Second Opinion

We were bound to have a little glitch. While Mr. Forty is quick to point out that humans have managed to give birth for a millennia (some, he claims, while being chased by cheetahs), we seem to be a bit stumped when it comes to finding the right fit for our obstetrics. I predicted this early on.  I chose a group that is associated with a hospital that I fundraise for and support and love dearly. It is the “hospital of last resort” in our area, taking on the “indigent cases” (which until Jan. 1 could also define any poor bastard that doesn’t have a couple million dollars cash on reserve to pay for their health care and found themselves in an unexpected health crisis with no insurance).  This hospital also ranks in the top 5 for transplants in the country and has some of the finest doctors anywhere in the world. I like this hospital very much. It’s full of good decent people and they’ve cut me open and sewn me up better than before on a few occasions. That said, the women’s group associated with it is… well… efficient.  Too efficient. Mr. Forty mentioned that we got to see Critter on Friday. We hadn’t planned on it, but my APRN thought it might be nice since I’m “older.” I guess being older comes with some perks. Waiting for the ultrasound was an interesting and unintended political moment. There we sat next to the ultrasound machine – the monitor and the corded device with three potential “attachments.” One attachment looked very much like the handheld roller that goes over the cold belly jelly and produces images (when it comes to looking for the space alien in your belly – that device comes out in the 12th week).  Another attachment didn’t really ring any bells and I really didn’t think about it because the third attachment was A HUGE GODDAMN DILDO. I pointed at it and said, “That is a transvaginal ultrasound.” Mr. Forty’s eyes got very large and his face took on that shape that men get when they realize that they are staring at something shaped similar to their “special purpose” but much, much larger. Suddenly we found ourselves in the quintessential Carol Hanisch moment where the personal is political. Mr. Forty and I are good liberals and we strongly support the right to choose. Interestingly I have a much more conservative view for myself and fortunately my obsessive behavior towards birth control ensured that I never had to make that choice – but that’s the beauty of choice… you can choose. I watched as he found himself face-to-face, or rather face-to-9” of thick rubbery cock.  I saw him doing the “math” in his head. “So, that’s… what…” “Yup darlin’ that’s why when we have to have the procedure without our consent, ‘rape’ isn’t an exaggeration.” It was almost exactly at that moment that our tech came in and while we made small talk, she began to tear the top off of a small packet of lube. “Oh no,” I groaned. Because they don’t lube up your belly. To be fair, this wasn’t my first transvaginal ultrasound, it wasn’t even my second.  It was my third. I had one back in the early 00’s. I believe to this day it was because my doctor had just gotten this fancy new toy and wanted to try it out for any reason possible.  Later, I described it as being “gang banged by...

Tell Me About It

It’s funny that Mr. Forty posted what he did.  I drifted off to sleep last night having similar thoughts, but in a markedly different way.  Which is the way things often are between the Mr. and me.  We have very similar feelings on things, but usually get there via profoundly different roads. I lay in bed last night, too goddamn tired to actually let this series of thoughts keep me awake, but significant enough that I told myself I would address my concerns in the morning. (That’s the kind of bargaining I have to do with myself in order to maintain sanity. I assure myself that my concerns are valid, but that I need to bring them up for consideration at a more appropriate time. Fortunately, I am very obedient to this voice, most of the time). I was thinking about it this morning as I dragged ass out of bed and forced myself  to wash (and blow dry) my hair.  I was thinking about it as I drove into work this morning. I was thinking about it as I made direct eye contact with my boss and tried to tease out what part of his brain thinks it is okay to stare at me blankly when I say, “It was in the one email I sent you – the one with the subject line, PLEASE READ THIS EMAIL.” (My boss, god bless him, does not read emails. It’s past being quirky and has now crossed into infuriating). What was I thinking? Oh, about how ultimately, I am much better suited to this new life than the Mr.  It’s not his fault or anything, it’s just, well, it’s different for me. Let me preface by saying there are a lot of people in this world who wander (and are not lost). These are the folks who go from job to job, or perhaps inversely, stay at the same job, in the same role, for decades. They aren’t particularly passionate about something and that either causes them a great deal of stress as they look for their “calling,” or they simply accept the fact that life is pretty good and Hey! It’s free scoop day at Baskin-Robbins! I am not one of those people. From the time I could have rational thought and have experiences that I would come to remember – I have wanted to be on a stage. I was the kid who truly shined in the school play, I was the child who wanted to act out stories, put together costumes out of mom’s old clothes, and attempt foreign dialects at a precocious age (my Irish dialect was perfected at age 7 after watching Darby O’Gill and the Little People over and over and over again). By 8 I convinced my parents this was all I would ever be good at. And looking at their checkbooks and seeing what it cost to watch me fail at ballet, piano, art, soccer, swimming, tennis and gymnastics, they sighed and agreed. By 9 I had my Screen Actors Guild card. By 14 I had several television credits to my name. By 20 I was, for all practical purposes, a commercial success. It was all I wanted to do. Granted I was fortunate that I was a really bright kid and I also really enjoyed learning, so my grades were good and there was no way I wasn’t going to college. Of course once I got there, I was cast in...

