This post may include information that will gross out the childless and/or those who are (for some stupid reason) freaked out about the idea that a boob is sometimes used to feed someone. So: stop reading right now if you’re not interested.

I’m trying to breastfeed again. And this time the little booger is super interested. He latched on immediately. We were breastfeeding within an hour of his birth. I was floored, excited. Yeah, things were good.

And we continued this way for the two days we were in the hospital. I fed him literally around the clock. I have what they referred to as a “cluster feeder” or something like that. He feeds every half hour, sometimes more, all night long. We got little sleep but I didn’t care.

He lost weight but nothing too bad. He was peeing a lot. The nurses were pleased. Things seemed fine. And they were. Mostly.

By day three he’d lost 10% of his bodyweight. He was also jaundiced, dehydrated, and just really fucking hungry. His pediatrician said, Enough already! Start feeding him from the breast and then give him 2 ounces (or more) of pumped milk or formula. We took him home and immediately gave him a bottle of formula. He ate up that bottle so damned fast, it was kinda sad. He was a new baby—active, awake, happy.

The problem is, again, my breasts just don’t produce enough milk to sustain this child. Em was the same way. I pumped with Em exclusively because we never got a latch down. I tried. It just didn’t work. So I pumped. I wasn’t ever able to sustain him this way alone. I always supplemented. He was happy.

This time the kid is interested, but he’s just not getting enough. Not yet.

But here’s why I’m hiring someone: it’s not because I don’t have enough milk. I’m OK with giving him what I can and then supplementing whatever I need. This time it’s because I must have gotten the latch wrong. Because the pain I’m experiencing is some of the worst pain I’ve ever felt. I won’t go into too many glorious and therefore disgusting details, but my nipples are absolutely falling apart. A piece of cotton—shit! AIR hurts them. And they are so beat up and scabbed over, milk can no longer get out. So the milk I do have in there is actually stuck.

My boobs are screaming. Someone needs to make the boobs stop screaming.

I have read that it’s not supposed to hurt THIS bad, so I hired someone to show me what I’m doing wrong. And I’m hoping for the best. I would like to make this work to some degree. If it doesn’t, I won’t beat myself up again like last time. I refuse to. But I’d like to make it work.

I know. Many of you are probably thoroughly grossed out. But I warned you to stop reading at the beginning. I guess what I’m saying is it’s your fault. :]

So, that’s where I am this time around regarding the whole boob thing. Any insight you might have is greatly appreciated. Hell, I’d love to hear about your battle wounds because misery DOES love company. And my boobs are miserable.

It rubs the Lanolin on the skin…

(Yeah, this joke is getting old, am I right?)

OK! I’m off. I need to mentally prepare myself for this very awkward meeting.

Related posts:

• What I Learned From Rolling Paper.
• The First Board.
• The Penn State Thing
• The Seven Year Itch
• The Comfort Of Strangers. (I’m Her Ghost.)

My brother and I went out for lunch directly following the appointment and I had some pretty intense contractions. But once we started walking back to the subway, they stopped entirely.

Speaking of the subway and other public places, I keep finding myself having the same conversation with strangers.

“When are you due?”

“Last week.”

At that point they usually let out the type of laugh accompanied by a gentle punch to the shoulder. You know, an, “Aww shucks! I bet!” type of laugh.

It’s like when you ask your boss when they need the project and they say, “Yesterday!” and you laugh because you totally get it. It’s of the utmost urgency! They need that project done, like, YESTERDAY.

Like that.

And then the stranger says something like, “Oh, yeah. It gets really hard at the end. You just want it to be over already. Soon. Soon!”

No, really. LAST WEEK. I think to myself. But I’m too tired to explain that this project was actually due last week and this kid ain’t paying a lick of attention to his boss.

CUJO: YOU’RE FIRED.

Yesterday, the conversation changed a bit. Em and I were at the indoor playroom and the woman behind the counter asked me when I was due.

“Last week.” I said.

She actually gasped as did young man sitting beside her.

“You are joking!” She yelled this. “But… but you look so happy! Why do you look so happy?”

“Because I’m drunk.”

Dead silence.

I had a non-stress test on Monday morning. The baby is totally fine, as is my blood pressure. The right amount of amnionic fluid surrounds him. All is well within the womb. That’s probably why he’s in no hurry. I have another non-stress test tomorrow morning. Here is a picture I took while hooked up to the monitors.

I swear I’m not voguing. My left hand just didn’t know where to go. I’ve been suffering from that a lot lately—what does one do with their extremities?

“Yeah, but you gotta put the other arm somewhere. You can either lay on it or shove it between your bodies. The only other option is to stretch it above your head. But sometimes my arm pops out of socket when I’m sleeping like that. So I was constantly searching for someplace to keep my arm…” –Brody

The annoying part about the non-stress test is the nurse kept coming in and pointing out all the useless contractions I was having. She was excited. I was not. I’ve been having useless contractions for weeks and weeks. Practice contractions! Dress rehearsal! I know one name this kid won’t be given: Braxton. Braxton = non-commital pussy—a useless piece of shit.

(Y’all do know I’m joking, right? I am not really THAT angry. And to anyone named Braxton: I am kidding. You are not a useless piece of shit but you might be a non-commital pussy.)

I don’t know what to say. I’m in holding pattern, purgatory. I’m a host. I don’t even feel like I really exist right now. I’m just waiting. I can’t do much. I can’t go far from home. I’m a zombie. But I do have a cool cat.

This is how I spend most of my days and nights.

I have a creature taking comfort on the inside; I have a creature taking comfort on the outside. I’m a host, a giant, fat zombie host.

Mornings are most difficult because they punctuate a most restless sleep. Everything seems pointless come morning, which is strange for me because I have always been a morning person. I love morning. Not right now.

At this point, induction is looking more and more appealing to me. I’m exhausted. And my exhaustion leads to tears and tears lead to more mucous and snot and congestion and I’m sick of all this snot.

Something has got to give, like, yesterday.

Related posts:

• What I Learned From Rolling Paper.
• The First Board.
• The Penn State Thing
• The Seven Year Itch
• The Comfort Of Strangers. (I’m Her Ghost.)

“You’re a tight 2 centimeters.”

“That’s a polite way of saying I’m still 1.5 centimeters, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“Great. So, what can I do?:

So she “stripped the membrane” which is really just code for OMFG OUCH! She did this twice because the first time I instinctually backed away from her. You see, I didn’t want to kick her in the head. I really like my doctor and I was about to kick her in the head. So I backed away like a fat slug exposed to salt.

Y’all, that exam hurts. I know it’s not as painful as childbirth, but it hurts. Anyway, she went in for a second time because I asked her to. And I planted my hands at the end of the table near my ankles so I couldn’t move. The exam can, and often does, put a woman into labor. And while I did have contractions that night every hour from 1 AM until about 7:30 AM (among other stuff I won’t mention but other ladies probably know about), I didn’t go into labor. The contractions stopped first thing in the morning.

I’m still very pregnant and nothing is changing. Although, my hips ache more and more every day and my pelvis becomes more and more bruised. This kid is comfy, just like his brother was.

The good news is, my blood pressure is holding steady. That’s what forced me to be induced the first time around, a sudden spike in blood pressure. That’s not been the case this time. The baby is fine. I am fine, relatively speaking. So, I just wait. And I think I’m fine with that. I vowed to NOT be induced this time around and I’d like to stick to that plan. I want to go into labor this time. I want to let my body do its thing to some degree and then I’ll ask for the drugs and the epidural. :]

Culinary Leave

I am officially on leave from culinary school. This was a VERY difficult decision for me. But I realized that while I can still physically go, I am not getting what I should be getting out of it anymore. Couple the exhaustion with the shrinking brain and I felt like I was doing myself (as well as my teammates) a disservice when it comes to retaining any of the information. (Yeah, y’all. A pregnant woman’s brain actually shrinks during the 3rd trimester. And it doesn’t get back to normal for many months postpartum.)

So, I’m on leave for three months.

And my brain is smaller.

Huh? Whut?

The Crib!

We got a bassinet! Finally. It’s kind of a cross between a crib and a bassinet actually. But first I need to state that this post is NOT sponsored. I am not getting paid to write this. I genuinely think this crib is awesome. And I paid for it in lollipop sales.

Now that the caveat is out of the way, check this out. It’s called Alma Urban Crib. It even folds up for storage. It’s perfect for small apartments, and we have a small apartment. Check out how it folds up. Awesome, right?

This crib is the greatest thing ever.  It ran us more than we wanted to pay, but it will definitely fit our lifestyle the best. We have a very small master bedroom and I want to keep Cujo next to me for the first few months. I’m going to try and breastfeed again, so I figured the closer to me the better. Also: I don’t want him to wake up Em. We figured keeping him with us would be best.

Here it is all set up.

I set it up yesterday hoping that maybe the easy workout would send me into labor. No such luck. Not even a contraction.

Here’s how it fits within our room.

We’re really happy with it. We’re hoping our son is too, you know, whenever he decides to join us.

Oh, and if any of my NY friends are reading this and need a crib in about 6 months, let me know. We will gladly gift it to you.

The Mom Dates.

Remember the mom dates I wrote about? I wrote a post about how my therapist suggested I find an in-person support network? Things are going smashingly well there. I have quadrupled my mom friends. I am so stoked about this. I have worked my ass off to put my insecurities aside and just be more open to things and people. And it’s paid off. I’m really looking forward to these new relationships. I can’t even begin to tell you how proud I am of myself. I’m really grateful for these new women in my life.

The Weight Gain.

Y’all, I really could use my body back. I won’t lie. It’s getting really hard to get around. And I will never, ever let myself get this heavy ever again. It’s misery. As soon as I am physically able, I’m going for a jog. I’ve been dreaming about running for months now. I miss it so much. I miss being able to sleep on my stomach. And I miss being able to see my vagina.

I guess that’s it for now. If you want up-to-the-minute updates on laboring and whatnot, I highly suggest following me on Twitter. This is where we’ll likely be posting once things get going. Here’s TobyJoe’s Twitter account as well.

I love Twitter.

Related posts:

• The Comfort Of Strangers. (I’m Her Ghost.)
• The Silence of the Boobs.
• 41 Weeks. Update: Still Pregnant!
• New York City Bans Smoking in Parks, Beaches.
• 38 Weeks. Little Progress.

Emory didn’t drop. Ever. I was induced before the kid even contemplated using his head to help move things along. (Blood pressure problems forced induction last time.)

Nutshell: I’ve no idea when this baby may arrive. I know it won’t be today. I’m grateful it won’t be today since NYC is getting pummeled by snow again. I so don’t want to become one of those women who gives birth in a cab on the 59th Street Bridge. It’s also technically not time yet. But I got it into my head that he might arrive early. I have no idea why.

Also: I’m not ready yet. I mean, I am ready to have my body back, and I am really sick of the acid reflux, but we don’t yet have a bed set up. We still don’t even really know where he’s going to sleep. And we’re not even sure what his name is gonna be.

The second child? Totally different from the first. With Em, we had everything just so, all set and then the kid was late.

This time? We’re not at all prepared. Yet, we totally are in the sense that we now know they don’t break.

But I may break over the next couple of weeks.

Related posts:

• The Silence of the Boobs.
• 41 Weeks. Update: Still Pregnant!
• 40 Weeks! NO BABY. But We Do Have a Crib!
• But What If All the Villagers Work Full Time?
• What Does Pre-Labor Feel Like?

“I’m worried about your lack of a support network.” She said. “You need support, live support.”

“How do I go about doing that?” I asked, more to myself than to her.

“Well, there are ways.”

Are there? I thought. Because I’m not so sure.

I’ve been here before—the weeks and months following the birth of Em, the fact that I had no one to talk to during the day. I would watch the sun rise on one side of our railroad apartment and then set on the other, ignoring the fact it was overhead all day long. I just waited. For what? I had no idea. But I waited for something.

