On Being Anti-Abortion, But Only Kind Of

Before you all expire from shock, clutching your pearls, let me add: I am also entirely pro-choice and it is a major deal-breaker when I vote. Politician won't respect a woman's bodily autonomy?  Die in a fire.

Sometimes - frequently - among pro-choice rhetoric I find this idea: We all have to be okay with abortions at any point in a pregnancy because we support a women's right to choose.  It's a normal medical procedure!  Nobody should feel uncomfortable with it!

Well.... no.  There is a point where it turns from a fetus into a baby who could, in fact, survive on the outside. I will continue to support every woman's right to end a pregnancy but actually no, I don't have to feel like it's just the same as outpatient sinus surgery and yes, I do feel morally conflicted. (Except the part where not my body, not my business, just like every other medical procedure.)  Possibly third trimester abortions should be rare- but they are.  And definitely I think  that we should fund Planned Parenthood adequately; that every woman should have access to reliable, affordable birth control, and prenatal services that don't cost an arm and a leg*; and we should have decent maternity leave and support for going back to work and so on.

And then I read something like Texas's weasely anti woman arguments and seriously, FLAMES ON THE SIDE OF MY FACE.  You know what?? Burn Texas down!  Abortions for everyone!  RBG forever!


* I was charged $40 per visit on my fancy insurance.  Do you know how many prenatal visits I had?  13.  Plus five postnatal visits.  Plus the hospital bill for me and the baby and, and, and... (Yes, their ACA exemption has finally expired. Insurance still sucks.)

In Which I Whine Some More

You've been warned...

40 weeks!  (40-weeks-ish.  Being as, well, yeah.)  Here, let me summarize: MISERABLE.

Still with the contractions - now painful enough to wake me from a sound sleep!  With unpleasant flashbacks to end-of-Tatoe pregnancy, when I had painful contractions every 15 minutes for a WEEK.  (And then there was an epidural and pitocin, and the angels sang, and the child was born three hours later, six days late.  That one I was sure of the dates on.)

I don't think anyone, no matter how desired, difficult, or perilous their pregnancy, has to be grateful for being in constant pain.  I certainly don't think anyone must be grateful for nine months of constant pain, and everyone at the end of pregnancy is pretty miserable and longing for it to be over (with healthy baby and mama) as soon as damn possible.  So, I am not grateful.  I am PISSED.  And fucking exhausted.  And my sweet children, with whom I would normally do fun things, are still off school and I am no fun at all.

I try to repeat to myself "Be here in the moment."  But my subconscious can't help adding a running commentary about how it would rather be in all kinds of other moments.

(Maybe I should try some echinacea.)

Body Conscious, With Whining

I started out this unexpected pregnancy by losing ten pounds.  Not on purpose; I was too sick to eat.

Since then I've gained back the weight I lost (which is good!  I needed those pounds!) and about ten more pounds.  (I'm 34 weeks.)  The number of people who feel free to comment on my appearance drives me crazy, though.  'You look great!' they say cheerfully.  Well, for one, I feel like an angry whale with stabbing pains, and for two, it's not like I did anything to cause this.  Did I exercise, refrain from eating that entire pumpkin pie, or make sure to take my vitamins?  I surely did not.  And, if I'd gained 30 pounds net instead, that would ALSO be fine.  (Though more of a pain to get rid of later, naturally.)  I have terrible headaches, there's a nerve-pinch-with-dagger every time I take a step, I wake up five times a night or more, and if I try to walk more than a quarter mile I start having contractions again.  The kind that hurt enough you're nauseous.  Frankly, I'd rather people say nothing.  I know they're trying to be nice but I'm maaaaybe just a little irritable about, oh, everything.

(I do dress up in Southern-business-casual every day and put on earrings, makeup, and a necklace.  The South can be pretty judgmental about personal appearance, in a totally different way from the North - where, I'll remind you, I lived for my entire adult life up until now, so I do know what I'm talking about.  So at least I'm not in yoga pants or Leggings Are Not Pants, even when I'd prefer to be.)

I feel entirely out of control while pregnant.  For me it's completely different from being not-pregnant, when I could perhaps convince myself to eat a carrot or something.  Now, if I eat a carrot when I don't feel like a carrot, I'll throw up.  (That entire pumpkin pie, however, was purely a loss of self-control.  And the pound of chocolate.  I could have not eaten the whole thing. That month I gained 7 of the 10 pounds.)

In summary: cranky, unhappy pregnant lady will bite you if you say something nice, but realizes that this is an unkind response.

(I am probably about to eat another entire pumpkin pie for Thanksgiving.)

