Paging Lucina...

How it ended; or, more aptly, how it all began.

2009-02-07T12:41:00.001-06:00

Every new being, and state of being, has an origin.

Here are the material facts: after a gorgeous, sensual, healthy, easy pregnancy, my water broke at 41 weeks, 5 days. Forty-eight hours of contractions later (one day spent trying to move things along naturally, one spent trying to kick-start things on a Pitocin IV), I still hadn't begun to dilate, and my baby had not yet descended into my pelvis. At that point, my midwives and OB strongly encouraged me to abandon my hopes for a natural birth. The risk of infection, they reminded me, was growing all the time, due in part to my GBS+ status.

Finally, exhausted and discouraged, I consented. My amazing little boy was born on December 18, mid-afternoon, by C-section. He was, and is, perfect. Seven pounds, 13 ounces, 21 inches; his three Apgar scores were 9, 9, and 9.

It turned out that his little head was presenting in the widest configuration possible, which made it impossible for him to descend into my pelvis. Given more time and a few good midwifery tricks, we could probably have coaxed him to re-angle just a bit, and descent might have triggered the rest of labor. Unfortunately, the prolonged rupture of the amniotic sac didn't afford us that luxury.

And then, of course, there are the emotional truths of the matter.

First, let me be clear about this point: medically, it could not have been more perfect. Despite my shock over the abrupt change of plan, I am in awe of how efficient the whole thing was.

Recovery, for me, was also uncomplicated and quick. I was up and walking within a few hours. There was enough pain to remind me not to do anything silly, but it was very manageable, and I didn't need much pharmaceutical help. The OB was impressed enough with my recovery that he let me go home two days after the surgery. Yes, even though my post-partum experience at the hospital was wonderful, I desperately wanted to go home and nest.

Something else I wish to clarify: I never doubted, even for a moment, that my midwives and OB were anything less than 100% committed to my desire for a natural birth. They'd been with me throughout pregnancy and all of the physical and mental preparation; they were well aware of the delight I took in my sense of connection to all that was going on inside me, every change, every new millimeter of belly circumference, every little kick and squirm inside me. They would not have recommended surgery without true conviction. I am thankful for their support of my desires, and also for their honesty and realism. I am thankful that, unlike so many women, I had (and still have) the experience of complete confidence in my team of care providers.

I mentioned before that I wasn't mentally prepared. This was an outcome I hadn't predicted as a possibility, really, so I didn't read much about what a C-section procedure is like. I'd never had any kind of non-dental surgery before, nor major anesthesia. Talk about a shock.

For me, the whole pregnancy and birth-prep experience was very much about being connected to my body. This is true of me in general, too. I practice yoga, and have been a weightlifter for quite a long time. My approach to both has settled into the form of a movement-focused meditation, an attempt "to pay attention even at unextraordinary times," to quote Peter Matthiessen. It is also an exercise in shutting off the mental monkey-chatter that comes factory-installed with a type-A mind.

I have a pretty good relationship with my physical form, and I tend to believe that it can handle pretty much anything. Which, more or less, I still believe to be true. But -- yes -- there's a first time for everything.

This was my first spinal block. Don't get me wrong: I am flat-out in awe of what those chemicals can do in skilled hands, and (of course) in a context where they're needed. The anesthesiologist futzed around with a needle or two, gabbing about dSLRs and holiday shopping, and BLAM. It kicked in right away, and, in retrospect, was very impressive. But it freaked me right the heck out. I'd never been in a state before where I couldn't move or feel, and my frame of mind wasn't very welcoming to the new experience. Suddenly, the body I enjoy and respect so much (with my son still in it) was just dead weight from the chest down. I absolutely HATED it, and, in a haze of exhaustion, I fell apart and sobbed. (My poor partner had never seen me lose it like that before; bless his heart, I'll never forget that deer-in-headlights, what-the-hell-do-I-do-now? look.)

The abrupt disconnect unsettled me terribly, and I cried all the way through the surgery. The surgical nurse on duty, at one point, leaned over me and said "Come on... I've had four of these. It's not the end of the world." And yes, I must concede that everything was fine, I was in good hands, and there was no sign of actual medical distress, either in the baby or in me. But whence the dismissal of my emotional state? What kind of bedside manner is that? I wanted to slap her right in the kisser, but my hands were being held down.