Today it occurred to me that this lack of a “support network” is what got me into trouble the last time. I simply didn’t have one, leaving me isolated. I was/am a SAHM. Most all other parents in this neighborhood work. It’s that simple. I don’t know the exact percentage of mothers here who work, but given the number of nannies I’m often surrounded by, I know that we are a very, very small minority. I’m guessing maybe 5% of the parents in this area stay at home with their children. Maybe.

(Please note: I am not complaining about my situation. On the one hand I am very, very lucky. I get to stay home with my kids! My husband makes enough money for me to stay home. That’s awesome. But it has its downside. I’m often alone. I work alone.)

I’m facing isolation again. And she made that abundantly clear today. I will need to work super hard at finding a support network. If I do not, I risk becoming more depressed. THIS is something I can grab onto. This is, I guess, what therapy is all about: taking note of a past problem, accepting it, and then trying to figure out a way to avoid repeating said problem.

My homework is to find a “live” support network. Meaning, not an online one. That means I can’t rely on forums, blogs, things like that. And she’s absolutely right. As amazing as online support is (and has been) for me, it isn’t enough. People need face-time, a voice, the occasional hug.

So, I’m doing some real thinking today, hard thinking. And I know exactly what I need to do and where I need to begin. Today I’m going to start working really hard at getting some bitches fired.

Related posts:

• What I Learned From Rolling Paper.
• The First Board.
• The Penn State Thing
• The Seven Year Itch
• The Comfort Of Strangers. (I’m Her Ghost.)

Throw me an educational bone or two?

Related posts:

• The Silence of the Boobs.
• 41 Weeks. Update: Still Pregnant!
• 40 Weeks! NO BABY. But We Do Have a Crib!
• 38 Weeks. Little Progress.
• But What If All the Villagers Work Full Time?

I am up 35 pounds and while I know that’s not too, too horrible. It’s far, far too much for my 36-(almost 37!)-year-old frame to handle. I get winded putting on socks, if I get them on at all. (Sometimes I give up.) I have to take breaks while walking up subway stairs, or any stairs for that matter. I’m unable to put on my own snow boots; Toby Joe always helps. Sleeping is difficult as my hips can’t handle the weight of being on my side. I wake up to shooting pains running up and down each leg.

But ultimately, it’s the lack of breath that beats me down the most. I don’t even have to be doing anything strenuous and I have to take a break because I can’t catch my breath.

The most devastating part of feeling this way is how hard it’s been on my very active 3-year-old. I feel like I’ve become a “lazy mom”, one who can’t physically do what he wants me to do, what most normal people take for granted. And it breaks my heart every day.

Before I got pregnant, I ran almost every day. As a family we’d hit the park and while he and Toby Joe played on the exercise equipment, I ran the track. And he loved watching me run! He’d run alongside me sometimes. It was awesome. And I felt proud. I was the parent showing my son that jogging is fun, exercise is a part of life, and his mother and father are both fairly active people.

Naturally, that’s not all I used to do with him. We’d play all the time. I’d hold him up to do the hand-over-hand monkey bars at the playground. I’d chase him around the gym. I was able to sit on the floor with him or have him on my lap. We played! A lot. All the time.

Now? Forget it. I get winded getting up off the sofa. I can’t read a book to my kid without feeling lightheaded or taking deep breaths. I can’t sit on the floor and have picnics with him because my legs get numb due to poor circulation. I feel so lazy. And he notices this. The other day he said, “When grandma and grandpa get back, can we go to their house? I want daddy to come so we can play bowling and ball together.”

Because mama can’t play bowling right now. Mama gets winded looking at a ball.

Did I mention I can’t get through a children’s book without losing my breath? That’s awful.

But the part that will likely haunt me forever is that sometimes I get frustrated for not being able to do something and I take it out on him. I’m not terrible; I’m not abusive or anything even remotely close to that. But he senses that I’m annoyed. And that makes me so sad. I end up feeling even worse.

I’m ready. I’m ready to get my body back. Being this heavy? It’s misery. And, yes, I realize I’m pregnant and gaining weight is par for the course, but it really shouldn’t be this hard. I should be able to read out loud. I should be able to play with my kid.

Mentally, I’m doing OK. But I have noticed twinges of depression, the same type of depression I had after Em was born and after the miscarriage. It hits me usually right around dusk, which isn’t new for me. Dusk has always been the hardest when I’m blue—has been since I was a kid.

I spoke with my doctor about it last week. She put me in contact with a doctor who specializes in postpartum depression. I am to meet her next week to discuss the way I’m feeling and how to deal with it after the baby is born. She informs me that 50% of women who suffer from PPD experience it during the 3rd trimester. So, I am not alone. And I’m quite pleased with myself that I’m getting help ahead of time. I was given a great big pat on the back from my doctor for even noticing. Because with Em, I didn’t know until it was it was over.

We’ll see how that goes. I haven’t ever spoken to a professional before, so this will be new to me. Her office is in the hospital I am to give birth, which means I’ll be visited by her right after I have the baby. I’m looking forward to that as well.

But ultimately? I’m pretty happy. Life is, overall, going really well. I am still attending culinary school (somehow!). I’m still making lollipops and selling them on Etsy. I rolled out a couple of Valentine’s Day lollipops. A personal favorite of mine is called Pop A Cherry. (Yes! I went there!) It’s champagne on the outside, cherry on the inside. It’s really quite lovely.

We also ordered a new couch! It’s set to arrive right around the same time the baby is. I’m hoping they don’t deliver it the day I go into labor or something. But that will likely be our luck! It may seem silly, but I’m exceptionally happy about this new couch. It’s the little things, people! THE LITTLE THINGS!

Anyway, I hate complaining, which is why I haven’t really updated in a while. I have drafts! But the tone borders on whiney. So, I don’t make them live. (Same old, same old!) But I’m ready to meet this little man. I know that I face a whole lot of sleep deprivation and quite possibly some depression. And I have no idea how Em is going to adjust to the new arrival. There are a great deal of unknowns here! I know the transition from three to four will be tough. But I am ready. And Em needs me, he needs an active parent and he doesn’t quite understand why I lose my breath at the slightest movement.

I hope to have more to say in the next couple of weeks. I wish to document my mental state as well as the birth of our second son. I am hoping to avoid PPD, but my doctor made it abundantly clear that women who suffer from it once, will likely experience it again. So, yeah. I will do my best to write through it and share it with others. That is, after all, why I started this blog: to make people feel less alone. I will do my best.

Related posts:

• The Silence of the Boobs.
• 41 Weeks. Update: Still Pregnant!
• 40 Weeks! NO BABY. But We Do Have a Crib!
• 38 Weeks. Little Progress.
• But What If All the Villagers Work Full Time?

Because, damn, dudes. I’m irritable!

One might assume, that just by recognizing one has a problem, one might be freed from said problem. At the very least one might gain some insight as to how one might free oneself from one’s problem. But one can’t. And so one writes about oneself using “one”, and one grows increasingly more annoyed with oneself.

This one has no idea how to shake this ugly feeling.

I’m never comfortable. Even when I sleep my brain is tossing and turning. I have to sleep on my side (obviously), but my IT bands are acting up so I wake up with the worst leg pain and it doesn’t go away until I massage it and that hurts like hell. (For those who have ever run long distances, you are probably well aware of the IT band.)

Here’s the thing, I could deal with all the physical aches and pains if it weren’t for this new miserable mental state.

How do you overcome this grumpy feeling? I can’t even eat a bunch of junk food to drown my sorrows because of the heartburn. You know what I had for dinner last night? Pineapple. A LOT of pineapple. I didn’t get heartburn. But when I awoke at 2 AM to use the toilet (for the 3rd time) I had some of the most intense hunger I’ve ever had. But I knew eating would be a disaster, so I stared at the moon instead. (Which was admittedly awesome. I guess that’s one good thing about not being able sleep for longer than one hour at a time: I got to see the lunar eclipse every hour from beginning to end.)

Earlier today everything came to head. I was listening to Soundcheck on 93.9 and Matt Wilson’s Christmas Tree-O came on. They played a few songs live in the Soundcheck studio. Now, I am by no means a fan of jazz. Some jazz is OK, but most of it just annoys the living shit out of me. But today? This jazz? Oh my goodness, my body just filled with rage—true rage. I can’t imagine this is the reaction jazz musicians are hoping for. And I must be part of a small minority, because if everyone had the visceral feeling I had, the streets would look a lot like 28 Days Later.

If the Soundcheck studio had been nearby, I’d have hobbled my ass over there and screamed at them.

“WHERE’S THE MELODY, JAZZHOLES? YOU CALL THAT MUSIC? I CALL THAT AUDIBLE TORTURE!”

How can anyone play such nonsense and call it music? I was so annoyed. And I needed an answer. I needed to know how anyone could call that music.

How is that noise music?

And then I realized I’d taken crazy up to level 11, possibly even 12. And while I would have liked to blamed the crazy on all that jazz, I knew it wasn’t entirely jazz’s fault.

Yeah, this isn’t really about jazz, middle of the night hunger or heartburn. It’s not about eating pineapple for dinner because pineapple is a wonderful thing. This isn’t about taking note of a glorious eclipse. This is about me realizing I’m not myself at all and that I probably won’t be myself again for another 8 weeks. I have to learn how to deal with it somehow. I have to learn how to cope with me somehow.

Just, please, for the next 8 weeks don’t play any fucking jazz.

Related posts:

• What I Learned From Rolling Paper.
• The First Board.
• The Penn State Thing
• The Seven Year Itch
• The Comfort Of Strangers. (I’m Her Ghost.)

So, here is where I confess to something.

I did something before the 1-hour test that may have messed with my numbers a bit. When I admitted this to my mom and husband, both said, “You’re a moron!”

You ready?

The morning of my 1-hour glucose test, I may have consumed a fruit tart I had made in pastry class. Said fruit tart was made with homemade pastry cream. (The kind with a lot of sugar, cream and butter.) It was also made with flour and butter and fruit. I know! That’s probably pretty sugary, right? I had that at 7:30 AM.

But to my credit, I asked and read up on this. Everywhere I looked said NO NEED TO FAST before the 1-hour test. Even the nurse told me I didn’t have to fast. In fact, everything I found suggested one eat normally. So I thought, it’d be fine.

I also had a little bit of cereal at 9 AM. That’s more normal for me. So I thought that’d be OK as well.

Drank the orange soda at 10:30 and by 11:30 I was ready to go.

I’m thinking that had something to do with it. While everyone and everything said I could eat normally, I don’t normally eat fruit tarts for breakfast.

However, I asked the nurse about whether or not eating beforehand would have messed with my numbers and she said probably not. So who knows? Maybe I’m not that big of a moron.

Anyway. I passed. I am pleased. I’ve been eating really well since I got the news that I failed. I’ve been eating a low carb diet, barely any sugar. But I think I earned some freaking cake. Or pie!

OMG! I have class tonight and we’re making croissants. I will have two.

Thank goodness.

Now I must work on the anemia.

Related posts:

• The Silence of the Boobs.
• 41 Weeks. Update: Still Pregnant!
• 40 Weeks! NO BABY. But We Do Have a Crib!
• 38 Weeks. Little Progress.
• But What If All the Villagers Work Full Time?

If you’re reading this and you have had an experience with either failing the first test and passing the second, OR with gestational diabetes, might you share your experience with me? Does it just mean changing one’s diet? Does it mean I have to “take it easy” and will have to postpone school? Just wondering what my worst case scenario might be.

Also: did you end up with Type 2 postpartum? I have so many questions.

I’m also anemic and need an iron supplement immediately. Any insight there as well?

27 weeks and falling apart, my friends. Falling apart.

Related posts:

• The Silence of the Boobs.
• 41 Weeks. Update: Still Pregnant!
• 40 Weeks! NO BABY. But We Do Have a Crib!
• 38 Weeks. Little Progress.
• But What If All the Villagers Work Full Time?