Worry Worry

My mother is an expert worrier.  Just last week, she went all the way from how I'm having an occasional uncomfortable contraction (okay, a dozen a day, but just uterus-freaking-out contractions, I can still carry on talking, plus nothing is happening, and hey, this is my third baby, I do know what something is happening feels like) to "You'll come visit and go into labor and then they'll do a C-section because they'll have NO medical history on you!"  ("The fuck they will; I'd sue their asses into next year.  Plus, they could CALL the person ON CALL like NORMAL humans, Mom.")

I try very hard not to worry irrationally.  Isn't there some human coping mechanism of willful disbelief, where you tell yourself to believe that bad things won't happen to you and your loved ones, because the constant contemplation of death and misery would make us all catatonic?  Usually I'm pretty good about it.

The midwives are mildly concerned that a) no matter how they measure it, my uterus measures a couple centimeters behind, for the first time (a little outside error but not impossibly so) and b) I haven't gained any weight for a month.  (I am now 34 weeks pregnant with a net gain of 9.4 pounds.... have I mentioned that pain makes me nauseous?   Does it count if you lose weight but gain it back? Well.)  I know that everything is probably fine.  The baby is whomping the living daylights out of me right now.   And yet, I'm still just a little concerned.

(I did NOT tell my mother.)

It's amazing how little time severe, chronic pain takes to send me into a spiral of fear, depression, and anger.  (About three days, in case you were wondering.)  I won't bore you with an encore recitation of why and how, but there's some serious conditioned response going on here.

Tomorrow I see the midwives (again).  I predict they will a) test me for pre-eclampsia, which will be negative; b) express puzzlement about Weird Headache Shit; and c) suggest a Neti Pot.  At which point I may start throwing things and screaming.  On the bright side, I took half a long-expired vi.codin and did not break out in hives all over!  (I'm also not sure it helped.)

You may also recall that the main reason I didn't want to ever be pregnant again was the two years of illness, pain, and chronic headache.   I seriously can't do this for nine more weeks.

Cat Juggling

Oh, Internets.  Working!  It's like someone expects me to show up somewhere else on time and pay attention!  My students are hilarious in so very many ways, not least that their response to everything including 'You just got an F on this assignment' is 'Yes, ma'am.'  Sometimes I can't tell if I'm awful at teaching, or they're awful at lab science; probably mostly option B, but it's hard for me to know in advance in what ways they will spectacularly screw up this week's lab.  But some of them are good!  On the other hand the density of water is never THREE g/mL!  THINK, CHILDREN!!!  It's a little like one big Far Side cartoon.

Plus, now I have to drag a kindergartener out the door - on time - every morning.  Although I think my spouse is actually doing a fair share of the household work, I still feel put-upon, overburdened, and annoyed at all of it.  (The fact that the spouse went to the vet last week probably didn't help much. No, seriously, this is the LAST child.  Really.  Really, it is.)

I get extremely frustrated with having such small physical limits.  If I overdo it, I get exhausted and nauseous.  The house is a mess from a combination of moving and three people's semesters starting, but I only have so much energy... so it's not all going to get done.  And we still need to have six kinds of tradespeople come fix things (trees, chimney, sump pump, french drain, basement wall, AC!!) which is a pain in the rear.  I think I have Arranging Things Fatigue, on top of Not Sleeping Because I'm Pregnant Fatigue and Two Small Children Fatigue.

And while I am a big fan of public schools in general, NO I do not have time to (fill in the blank).  Anything.  Anything else.

Also, Tatoe is Almost Three and he literally spent seven hours whining so far today.  I want to lock myself in the closet with a bottle of bourbon.

Miscellaneous

Here is a randomly assorted collection of thoughts:

Pregnancy is easier to handle without severe chronic pain and I don't care how grateful anyone is to be pregnant, nobody is grateful for feeling like roadkill all the time.

Tatoe is going through an intensely whiny/awful phase right now - yesterday he whined for six hours!  I was counting! - and I am also not grateful for that.

I am now the Professor's Wife Who Adjuncts.  However, it is Dr. Scientist, little students, so help me.  (One advantage of teaching at Pseudo-Military U: they will all be very respectful.)

We are refinishing the floors in our new house, after which we will Move!  In!  I have packed NOTHING!  Eeeek. (I am not refinishing floors.  I take a fairly liberal attitude, but two gallons of mineral spirits is too much volatile solvents for a fetus, and I don't have a respirator.)

However, when people ask if they can help us move/ pack/ watch kids, I have now taken to saying "Yes!  Thank you.  How about next Tuesday?"