The Hidden Truth

I ditched work today. I woke up, felt like Courtney Love, rolled over, prayed not to barf, and hit snooze. When I finally felt human enough to sit up, I did what any overachieving woman who, up until about 22 months ago (and more recently 8 weeks ago), only has her work: I checked my email on my phone. All of my meetings had been cancelled during the night. It was like the Preggers Fairy came and made all the bad things go away. I took it as a sign from the Universe to take a day off. I haven’t taken a day off yet. In the last 8 weeks (which is so weird because I’ve only been renting space for 6 weeks, but don’t get me started on that) I have gone to Vegas and worked non-stop for 6 days, worked my normal works weeks (which averages about 45-50 hours), taught a graduate class at the University of South Florida, and did laundry. I haven’t had a whole lot of down time. So today I slept. I ate some yogurt. I cleaned the house with non-toxic cleansers.  I spent quality time with the animals. I tried to figure out, once and for all what a “belly band” is and why the internets says I have to have one!  I also stared at myself in the mirror a lot.  A lot. It turns out my body is like CRAZY EXCITED to be pregnant. Just shouting it from the rooftops excited – because I’m showing. No two ways around it, I’m… round. It’s more than just my boobs (which are the fluffiest sweater bunnies you have ever seen), my tummy is totally gonna get in on this sweet pregnant action.  Not gonna miss a minute.  It’s like my abdomen is all, “Hell yes girl, let’s get it out there!” Which of course puts me in a terrible quandary and alludes to Mr. Forty’s last post. I have to hide this pregnancy for a few more weeks, at least. Why? Because society says you should keep this to yourself in the case of, Universe forbid, something bad happening, we need to keep that grief to ourselves.  Which really is just bullshit. Oh, and if you want another layer of stressful bullshit – do NOT check the internets for advice or thoughts on when it is a good time to break the news at your workplace. I don’t know where some of these women work, or if the situations I read about were/are the aftermath of downsizing in the economic downturn but sweet merciful Mary some of the stories left me wondering if I should just play it cool, wear lots of baggy sweatshirts (executive sweatshirts) and then just give birth during my allotted two weeks vacation.  Just horror stories of all make and manner. I’m not sure how my work will react. I have a pseudo-government job, so I know that I will be treated fairly and by-the-book. I know that I can (and will) take full advantage of the FMLA, and wonder why it’s still the shortest leave in all developed nations (thanks old white guys in DC!). I know my boss is confident in my work and certainly wants to keep me around. I know that my leadership style with my team is *almost* annoyingly “family first” – to the degree that I am the boss that walks around at 5 or 5:30 asking “Is that really important? Go home to your kids.”  So between...

You’re kidding right?