What upset me most about the surgical path was that I knew I would (and did) miss so much of the first hour or so of my son's life. I didn't get to hold him immediately, didn't get to nurse him "straight from the oven," didn't really even get to see him up close until a while later. It was awful to be stuck "on the slab" instead of greeting my son like I wanted to. I recognize now that even though much of this pain resulted from the events contradicting the instincts I felt as a mother, some of it also stemmed from ego. I take pride, perhaps too much, in my own strength and resilience, and in the notion that I have some control over what goes on with my body.

I remember lying on the table and thinking, miserably, This is not how a warrior greets her son. I've failed him already. (Which is, in all honesty, absurd... but that's the state I was in at the time, with all the context and baggage of my own life behind it.) It still stings to think about the surgery -- so much going on behind the curtain, the OB murmuring to the staff as he worked, my frustration that I couldn't understand what they were saying, the waiting. The endless waiting.

It felt much longer than it actually was, I think. As I mentioned earlier, the whole thing was quite efficient: they anesthetized me, opened me up, and bloop, out popped my son, covered in womb-goo. While they tidied him up, they cleaned out my insides and stitched them back into place. And that was that.

My partner had my camera, and he took a few pictures while the nurse was cleaning our baby up, suctioning fluid, and all that jazz. It still breaks me in half to look at these pictures: that's my son, wet and naked and brand-new and wincing from all the light and probably cold, and there's a photographic reminder that I couldn't be near him right then. I didn't get to reach down and touch his fuzzy little head as it emerged; I didn't get to take him right into my arms and warm him on my own skin. I couldn't even nurse him properly for hours.

But even so, the sweetness more than makes up for my feeling of loss.

The brightest spot of that whole day, the one I remember most vividly is this: when they lifted him out of me, he didn't cry, exactly. He roared, and kept it up for the next hour. That's my boy, I thought. Never surrender, son.

When they finally brought him to a place in the room where I could see him, probably ten feet away, he looked immense.

My partner stayed with our son the whole time, while the OB was cleaning me out and stitching things up. Father and son bonded instantly, gorgeously. They're practically inseparable.

My scar isn't bad at all. I'm recovering very well. I'm left with purple stretch marks and a bit of softness about the abdomen, while things gradually return to their pre-pregnant state. At one point, a week or so in, I looked into the mirror and noticed that my navel was bright purple, like I'd had some kind of hematoma. I hadn't seen this before, and in my sleep-deprived state, was seized by fear that I'd been foolish and over-active, and was bleeding internally. (Thankfully, this was not the case. The only lasting damage was embarrassment, after I phoned my midwives' answering service to ask for counsel, only to realize that it was most likely just bruising from the surgery. I'd been convinced that I might have to have my partner drive me to an emergency room in the blizzard that was going on at the time.)

We've also had no problems establishing a very good breastfeeding relationship. Well, in the interest of full disclosure, there were eventually some big-time latch problems, cracking, bleeding, and so forth; the early nursing adjustment has been worse, in some ways, than recovering from the surgery itself. But the main point is that my boy has a very good appetite. I was initially worried that the post-surgery delay would wreck our early nursing bond, but he pounced right on, quickly returned to his birth weight after we came home, and is absolutely thriving.

I have some self-examination to do, given how hard it was for me to face the unknown, and how attached I became to an outcome that I knew I couldn't fully control or predict. As I look back, it shocks me a little to realize that I believed I had "failed." Have I learned nothing about self-forgiveness?

No matter how strong and prepared I believe myself to be, the Universe kicks me right in the pants sometimes, just when I need it most. I have a feeling that's going to happen to me a lot on this journey. And I'm grateful.

And now, friends, it is time for me to move on to the next chapter. If you've been reading here, I thank you for stopping in. If you'd like to stay in touch or see what I'm up to now, please don't hesitate to drop me a line.