Pregnancy, strength, endurance, tiredness... my limits are smaller than otherwise, is what I'm saying.  And I was just getting back to something approaching good health.

Related: I may smack the next person who gets worried about me lifting heavy things while pregnant because it might hurt the baby.  I am 18 weeks pregnant.  I don't want to move a house of boxes because then I will be exhausted, not because I'll hurt the baby.  I have not broken my arms.  I am pregnant, not disabled.  (Climbing tall ladders is a different proposition.  No ladders.)

SCHOOL starts in FIVE WEEKS!  I can't WAIT to get rid of both my precious children to fine educational institutions.

In Which I Try Very Hard To Be Cheerful (For Five Minutes At Least)

Our garden is lovely.  We picked a ton of leafy green things today and I managed to eat a chard omelette for lunch while C. fed my children home-made pizza.  Pretty soon we will be giving striped Italian zucchini to everyone we know. Also, if the cucumbers grow well, everyone within 100 miles is getting holiday gifts of pickles.

I am still in pain but trying to figure it out.  I am still nauseous but the drugs help.  I am still really angry and depressed but trying to figure out why so I can work through it.  (If I can't figure out why, I can't examine my feelings, and I can't accept them.  I feel a little stuck.  Maybe... I'm angry because I'm frightened and angry is easier to countenance?  And, of course, I'm depressed because I feel powerless.)

The interview-y people are finally interviewing me!  So at least perhaps that will be resolved.  Eventually.  (University policy requires that they interview two people on campus, so there's that.)  I am resolutely not worrying about what will happen if they DO hire me - there are only three daycares in town, and one is full already.

I have finally mastered a recipe for gluten-free chocolate crinkles that actually taste mostly right!  They are not in any way healthy, but they are delicious.  We made Yuppie Hamburger Helper for dinner last night, and it was delicious.  It's the natural successor of Desperation Tofu.  Here, have a recipe:

Yuppie Hamburger Helper (Mostly Vegetarian Dinner, of Things in Cans That I Can Buy at Walmart, Which Takes 20 Minutes)

2 lbs pasta (corn pasta, rice pasta, regular pasta)

Your choice of the following, though I prefer all:
Jar of marinated artichoke hearts
Can of cannellini beans
A fresh tomato or some sun-dried tomatoes
A large jar of roasted red peppers+
Some Kalamata olives
Fresh peppers, sweet onions, garlic, basil, parsley, rosemary, capers, whatever...
(Optional: Filet of salmon, preferably fresh)
(Also optional: spinach, kale, baby kale, or anything green and leafy that's good cooked)

(Yes, I can actually buy all these things at Walmart, except the fresh salmon.)

Put some water on to boil.  Meanwhile, if you want fish, put your salmon on some parchment paper, sprinkle some salt and pepper and rosemary on it, wrap it up, put it in the oven at 350 F, and bake until done..  Cook your pasta.  If you're using onions, saute them.  Chop up your artichokes, tomato, peppers, olives, fresh peppers, and whatever spices/ herbs/ fresh stuff you're using.  Drain the beans.  When the pasta is done, put it in a colander, put a little olive oil in the bottom of your pasta pot, throw in the green stuff if you're using it, toss the pasta on top, then mix in all the rest of the vegetable ingredients.  Serve with salmon on top, or not.

"Will You Have Another?"

First, why does anyone think this is okay to ask?  I think I asked my dear friend R once - but she's one of my closest friends and we've known each other for fifteen years.  Also, she had pre-eclampsia both times and I was afraid someone might, God forbid, die a third time.  Aside from that, I may wonder, but I sure as hell don't ask.

Will I have another child?  (I am fortunate enough to have no fertility issues that might prevent this; it's pretty much just up to me.)  Probably not.  A year ago, I would have said maybe.  After the last six months of Continuous Bug Meltdown (he tried to head-butt me this week!  And he slapped me across the face!), and after a year and a half of what I could only characterize as pregnancy/breastfeeding-related poor health*, I'm honestly not sure I'm willing to go through any part of that again.  It would be very hard on my spouse, and I would be not-really-there for the children, and... well, I'm never taking that many antibiotics again unless the alternative is death or serious injury.

It seems ridiculous to put us all through that again, when I already have two healthy children and, more to the point, no burning desire for a third.

* In pregnancy: Migraines, 30 weeks of nausea, and strange sparkly visual stuff.  Afterwards: mastitis, more migraines from antibiotics, chronic sinus infections eventually requiring surgery, more mastitis, FUCKING THRUSH, and, oh yes, the ridiculous food-allergy stuff probably resulting from all the antibiotics.  This all happened the first time too.  

