Sunday, December 31, 2017

Hate to complain, but....

So, about three days ago I started getting this sharp pain in my lower back.  Like a sharp, scrape-ey, knife twisting in my spine sort of pain when I got up from a chair or out of bed.  If I walk (well, hobble would be more accurate) around for an hour, I get some relief.

But a girl's gotta sit.  And lie down.  And sleep.  And Niblet has a pretty nasty cold, so I definitely gotta sleep while I can because the late-night MOANING, oh my god. 

I have a little less than three weeks to go.  But I am a total fucking wuss about not being able to gracefully skitter around and speedwalk in my usual way, so I made an appointment with a chiropractor, her first available appointment which isn't until the end of the week.  I am still scheduled to work at my desk job for the next two weeks (my drop dead date for work is January 12th). 

I HATE being the pregnant woman who complains. I've come too far over six years to let a little back pain ruin this. And I could be having waaay worse problems right now.  I had a good run of 36 weeks, I need to focus on that.

I'm getting the occassional braxton hicks contractions, but I really don't feel like this baby is imminent.  So this pain will be with me for the forseeable future.  Turns out it may be my sacroiliac joint, according to Dr. Google at least, and Viking.  The only person I've even told about this pain is Viking.  Who was once close to 300 pounds and had similar sharp pain when he got out of the car or a chair.

All of this should end as soon as the bowling ball that is wacking out my spine is gone.  I hope.

Wednesday, December 27, 2017

still knocked up

Yesterday was insane because I got sent around my hospital for three different appointments, and yet none included an actual growth scan to see what the fuck this baby looks like.

I got a peek at her during a fluid check ultrasound (and OF COURSE she held her fist up in front of her face, because she is my daughter and hates the papparazzi).  But my fluid levels at 36 +4 weeks are normal, AND Nutmeg is (finally) head down, so, Yay!

Then I had a Non Stress Test (NST) to check her heart rate and movement - with the chattiest nurse ever.  Now, the thing is, I met this nurse years ago - she was the attending OB nurse at my D&C when we said goodbye to Celine.  I remember her because she was kind, but also very no-nonsense, and said to me before I was being wheeled in "You look very young and very fit.  You'll be able to get pregnant again."

Well, she didn't remember me all  these years later, but as I lay down she was asking me my age.  "Ancient," I said.  "I am forty-three."  "Not ancient at all.  You look really young," she replied.

Anyways, as I listened to Nutmeg's heartbeat, I learned more about this woman than I know about some of my own family members.  She was raised Jewish but now considers herself a Wiccan, and doesn't wear her pentagram because she doesn't want to freak out patients.  She used to be a dancer and did a two year stint as an NFL dancer.  She married her high school sweetheart and has two grown children.  I could go on.  I'm sure I'll learn more at my NST next week.

Finally I had an appointment with an OB in Dr W's office.  My cervix is closed.  My weight gain is still under 30 pounds so far.  I should have gotten a growth scan by now, somehow that was missed, but I'll get one next week and we'll see what we're dealing with.

Obligatory "I swallowed a bowling ball" shot in depressing office bathroom at nearly 37 weeks:

Tuesday, December 19, 2017

Gaslighting (or I have NO TIME for this crap) - UPDATE BELOW

So meanwhile....

My car - a snazzy 2008 Pontiac Vibe - is a deathtrap. Or, to be more specific, my car has one of those deadly passenger-side Takata airbags that has been recalled because people have died.

So I schedule my free servicing with the closest dealership to my house, about 30 minutes away.  I take the day off from work, knowing this will be a five hour job.  Knock this off the list, justonemore, you got your oil changed already, let this be ONE. LESS. THING.

I pull up to the station.  The lady notes my VIN number.  And we have the following fucked up exchange:

"Ma'am, this car has already been serviced, this recall has been addressed."

"Um, no, it hasn't.  I think I would remember taking it in."

"No, our records show that this car has been serviced, the airbag was removed and replaced."

"No.  It wasn't.  I have never been here before." (You can imagine I am large and hormonal and getting a wee bit upset).