In closing, I'm not one to pray, really; I've always felt utterly awkward doing so, even at times in my life when I thought I actually believed in whomever I was praying to. I always had the feeling that I was being sort of rude, because really, if I'm going to sit my butt down for a conversation with the Powers That Be, am I really going to insist on doing the talking?

But I offer this:

Thanks be to You, Lucina, for all that I have experienced and all that I will become. May my eyes be opened to grace, every step of the way.

May I be worthy.

The underside of sweetness

2008-10-06T16:55:00.006-05:00

I learned last week that my 1-hour glucose tolerance test resulted in a "slightly high" number, about fifteen points over the cutoff. It's not likely to be a big deal or result in a firm gestational diabetes diagnosis, but it stressed me right the heck out. It triggered something in the non-rational part of my mind and dumped a big box of anxiety right into my lap.

Quickly, my mind spun into fear of possible directions. GD can result in higher risk of interventions, and it also correlates with increased risk of type 2 diabetes for me later in life. And, were this diagnosis to happen, it would result in me having to get to know another doctor, deal with yet more appointments, and manage that stress somehow. (Selfishly, I'm damned sick of the appointments and all the running around. I keep telling myself that it's finite, but there's always another checkup just around the corner, another appointment that doesn't start on time...)

I'm attached to the idea of a natural birth. The thought of increased risk of preeclampsia or C-section makes me pretty unhappy.

Rationally, I know that things are probably just fine. The 1-hour test does bring on a fairly high number of false positives. My reading wasn't far over the cutoff. It's also not a fasting test; I have no recollection of what I'd eaten that morning, but it might have had an effect. And, even though I realize that not all women with gestational diabetes show symptoms, I must state this: I'm not experiencing symptoms. The baby has not grown beyond healthy limits, in terms of size or speed. My blood pressure is excellent. I'm not gaining weight, beyond the baby apparatus itself. And so forth.

I think the stress came from the understanding that some of the risk is genetic. Both of my parents have (well, Dad has, Mom had; she's deceased) type 2 diabetes, plus a host of other nasty things. I've worked hard to ensure and maintain my health, and I don't share their lifestyles or habits; there is not much connection between them and me, and I'm glad of this. On many levels.

The failed test brought out fear of connection with a past and a life that I deliberately left behind, and (perhaps more tellingly) of a feeling that part of it remains inescapable, no matter what I do or how I take care of myself. Baggage, baggage, baggage.

And, of course, there is fear that I've slipped up for real, and there's that little quiet voice that continues to ask, "Are you sure you've done everything you can for the baby? Isn't there something you should've been more vigilant about?" Yes, of course I've been caring well for myself, and I know that late in pregnancy, due to hormonal action, the body naturally has a somewhat harder time maintaining insulin levels. But did I really need that chocolate fudge Pop-Tart a couple of weeks ago? Do I really need the glass of lemonade here and there, what with all that sugar? Or the little bit of sugar in my tea at mornings? And shouldn't I be exercising just a little more, even when my body is screaming at me to rest?

Perhaps this is the beginning (or the continuation) of self-doubt that all parents must learn to balance. There will always be things I could have done differently, or done better; when my son grows older and starts to explore the boundaries of yes, no, maybe, fair and unfair, it will ache, and I will wonder whether I could have prepared him better for the emotional ups and downs. Even if I've done my best as a mother, there will always be ways in which it could have been better.

But -- regardless -- it has reminded me that I still carry a little more anxiety about my family history than I realized, and that I need to deal with it. It wasn't an Epic Flareup with Dramatic Gestures, but it was definitely a kick in the pants. I don't need that in my life. It needs to be put away...

Anyway, I took the nasty, fasting, 3-hour test this morning. It was annoying, but most of that was due to my being crotchety about the inconvenience. Didn't end up feeling sick or woozy, just hungry and grumpy about it. Here's hoping for normal test results, eh?

There's no real reason for the silence here...

2008-09-06T16:29:00.003-05:00

... except that the pregnancy has gone very well, and barring some stressful politics at my clinic (which, thankfully, resolved wonderfully with no interruption in service for the patients), it's been pretty uneventful.