In Which I Bite My Tongue

Said to me, and I said nothing:  "I have a migraine, and the only thing that ever helps is Excedrin, and I can't take anything* because I'm pregnant, so I just yelled at my kid and had a miserable morning instead."

(Not me. Obviously.)

*Probably not that much aspirin every day, no.  At 5.5 weeks, probably once, yes.  Or!  The rest of the ingredients, without the aspirin, even!

Aura

A while ago, Dr. S asked me if my old lab had a nickname for me.  "Not one they'd say to my face," I said.  (I had, I regret to say, a host of nicknames, especially for our rotation students, whose names I could never remember, and for the undergrads, especially the one who said 'But titanium is a biological ion! ... isn't it?' in lab meeting once.)

Anyhow, I think if they had one, it was probably something like Ice Princess, only less polite.  Somehow that reminded me of being pregnant.  Only one person touched my belly without asking, and she's my spouse's favorite aunt, so she gets a pass.

I must exude some powerful kind of Don't Touch Me, I'll Bite That Hand Right Off.

HG and Gender

I'm sure the first burning question in all your minds, on learning that the Duchess of Cambridge (i.e. Kate Middleton) is expecting, was: Does the hyperemesis gravidarum mean it's a girl?

The brief answer is no.  It's still pretty close to even odds.

HG is associated with a very slightly elevated incidence of female babies - 53 or 54% rather than the usual 47-ish% of babies born were female.  This bizarre and not very good study of only patients with HG shows that these people are more likely to be pregnant with a female baby. (This is a European registry study from 1987 purporting to demonstrate the same thing, but it only exists on paper in a basement somewhere.)

YOU'RE WELCOME. 

How Others See You

A mom-friend recently said to me, "You always dress so modestly!"  I was taken aback, because after that unfortunate frum period, it hasn't been something I often consider.  Yes, I always wear an undershirt; I don't want my stomach hanging out in public.  Yes, I own a slip; I prefer skirts to be opaque.  Aside from that, my wardrobe has a timeless un-stylishness springing from both indifference and poverty. 

And then I went to shul this week and a 14-year-old girl was wearing... a really short, tight skirt.  I was scandalized.  Great she's at shul, but inappropriate!  And a ten-year-old (boy) was wearing a t-shirt and shorts... with a blazer.  Also inappropriate! 

My assumptions, examined, seem to be that, during religious services where "jeans and a flannel shirt and a guitar" are not the norm, persons of the female persuasion should wear garments which at least reach towards the knee, and nobody should wear shorts, t-shirts, or garments through which underwear can be seen.  Nor do I wish to examine anyone's collarbones and clavicles in their entirety.  There's a woman who wears a nice, tailored suit every week*: very appropriate.  The Mrs. Rabbi** wears lovely fitted dresses sometimes, and they're very flattering, but not club attire.  The small tots wear whatever was in the closet and hork-free: also fine.

Anyhow, the whole exchange made me wonder how I look to others.  That weird chick who makes her own apple butter and is always wearing a knee-length skirt?  (In summer.  It's cooler.)  That person with a messy house and crumbs everywhere?  Tired frumpy mom chasing a toddler?  Barefoot and pregnant in the kitchen?  Who knows.

So what does it take to outrage your sensibilities?

*At first I couldn't decipher her gender, because I hadn't ever heard her talk, but she was called up for an aliyah: Rachael bat Sarah v'Malka [not her real name].  (Translation: she is a very butch lady, who also has two moms.)  Kind of cool.  Now I want to know what she does for a living.

** The rabbi is male, and his wife is also a rabbi. They are Mr. Rabbi J. Smith and Mrs. Rabbi L. Smith. (No, their names aren't really Smith.)

Crazy Nesting Pregnant Lady

Today: I pulled up half the garden (the dead half) and finally put up all our mezuzot, while Dr. S made the third custom threshold (router! table saw! MORE router!), vacuumed out the car, and raked.  Then we went and got wood for a bookcase, installed the second carseat, and made dinner. In a little while we are going to fold six loads of laundry.

I am due in two weeks.  I think 'nesting' with one's second child is closer to "blind panic about not getting anything done for months."

I Shall Cease And Desist

In brief: I was the youngest person at the ophthalmologist by a good 30 years, and I probably have the best vision of anyone they've seen all month.  Nothing is wrong enough to notice.*  Good: I'm not going blind this week.  Bad: I still have an ice-pick headache that wakes me up several times a night. 

