, and even bitter at times about the experiences that preceded this pregnancy.  I wish I could just snap my fingers or tap my heels together and make all that pain and disappointment a hazy memory.  But its simply not that easy for me, and I don't think I'll really be able to begin finding my way back until after the babies are born. 

In the meanwhile, I just can't handle trying to pretend that everything is all happiness, sunshine and dancing teddy bears.  Besides, the real surliness only pops up occasionally anyway.  Mostly, I'm just nervous that everything will stay OK with the babes for the time being.  The emotional reactions usually sneak up on me, like when M and my mother pestered me into registering for baby stuff and I almost had a melt down because I still didn't trust that I wasn't cursing myself into losing the babies by being so presumptuous.  When I attended my first prenatal class this last week I almost freaked out once again, but I eventually did manage to pull myself together and the class wasn't as bad as I had feared. 

So that's my deal, for now at least.  There have been a few good things going on too, I'll try to post about those soon. 

So Ironic, It Makes Me Want to Scream

A few weeks ago, M and I received an invitation to one of his friends' kids birthday party.  As you may recall, Mr. Settled Down and his, umm Significant Other for lack of a better term, had a baby together last Spring.  I admit that the main reason I dislike Mr. Settled Down and the SO is because her due date with baby number one was the day after mine (and another reason I'll get to in a minute.)  But they also drive me nuts because they have now settled into a bizarre existence where they've basically become uncomfortable friends who live together and sleep together occasionally, but who also don't seem to like each other very much.

And now, they're having a second child together.  Readers who are familiar with the concept of crushing irony can easily guess when baby number 2 is due. 

Oh yes, irony can be cruel, can't it?  For those reader who have not already figured it out, baby number two is due the same day my kids are due.  So now I have another reason (albeit a shallow and catty one) to dislike the SO.  Because the SO has now become a constant reminder to me that, at least technically, I could also be working on baby number two myself right now, if not for the miscarriage that took that possibility away from me over a year and a half ago.  I've never pretended that I was over that miscarriage, and seeing the SO and her baby dredges up those painful and sad memories in a very acute way.   

In many ways, my own pregnancy also brings that pain back into focus for me as well.  While I know many assume that this whole experience would be a healing one for me, the truth is that it often reminds me of all those things I never got to experience with that pregnancy.  Feeling the babies move around, ticking off the weeks as they pass, and the enthusiasm of friends and family as my due date draws closer is something I do cherish.  But I'm also acutely aware of the loss that still tugs at the corners of my heart, and what I've mourned the most is the loss of that potential for so much more.   

Which brings me back to the birthday party, which was this past Saturday.  I really didn't want to attend the party because of the reasons discussed above.  And just to make things more awkward, I had already decided to leave the SO off the guest list for the baby shower extravaganza my mother and M's mom are planning together for next month.  (It helps that M and Mr. Settled Down aren't really all that close, and the only time we see him and the SO is at events attended by other mutual friends.)  While this decision has caused some controversy among M's other friends, I don't really care, because I know that her presence may make what is going to be a potentially emotional experience even an even more emotional one if she were to attend. 

I had almost convinced M that we should blow off the party, but then we found out that most of his other friends were also either blowing off the party or weren't able to attend (because despite some of them insisting that I should probably invite the SO to the shower, none of them really like her either.)  That was enough to make me feel kind of guilty about skipping out on the birthday party, so we ended up going after all.  As soon as I walked in the door, the SO came over to say hello and loudly proclaimed that she was so excited that we shared a due date (!!???)  (And for the record, she knows about the miscarriage and previously shared due date.)  I pasted a smile on my face, said my hellos and handed her our gift for the birthday boy.  I then sought out the few friends who were in attendance and spent the rest of the party avoiding the SO (which wasn't very difficult since she was preoccupied with party-related stuff.)  Suprisingly enough, watching the SO and her son blow out his birthday candles and tear open their gifts wasn't all that upsetting for me after all.

While I know that plenty other people might experience a change of heart where the SO is concerned after the birthday party thing, I definitely have not.  I'm sticking to my guns on this one, and I don't care what others think.  I also realize that some may disapprove of the fact that I don't seem to be spending these nine months counting my blessings and remaining oblivious to potentially emotionally upsetting stuff.  I do realize how fortunate I am to have this pregnancy, and it's my need to try and preserve my delicate hold on it that makes me so defensive about confronting the things that may upset me unnecessarily.  Besides, being the bigger person isn't always what it's cracked up to be.

Once Again It's Boring Update TIme

The last few weeks or so I've once again been consumed with work.  Just when things were a little less lousy there and I actually started to consider going back part-time (my boss offered me a part-time gig about three weeks ago).  But of course the relative calm was only short lived, and my boss has once again turned into the shrieking nutjob I've grown to despise.  So now I've quickly come to my senses and decided that the last thing I'm going to need after the kids come is dealing with the additional stress the boss monster will inevitably introduce into my life on a regular basis.