Time spins on. The house accumulates more and more evidence of forward-thinking, of objects that commemorate this new development, such as... the crib. Board books. Cuddly blankets. Soft little jammies, with feet. (The best jammies all have feet.)

The belly, oh, how it grows. A few weeks ago, I had the look of someone who might be pregnant, or might be a little overzealous with the beer and Twinkies; you had to be up close to tell. And then (to re-use a description that really seemed to resonate with one of my friends), things started to bust out like a tin of Jiffy-Pop. Pow. I am pregnant, visibly so. Even though my weight gain has been minimal, beyond the baby apparatus itself, I have a lot of clothes that Just Do Not Fit. It's harder to get comfortable at night; it's harder to maneuver in and out of the Mister's car and its sporty, bucket seats. I have to stand up slowly now, or I get a little woozy.

I haven't had a lot of energy or focus to put into hobbies or side projects; I have been putting my spare energy into work, which has been fruitful and continues to work out nicely. I should be able to take a pretty nice extended leave... not because my official options are generous (six weeks of "disability," whee), but because my bad habit of not using up available vacation time has actually served us well in the end.

Despite the not-quite-generous "disability" leave, I consider myself fortunate in terms of career. A lot of pregnant working women in America, when they "come out" in their workplaces, immediately get the sense that there is an invisible countdown timer hovering over their heads, and that there is a perceived time limit on their reliability. They speak of a subtle, or not-so-subtle, pulling away, or a gradual loss of trust. I have not experienced this. In fact, I've ended up with more responsibility in recent months. Also, while my colleagues recognize that I will be away for a few months, they speak of future events with the assumption that I will still be a part of things, and there's nothing tentative. I appreciate this.

All told, it's been swell.

The genderedness of it all

2008-06-19T09:01:00.002-05:00

I don't need to reinvent the wheel. I'm not going to deconstruct and re-analyze dozens of articles and blog posts (they never seem to stop), because that's been done, and I don't need to do it again. They blather about how different boys and girls are, and boys are just so rambunctious and girls are so sensitive, and gosh, don't parents of (insert gender) sometimes wish they had (insert other gender)?

And of course, when called out on gender bias, a lot of these authors point smugly at studies that claim boys and girls react differently to different stimuli, use different parts of their brains to parse information, and are chemically distinct. No kidding, folks. But that doesn't explain the lack of awareness about cultural influence or gendered expectation, now, does it? That doesn't explain why, in just about every mainstream family I know (INCLUDING the ones who identify as progressive), boys get to wrestle with Daddy and play with action toys, and girls are given dollies and kitchen sets?

I already suspect that parenthood (particularly motherhood) is elevated and beatified by some demographics -- which is fine; there is nothing wrong with validation, assuming it's not the smug better-than-thou kind. But I do notice that parents (particularly mothers) who have more than one male child either get waves of sympathy or "Wow!" responses, as if to say, "How on earth do you do it? You must be a superhero."

I realize that I carry my own sense of bias against the bias here. I grew up with cultural influences like anyone else, but somehow I didn't internalize the same ones. I didn't give a crap about social expectations or femininity; in school I was a serious math and physics nerd. And even though I'm pregnant now and am (according to the pop lit) supposed to be Embracing The Full Power Of My Feminine Self, I see wrestling and romping and grossness -- and, yes, quietness and sensitivity and social attentiveness -- as fully equal-opportunity pursuits.

I've realized that among the few women I know who used to read Calvin and Hobbes, almost none of them identified with Calvin like I did. They've thought of him as funny and smart and awesome, but always in the sense that the sort of imagination and energy he possessed was somehow foreign to them, and not entirely accessible.

What's up with that?

And while I'm ranting, why the hell are there dinosaurs only on (what are marketed as) boy baby-clothes?

Treasures in advertising

2008-05-06T20:34:00.006-05:00

Kay Jewelers has been running a series of commercials, encouraging people to buy bling for Mother's Day. I couldn't find footage online, but the two spots I'm thinking of involve little kids putting together very cute, very personal, homemade expressions of love (breakfast in bed, I think, and a "spa morning"). The mom grins through each presentation, but doesn't look especially excited.