I can’t wait to tell Em when I pick him up from school. He’s going to lose his mind. He’s been asking for a brother since day one. Yay! Penis!

The only downside to today was the whole having to drink 20 ounces of water before the exam. I very nearly peed myself. The pain got to be so unbearable, I actually cheated and let a little out before they called me back into the exam room. (Talk about control, people!) Naturally, in typical baby fashion and like Em did years earlier, I have to go back tomorrow because he wouldn’t cooperate with the ultrasound technician and give us a frontal view. (We weren’t able to get a clear view of his heart and face. With Em it was the spine and kidneys. They’re already opposites!)

So, yeah. Brothers. I’m gonna be a mama to two boys.

I’m so freaking happy.

Related posts:

• The Silence of the Boobs.
• 41 Weeks. Update: Still Pregnant!
• 40 Weeks! NO BABY. But We Do Have a Crib!
• 38 Weeks. Little Progress.
• But What If All the Villagers Work Full Time?

You see, next Wednesday I have my anatomy scan, which means we’ll find out the sex of Gangsta baby. We’ll also hopefully hear that he or she is healthy and that’s really all I care about. I couldn’t care less if it’s a boy or a girl, so long as he or she arrives alive.

Now, about those drugs…

We’re flying to Orlando for our annual family reunion in Disney World soon. The past three years, we’ve taken the Amtrak Autotrain, which I love. But this year, during a moment of security, I decided flying would be fine. And I’m pregnant, so Xanax isn’t an option. However, I hear it’s safe to take Ambien, so today I shall beg. I will beg my doctor to be knocked out for the duration of this short flight. And I realize that means I’ll be a groggy, useless bitch the whole time and that Toby Joe will have to take care of everything, but that’s the way it goes. I would rather be drooling and half awake than worried sick and have that wear off on my 3-year-old. (Em is BEYOND excited about flying on an airplane for the first time. Who am I take away that excitement?)

So today I have an appointment where my doctor will put a device to my huge belly and we’ll most definitely hear a heartbeat. How am I so sure? How am I suddenly so secure? Because just like Baby Ndugu, this baby NEVER STOPS MOVING. And he or she is active at all the same times Emory was. Therefore, I’ve decided that we’re having a boy. They’re entirely too similar.

How I’m Doing Physically

Right around week 19, the nausea finally died down but not before throwing a 2-day grand finale. (I was laid up, sideways for two days at my mom’s house. Brutal.) I still have some nightly bouts of it but it’s easier.

The taste in my mouth has not gone away, however. And that blows. That taste is horrific and I think it’s here for the duration. I’ve read that if it continues for this long it won’t go away until the moment the I give birth.

But the heartburn! OMG the heartburn. About two weeks ago, it arrived. And I haven’t the slightest idea what to do about it. It flares up no matter what I do. Eat too much. It’s there. Eat too little. It’s there. Eat not at all. It’s there. No matter what I eat. It’s there.

So I’ve chewed criminally large quantities of papaya pills; I’ve even sipped milk (which I was told might help) and I hate milk. I’ve chewed on Tums but I’m trying to savor the Tums because I just know they are going to stop working eventually and I don’t want to be 35 weeks pregnant and sobbing due to acid reflux.

The heartburn sucks. I didn’t have it until very, very late with Em, like probably 37 or so weeks. So, this is new to me.

My belly is growing fast. It’s not at all shy, although there are still people who look at me as if I’m tapping the keg too early. But whatever. And I’ve put on way too much weight this time around. I know that today I’ll get a look from my doctor. The thing is, I haven’t the slightest idea HOW this happened. I haven’t been eating a lot. I don’t eat sweets as they make me feel the sickest. With Em I ate cupcakes and cinamon buns like it was my job. This one? Not so! So where are all these pounds coming from?

I’ve put on 8 pounds (probably more at this point but I’m terrified of getting on the scale after last time) in less than 7 weeks. Nuts. My calves are screaming.

But with this pregnancy, I was so sick for the first few months and so terrified of losing the baby again, I didn’t hit the gym. (With Emory I never stopped going.) That changed two weeks ago. I’ve been going at least 4 times a week hoping to curb this weight gain

Otherwise, what can I say? I’m pregnant! And I’m so excited. And every time I look at Em I realize he’s going to be a big brother. He’s told us he wants a brother. He wants to play ball with him. He wants to show him his toys.

“I want a brothah”

“What if it’s a girl?”

“I want a brothah. I want to talk to him.”

And I can’t wait.

I simply cannot wait for them to talk.

Related posts:

• The Silence of the Boobs.
• 41 Weeks. Update: Still Pregnant!
• 40 Weeks! NO BABY. But We Do Have a Crib!
• 38 Weeks. Little Progress.
• But What If All the Villagers Work Full Time?

I don’t yet look pregnant, instead I look like I’m wearing a padded, bulletproof vest. But I have boobs! And thanks to my progesterone levels (which are so high my doctor asked if I’ve been taking progesterone supplements; I’m not.) my boobs are on the large side. The good news for them, I guess, is that they have a shelf of fat to rest on whenever they get tired or my bra gives out. I’m ready to move into a muumuu. And believe me, there are stores lining Manhattan Avenue in Greenpoint that specialize in selling just that.

I’m not wearing this pregnancy very well. And just to kick myself further down the self-loathing ladder, I went and compared this 15-week belly with the one I had with Em. And: ugh. It ain’t pretty.

Toby has been reminding me lately, whenever I complain about how horrible I look or how can he stand to look at me right now, that my hormones are all wacky and I’m being too hard on myself. Granted, sometimes he’ll throw in the bit about not buying the big bag of BBQ potato chips, which I asked him to do, but dude, you try telling a pregnant woman she can’t eat that certain something.

But he’s right. I need to lay off the chips and food in general. Not only because I’m putting on more and more weight, but because every time I eat, I feel like complete and total ass. It’s a catch-22. I feel my best on an empty stomach. But as soon as I introduce food into my stomach, it’s all over. I’m down for the rest of the day or until I find myself starving again.

And that terrible taste in my mouth after eating—will it EVER go away? With Emory I had an excessive amount of saliva and a terrible taste for a few weeks, maybe a month. This time? There’s no end in sight and it’s worse! I’ve gargled with salt water, brushed my teeth after every meal. I’ve tried different types of food. I’ve tried not eating. I’ve tried new vitamins. I have googled every remedy out there. Nothing works. And I hate gum, but I’m chewing that as well.

I am grateful for this pregnancy, elated. And up until very recently I wouldn’t let myself complain about being pregnant because the alternative is far, far worse. So instead of talking about it, I’ve been internalizing everything.

So, earlier this week whenever I went in for my 14-week checkup, I got myself so worked up, convinced bad news awaited, my usual even and low blood-pressure was high. When the nurse asked me if I was nervous, I just looked at her and shook my head in defeat.

Nervous isn’t the word I would have used. Fucking terrified is more like it.

Here’s the deal: I want to enjoy this pregnancy completely and part of that enjoyment comes from being able to complain about it. And I’d love to have my innocence back in order to do so. With that innocence I would feel OK complaining about how sick I feel. Instead of thinking about the infertile girl who promised she wouldn’t ever complain about being pregnant if she could just get pregnant, I’d feel OK bitching about the nausea, the weight gain, the spit and the horrible taste in my mouth. I’d allow myself to complain about the nipple pain, the insane boob-itch, the joint ache, the dizziness, the heightened sense of smell that leaves me gagging.

Innocence allows for all of this.

When my doctor put the sonogram device to my stomach, the baby’s heartbeat was right there. It was solid, steady and fast. And the little Gangsta was moving around just like Ndugu used to.

So, screw it. I’m letting myself complain out loud today.

I feel terrible. I feel sick. The taste in my mouth is just awful. I feel fat and gross and I’m sick of the summer. I just want to curl up on the couch with my Kindle or iPhone, read the news, moan and NOT eat BBQ potato chips or drink Bubble Tea.

Related posts:

• The Silence of the Boobs.
• 41 Weeks. Update: Still Pregnant!
• 40 Weeks! NO BABY. But We Do Have a Crib!
• 38 Weeks. Little Progress.
• But What If All the Villagers Work Full Time?

There is a backstory at the end of this post.

May 18th, 2010 8:51 AM

(From the doctor’s office.)

Michele: Had to pay upfront. 8900 on AmEx. We will get paid back. Lots to talk about. Give me a call later. Or I could put it in an emal.

Michele: I’m a little bit freaking out.

9:10 AM

Michele: You probably should have come to this. You have to inject most of the drugs this time as they have to go into my butt muscle.

Michele: But I’ll teach you.

Toby: OK. So is 8900 the total? Not 15,000?

Michele: No, there’s more later. It will be around 14 and change.

Michele: You have to take antibiotics starting tonight for 10 days.

Michele:I think this will work, but I do worry still about miscarriage. They said it’s probably not wise to do genetic testing to the embryo because we have no issues.

Michele:We have a perfect kid but I would love for him to have a sibling. But emotionally I think we need to say no more after this. If this doesn’t work I need to give up. Let’s make a deal an stick to it.

Toby:I agree.

10:32 AM

Michele: Head full of information about IVF now. Feel much better about it. It’s freaky but kind of awesome what they can do these days. I had no idea. I am waiting to talk to the nurse.

Michele: You will need to take care of injections. I hope this works. I may ask that you schedule some vacation days if poss. I’ll let you know.

3:19 PM

(From home)

Michele: Can’t do IVF this month. August soonest. I am so sad.

4:17 PM

Toby: Why not?

Michele: Too much to explain and I’m not even sure. I have a call into doctor. Assistant called. Left me message.

Michele: Fucking heartbroken.

Michele:I ovulate twice between the time they close and open again in July. I’m just barely holding myself together. I need hope of some sort and now it’s just waiting some more, experiencing more failure. Just terrible. Em is going to be three.

Michele: I just hate this. I feel completely alone, which I hear is normal but still. Maybe it’s time for some serious antidepressants.

Toby: Or therapy. This is about being able to cope and you keep getting deeper and deeper (as people do) and seem unable to pull back at all. You could use this as a welcome break if you had the right perspective but you’re stuck in a loop of obsessing and clock watching and though that is understandable it’s causing you misery. that means you need help pulling back in obsession. Maybe a month or two is a good break. But you won’t take it you will read more and more online and continue to make yourself ill. Being able to switch gears would make it much easier for you. That isn’t meds — it’s a skill I think.

Michele: There’s nothing left for me to google. I have researched to exhaustion. So really the next two months will feel more like purgatory as I have felt almost every day since the miscarriage.

Michele: Only worse because I’m not doing anything and Em is getting older. And I hate that.

Michele: I can’t not try. Just can’t. We have to try even if it’s naturally.

Toby: OK

Toby: I want a kid more than you know but don’t talk about it so it doesn’t get worse. But I am able to focus on other things. You aren’t. That’s the difference. This has become 100% of your self wroth. Not just something you want but can’t have. I stay hopeful but focus elsewhere and it usually works fine. But you seem to attribute all self worth to being pregnant. It’s not about you or your worth or anything. It’s just something – one of hundreds – that we want but haven’t yet been able to have. Those things won’t go away.

5:05 PM

Michele: Doc said I have to go on the pill in June. So no natural try then.

Michele: Apparently I have one bitch of a follicle that began to form already and if I start medication for IVF, I’ll likely only get this one follicle since it already started growing. And that’s a waste of a cycle. meds for nothing. Naturally the hopeful idiot inside of me says wouldn’t it be poetic if this actually works naturally? After all this time, this little lone gangsta follicle directly responsible for keeping us from doing IVF ends up being our next child?

Michele: This is what hope is. And I have learned to loathe it.

Toby: Gangsta! Ha!