"Ma'am, calm down. Maybe you took it to another dealership."

"Look, I can't.  This is insane.  I've never taken this car anywhere.  There is a takata airbag in the passenger side dashboard and I am having a baby in four weeks."

"I'll go get our service manager."

Service Manager arrives.

"Ma'am, how many miles do you have on this car?"

(I turn car back on). "57,673"

"Oh.  And you live in Baltimore correct?"


"So, according to GMs records, a car with your VIN number was serviced in Connecticut, in June.  That car has 190,000 miles on it."

"So you're telling me that my car's identity has been stolen?!?!?"

Friends, I'm not going to record the continued fuckupedness of this conversation.  How I was accused of overreacting because the airbag really isn't *THAT* dangerous.  How my parts were never ordered (despite getting confirmation from the station that my car was being serviced this day), because GM would never allow the manager to order them.  And It's five days later, and this tool promised me he would call GM, sort this out, order my parts, and get my car fixed asap, seeing as I am about to have a fucking BABY.

I have been stalking the station manager over the phone for two days.  Nothing.  

OMG, this is like being pecked to death by ducks.


I called GM - now the story gets even more ridiculous.  The Service Manager lied.  My car's VIN number clearly indicates that the recall is open.  He probably lied because he never ordered the parts.  Weirdly pathological, I know.  Oh well.  They got him on the phone with me and he quickly backtracked, saying the parts arrived and all was well, and let's schedule this servicing.

(He got the parts yesterday, did the world's fastest repair, and this stupid chapter is blessedly over.  Back to ruminating about pregnancy!)

Thursday, December 14, 2017

Do they know you're pregnant?

So my mom calls me up because she just received my In-laws' holiday card - they usually attach a lengthy typed letter to a card, and attached one to a Chanukah card for my rents, as appropriate.

"Have you seen this card?"
"No, not yet, is it the usual doozy?" I ask.

They tend to write these rambling formal letters documenting everything from their most recent medical history to their daily activities at the senior retirement community where they live.

"OMG.  THEY DIDN'T MENTION THE BABY?  WHAT ABOUT THE BABY???" screeches my New Yorker mom, in a most intentionally Seinfeld-esque way.

"ALL we talk about is the baby," she continues.  It's true.  My mom and dad are buying layettes, and onesies and crib sheets, and mailing us all of the things that make Niblet coo when she opens these boxes.

Mom proceeds to read me the letter.  Indeed, it documents my in-laws' "increasing medical appointments and decreasing energy."  But with that, they're remaining active at their community, doing things like the library book collection and maintaining the community bulletin board and gardening.

They mention being in close distance to their son D and his wife W, and their son T, his wife [Me] and their almost 9-year old daughter.

And that's it.  No mention that they are hoping to meet another grandchild soon.

Now, look, being Jewish, I am used to superstition.  Some of us don't even buy anything before this kid takes a breath outside the womb.  But, having endured the loss of a baby in the second trimester - who I went as far to name - I would like to think that if in some horrific twist of fate I lost Nutmeg, we would be publicly shouting her name to the hills.  She would be honored.  She has been loved, by more than just me.

But I'm about to pop out a kid, and likely sooner rather than later. (Another post on this soon).  Niblet is currently the ONLY grandchild in the family, on both sides.  Aunts and cousins on Viking's side are already sending us cards talking about their excitement for this impending arrival.

You guys, the retirement community BULLETIN BOARD got a shout out in this Christmas letter and my baby didn't.

"They seem oddly hostile to this poor baby," said my best friend, who has met them too many times to count, and following the saga of how they don't talk about the pregnancy at all.  ""Did they include the test results from the colonoscopy in the card?"

Recall the day after we told them Nibble was going to be a big sister, I was 18 weeks along.  And my MIL pulls me aside and whispers, "aren't you worried that you have too much on your plate?"

PSA - when someone tells you that they're pregnant - and they're smiling and excited about it - the only thing that should come out of your mouth - regardless of that someone's age or personal circumstance - is CONGRATULATIONS.

Rant over.