"I could write a fucking sonnet..."

Just about 33 weeks pregnant and I wanted to write a fucking sonnet about the breakfast sandwich I had this morning.

It was egg and cheese and avocado on a biscuit all made from scratch at this ridiculously expensive but delicious coffee shop in my 'hood.  It was an EIGHT dollar breakfast sandwich.  And it was gone too soon.  Far too soon.

That was honestly what I was thinking about this morning when I took this picture, my break from anonymity below.

The marathon stretch and better living through chemistry

I am approaching 32 weeks.


Yesterday Dr. W and I chatted and laughed about the final stretch.  There are going to be a lot of fucking appointments.... continued bi-weekly visits and then starting at 36 weeks, weekly Non Stress Tests (NSTs  - which could stand for "No Such Thing" where stress and I are concerned).

I mentioned how some of the memories of painful childbirth have begun to flood back to my brain, to which Dr. W responded 'Better Living Through Chemistry" - ha ha Dr. W.

In all seriousness my epidural experience with Niblet was something of a tragicomedy.  After about 16 hours of active labor, exhausted out of my mind, and with no real progression in sight, I said fuck it (out loud of course) and asked for an epidural.

The douchey anesthesiologist walked in - no seriously, guys, he wore a Pittsburgh Steelers do-rag on his head.  I'm not even a football fan, but this is very bad form in my adopted home town, especially in a hospital. 

I remember sitting in a sort of straddled split position, my back to Mr. Douchebag, and holding Vikings hand's.  Staring into his eyes, I noticed that Viking looked a little queasy watching the Steelers fan work.  See, apparently, the needle that administers the meds looks exactly like a drill-bit to my handy around the house husband.  Anyways, I braced for the pain of the needle/drill-bit/harpoon and probably only gently cursed out loud (according to Viking, I don't actually scream when I'm in pain).

Douche: "You did great there Justonemore.  But, let me ask you, are you a runner by any chance?"

Me: "No, but I am a former professional ballet dancer."

Douche: "Interesting.  Because you have a really muscular back."

Me: "Ummm, Thank you?"

Douche: "Well, see, the thing is, I like to work on floppy backs.  And unfortunately that needle didn't go in, because your back isn't floppy at all.  We're gonna have to try that again."

I look up at Viking, still clasping his hands, his bright blue eyes are starting to look a little unfocused, and I swear, he looks like he's going to faint dead on the floor.  Thank god he knew I would have clocked him if he even tried pulling that bullshit on me.

I have some pretty strong memories of labor pains coming back to me.  I also have the distinct memory of the calm, cool sensation of the medicine rolling down my spine when the (second) epidural eventually started working.  Yes, it completely felt like the sensory equivalent of a York Peppermint Patty.  Months later, I chewed some of this gum, and I swear, I would hold the canister out to Viking and say, "THIS DUDE.  THIS WAS THE FEELING OF MY EPIDURAL."

Out

Well, it's done.  I am out on Facebook and Instagram. 

If you can believe it, there were many friends and family members who didn't know before today.

Niblet's Birthday

So Niblet is nervous and excited and all of the rest about Nutmeg.

She also turns nine exactly nine days before Nutmeg's due date.

Can you feel my stress?

We are trying to put a party together for her on Saturday the 6th or Sunday the 7th.  Theoretically, this puts me in the 38 week arena.  Niblet didn't arrive until 41+2.  My OB won't let me go past 40.  

Niblet *understands* in the way that a nine year-old can understand, that Nutmeg can arrive anytime.  But honestly, who gives a shit - she wants her party.  Can you blame her?

So I am putting a deposit down on either two hours at a local bowling alley, or a craft store.  The bowling alley is the easier of the two, everything is provided for, but it's more money up front.  And then I am praying that I am not in the hospital on the weekend of January 6th.  I love her to death, but I don't want my mom anywhere near me in the hospital.  It's Viking or no one.