Gangsta Due: February 13th, 2011

(A mere eight days after the due date for the baby we lost.)

Backstory

Toby Joe and I went through 6 months worth of Clomid and 5 failed IUIs (intra-uterine insemination). In April, we went through one round of injectables and then another failed IUI. In May (after vowing we would never go that far) we decided to try IVF.

Why the sudden rush? My doctor’s office always closes for a month and a half starting at the end of May, so we decided to try immediately. It was a whirlwind decision and we hit the ground running all within a 24-hour period. (Long story, but cycle days matter big time with IVF cycles. Oh, the things I have learned.)

We had a day to get everything going. That day was May 18th, 2010.

And I wish I could have written about the year we’ve had—how hard it’s been. I wish I could explain how lonely infertility is. I’ve read that it can ruin a marriage; I get that now. Granted, my marriage did not suffer. If anything, it brought us closer together as a family.

But my reclusive behavior has destroyed a few friendships over the year. And for that I’m sorry. But to quote a friend of mine who went through it, “Infertility is a huge mindfuck.”

It so is.

For whatever the reason may be, I wasn’t able to share this with people. For the first time in my life, I’d gone private—totally dark. That was difficult. I have always been a very open person, willing to discuss all things personal. But not this time. And I am not sure why that is.

It’s been hard—really hard. I can’t write that enough. If you’ve ever dealt with infertility, you know. I don’t need to tell you. If you haven’t, you’re lucky and I doubt all the words in the world could really explain.

I will never, ever move beyond what I went through over the past year. Even now, I worry that just by writing this out loud, I’ll miscarry. I’m getting heart palpitations just looking at that button: PUBLISH. Every time I go to the bathroom I look for blood. And at every ultrasound I am waiting for the doctor to tell me there is no longer a heartbeat. Five people knew I was pregnant up until Saturday. Five. I don’t trust this. I’m scared to death. But I’m trying.

For now, at 13 weeks, things look good. And I have to try and focus on that.

Miscarriage and infertility may remove one’s innocence, but all the heartache in the world won’t take down hope. And for that I am grateful.

To quote Chase from The Royal Tenenbaums: “I’ve had a rough year, Dad.”

But things are looking up.

Related posts:

• The Silence of the Boobs.
• 41 Weeks. Update: Still Pregnant!
• 40 Weeks! NO BABY. But We Do Have a Crib!
• 38 Weeks. Little Progress.
• But What If All the Villagers Work Full Time?

For those of us that have experienced this loneliness, we eventually break free from it. We’re different at the end, but we get rid of it. Soon life returns to normal again and once we get there, we hope our friends and family will be there waiting for us. And we hope that they act normal too. When our friends and family don’t act normal, that loneliness has a way of finding us all over again.

Today I found out that a friend has been keeping her pregnancy from me. She told everyone we know, but excluded me entirely. Here’s the problem with that: when you’re pregnant, you get bigger. So you can’t keep the secret up for too, too long. (Especially with a second pregnancy.)

Her belly had grown since we last saw one another, but I didn’t say anything. Most people know by now that you don’t ask a woman if she’s pregnant unless she’s crowning. But then she just blurted it out.

“I didn’t want to tell you, because, well, you know…” She added.

Just then our other friend walked over and said, “Oh, did she just tell you the big news?”

And that’s when I realized that everyone knew but me—all of our friends. She chose to keep it from me.

I said congratulations and meant it. Then I stood there like a fool, no idea what I was supposed to say next, like I had forgotten my lines. How do I react now? I thought. Everything that came to mind seemed off, like I was supposed to follow some anticipated response, their anticipated response.

I understand her intentions, which is why I’m writing this today. Her intentionally keeping this from me until it was impossible not to, made me feel lonely all over again—like I was the odd man out, damaged goods, cringe-worthy. She did not treat me like she had treated everyone else. She made me different. And that hurt. It hurt so much more than the hurt she thought she was sheltering me from.

I can’t speak for every person that has had a miscarriage, but I’m willing to bet there are others that feel the way I do. So. If you know someone that has gone through a miscarriage and has arrived on the other side, please be normal. We want you to treat us like you do everybody else. Don’t put on kid gloves. Don’t avoid us because you’re afraid you’ll break our hearts. Don’t put us in the corner by ourselves. We want to feel normal.

Related posts:

• What I Learned From Rolling Paper.
• The First Board.
• The Penn State Thing
• The Seven Year Itch
• The Comfort Of Strangers. (I’m Her Ghost.)

Three months ago.

A little over 10 weeks ago, I peed on a stick and found out I was pregnant. We were trying so it wasn’t a surprise. We were so happy.

The next couple of weeks seemed far too easy. I continued following my normal routine. I even worked out regularly. I didn’t feel pregnant and therefore worried. I wrote post after post asking where the nausea was. Where was this pregnancy? Why did it lay so dormant? With Emory, I didn’t get sick, but I knew I was pregnant immediately and felt pregnant the entire time. But this pregnancy was very different. I even wrote that I would probably come to regret wishing for nausea. And as I entered the sixth week, that’s exactly what took place.

The nausea hit me so hard, it literally knocked me to the couch 75% of the day for almost two months. I became totally useless. I wasn’t able to clean or cook or care for my family. I barely showered. Toby Joe took on every role from cooking and cleaning, to working and paying the bills, to playing with Emory. I could barely get my son out the door to make sure he got some much needed sunlight and playtime. I was so sick.

Naturally, I wrote things on here—unpublished things—that, due to the outcome of this story, I will probably regret for a long, long time. And even if I delete those entries now, I can’t erase them from memory. My sickness was so intense that during my darkest moments, I regretted the pregnancy.

Writing that down now makes my chest feel as empty as my uterus.

Week 8. The Heartbeat!

I visited my OBGYN on June 24th and 8:30 AM. Staring back at me from that monitor was the strongest and tiniest heartbeat ever. The room filled with smiles. Mine was the biggest.

I called Toby immediately to tell him the good news.

The next couple of weeks moved along very much the same way. I was sick all the time, laid up and I whined constantly. We took the week of July 4th off to head to my parent’s house so that we could relax together as a family. Toby played with Emory the entire time as I crawled around alongside them.

I can’t say it enough: I was so sick.

I started to outrgow my clothing around week 10. I’d heard that this happens quicker with second pregnancies, so I didn’t let it bother me too much. I packed up my regular pants, and pulled out some old maternity clothes, sweatpants, and elastic skirts. I even went shopping! I bought some really flattering maternity clothes. I wanted to enjoy this pregnancy to its fullest, that meant dressing like a pregnant mother, enjoying the greatness of my belly because this was to be our last child, and therefore my final pregnancy.

Last week, I pulled safely into week 11. I saw the end of my first trimester on the horizon and hoped for a nausea-free period. We spent last week anxiously awaiting our twelve-week sonogram, but the nausea never let up, not once.

I’m not sure if things were getting worse for me physically, or I was becoming less resilient, but this past Saturday was brutal. I woke up and moved from my bed to the couch where I stayed all day and night. That day was by far my worst. (Although I had said that a dozen times prior to Saturday.)

Saturday night out of nowhere, I began sobbing uncontrollably. And you see, that’s the thing; prior that day, I hadn’t experienced the usual mood swings associated with being pregnant and I had them pretty intensely with Emory. I know all pregnancies are different and perhaps that was my body’s way of giving me a break, but I felt pretty solid emotionally the last 3 months.

But on Saturday at 8:30 PM, all of that mental stability hit a brick wall going 1000 miles per hour. I was suddenly devastated. I simply could not stop crying. I read stories that made it worse. I read a story about someone losing a premature baby at 24 weeks, that it had died in their arms. I sobbed harder. I fell to bed that night sobbing. I woke Sunday at 5:30 AM still crying. That lasted several hours. By mid-afternoon, I had gotten control of myself again and all of us went for a walk.

Looking back, I think—and I know this might sound crazy—but I think that’s when the baby’s heart stopped. And I think that my body knew it.

Monday Mourning.

Monday morning had come and I felt better, excited about the sonogram. I could not sleep past 4:30 AM. I got up, fought through the nausea, showered and prepared myself mentally for what was to be a wonderful day. I packed a bag for Em to take to the doctor with us. I put on one of my nicest outfits, jewelry. I even wore make up! My husband would see his second child for the first time. My son would see his future brother or sister. It was going to be a great day.

We arrived early. I drank 24 ounces of water and nearly peed my pants while in the waiting room. My name was called. We walked in, answered a few questions and took our seats. A monitor hung from the ceiling above. Toby Joe told Em where to look.

And you see this next part? It’s the part I keep playing over and over again in my head and it makes me feel desperate, like a trapped animal. We were blindsided by what happened next, totally blindsided. I did not expect them to tell that the baby’s heart had stopped. I had prepared myself for other things, but not that. We had just entered our 12th week of pregnancy. Even the pregnancy application I had on my iPhone stated: “Congratulations! You’ve entered the 12th week. The chance of a miscarriage drops substantially this week.”

The technician measured my uterus first, checked it out for abnormalities. I saw our baby immediately, arms, legs, a back and head. Even the slight outline of a profile.

Then the air in the room changed. I think it happened when every muscle in the technician’s body tensed up. She took the sonogram device and bounced it up and down on top of my belly.

“I’ll be right back.” She said.

“Is everything OK?” I asked, knowing everything was not.

“I have to get the doctor.” She answered.

We waited. I suggested that something was very wrong. Toby Joe, forever the optimist, said everything was fine. He told me not to panic.

The technician walked in with the doctor. The doctor asked permission to look again. Fighting back tears, I asked her if something was wrong.

“We’re not seeing a heartbeat. But I want to double check.”

I covered my face and began sobbing. I heard Emory’s voice next to me, “Mama? Mama?” He was worried. My 2-year-old was concerned for me.

There was no heartbeat. I had had a miscarriage. It had happened sometime very recently as the baby measured an easy 11 weeks.

We were told to go home and mourn. I felt bad for us, sure, but I can’t imagine being a doctor having to break that sort of news to someone especially when they’re so filled with joy.

When we got home, my OBGYN called.

I was given three choices: I could schedule a D&C and have the baby removed at the hospital by her colleague; I could have the baby removed at a clinic where viable pregnancies were also terminated (and I’d therefore have to fight through a line of protesters); or I could wait it out at home.

The clinic surrounded by protesters was out of the question. The option of having it at home worried me sick because of how far along I was. My doctor informed me that what was about to happen was not at all subtle and that having it at home was going to be very difficult. (Translation: I would have seen hands and little feet, the start of a nose, mouth, a profile. And I’m crying again.)

I chose to have the D&C. But had to wait for two days.

Those two days were equivalent to what I imagine purgatory might feel like if surrounded by hell on both sides. We were zombies. We tried to play with Em, hide the pain on our faces. It was hard. But I think we did OK considering, Toby Joe more so than myself.

I spent the majority of Monday crying on our rooftop overlooking this great big city, flipping between two songs by the The Rolling Stones. Toby Joe, bless his heart, worked on damage control and sent out an email to all those I had told about the pregnancy. (I sent out a few as well.) By evening I had the worst headache imaginable. I took two Advil. Because I could. I ate sushi. Because I could. I had a Guinness. Because I could. I fell to bed crying. Because I could. I barely slept. Because I couldn’t.

Yesterday morning—Tuesday—was horrible. I woke up at 5 AM, still feeling very pregnant. The fetus was no longer alive, yet I had every last bit of the nausea I had had all along. I cried into my caffeinated cup of coffee. I deleted over half my contacts on Facebook, leaving only certain very close friends, people I know in real life, and family for reasons I’m still unsure of and will likely regret. I deleted paid for pregnancy iPhone applications, threw out the congratulatory “New Baby” folder I’d been given by my doctor, and wiped out my entire iCal through next February. I wanted to retreat from everything I had known, redirect my life, look to the genuine.