And then each commercial ends with the mom receiving some shiny bauble from Daddy in a velvet box. Of course, she reacts to it with a dramatic increase of emotion: there's breathless girly gaping and a hand fluttering at her throat.

I realize that I'm not part of the demographic who gives a crap about expensive bling, nor about the treacle used to inflate its cultural and economic importance. But honestly... isn't that kind of a shitty message?

Yet another anti-choice movement

2008-05-06T12:04:00.002-05:00

The American Life League is rallying a protest on June 7. What are they protesting, exactly? The Pill, which apparently (and I use that term loosely) "kills babies."

I am utterly gobsmacked by the blatant lies and misinformation, which is usually the case when I run across anti-choice and abstinence-only propaganda. But Feministing made a good point: these folks are pretty straightforward about their real agenda. They want to eliminate women's control over their own reproductive choices, rather than merely attacking abortion. In some way, it's... strangely refreshing to see that laid right out on the table.

I'm curious what these folks would recommend for, say, polycystic ovarian syndrome, which affects a surprising number of women in the US. Hormonal contraceptives are often used in treatment, and regulating the menstrual cycle chemically can provide dramatic relief of symptoms.

You know what else cracks me up? They're convinced that Planned Parenthood is pushing birth control for financial gain. HA!

There's also the fact that quite a lot of pregnancies are spontaneously aborted by the body, before the woman experiences symptoms or even suspects that she might have a fertilization goin' on. I wonder what the ALL thinks of this. Clearly, women's bodies "kill babies," and they must be stopped. DOWN with women's bodies!!

What's getting me through the morning sickness

2008-05-05T19:55:00.004-05:00

This list is by no means comprehensive, but somewhat representative:

Sleep. A lot of it.

Altoids. (Remind me to buy stock in the company. If they're public.)

Crystallized ginger.

Hot peppermint tea.

Hot ginger tea.

Cracked-pepper-and-olive-oil Triscuits.

Pickled okra, preferably spicy. (Don't ask.)

Occasional small amounts of fried food, when my body realizes that I haven't eaten enough today and starts to panic.

Distraction.

Carbonated water with a little fruit juice.

The realization that this will (hypothetically) pass in a few more weeks.

AND, as proof that barf takes are always funny, especially when they're politically incorrect, here's a classic from Little Britain:

Validation from some dead wise guy

2008-05-05T19:42:00.003-05:00

If this ain't a rallying cry in support of natural childbirth, I don't know what is...

The bravest are surely those who have the clearest vision of what is before them, glory and danger alike, and yet notwithstanding, go out to meet it.

(uttered by Thucydides, long ago and far away)

The first look

2008-04-25T17:13:00.003-05:00

Today we had the first ultrasound. Our tadpole was right there, with a fine, thumpy heartbeat and everything.

I take pride in the strength of my rational mind, and I already knew what an embryo looks like in a sonogram, but somehow it was very much a Keanu Reeves (think Bill and Ted; "Woah...") moment anyway. Gosh. There's a little critter in there, and it's alive and healthy! And it's about the size of a large sunflower seed right now, and with help from truly astonishing feats of biochemistry, it has enough bodily influence to completely wear me out. (I spent much of the afternoon crashed out, dozing on-and-off with a mostly-ignored Utne magazine on the pillow.)

I went into it with some degree of fear, and surely that contributed to the "Woah..." effect. I certainly feel fine and am having no problems, but I was afraid that this ultrasound might turn out like the last one. Hell, I'm still a little afraid, and probably will be until this trimester ends.

I have a feeling that parenthood, as a whole, will acquaint us quite intimately with fear. Not necessarily an unhealthy kind, or a series of boogeymen... just a deep realization that this little critter needs us, so very much, for protection and care.

Anyway, they gave us a couple of prints to keep. I appreciate this very much, definitely -- but the "live" experience made a lot more visual sense. I could see the proper shape of our critter and the beating heart on the machine (see "woah," above). The little prints we brought home look like those fuzzy tabloid photos of Bigfoot and UFOs.