Oh this is just awful.  Just awful. I am having my first really bad day. I feel like Count Rugen has put me on the machine and sucked one year of my life away. I’ve been on the couch the majority of the day. When I am upright, I alternate between lightheaded and nauseous. Mr. Forty gave me kale. He thought it might be iron. He put tasty seasoning on the kale. It was tasty. It did not help. But it was tasty. A little note on cravings – I only seem to crave really healthy food. This makes me ever so happy. I have two tastebuds: Healthy and Complete Crap.  I was worried that Complete Crap was going to take over and I would have to confess to a day’s consumption consisting of Ding Dongs and Doritos (both of which fulfill the “D Food Group”).  Fortunately, it has been just the opposite and I have been happily munching on fruits, veggies, eggs, whole grains, etc. I tried eating lots of little healthy meals today – didn’t do a damn bit of good. Ugh. And the cramps. Oh lawd. The cramps. I get that my entire lower half is undergoing a major renovation, but for real, there’s some black light, lava lamp, bean bag bullshit getting moved in down there.  Critter seems to be making quite a happy home out of my girl parts. That’s cool, I get it. I am really happy I’m such a comfy spot to stretch out and grow in.  Again, I still feel good about the make and model of the cramps, but that doesn’t make them any less uncomfortable. I’m wondering if, now that I’m headed into Week 8 (the week of the Raspberry!) if all of a sudden I’m going to get all sorts of nasty symptoms that I had managed to avoid up to this point. I really hope not. I was giving Mr. Forty the greatest compliment I could (under the circumstances) which is this: There is no man I have ever loved the way that I love him. To wit, I am happily giddily carrying 1/2 of his DNA. As lousy as I feel, and it’s pretty lousy today, I can’t think of a better partner to have in this adventure, a better influence to have in Critter’s life, and a better DNA to mix with and make a person.  My whole adult life has been an active, borderline obsessive, prevention of any reproduction possibilities – and here I am, embracing the idea with the enthusiasm of a true believer. I wouldn’t advocate “babies for everyone!” In fact, most people I advocate “condoms for everyone!” But waiting all these years was exactly the path I was meant to be on. Because even though I have the common concerns and little worries that nag any First-Timer there are things I don’t fear. I don’t fear raising this child with my partner. I don’t fear whether or not I want this child in our life. I don’t fear if Mr. Forty is ready for this. I don’t fear if I’m ready for this. I mean, of course we’re not ready. We won’t ever be ready. But with Mr. Forty, I feel awfully prepared. And the surprises? Those tend to be our favorite parts of life. So I think we’re going to be okay. As soon as I find the energy to get my ass of the...

Intake

So you have to love the Mr. Forty amirite? He’s posting these beautiful spiritually insightful thoughts about the magnitude of becoming parents and the legacy that we leave and the responsibilities we must accept. Me? I’m telling you that my boobs are sore and that I just want to sleep all the time. We, uh, we balance each other out. I did go to the doctor today, I figure that’s noteworthy. It was called an “intake visit” which for some reason keeps bringing up a vision of a large pipe near an indoor pool… after hours.  Kind of like the place where Moriarty confronts Sherlock. I should preface this with the fact that I am a big Sherlock fan… no wait… that’s not the preface. The preface is that I am not a fan of modern medicine.  I’m not good at being helpless. I always like to find some way that I can contribute or be proactive in my own well-being. I find that modern medicine often expects (and sometimes requires) a passive patient. I’m a lot of things, but I am not passive. And frankly, there’s nothing more active in the entire world than the act of giving birth. That’s a full contact sport if ever there was one.  Yet, I hear stories from my girlfriends of very passive expectations of the birth process. Fortunately, all of their stories have happy endings with the arrival of beautiful, healthy, strong babies, but I still hear the story in between the stories. Stories that are peppered with “I told them something wasn’t right,” “I don’t really think they had to do that, but it was safer,” “Well, it was taking long so they went ahead with a Cesarean.” Those kinds of things make my blood boil.  I get it too, I really do. We’re a litigious society and obstetrics is an emotionally fraught specialty and the only one where you can lose two patients in one moment. I understand erring on the side of caution. But sometimes the erring is just that – an error. Harm can be done when one interferes too much with the process. The human body is an amazing thing. And maybe that’s the problem too. For instance, I know my body really well.  Maybe more than most women, I don’t know, I don’t live in their bodies. But I knew somethin’ in my girl parts was different a week after what I’ve realized was our conception date. To that, I would really like a birth plan that leaves nature to its own devices. I’m going natural and I’m pretty sure I’m going to be just fine. Oh you? You rolling your eyes, yeah you! And you? Laughing, yeah you! Hey ladies, let me ask you this, How many kidney stones have you passed? How many of them should have required surgery? How many stents have you had in your urethra? How many corneas have you ulcerated? Here’s the thing. I’ve passed (to date) about five or six kidney stones (I’ve honestly lost real count) and I’ve had surgery to remove two. (Hence, I’ve had two stents in my urethra for about two weeks after each surgery – it’s as pleasant as you might imagine).  I’ve also ulcerated both of my corneas. Once from a bad contact, once from bad contact solution. These conditions are known as “acute” pain. Childbirth is often placed in context of these two highly visceral pains. So I’ve had acute pain and I know how to manage it. I...