I looked outside at the falling rain, a fitting backdrop, and wondered why the story unfolding was making its way into my history.

Later, I walked to the drugstore to get a prescription that would soften and prepare my cervix for the following morning. As I walked down the street in the rain, passing happy, oblivious people, I thought, “I’m carrying a dead body inside of me. I am carrying our dead baby inside of me and no one here knows.” I imagined stopping one of them and saying this. I imagined the look on their face, what their response might be for a crazy person. And if it weren’t so damn tragic and true, it might be darkly comical.

By afternoon I gathered my strength. My mother was arriving and I had to focus on what was to happen the following morning (today) at 6:30 AM. This baby had died because it was never going to be viable—bad math, not meant to be, genetically problematic, whatever the reason—it was not viable.

That night, I inserted one of the pills I had picked up earlier from the pharmacy and fell asleep in my husband’s arms. I woke up two hours later in labor. Let me tell you, going into labor when there’s no living baby to welcome at the end is a heart-wrenching experience. I called my doctor at 12:30 AM to ask her how much pain I was supposed to feel. She informed me that as long as I wasn’t bleeding, I should wait it out.

I woke up the following morning (today) at 5:00 AM after a pathetic night’s sleep.

Today.

This morning, I had our baby removed at the hospital, which was an experience in that of itself. (For now all I’ll say is I will never be able to listen to “Wonderwall” the same way ever again.)

I will write about the D&C eventually, after I let it sit for a few days. Right now I am terrified of suffering from PPD again. I don’t have a new baby to hold in order to make it a little easier this time.

There is a great deal of mourning still to come our way, a great deal of pain to experience. I know this.

Today I feel as OK as anyone who went through this might feel. Physically, unfortunately, I still feel very pregnant. It’s better—the nausea—but it’s not gone yet. And the horrible taste in my mouth that’s been haunting me for months is still very prevalent.

Nature is cruel.

The sorrow I have felt over the last two days is sorrow I never knew possible. I searched for stories like my own online and found a few but not nearly as many as I yearned for and many dated back four years or more. Maybe this sort of thing is just too personal. Maybe women need to mourn alone. After all, I’ve never felt this alone before. I’ve never been so afraid of what the next minute might bring. This is why I wasn’t going to share my story at first.

But then I pictured a woman going through something like this one day soon. She’s inexplicably sad and in search of a little company. She is in search of comfort. This imaginary woman forced me to write today. Someone needs to try and be there for her should she come looking.

I’m not in the clear yet, nor is my husband, who is suffering as well. For all I know, I’m still feeling the effects from the anesthesia and drugs as I write this, but at least now I have a little bit of closure. I’m most definitely more empty than I was yesterday, but I’ve opened a new book up to a brand new page and I’m hoping the next story will have a much happier ending.

Related posts:

• What I Learned From Rolling Paper.
• The First Board.
• The Penn State Thing
• The Seven Year Itch
• The Comfort Of Strangers. (I’m Her Ghost.)

So last night I started digging around on google (I KNOW!) and discovered all sorts of weird stuff about my O negative blood type and how seemingly incompatible and uppity it is. 

Here’s the breakdown of ABO and Rh blood type by nation. 

And here’s a laymen’s understanding of my blood type:

• I am a universal donor. Anyone can use my blood but I can’t use any other blood type except for my own.
• I’m recessive. (Yeah, yeah. I get that a lot.) 
• Two O positive blood carriers can have O negative offspring. (My brothers and I are proof of this.)
• O negative blood carriers cannot take any other blood type because they lack the antigens involved and will therefore fight with it. Or something. (Someone smart needs to mom it down for me.)

Can two O negatives make an O positive? Is that even impossible? Also, are all the negatives eventually going to die off? It appears that way, right? Were there more at one point in time? I need a crash course on blood types. I’m so intrigued. 

But I digress. As I was searching and reading and learning about Rh factors and whatnot, I discovered a corner of the Internet dedicated to second and third pregnancies and O negative blood types. Here’s where things get a little wacky. If an O negative woman has a baby with an O positive man, and the baby is O positive, the woman can develop a problem. And since positive blood types are the dominant ones, there’s a good chance the baby will end up positive. A first pregnancy is usually not a problem because the woman most likely hasn’t come into contact with the antigen before. However, during birth, blood types often mingle, causing the O negative carrier to come in contact with the O positive blood type. The O negative person starts to fight said blood type—treat it as a problem, a foreign body. So, any future pregnancies can result in big problems.

The hell is that about? And why didn’t anyone tell me?

Naturally, I’m prematurely freaking out here and my husband is ready to cancel our Internet access. We don’t yet know Toby’s blood type because we weren’t required to have one before we were married. And I am not yet sure of Em’s blood type either. Maybe we’re super rare and all of us are negative? But I’m not holding my breath on that one.  (Emory is O positive.)

And I’m assuming my doctors had this in mind throughout my pregnancy and the moment Em was born. (Apparently there are shots mothers are given if the blood is mixed so they don’t develop these antibiotics. Look at me try and pretend I have the slightest idea what it is I’m talking about here.) At least I hope they knew about this. They are incredible, after all.

One thing is for sure, someone should take away my Internet connection.

Edited to add: I feel like such a moron. I’m actually O positive. I just called my doctor to find out why they didn’t give me this shot, ready to lose my mind about it, and she proceeds to tell me that I’m actually O positive. (My brothers, however, are negative.) I feel like the biggest O positive idiot ever. 

Related posts:

• The Silence of the Boobs.
• 41 Weeks. Update: Still Pregnant!
• 40 Weeks! NO BABY. But We Do Have a Crib!
• 38 Weeks. Little Progress.
• But What If All the Villagers Work Full Time?

I think about you all the time, not necessarily you personally, because I haven’t ever met you. I don’t even know what you look like. The only role you had in my life was leaving a comment on my blog.

It read:

July 25th, 2007 at 02:21 PM

You only go through this a few times in your life. This time with your unborn baby and your husband are precious – don’t wish it away.

You were right.

I didn’t want to admit it then. Hell, I was about to meet my first child for the first time. I was sick of being pregnant. I wanted him out of me. I vowed to friends and family, “There’s no way I’ll sleep less when he’s born than I do now.”

(What a naive and silly person.)

But that’s not what this is about. This isn’t about losing sleep or having to pee a lot. It’s not about any of that. This is about what you said and how often I think about it.

I guess I never realized how true your comment was until friends of mine started getting pregnant—close friends, acquaintances, internet friends—just friends. And I promised myself a long time ago I would not become that person, ready to give suggestions without being asked. And I’m not accusing you of that; I can’t begin to thank you enough for what you wrote. But I continue to bite my tongue even though sometimes it’s unbearable.

What I wanted to say to you then was this: OH MY GOD, WHO ARE YOU TO TELL ME TO ENJOY THIS! I HATE YOU!

That’s a little harsh. I know. It was true at the time, but that’s because you weren’t really a person to me. You were just someone taunting me, pointing out something I refused to see.

Perhaps my hatred was due to the fact that a part of me (the instinctual mother part every woman is born with) knew you were right. I don’t know. I never will. But I hated what you wrote. I spit at your words. I told my husband, “HOW CAN SOMEONE TELL ANOTHER PERSON TO ENJOY THIS!” And, well, come on! I was having trouble sleeping. I peed myself several times. I had trouble doing “other things”. I could not be intimate with my husband. I couldn’t eat because of the heartburn, my ankles swelled up to triple their size. I had high blood pressure. I was seeing white or black spots every time I stood up. I wanted that baby out of me! I felt awful.

I was mad at you.

Well, Rae Rae, I’m no longer angry. In fact, I want to thank you for having had such a huge impact on my life and in such a small way.

I mentioned earlier that I don’t like giving people advice unless they ask for it, specifically when it comes to motherhood. I had so many ideas when I was pregnant and then my son was born and I could barely keep up with any of them. I had delusions of how it would (and should) be. I made plans. And even though I knew that things were going to be hard, I never knew exactly how hard. How could I have known? (They offer classes about how to give birth and how to breastfeed these little people, but no one really helps you out with the remaining 50 years.)

Anyway, I did something out of character the other night in honor of you. I wrote this on a friend’s Facebook page:

You know, I said the same thing and meant it. And one day someone emailed me and said “enjoy this time!” and I wanted to punch them and I hated them. you know what’s funny? I think about it all the time now because they were so right!

So I am going to be that asshole now: enjoy this time. Sleep. Have morning sex. Cook. Take walks together. Go out! Go out! Go out! Have a romantic meal.

He will be here soon enough, so enjoy this time you have alone.

I have never left a truer comment.

But don’t hate me for it!

Have you ever experienced that moment right before a fresh snowfall where the world becomes eerily quiet, cars distance themselves from one another, the sky turns orange or burnt sienna, everything seems at peace in the world and we’re greeted with a smashingly fine silence?

Do you know that moment?

Or, how about that moment during a kickoff where opposing teams stand guarded on an untouched field. The crowd roars, the whistle is blown, feet stomp, the rising sound is spectacular. The ball is kicked! And as soon as it leaves the kicker’s foot, the moment the ball departs his toe, a silence blankets the crowd as if guided by a maestro.

How about that one? Do you know that moment?

I look forward to moments like those. They give me goosebumps fueled by anticipation. Those undeniable rests that punctuate great big, audacious sounds are pretty outstanding.

Rae Rae, you were right.

I should have known to enjoy that time more. I should not have wished it away. That time was just like the moments I described above. I just didn’t realize it until after the game was in session, the cake was cut, and the blanket of snow had already fallen.

Sincerely yours (a year or so late),

Michele

Related posts:

• What I Learned From Rolling Paper.
• The First Board.
• The Penn State Thing
• The Seven Year Itch
• The Comfort Of Strangers. (I’m Her Ghost.)

My initial thought was, Awesome! We should see what it says about Emory! like we’d be getting a reading from a 15-dollar, storefront fortune teller. After I thought about it a bit more, the idea began to make me very uneasy. I’m asking way too many questions of the “what if? variety.

Can we be trusted with this information? Will it bring more good to the world than bad? Because I’m just not sure.

Related posts:

• The Silence of the Boobs.
• 41 Weeks. Update: Still Pregnant!
• 40 Weeks! NO BABY. But We Do Have a Crib!
• New York City Bans Smoking in Parks, Beaches.
• 38 Weeks. Little Progress.

That makes sense, right?

Here’s my problem with it. Could it be that the kids who are watching more television are getting pregnant because he or she spends less time with communicating with his or her parents? Could it be that parents who are more likely to plop their kid in front of the TV are less likely to communicate regularly with their children?

I always feel slightly irritated by how studies such as this one get reported (I haven’t read the study firsthand) because I think the report becomes an obstacle at getting to the heart of what the real problem may be.

Is it in fact true that children that watch racy TV shows are more likely to have sex, or could it be that children who watch a lot of TV are less likely to spend that time communicating with his or her family?

If the goal is to lessen the number of teen pregnancies in America, I think figuring out why it’s happening should become our top priority. And quite frankly, I’m not convinced that the problem has to do with what they’re watching and instead has to do with why.

But my opinion still isn’t quite ripe. I’m open to debate.

VIOLENCE AND TV (A late addition to this post.)

I’m about to admit to something that probably seems contradictory to the top half of this post and state that I do believe that watching violent TV shows (and playing violent video games) can lead to violent behavior. Perhaps I’m naive where sex is concerned? I don’t know. Maybe it’s because I do not believe that humans are inherently violent—that violence (or lack of compassion) is a learned behavior. I do believe that humans are inherently sexual, however.

I guess what I’m trying to say is that I don’t feel that parents can do much to keep teenagers from being curious about (even craving) sex. I do think we can control how educated our children are regarding the topic. I have always thought that when it comes time, I would talk openly to my son about sex. I am not nearly as liberal when it comes to violence, however.