I am trying to stay rational.  I have no reason I believe that I am going into labor early.  Labor is like a 20 hour ordeal anyways.  What's two hours in the grand scheme of things?  Worst case scenario I lose a deposit.  We can cancel and promise Nibble to reschedule the party after Nutmeg arrives. 

And in more comical news people are asking me if I am having a baby shower.  Are you fucking kidding me? 

When your brain goes to dark places

We are trying to line our ducks in a row, as one does when a newborn may arrive into your house in less than 10 weeks.

Viking's benefit enrollment period begins in a few weeks.  I have that magical unicorn of insurance known as cadillac insurance in the states - no co-pay, no deductable, no costs at all.  All employer paid.  Covering everyone in my family.    However, we've been paying a few hundred dollars a month for Viking's employer insurance for one reason:  IVF coverage.

Naturally, with me heading out of work for six months, some of this time unpaid, and with mounting expenses of daycare looming, we should drop Viking's insurance.  Right?  Of course.

Unless you worry that something terrible will happen.  To the baby you are carrying.  And deep in the recesses of your mind you worry that you will have to endure another IVF cycle.

But the baby is dues in January and we need to make this decision by the end of November.  Which means we are likely throwing caution to the wind and dropping his coverage.

What's it like to get ready to deliver a baby, and just imagine delivering that baby without incident.... to just walk around without any sense that something can go wrong?  Beats the fuck out of me.

Fragility

I was sitting in Dr. W's office today, waiting on the nurse to get my BP reading.

The walls in her office are paper thin.  I could hear the sound of the doppler.  And distinct the lack of whooshing.  I have too much experience with these scratchy sounds.  It was clear: they couldn't get a fetal heart rate on the baby of the patient next door.

I stared at my phone and the google search I had done on "ear clogged pregnant" (for reals, I haven't been able to hear outta my left ear in almost 2 weeks).  Anything to not focus on the idea of a mother not hearing her baby's heartbeat.  Anything to keep this 40-something's blood pressure down.

"Write out the ultrasound order" I hear my nurse being instructed.  She rushes in, fills out a paper, runs back out, and I am grateful to the gods above that the patient next door can be seen by an ultrasound tech just down the hall (Dr W's high-risk practice is a godsend in this regard).

My BP was fine, 124/76.  I gained two pounds in the last three weeks. Then I laid down for my own doppler reading.

"150s.  Totally normal.  Your baby decided to be cooperative."

Thank you Nutmeg.  I am going to believe that the couple rushed to the ultrasound room merely had an uncooperative baby.

She creeps up on me

Celine is on my mind daily during my morning commute.

My fingers aren't quite swelling yet, none of me is, really, but the stacking rings I wear get a little tighter each day.  29 weeks pregnant will do that to a gal.

Lately, I wonder if I should have named her Ciel the french word for sky instead of a beloved Parisian grandmother. Did I make a grave error in using the name on a dead child?  Could I change her name.... would it matter, since she has no grave regardless?  Viking - who actively chooses to avoid thinking of her as often as possible - once called her by her name.  It was literally once, and I could feel his tongue tripping over the soft C and the vowels.   

Dans le ciel is where she resides, on those days I choose to believe in a non-earthly plain.

Other days I wonder if theory of the spirit baby is true.  Is Nutmeg the ultimate manifestation of all of the babies who came before her?  I often describe the compulsion to bring her into my home as the need to bring this missing person to our family.  The one and only psychic I ever spoke to about the topic seemed to believe strongly in this.

Niblet has many ideas for her sister's name, and will be part of her naming (on a pre-approved list though, y'all, since I otherwise run the risk of Nutmeg's name sounding like some sort of mermaid/pony/stripper as an 8 year old is apt to create.  You think I jest).

But taking Celine out of the mix, it feels a little awkward.  And then thinking that thought makes me feel terrible, as if I've given short shrift to my little girl who never made it.

Grief immersion can be a pool with bottomless depths.