I also went in for my bi-weekly OB appointment last Tuesday.  Everything was normal and the babes were developing on schedule.  I had actually broken down and called Dr. Don't Call Me Mark a few days earlier about the BH contractions, and he basically told me what everyone else did - that they were nothing to worry about as long as I didn't have more than four in an hour.  He also told me to that the very same "egg-white" cervical mucous that I was supposed to be looking out for when TTC is something that I should be on the lookout for now, because it's apparently a sign that my cervix is getting ready for some birthing action (obviously bleeding and gushing fluid are also bad things as well, but I had already figured that out on my own.)  For now, I'm hopeful that this kind of cervical mucous will remain as elusive as it was ages ago when we were TTC the old fashioned way.

I've got some other stuff on my mind that I think I'm going to put in a separate post.  Hopefully the lag time between this post and the next one won't be so long as the past few weeks' posts.

Braxton Confused

The question for today: What is the real deal is with these so-called Braxton Hicks contractions?  I mean, we've all seen the obligatory movie  scene where the silly pregnant woman is turned away from the hospital because she isn't really in labor.  Of course I've also scoured the internet and all of the pregnancy books in my secret library.  The problem is that none if them really give me much detail to go on.  (I'm guessing so that certain patients like you know who don't try to self-diagnose her way out of a return visit to the OB's office or a trip to the scary L&D department at the hospital.)

I've been getting the tight abdominal muscle things that I usually don't even notice for a couple of months now, and from what I've been able to gather from my research those are classic Braxton Hicks contractions.  However, I can't find much information about when I'm supposed to get concerned about them, and they seem to have suddenly increased in frequency a few days ago.  Anyone know when frequent becomes too many?  Since this past weekend, I've been getting about three or four pretty painful ones every day that radiate into my back and lower pelvis (usually, they are spread out over the day).  So far, I've been too much of a chicken to call the doctor and ask about them.  I know, I know, that's what the doctor is for, but I've always tried to save up my pestering phone calls for the real potential medical emergencies.  I may break down and call this afternoon, depending on whether they come back again today.  I guess in the big picture, I'm a little concerned, what I'm trying to figure out is if I should ramp it up to full on freaked out.

So I'm asking for all of the advice I can get on this today.  What did your doctor tell you about regular contractions and Braxton Hicks contractions?  What did you experience in the range of normal to not normal?  And when should I panic and head straight to the hospital?  I want to hear whatever anyone has to say about this subject.  Even assvice is welcome at this point.

Nurse Snippy Pants Has Left The Building!

Yesterday I returned once again to Dr. Don't Call Me Mark's office for my 24 week appointment, new and improved this time with both a glucose tolerance test and a cervix check.  I had actually called a few days prior because I had misplaced the instructions for the glucose test, and discovered the oh, so welcome news that Nurse Snippy Pants is apparently no longer the nurse and secretary for Dr. Don't Call Me Mark.  For once, I actually got to speak with a perfectly pleasant nurse who promptly returned my phone call.  Nurse New was quick to offer me some reassurance, and she and filled me in on the few details I needed to know about the test in an extremely friendly and professional manner.

I've been singing that song about the Wicked Witch being dead ever since (but just in my head, I swear.)

The glucose test thing was pretty easy, it basically involved drinking a glass of flat orange soda.  The soda tasted pretty gross, but I gulped it down quickly so that I could just get it over with.  After I returned my empty glass to the nurse (to prove that I had finished the whole thing?), I got to sit in the lobby for an hour to make sure that they could create the artificial conditions necessary for the test.  Once they drew my blood I was then shown into the ultrasound room so that I could wait some more for Dr. Don't Call Me Mark.  Once he finally showed up, we chatted about how things were going and how I was feeling.  Thankfully, the ultrasound revealed that both kids were once again present and accounted for (yes, I'm still doing that ruminating over DBTs thing and ultrasounds are the one and only way that I can get some reassurance about the babies well-being.) 

Up until this point, I was going in monthly for my appointments.  But from this point forward, Dr. Don't Call Me Mark wants me in every other week instead so that he can keep a closer eye on how things are going.  While he was really reassuring and seemed to think that everything was progressing well without any complications, the doctor still ended the appointment by handing me a just in case of emergency card with all of my vital info and the office's emergency number.  Apparently, I'm supposed to present said card at the L&D department if I go into labor or anything bad happens. 

Umm, I guess now I know what I'm supposed to do if any of the doomsday scenarios I've been playing over in my head actually come true.

So that's the latest scoop.  I'm still trying to decide if going to the doctor every other week will help make me more or less of a nervous wreck between appointments.  Because you see I seem to work in the same pattern every month:  I leave every appointment feeling reassured, but then as the days turn into weeks and the next appointment gets closer I start to freak out more and more that something bad either has already happened or is about to happen.  My preoccupation with the DBTs usually reach a rather fevered pitch in the days immediately preceding these appointments, to the point where I'm such a nervous wreck that I can't even stand being around me.  I'm hoping that the increased frequency of my visits to Dr. Don't Call Me Mark's office will be more reassuring, since it will give me the opportunity to see the kids more often and because I'll be checked so frequently for any signs that things are going downhill.