Obviously, my opinion on the matter is still morphing.

Related posts:

• The Silence of the Boobs.
• 41 Weeks. Update: Still Pregnant!
• 40 Weeks! NO BABY. But We Do Have a Crib!
• New York City Bans Smoking in Parks, Beaches.
• 38 Weeks. Little Progress.

Last night we were sitting around watching ER jump the shark for the billionth time. Emory had fallen asleep in my lap, his head against my chest. Tobyjoe sat to my right. We were still. My family sat still. Whenever the show ended, I got up and laid Emory down. That’s when I noticed a wet spot on my chest. I figured it was drool. (Emory has been drooling a lot lately due to teething. I hope.) I went to the bathroom to brush my teeth. That’s when I realized that the wet spot was a perfect circle.

And I hate that I’m about to be graphic. As of late even I find myself turning away from posts holding too much information. But it appears that I’m 9 months late on the whole lactating thing. It appears my body has only now figured out that when baby is put to chest, chest makes milk.

I was told by the specialist that my thyroid levels would even themselves out by 6 months. Well, that hasn’t happened. At the time, I was admittedly frustrated by the way he seemed to write me off as some crazy postpartum girl, one who should just wait it out. And if I were a more organized and defiant woman, I might start a crusade in hopes of being taken seriously. Instead, I become bitter and resentful and it’s entirely my fault!

I am not one to ask a doctor for help. If it’s not a visible wound, like, if I’m not bleeding from the head, I don’t seek medical advice. (Gynecologist, aside. You just don’t ignore the lady stuff.) But this time? This time I knew something had to be wrong. I was entirely too emotionally unstable for it to be anything other than chemistry. And it was.

But the doctor didn’t really offer me much help. He gave me Atenolol to stop the flight or fight response and then told me to stop taking it once my levels began to change a bit. He then told me to come back in three months to get more blood work done. I haven’t done that. I haven’t done that in part because I am a coward. And I haven’t done that because my doctor wasn’t taking my pleas seriously.

On top of all of that, Em just will not nap anymore. He just cries and becomes more and more agitated and insane and every time it happens I feel that I’m more and more of a failure for not being able to figure out how to get him to nap. I’m also not strong enough to let him cry. I simply do not have what it takes to block out the sound of him crying. I go from feeling rage, to sorrow, to self-pity, to anger, to love all within the blink of an eye. It’s kind of like opening every single program and every font you have on your Apple computer while running OS 9.

I have great days. Most of my days lately have been great. Sadly, I don’t really write about those. But today? Today is a very, very bad day. I need help. I need to call a doctor. Something needs to change. I need someone to help me with my hormones, chemistry, all of it. I need to stop worrying that doctors won’t be taken seriously and instead demand they do so.

I’m nine months postpartum. Shouldn’t I be better at this by now?

One last thing, I wrote the first half of this post early this morning. I wrote the second half directly after giving Em a bath in hopes of getting him to nap.

Guess what? He’s still awake and losing it.

Things will be better tomorrow.

Related posts:

• What I Learned From Rolling Paper.
• The First Board.
• The Penn State Thing
• The Seven Year Itch
• The Comfort Of Strangers. (I’m Her Ghost.)

I began by apologizing. I was supposed to have one more blood test before visiting the specialist. My primary care doctor assumed he had time to do so since he didn’t think that I would get an appointment with the endocrinologist until after the holidays. That wasn’t the case due to a last minute cancelation. So I ended up visiting the endocrinologist before having that blood work done, hence the apologies. He interrupted me after a bit and said, “Well, Michele, say no more, clearly there’s a problem here. This isn’t normal at all.” Someone, other than myself, has finally decided I’m a Crazy Nut!

I had half a mind to have him write it down as such.

He did some testing which consisted of having me look in certain directions, show him my legs, my hands, my eyes. He also made me swallow a lot. He asked me a lot of questions about my behavior and my sleep patterns, my pain and my pregnancy. He prescribed to me some temporary medication in order to keep my manic behavior at a minimum. (Toby thanks him. This morning I woke up and didn’t immediately put him to work cleaning the house.)

The good news is, this could all be due to postpartum. (Just as many of you suggested here and via email.) He said that some women experience this after pregnancy and that it does sometime work itself out by 6 months. So, I may be coming down off crazy. The unsettling news is, if it is due to postpartum, that doesn’t explain the last six years to TobyJoe and, well, the last 10 to me. The doctor is going to run a few more tests to figure out if this is permanent or if it’ll work itself out over time.

The next step is to have a snapshot done of my thyroid, which is scheduled for the beginning of January. My thyroid stimulating hormone levels are low enough that he’s worried about my heart palpitations and my heart rate, hence the drug I was prescribed. It’s only purpose is to keep my heart from exploding. And I do feel calmer today. I haven’t had any sudden jolts or spasms and my heart feels pretty even. I even slept finally. (Usually, I wake up every other hour and have trouble falling back to sleep.)

The bad news (which I have come to terms with) is that I am no longer able to supply breast milk for Emory. But since my supply tanked from an already low supply, it’s not a huge change or surprise. He’s doing well. He’s strong, healthy, and I gave him almost five months worth of milk. I asked the doctor if hyperthyroidism could be responsible for my very low milk supply (10 oz now, 23 at my highest) and he said yes. Granted, things could have been different had Emory and I worked on a latch, but for whatever reason, we never got that worked out. Maybe my supply was too low and he became frustrated. Maybe I didn’t try hard enough (although I tried all the time back then and I continued trying up until about two weeks ago). I realize I have talked about this a lot (too much). I even said it’d be the last time I talked about it a hundred times before now. It’s hard to let go. Plus, I have received dozens and dozens of email (a beautiful one just yesterday) from mothers who have run into problems breastfeeding. Many have met nothing but nastiness from other women. A fact that will never stop shocking me. I can’t figure out why women do this to other women. I am reminded of a paragraph from A Tree Grows in Brooklyn

“Most women had the one thing in common: they had great pain when they gave birth to their children. This should make a bond that held them all together; it should make them love and protect each other against the man-world. But is was not so. It seemed like their great birth pains shrank their hearts and their souls. They stuck together for only one thing: to trample on some other woman… whether it was by throwing stones or by mean gossip. It was the only kind of loyalty they seemed to have.”

Now, even I think that’s a little harsh, but you get the point.

I (what pumpers call) “hung up the horns” last night and I started to cry a little bit. I turned to TobyJoe and said, “If it’s this hard for me to put a pump away, it must be really difficult to wean a child.” (Breastfeeding mamas, you have my sympathies.)

I’ll know more in January. And I’m trying not to think about the possibility of having my thyroid irradiated because the thought of being away from Emory (and EVERYBODY) for several days makes me want to break down and cry in place. Right now. So, in the meantime, I’m going to smooch my baby boy, take care of myself, be nice to my husband and eat as much crap as I want. I fell off my diet due to this ravenous appetite and have managed to stay at 148. (I wonder… if I stay away from entire chocolate cakes, would I actually lose weight from all of this?)

This is so boring, these medical posts. So, I’ll leave you with this adorable picture of my two boys.

Thanks, y’all for dealing with my crap. xoxxo

Related posts:

• The Silence of the Boobs.
• 41 Weeks. Update: Still Pregnant!
• 40 Weeks! NO BABY. But We Do Have a Crib!
• 38 Weeks. Little Progress.
• But What If All the Villagers Work Full Time?

Enough people have written me email or have left comments about my birth story to warrant some clarification.

For starters, I want everyone to know that when I think about my experience giving birth to Emory, I don’t think about it as a negative one. For me to see it as negative, something would have had to go wrong with Emory. And he was happy! His heartbeat never took a turn. He was totally fine throughout the entire ordeal.

I also want to talk about why I was induced. I have always had a steady blood pressure. My doctors have always described my blood pressure as perfect. So, whenever things drastically changed so much at week 40 my doctor was rightly concerned. Not only was I off the charts where blood pressure was concerned, but I was seeing little white fireflies in my peripheral every time I stood up. My doctor (who I trust with my life and my baby’s) decided it was time to take action. She gave me four days go “get things going”. If I came in after those four days and still had problems with my blood pressure, we should talk about scheduling an induction. Guess what? Four days later, things were worse.

I would not have scheduled an induction had there not been a medical reason for it. I was miserable toward the end, sure, but my discomfort wasn’t reason enough to induce. Because of my deteriorating health, Emory was at risk as well.

I also need to mention that I never really had a birth plan. A couple of people asked me why I never came up with one. I put a lot of faith in my doctors throughout my entire pregnancy and looked to them to decide what I should do. I felt both my baby and me were in excellent hands the entire time. While the actual labor may not have come off as smoothly as I may have liked, Emory was in very capable hands. I really believe that. Even when he was admitted into the NICU I felt he was safe and looked after. I will say this much: if we ever do have another baby, I won’t think twice about going back to that hospital. I would like to see that evil desk clerk fired first, but otherwise, I have no complaints.

More than a few people have hinted both passively and aggressively that I would have had a better time with a “natural” childbirth. That very well might be true. We’ll never know. But I get annoyed with how loosely the term “natural” is thrown around. In order for anyone to correctly use a word, we need a common definition. When does something become unnatural? Is human action, presence, or influence the source of the distinction? Medicine? And if it’s medicine at what point do you draw the line between “natural” medicine and all other? My point is that your definition of “natural” probably varies from another’s. Is anesthesia natural? How about using acupuncture as an anesthesia? Ice is pretty natural, right? How about being submerged in ice before a medical procedure? The truth is, the word “natural” is an empty rhetorical trick used to mask a lack of clarity or spin a simpler and more concrete distinction in favor of one side over another.

I think what people mean to say when using the word “natural” is without the use of pain management drugs or an epidural. In such a case, it would be more productive to use a term such as “birth without pain management drugs.”

I did not choose to go about childbirth without the epidural. I was frightened. I hadn’t ever done anything like it before. I hadn’t been around women who had. I know of two people who nearly lost a baby because the baby swallowed meconium during labor. And still one more person very close to me lost a baby this way. I couldn’t imagine going through nine months of pregnancy, growing attached to a baby only to see it die. The idea still terrifies me. Also, there are no known downsides to the use of modern pain management drugs aside from stepping on the toes of ideologues.

One person asked me if I felt that having doula would have made things different. I don’t know. I asked my mother to be there for my labor and delivery because she went through all three childbirths differently. My older brother was born by use of an epidural. My mother was induced for me and she was then given both narcotics and an epidural. (Which is the most preferred state when dealing with me.) And my younger brother was born without the use of any drugs or anesthesia at all. I felt (and still feel) that she was a perfect person to have around. I also wanted to share it with her. Had I been able to have more than two people in the delivery room I may have entertained the idea of hiring a doula. But it never came to that. I knew from the beginning that I wanted both my mother and my husband in the room with me.

Looking back, however, it would have been nice to have a person I’m not close to around to tell me that what I was going through and how I was feeling was perfectly normal especially after the baby was born. I really beat myself up for weeks following Emory’s birth. If doulas can be hired for that purpose, I suppose it may have been helpful. But I always thought that the doula’s role is to keep a woman from agreeing to something during childbirth that she may not have agreed to under more rational circumstances. Since I didn’t have a birth plan and I’m known for changing my mind and wholeheartedly believing in said change, a doula sounded like she could become more annoying than helpful. I’m stubborn and rather pigheaded when I need to be. I probably would have pissed off a doula and fired her midway through my labor. (Granted, this is all based on what I have heard a doula is hired for. I could very well be proven wrong about a doula’s role in all of this.)