Managing those unsightly bulges

2008-04-23T16:53:00.000-05:00

Honestly, it had not occurred to me that the pregnancy-induced "outie" might be a problem. But the ladies at Miss Oops have liberated us from this unspeakable plague with Popper Stoppers, bandages that flatten that bit of curious flesh.

Everybody has the right to her own stance on corrective measures, of course... but why on earth would you want to hide that? Oh, I get it -- it could get caught in doorjambs and subway doors and barbed-wire fences and stuff when your belly gets really big. Never mind.

Hmmm...

2008-04-11T13:41:00.003-05:00

Feelings of bourgeoning, of restlessness, of overheating: check.

Peeing every ten minutes: check.

Evidence of slightly droopy immune system: check.

Consistently hungry enough to consider eating one of the cats, assuming absence of other snacks: check.

Queasy at afternoons again: check.

Aunt Flow AWOL: check. (However, this time, there's no sign that she paused on the doorstep. She just didn't show. I don't think of that as an auspicious finding, but part of my mind is reaching for optimism.)

The return of the howling and yowling and swelling of the breasts: check.

*jump, jump!*

If all works out well, this kid will be born around December 10. It took two (count 'em, two) tries this time. (Last time took three. We thought that might have been sheer dumb luck, and that this time might take longer.)

Thought #1: "Holy crap. We are so fortunate. I know so many people who've really been struggling to conceive."

Thought #2: "Holy crap. If we're this fertile at 35, I'm glad neither of us was a dumbass about protection during our younger years..."

The oddball workings of an oddball mind

2008-03-01T12:25:00.001-06:00

Something else I wanted to write about here:

A couple of weeks after the miscarriage happened, on a day when I had no particular reason to wake up at any particular time, I had the weirdest little lucid dream.

In it, I was lying in bed (a tiny twin bed in a strange, pastel room, natch), watching what I thought was a big spider, scuttling around on the floor. Lo and behold, it turned out not to be a spider, but some kind of crustacean, multi-limbed and perhaps eight or ten inches in diameter. It developed the habit of climbing up a wall, then along the ceiling until it was directly over me, dropping right onto me, then scuttling off to do it again. And again. This continued until I actually woke up.

How did I feel toward the crustacean in the dream?

Well. The thing wasn't scary or gross; rather, it was sort of cute, and I felt affectionate toward it (which surely says more about me than about dream-crustaceans), although I was exasperated by its pesty manner. The thing really wanted me to wake up and get on with the daily business, I guess; there was no sense of urgency or danger, the dream-house wasn't on fire, and the cats weren't pestering me.

Could I be working out some complicated feelings about sleep and waking?

Quite possibly. One of my personal goals has been to get better control of my early-morning time. I also sleep poorly, at times, due to The Mister's unfortunate snoring habit. (He tries not to, and has religiously worn those sticky-strip things on his nose, but sometimes they aren't very effective.)

Don't you think it has something to do with the elephant in the room? Duh.

Yes, in fact. Given the timing, I suspect that it was really about recovery and grief after the miscarriage. This dream occurred when the worst of the physical symptoms were finally over, some of my energy was coming back, and I was beginning to feel the need to do stuff again. Not big stuff, of course, just a need to create order, organization, tidiness. To reclaim my sense of influence over my surroundings.

I never did have that particular dream again. But my energy came back, I got back to working out, and The Mister and I continued to heal and to be happy.

I'm a pretty lucky broad.

Little reminders

2008-02-28T12:40:00.000-06:00

We're doing well, and we're feeling good. My cycles are right on track. We've got the blessing from my clinic to try again; I'm happy and healthy. My partner is, as always, amazing.

I don't want to create the impression that the loss has been patched and repainted-over like a chunk knocked out of drywall, though. It might not be plainly visible, but from time to time, some little thing punches me square in the gut, and I have to slink away and just be sad for a little while.

Examples:

We had a goofy little "code name" for the kid, which we used quite happily. The name is also a word that is fairly common in one of our hobbies. Since the loss, though, neither of us has been able to say the word aloud. It feels a little superstitious and evasive to admit that, but there it is.

Listening to the radio during my commute to work, I was caught unaware by a song I hadn't heard in several years, one by Tori Amos (who herself experienced three miscarriages before giving birth to her daughter):

She's convinced she could pull back a glacier,

But she couldn't keep baby alive,

Doubting that there's a woman in there somewhere,

Here, here, here...