My options now are A) wait and see; B) get a spinal tap.  I think we'll go with Option A.  I'm not that curious. 

Official diagnosis: You Have A Headache.

Now we will move on to more interesting topics, like... suggestions?


*My distance vision is a little blurry in one eye at very far distances, but it's still 20/15, so... um... they totally think I'm making it up.

Make Lemonade

I strongly suspect that weird-double-vision thing is coming back.  The constant scintillating scotomata and the never-ending headache might be a clue!

The sole advantage is that instead of being afraid, I'm now just frigging ticked off.

Neurology will not even take a message because - wait for it- I'm not a patient!  No, I am waiting for a referral. I have been waiting for two weeks while they incompetently failed to get my old medical records (I had to call various persons five times to effect this simple operation) and then, as far as I can tell, incompetently failed to read them.  Now, apparently, they are waiting for my midwife to call them back.  Why?  Who knows.  They are part of the same healthcare system and have the same damn EMR and she wrote it all down.

All I want is for someone to first pay attention, and then do something about it.  This isn't a chronic condition; this is something that is getting worse and worse, and is caused by pregnancy.  I am going to call the midwives over and over until someone does something.  Soon.  Now.

Addendum: I just talked to the midwives' triage nurse and they were all like OH SHIT, that is not good, we'll talk to neuro and call you back TODAY.  

Now With More Aargh

Maybe it's the weather: something to which I am violently allergic is blooming, so the outdoors is torture. 

Maybe it's the two-week-long headache and generalized sense of OOOOT.  Constant pain rarely improves one's mood. 

Maybe it's the cranky, sick toddler and the constant screaming. 

Maybe it's hormonal?  I feel full of wrath, intolerance, and a general sense of discontent.  It is sunny and pleasant out-of-doors, I have chocolate cake, and I just want to crawl into a closet and weep.

Oh, Bugger

Last night: searingly painful, wake you up three times in the middle of the night headache.

First sign of weird-double-vision-thing: searingly painful, wake-you-up headaches.

Next stop, neurology.  My favorite part of this is that it's so rare that I get to tell the doctors all about it.  Except the wonderful neuro-opthalmologist, who is no longer covered by my insurance: he already knew.  My second favorite part is that neurology alone cannot diagnose it- though I suppose they can tell me "I think you might have MS!" again-  so why the heck am I going to see them anyways? 

My third favorite part is the nervous/crazed look in my midwife's eye today, which read as, "If you develop this, I am handing you off to a high-risk OB faster than you can say BOO."

Now With A Side Of Pass The Pregnant Lady

My midwives, quite sensibly, want me to go see my PCP for asthma management.

This would be a better idea if I had seen my actual PCP in the past year.  Instead, I get whatever doctor has a slot that day- if I'm really lucky, a resident!  How is this better than the midwives? 

Anyhow.  We get to go back for Round 3 tomorrow, I think.  ("What are they going to do?" asked my mom.  "You're the medical professional; how should I know?" I said.) 

Can't.  Breathe.  Waaaah.*




*Don't worry, I can breathe well enough that my O2 sats are probably around 95%, I just feel like I can't breathe.  I can tell the difference, promise.  Besides, if I go to urgent care, they're going to give me albuterol and send me home.  I have albuterol here.

In Which I Am A Complainy Pregnant Woman

You have been warned.

Look, I am grateful that I'm having an uncomplicated pregnancy healthy baby blah blah blah.  However, even if a person's been trying to have a baby for N agonizing years, I firmly support every woman's right to be miserable when being kicked simultaneously in the bladder and the round ligaments, okay?

This baby is posterior and Bug was posterior and I don't care what that stupid baby spinning website says, I could lean on a yoga ball eight hours a day and this baby would not turn around.  Just.  Not.  I can feel the kid turn cartwheels in there, and he is never, ever anything but posterior. 

There is an endless fount of well-meaning but extremely irritating advice from my in-laws, who define the words 'irresponsible' and 'unreliable'.  Many other well-meaning people ask every day how I'm feeling. 

How am I feeling?  I'll tell you how I'm feeling.  I'm in constant pain, near-constant nausea (for 26 weeks running, thank you very much, and I'm only 29 weeks pregnant), and every time I bend over it hurts.  I wake up every night because something hurts.  Every time I pick up my toddler he pokes me somewhere painful.  If I take a walk I get dizzy and if I don't take a walk, you got it, something hurts.  My lungs are being squashed, I can't breathe, and this child kicks me for 9 of 12 waking hours.

I feel GRUMPY.  Now everyone stop asking.