If it’s NOT a doula’s role to make a woman feel as normal and comfortable as humanly possible after giving birth, there is a huge market for a person like this. I really could have used NOT a lactation consultant, NOT a birthing coach, NOT a midwife, I could have used a sane someone who’s been there before. I would have benefited from someone telling me that it’s OK if I can’t get the hang of breastfeeding. It’s OK if I am afraid to hold the baby right away. It’s OK that I feel like I dismantled any previous version of my life and that one day I would learn to how live the new one. I wanted someone to grab a hold of my head, shake it clean and let me know that everything I was going through was entirely normal and the sadness would one day subside. Instead, that role was filled by several hundred voices from the Internet.

If we do have another baby, I will likely go about things differently. I would like to avoid being induced unless it’s absolutely necessary. If my blood pressure raises again as it did with this pregnancy, I might asked to be watched closely by a doctor to make sure we’re both ok instead of being induced. If it doesn’t work out that way, I might ask that they NOT give me the epidural until I am further dilated. (The reason they didn’t give me enough Pitocin the first time was because they had no way of judging how intense my contractions were.) If that can’t be done, I might ask for the internal monitor from the get go so they can judge how much more Pitocin to administer.

And yes, for all those out there with a boner for a childbirth without the use of narcotics or an epidural, I might give that a try as well. Now that I know what happens, now that I’m no longer terrified to give birth, I might give it a shot. Who knows. I don’t want to make an absolute plan. If there is one thing I learned from all of this is that all of it is entirely unpredictable. I planned on so many things before I actually had the baby and when I returned home with him, I was barely able to accomplish one of them. And the seeming failures made me feel even more depressed. I really beat myself up over my failures and spent little time rejoicing in having a baby.

If you take anything away from this post and the 7 chapters I wrote over the last couple of weeks it’s the following statement:

The mental aftermath hurt far worse than the days I spent in the hospital.

And I went through that both drug and epidural free.

Related posts:

• What I Learned From Rolling Paper.
• The First Board.
• The Penn State Thing
• The Seven Year Itch
• The Comfort Of Strangers. (I’m Her Ghost.)

Let ‘em rip! I want to hear from others. If you feel up to it, share your birth story in the comments section. If you already have it written somewhere, give us a link! (See the FAQ section for formating instructions.)

^{P.S. Please leave politics out of this. Those are valid discussions but I don’t care to host them on my site. If you write about how one birth is better than another, I will delete your comment.}

Related posts:

• What I Learned From Rolling Paper.
• The First Board.
• The Penn State Thing
• The Seven Year Itch
• The Comfort Of Strangers. (I’m Her Ghost.)

It was 2:30 AM and I was exhausted. My body shook uncontrollably. My mother had warned me about it earlier. I was ready for it to happen, but I wasn’t ready for it to happen before I gave birth. No matter how much I tried, I couldn’t get the shaking to stop.

“Breathe, Michele. Practice what we learned during Lamaze class. Do your hee hoos.” TobyJoe began to breathe. I thought about my favorite yoga instructor Kyra and everything she taught me about relaxation. I followed his lead. After about a minute of hee hoo-ing, my body stopped shaking. But as soon as I thought about it, it would start up all over again. From that point forward, I decided to go about things as mindlessly as possible.

While I concentrated on my breathing, the doctors and nurses filed into the room. It was like something out of broadway play. They were so well rehearsed, so organized, the finest ballet dancers haven’t ever been so in sync. Some wheeled in equipment, others brought in clean towels. Each person had a specific role in this organized production. Not one person ran into another, they just reacted, or acted. Before I knew it, a mess of people were all around me. Dr. Kauffman, my 7-months pregnant doctor, sat down at the foot of my bed. My husband stood at my right knee, my mother up near my head. The doctor who talked me into staying 27 hours earlier stood by my left knee. Still others milled about the room waiting for their cue. Someone had opened up the adjoining room – the room where Emory would be cleaned and warmed. They were ready. But was I?

Earlier, I had been told that it would take me three hours to push. I prepared myself for that. I asked the nurse if I could have a Pedialyte ice pop for strength. I wondered if the ice would feel good against my heartburn as well. Toward the very end, the heartburn became unbearable. And the pain made me nauseous. I looked at the clock. It was after 3. The baby would be with us by dawn. I hoped.

I saw a bolt of lightning from outside. “Was that lightning? Is it storming?”

“It’s really bad out there. There’s thunder, lightning. It’s torrential.” Someone assured me.

It was a perfect backdrop, the greatest of encores, for that particular performance.

Everyone took their position. The doctor instructed all the newcomers (my husband and my mother) what their roles were. The woman at my left knee told me what I had to do and when I had to do it.

The last 45 minutes I spent pregnant exist in my memory in pieces. I don’t recollect things in any definitive order. I know that it took me a few times before I understood how to push. At first I was afraid to push too hard because it felt like I had to take a massive crap. (Which is exactly what’s supposed to happen.) Between contractions, I grabbed an ice pop or the oxygen mask. But nothing became more glorious than sucking on that damned ice pop. It was my reward for every other push. The oxygen was a have-to. I ate two popsicles before getting Emory out. They were the best things I had ever eaten.

If the birth of Emory had consisted of only the last couple of hours I would have had the greatest birth story tell. I had an epidural, sure. But the right hand side of my body felt everything. I mentioned before that this became a blessing in disguise. It ensured that I work harder because it hurt. And since I had feeling, I also knew when each contraction was coming before the machine beeped letting the doctors know.

I had worked myself up over labor. And it didn’t end up being that hard for me. It didn’t hurt as much as I would have thought. (Although, I am sure had I been totally epidural free, it would have hurt a whole lot more.) I had prepared myself for something terrifically difficult and painful. And it simply wasn’t. When it came time to push, I had something to focus on, something real. I was no longer a spectator of my own labor; I became an active participant in the production.

It took me 45 minutes to get Emory out. I think we counted 9 pushes. That included the amount of time it took to get the hang of it. For me, the pushing part of labor wasn’t difficult at all; it was the induction, the wait, the failure to get things going, the hunger, the heartburn, the wait again, all of that proved very trying and difficult.

On push 8 in room eight, the doctor asked me if I wanted to look at Emory, whose head was almost completely outside of my body. I said no. But then my mind turned on again and it sent me a message, “Do this. How often do you get to see a human head poking out of your vagina?” So I did. I looked down. And that’s the first time I saw Emory.

He looked just like you’d imagine, which is to say freakishly weird and alien. He looked unreal. His head was a little beat up. But he was alive and well and it was only a matter of time before I was to hold him.

Push 9 was the last push. I felt him come swooshing out along with a lot of other stuff I won’t talk about. They held him up. I looked at the umbilical cord, which was shockingly beautiful. It looked like blown glass – a piece of perfectly purplish spiral-blown glass.

“Do you want to cut the cord?” Dr Kauffman asked Toby.

“Sure.”

Emory was freed from me by the man who helped me create him. He was wrapped in a blanket and then immediately placed on my belly. There wasn’t a tear in sight or a sound in range. He just looked up at me with those great big dark eyes.

“You are perfect. You are perfect. Hello, little person! You are perfect! It’s so nice to meet you! Hello!”

And then he was gone again.

The room looked like something out of an episode of CSI. It was that messy, like, over the top messy, staged even. Blood was everywhere. It was a mess. Earlier, one of the nurses made Toby lay on some sheets. She had joked about what she had seen on the floor of that very room. We laughed at the time. But, wow! Was she ever right. It looked like someone had died a gruesome death. There were clots, red towels, red gauze. The characters that had filed in so perfectly earlier were now covered head to toe in blood. Until that moment, I had no idea how much birth could resemble death. Replace tears with smiles and gasps of shock with gasps of joy and you have birth.

As they stitched me up, I fell back into my pillow and I looked toward the window again. I let out a sigh. The city was being beaten by thunder and struck by lightning. A tornado touched down in Brooklyn for the first time in a century. The subway tunnels flooded. Millions of people were rudely awaken by that storm.

And in a room on the 4th floor of a hospital along the East River, my son Emory was making his first appearance on a stage called life.

^{Part of NaBloPoMo (National Blog Posting Month). I will continue this story every day until it’s finished. Each chapter will live in a section titled The Birth of Emory.}

Related posts:

• What I Learned From Rolling Paper.
• The First Board.
• The Penn State Thing
• The Seven Year Itch
• The Comfort Of Strangers. (I’m Her Ghost.)

“You’re about 2 and a half centimeters dilated.” She told me.

I thought I heard her incorrectly.

“What?” I asked. TobyJoe walked over to me. He looked concerned.

“You’re 2 and half centimeters.” She repeated.

I started to cry. “But..” My voice trailed off. She knew what I wanted to say. She knew what I was thinking.

She explained that once they gave me the epidural they had no absolute way of gaging the pain and administering the correct dose of Pitocin. I was devastated. And I was pissed off. The last 11 hours were an absolute waste. I was still very upset with my body for not doing what it was supposed to do. I was angry that I had to be induced at all. I was mad that high blood pressure put me there in the first place. I wanted to meet my son. I really wanted to meet my son. I was heartbroken, seriously heartbroken. I was also worried that he was without amnionic fluid for so long.

I continued to cry.

“Here’s what we’re going to do.” She began. “We’re going to insert an internal contraction monitor to get a better idea of how intense your contractions are. And then we’ll know exactly how much more Pitocin you’ll need.”

I asked the million dollar question. “How much longer will I be like this?”

Looking back, I understand why she wouldn’t give me a time. She watched my mood deteriorate several times. She answered me as a doctor. “Well, the night nurse will be a lot more aggressive with the Pitocin. We’ll get things moving. And that will be easier with the internal contraction monitor.”

And that’s when round two began.

By the the time Tuesday came to an end, I had one tube going into my arm, another into my back, still another emptying out my bladder and another inserted into my uterus next to the baby. I felt like something out of a science fiction movie.

At 2 AM, I entered real labor and the pain became a lot more intense. The button controlling the pain medicine was getting quite a workout especially since my right side wasn’t really numb at all. At 2:30 AM, my body went into shock and began to shake uncontrollably. I felt as though I had to poop. My teeth were chattering. I was falling apart fast. That’s when my husband woke up and my mother left the room to get a nurse.

It was finally time.

^{Part of NaBloPoMo (National Blog Posting Month). I will continue this story every day until it’s finished. Each chapter will live in a section titled The Birth of Emory.}

Related posts:

• What I Learned From Rolling Paper.
• The First Board.
• The Penn State Thing
• The Seven Year Itch
• The Comfort Of Strangers. (I’m Her Ghost.)

Tuesday, August 7th was one of the longest days of my life. I was given the epidural at around 11 AM. Prior to that, I was allowed one last shower. I remember thinking, “This is the last shower I’m going to take while pregnant.” It’s also a good thing I showered, because by the time I was done having Emory, I smelled horrible. My left underarm smelled as though I carried a tea bag full of sliced shallots in its moist crevice. It was as awful as the previous sentence.

While I showered my mother and husband went downstairs to get some breakfast. I was starving, but wasn’t allowed to eat. (Although, I did sneak a solitary grape, which was more torturous than pleasurable.) By the end of my labor, I would have gone about 43 hours without food. I realize that’s not too big a deal but an empty stomach proved much worse for my heartburn, which peaked on Tuesday evening and by the time it came time to push, I was begging for Pepcid.

I spent Tuesday getting pumped full of Pitocin. Or so I thought. The day nurse and I quickly became friends. I asked her questions about other labors, about working there, about birth. We talked about where she was from, where she lived, and about her family. Every now and again she would ask me a question the importance of which I underestimated.

“On a scale between 1 and 10, 10 being the most painful, how would you rate your pain?”

I would answer unsure each and every time. “A five? I dunno. A six maybe?”

Had I know the significance of that question I would have been a lot more conservative with my answers.

Truth be told, it was really hard to assess pain with the epidural. I could feel pain but I had no idea how intense it was. Worse than that, I had no idea how intense it would become. How is it really possible to rate pain when you have no clue how painful level 10 will be? I failed at this. Looking back, I should have answered with much lower numbers.