March of the Penguins was on a cable channel at one point. (I think this was before the miscarriage, but the memory stuck, and the Mister and I were both reminded of it later.) Yes, I do think it's a gorgeous and well-made documentary. No, I don't think it's an anthem for conservative human values. (They're penguins, people. They're not making decisions about culture or morality. They're obeying the drive for survival of species.) The jabby part: at one point, one of the penguins loses control of the egg he's carrying atop his feet to keep it warm, and within seconds, the egg freezes, cracks, dies on the ice. I am well aware of the rhythms of nature, and I know full well that some of them entail grim realities, but the thought of that poor egg still breaks me up.

Not long ago, an episode of Lost began with a flash-forward, in which one of the primary characters, a pregnant woman, suddenly began to experience severe pain and had to be rushed to a hospital. The episode was grueling to watch, even though the TV baby emerged happy and healthy, and I felt vaguely unsettled for a few days after. I realized later that the possibility of the character losing her baby disturbed me a little more than I'd realized at the time.

(In turn, that made me feel a little silly, because I'm not usually emotionally involved with TV shows, with the exception of the dearly departed Firefly. But hey, I never claimed that this grief business was rational.)

The two-headed kitten dream, and other thoughts

2008-02-12T09:56:00.000-06:00

At some point early in the miscarriage, before we got confirmation of the loss, I dreamed of a two-headed kitten. (I mentioned this in a prior post, too.) In the dream the kitten had been born a few hours before, and it was alive, squirming and mewling in that way newborn kittens do.

Having grown up in the country, I've always been aware of mortality in some grander sense. I saw countless animals come into the world, live, die, grow, fade, thrive, and get sick. For example, my family always had too many cats around, and boy howdy, did they love to reproduce. (Dad didn't believe in neutering animals, which contributed to their great and unfortunate numbers in our area. Trust me, I'm as appalled by the lack of responsibility as you probably are.)

Sometimes a new litter would contain a sickly or deformed kitten, and in those cases it was immediately obvious that this one wouldn't make it, regardless of how valiantly it squirmed and tried to nurse in its first hours. Nothing could be done about it; as badly as I wanted each kitten to live, it simply didn't work out that way, and I had to accept it. During my childhood, I orchestrated dozens of tiny burials, returning little bodies to the earth. The grand scheme of it was bittersweet; the outcome is certainly not what I desired, but the process was quick, and the little ones did not suffer long, if at all. I was thankful for that.

The feeling I had in the dream was very much the same: the two-headed kitten was a precious and unique little thing, and it tried, it really did. But it didn't have a chance, and I knew it.

Perhaps the dream was my mind's way of turning the concept over and over, massaging it, recognizing that some of the emotions I'd dealt with back then could be relevant now. I think that the mind has (heh) a mind of its own, a powerful and sometimes weird one; I think our minds can use dreams to figure things out, or to tell us things about ourselves, or to help us cope. (Or maybe the dream was trying to satisfy my desire for known cause and effect, and was telling me that our kid literally had two heads, hence the loss. Who knows?)

Anyway, yeah. I woke up with the full knowledge that the kid was gone. The confirmation still hurt, of course, but that part felt like a release of sorts; now that I knew, one hundred percent, I could get on with the business of grieving and healing.

The loss took a lot out of me, physically and mentally. For a couple of weeks, I had absolutely no energy, and of course felt pretty miserable about the whole series of events. The hormonal shifts surely contributed to the physical exhaustion as well as the sadness, but certainly didn't make any of the feelings less valid or "explain them away."

In some of the miscarriage accounts I've read, women speak of a sense of betrayal -- by their own bodies, by medicine, by their healthcare providers, by their faith or beliefs.

I, myself, don't feel betrayed. (And I certainly don't mean to imply that it's not a valid or justified feeling to have; I'm simply sharing what my own experience reflects.)