What, me, neurotic?  Never. 

Throwing Caution To The Wind

As this pregnancy has progressed over the last few months, I really have tried to get over my insecurities and try out that looking on the bright side thing.  Although the outcome of this attempted change in my point of view has pretty much only been so-so.  So while ordinary pregnant women run around and eat, sleep and breathe everything baby, my initial instinct was to wait until we actually brought the babies home before I even thought about stocking up on baby stuff and necessities.  While I thought my initial instinct would win out over the weak but persistent voice of optimism I've been halfheartedly trying to cultivate, I was surprised when my taste in Kate Spade handbags actually won out over both of them.

It actually happened a month or so ago, shortly after my birthday.  I was looking for a gift for M's step-mother for her birthday, which usually requires going to the snazziest part of the city where all of the snazzy boutiques are located.  As I wandered around looking at different stuff I knew wouldn't be good enough for her, I decided to pop into the Kate Spade store to check out the new stuff and to visit some of my favorite bags that I always talked myself out of buying because I already have too many bags in the first place.

(Disclaimer:  I know Kate Spade seems awfully spendy to lots of people, but compared to other designer bags most of them are affordable enough that I've been able to justify a few select purchases.  Besides, I love the simple designs and fun fabrics.)

Anyway, as I was wandering around the store, I suddenly felt a brazen urge to check out the baby bags.  But when I wandered over to the area they usually keep them, they were noticeably absent.  I thought of calling the whole thing off, but the sales lady was so nice so decided to forge ahead with the mission.  I picked my way through them, and then I laid my eyes on the same bag I had eyed on previous visit or two and secretly hoped that someday I would have a reason to purchase.  As I looked inside the bag and checked out its features, the sales lady casually mentioned that it was on sale for 50% off the regular price because it had been discontinued. 

At that moment I seriously considered buying it, but I quickly convinced myself that I would be jinxing the whole pregnancy thing and that I shouldn't be spending the money in the first place.  I thanked the sales person for her help, put the bag down, and decided to head home.  But like mom's often do, mine quickly swooped in to save the day.  When I mentioned my adventures in baby bags to her the next day, she insisted on buying it for me as a belated birthday present.

So now the bag is sitting in the closet of the bedroom that will hopefully become the, umm, nursery room thing in a few months time.  Once a week or so I actually pull it out of its protective dust cover (because Kate understands a girl's need to have a safe way to sensibly store her bags), admire its pretty striped fabric, and dare for a few minutes to imagine what my life will hopefully bring this summer. 

Once A Mystery Always A Mystery?

Men have always been something of a mystery to me.  While I've known plenty of them, dated lots of them, and even had many male friends, I've never truly felt like I understood what made them tick.  The debate over the differences between men and women has raged on since the beginning of civilization, and I don't personally fall into the camp that thinks that all of the differences between the sexes are hard-wired or simply the result of biology.  But I have to admit that whatever the combination of nature and nurture may be, men are intrinsically different from women.  It's trying to understand those differences that still eludes me. 

Since I met and married M, some of these mysteries have finally be explained to me as we shared our life together.  Although I still don't get why he seems unable to figure out how to fold the laundry right, or why he keeps leaving big spoon dents in the ice cream container.  I guess part of the conflict arises because I'm all about the gray areas, while M always seems to see things as either black or white.  Oh, and I'm a big pessimist while M always likes to think he's a glass half full guy. 

One of the continuing philosophical disagreements we continue to have is over my paranoid approach to this pregnancy.  M always looks forward to each Ob visit as another opportunity to see the kids.  Meanwhile, the closer the appointment looms, the more I get caught up in my fear of what could be going wrong.  M and I will probably never see eye to eye on this subject, especially since he doesn't understand how I can let myself get so caught up in my anxiety and I don't understand how he can blissfully assume that everything is just fine.  The days leading up to yesterday's 20 week appointment were no exception, although now I've stopped verbalizing my worries to M as loudly as I used to and he has stopped trying to force me to look on the bright side of things. 

It's an odd sort of detente that we have arrived at, but for the most part it works for us. 

Which leads me to yesterday's appointment.  Everything went just fine (except they screwed the last time I was in and forgot to schedule for the Level II ultrasound, so I get to go back tomorrow for that.)  Dr. Don't Call Me Mark went ahead and did a live baby check ultrasound for us, and both babies looked like they were developing normally and on schedule.  He also checked to see if we could find out the sex of both babies, and confirmed that they are both of these kids are boys.

Yes, I said two boys.

Anyone else see the potential for irony in this situation?  While I was hoping for one of each, I'm happy to have whatever I can get.  Although I am a little nervous about how I'm going to raise these two kids without them turning into the same mysteries that I won't get any more than their other male counterparts.  I am starting to get more and more excited about this new bit of news, and the possibilities really do seem endless at this point.