At roughly 3 PM the doctor returned to break my water. By that point I had been on the Pitocin for about 4 hours. My cervix was to be readying itself for childbirth. When she broke my water, I could feel the warm liquid fall around my butt and thighs, but I didn’t feel any pain. The feeling of water oozing out of my crotch every time I laughed or coughed or moved, felt gross. All I could do was lie there and let it fall into the pads below me, which were changed several times in the first hour and a half. At that point, the nurse decided there wouldn’t be much more all at once, an assumption that was far from true. I kept oozing and oozing.

I waited a while before complaining, but I couldn’t take it anymore. “I really feel wet down there. I really think more just came out. Can you check?”

She would change the pads, which were covered in amnionic fluid, and replace them with fresh ones. Fifteen minutes would pass and I’d feel another burst of liquid. I’d wait, and when I could take it no more, say something once again. After several times of this happening, she finally conceded. “You do seem to have a copious amount of amnionic fluid.” Maybe that’s why I was so large toward the end of my pregnancy. We thought Emory was going to be a big baby, but in all actuality, I think he just had a larger jacuzzi.

The doctor came to check on me a few times just to make sure I was doing OK and wasn’t in too much pain. The head anesthesiologist, a small Indian woman who wore a large button with the word “PAIN” on it with a red X through it, came in to see me several times as well. At one point she lectured me on not using the button to trigger my Fentanyl drip.

“You have a needle in your back,” she said. “You might as well use it for the pain.”

Truth be told, I didn’t feel all that much pain, which was a fact that would later come back to haunt me.

Finally, at around 9 PM, the doctor came in to give me a cervical exam. The exam itself was a lot less painful because of the epidural. But the same epidural that brought me both a state of well-being and a fairly pain free vaginal exam, would be the very thing to blame for what happened next.

^{Part of NaBloPoMo (National Blog Posting Month). I will continue this story every day until it’s finished. Each chapter will live in a section titled The Birth of Emory.}

Related posts:

• What I Learned From Rolling Paper.
• The First Board.
• The Penn State Thing
• The Seven Year Itch
• The Comfort Of Strangers. (I’m Her Ghost.)

I overate and probably put on all five of the pounds I lost since November 3rd. (As of Thursday, I weighed 150 pounds. I haven’t gotten on the scale since then, however. I am kind of afraid to do so. I will report back here when I finally do.)

Since we’ve been running around, we’ve been away from the Internet for the past several days and I haven’t had a chance to really sit down and write about the birth of Emory and that bugs me. And it bugs him, too. See?

I wrote Chapter 4 standing in the rain from a backyard on an open router. I didn’t even have a chance to proofread it. I have no idea what I wrote to be perfectly honest. And that bugs me. I really wanted to spend time on the write up of my labor story. The fact that I started during the week of Thanksgiving probably wasn’t the best idea. But it’s a done deal now. I feel like I’ve just been throwing the story together. That said, I have decided to take today off. We just got home and I have too much to do around the apartment. I will commence with Chapter 5 tomorrow.

In the meantime, check out my black eye. Between it and the MOHs scar on my upper lip, I am looking awesome these days.

Related posts:

• What I Learned From Rolling Paper.
• The First Board.
• The Penn State Thing
• The Seven Year Itch
• The Comfort Of Strangers. (I’m Her Ghost.)

We woke up the next morning early. If you’d call it waking up at all. Our sleep was interrupted dozens of times but I hadn’t really slept in weeks. If it wasn’t the heartburn, it was the pain on the upper right side of my abdomen. If it wasn’t that, it was having to pee every half an hour. Something always got in the way of my sleep. Lately, it had been the consistent period-like cramps that kept me awake.

At around 10 AM a doctor came in to give me a cervical exam. I was supposed to have had 12 hours of Cervidil. Normally, the Pitocin is given first thing in the morning. But since I had been admitted so late, my time was pushed back. Instead of waiting until noon, the doctor decided to come in a little early.

“This is going to be a little uncomfortable.” She said.

Now, I know I haven’t gotten to the end of this story yet but I simply must interject. In hindsight, this was by far the most intense physical pain I endured. She not only gave me an exam to find out if I had dilated any more since my previous exam, but this time she tried to “get things going” using a couple of fingers. It hurt. I let out a loud groan and tried to pull away. Nothing, not even labor, hurt quite like that exam. I suddenly had a LOT of respect for all those who go through a vaginal birth without using any drugs whatsoever.

It was at that very moment, I decided to have an epidural.

“You’re 2 centimeters dilated.” She said, tearing her gloves off.

“Only two?” I asked.

“But your cervix is 75% effaced. It’s ready.”

I had trouble hiding my heartache. I wanted a miracle to have taken place. I wanted to be much more dilated especially after all of those contractions I endured the night before.

“Even after that half hour long contraction? I’m still only 2 centimeters?” I said through tears.

“Don’t worry! The Pitocin will do the rest.” She reassured me. And then she said, “Welcome to labor.”

The nurse had already started the Pitocin through my IV drip. I had no idea how Pitocin worked. Was it like a gunshot? Would it immediately force my cervix to open? I got a little worried that I hadn’t yet had the epidural. What if my cervix started to open really fast and it hurt as much or worse than what she had done with her fingers?

“Are you going to be having an epidural today?” The doctor asked me as if it were the daily special at a fancy restaurant.

“Yes.” I told her.

She called anesthesia and left the room. The nurse continued to administer the Pitocin.

The nurse asked me, “On a scale 1 – 10, 10 being the most painful, how would you classify your pain level right now?”

“Ummm, well, I don’t know what 10 is yet, you know? It’s relative, right? If 10 ends up being really bad, then I’d say this is a two? If it’s not that bad, a 5?”

The nurse laughed. “I’ll write down a 3.”

A half hour passed and two men walked into the room. They introduced themselves to me as anesthesiologists and congratulated me.

“We understand you’ll be having an epidural today?”

“Yes.” I assured them.

They looked over the monitor.

“Michele, did you just feel that?”

“Feel what?” I asked.

“Well, you just had a pretty intense contraction and you didn’t even flinch.”

(Now, back up a minute. I don’t want people to think I’m some kind of tough guy. I’m not. But, I do need to say that I really didn’t find contractions all that painful and to be perfectly honest, I wasn’t even sure what they were until I was admitted into the hospital. I thought contractions were the painful spasms you had down around your cervix. I found that pain almost unbearable. which is why I cried out whenever the doctor gave me a cervical exam. Contractions, I could have handled without an epidural. Dilating to 10 centimeters? No way. Some woman want to have a natural childbirth. And I respect them for that. But I’m not one of those women. I hope that all those who went through childbirth “naturally” will respect my choices as well.)

“I didn’t notice.” I told them.

They left the room to grab the necessary items. The nurse asked, “Are you OK?”

“I’m nervous.” I admitted. “I may have tattoos but I actually hate needles.”

She laughed. “Well, you got the Asian guy. He’s good. The Asians are always good.”

I cracked up. I felt reassured, like, Asians are really good at what they do! I’ll do just fine! And at that moment in time, regardless of how racist the thought was, I didn’t care. You could have told me he was an Aquarius and I may have asked him to leave. We Aquarians are way too flakey to insert needles into someone’s spine.

The doctors returned. It was time.

I moved into an upright seated position and dangled my feet over the side of the bed. I was told to hunch over and arch my back.

“Like cat pose?” I asked.

The skinny doctor laughed. “Yes, just like cat pose.”

“Grab a hold of Nurse Stephanie’s hands and squeeze. You’re going to feel a couple of pinches. That’s the numbing agent. Try not to move too much. If it hurts, squeeze.”

The needles in my back felt exactly as you might imagine. Eventually, the numbness took over and then it was time for the actual epidural.

I wish I could capture the way it feels to have a needle inserted into your back to someone who hasn’t ever had it done. But it’s downright impossible. The only thing I could think to say when TobyJoe asked me how it felt was, “It feels like someone has a metal rod and is inserting it directly into your soul.”

It made my teeth itch, my ears ring. It felt like nothing I have ever known. What made matters even more intense was it took three tries for the Asian guy to get it into the epidural space. I had to tell them where the “cold” feeling was. And it was cold! At the time, I thought they were pumping cold fluid into my spine and up into my head. Turns out, it was only my nerves.

“Right or left?” The skinny guy would ask.

“Right.” I’d answer, unsure of myself.

Finally, after three tries of inserting needles into and out of my spine they got it into a position they seemed happy with even though, later, during some pretty intense contractions, I’d realize that while my right side was entirely numb, my left had nearly all its feeling. This ended being a blessing in disguise, however.

They were finished. The nurse looked at me and said, “You’re about to experience an intense feeling of well-being.”

And that’s when the Fentanyl was administered. I was as high as a kite.

My mother and husband returned.

“HI!” I yelled out. “I feel WOOOOooooondeeerfulllll” I said, slurring my words. “The nurse gave me something.”

She laughed. “I gave her a Fentanyl drip. She’s going to feel wonderful for a while.”

Now, all we had to do was wait. The rest was up to the Pitocin.

^{Part of NaBloPoMo (National Blog Posting Month). I will continue this story every day until it’s finished. Each chapter will live in a section titled The Birth of Emory.}

Related posts:

• What I Learned From Rolling Paper.
• The First Board.
• The Penn State Thing
• The Seven Year Itch
• The Comfort Of Strangers. (I’m Her Ghost.)

My mother stood to get a closer look at the monitor. She, too, noticed I was having a contraction, a really long contraction. We both wondered silently if it was a normal response to Cervidil.

Time passed. My eyes began to water. I wasn’t crying from the pain necessarily, I was crying because I was both worn out and really scared. Plus, I still had the residual emotional and physical damage left over from the breakdown I had earlier.

Eventually, a nurse rushed in followed by a doctor. They both muttered something to one another. The nurse put her hand on my belly and looked at the monitor. I asked her what was wrong.

“Sometimes the Cervidil can trigger an intense and constant contraction. It doesn’t happen often.”

“What happens then?” I asked. My mind raced with assumptions.

“If it doesn’t go away, we may have to removed the Cervidil.”

For whatever reason, I immediately thought cesarean. Here was my thought process: Already admitted into the hospital. Already hooked up to an IV. My body was already having issues with being 41 weeks pregnant. If induction failed to work, they would most likely schedule a cesarean. I said nothing about my assumption.

They waited there for a while with their hands on my abdomen, which kept a perfectly painful, solid arc. The doctor was concerned about the baby but he was doing just fine. His heart rate did not rise nor fall. Mine was all over the place. The nurse pressed some buttons and repositioned the fetal monitor. We waited.

I really, really wanted Murray. Tears filled my eyes. I told my mother I hoped Murray was OK. There were some more tears.

A half an hour went by maybe more and the intense contraction subsided. After a few more blood pressure readings and a watchful eye, the nurse left us alone again. It was time to try and get some rest. We were exhausted.

I did my best to sleep that night but it was hard since nurses and doctors kept coming in to check on the the baby and my progress. Each time the door opened it let in all the hallway noises and light filled our room. I was also extremely uncomfortable. The upper right hand side of my body hurt from whatever the baby had been doing to it. (The pain in my upper abdomen started at around week 36 and grew more and more intense as I grew larger. I am still entirely numb in that area. I am told I will eventually get the feeling back but I’m not holding my breath.) I had an IV in and I just couldn’t get warm. My hair was stringy and greasy, and I was so very hungry. My last meal had been at 2 PM the previous day (Monday).

It was roughly 2 AM. I was no longer in constant pain and I was hours away from meeting my son.

^{Part of NaBloPoMo (National Blog Posting Month). I will continue this story every day until it’s finished. Each chapter will live in a section titled The Birth of Emory.}

Related posts:

• What I Learned From Rolling Paper.
• The First Board.
• The Penn State Thing
• The Seven Year Itch
• The Comfort Of Strangers. (I’m Her Ghost.)