We'll never know exactly why this kid was lost. I'm not one who believes in a personal God; I respect the beliefs of those who do, but I don't feel that there is some kind of specific divine plan that applies to me, beyond the laws of nature, physics, mathematics, and entropy. I won't know if there's a chronic physical problem unless future attempts end badly as well, and we're able to retain and sift through some evidence. Statistically, it seems likely that this little one had some kind of chromosomal defect. Miscarriages in my age group are very common, unfortunately, but statistically (there's that word again), I'm no more likely to lose the next one.

Assuming this was a case of chromosomal defect and simple non-viability, I am convinced that my body did exactly what it was supposed to do: if it had hung on to this little one, it might not have lived long, or lived well. As much as we both wanted this kid, neither of us would have wanted it to experience suffering.

I'll always be sad about the loss... but I'm at peace with it. I remain optimistic about next time. I wish happiness, healing, and love to all of those who share grief of this type... and if you need to talk about it, I hope that you will.

Removing the remains

2008-01-16T14:02:00.002-06:00

When a miscarriage occurs, there are (in most cases) options about how to wrap things up. One can decide to stay the course, as I did, and let the body expel the remains naturally. One can also opt for a D&C, or dilation and curettage, a surgical procedure which removes the remains.

I've read several resources that discuss this, and it seems like a lot of them lean toward recommending the D&C, for numerous reasons. There are benefits: for example, it gets the awful waiting overwith, the mother doesn't have to clean up the remains herself (see my mention of "greyish, gristley tissue" in a prior post), and the tissue can be reserved and tested for genetic anomalies. There are also down sides: it's an invasive procedure with some risk of complications (as with any surgery), it can take longer for the uterus to heal and rebuild its lining afterward, and it apparently hurts like hell. Sometimes the D&C is the only good option, if the mother's body doesn't, can't, or won't expel the tissue... but sometimes, the mother can choose instead to wait it out.

Most of the women I know personally (admittedly not many) who have suffered miscarriages, opted for a D&C as soon as possible. One of them said, "When I knew it had died, I wanted it out of me, now. I didn't want to walk around with it for days." Another considered waiting it out, but felt more comforted by the act of making the decision, and by her doctor performing the procedure and observing her well-being as it went on.

I live in a culture where even normal and healthy pregnancies and childbirth are most often seen as conditions that must be medically managed. I do wonder whether this contributes to the viewpoints on procedures like the D&C: a lot of people simply see it as What Is Done After a Miscarriage, and don't consider another path. (A couple of friends who learned my news seemed incredulous that I "went natural," and assumed it was dangerous and risky to do so, even though I'm cared for by an excellent and well-reputed clinic. Not coincidentally, these friends feel the same way about natural childbirth methods.)

My natural expulsion was crampy and bloody and horrible, but I couldn't stand the thought of someone propping me open and scraping stuff out. I also believed that my body would heal faster if it was left to take care of things itself, which, as far as I can tell, came true. (Mind you, I went into this with the full understanding that if I didn't expel everything, I'd have to go for the D&C, and I was fine with it. Tissue that isn't expelled can stick in the uterus and become precancerous, and who would want that?)

Anyway, I'm certain the experience is hellish either way, no matter what method is used. I feel that I made the right decision, and the process and the time it took probably contributed to a sense of closure. It felt good to realize that the worst was over and that the bleeding was slowing down; it felt good to feel my cycle renewing itself, and to recognize the signs of ovulation a few weeks later.

If I miscarry again, I suspect that I will want to "go natural" once more. The major variable in that equation is, well, the thought of testing the remains. If something just keeps going wrong, I'd like to find out why...

Miscarriage: what mine was like, physically

2007-12-30T08:49:00.001-06:00

When I was looking for information about what to expect, what the physical side would be like, and so forth, I didn't find much.

There were a lot of posts and writings on the 'Net from women who (quite understandably) were terrified about what was going on in their bodies, prior to getting confirmation of their own miscarriages. Also quite understandably, there weren't many follow-up posts that told the greater audience what had happened afterward.

I also found plenty of rather high-level articles and posts from medical or sorta-medical sources. You know the type: they purport to be informative, and some succeed to a degree, but they don't actually reveal much. (This might be a factor of the "hot potato" theory I posted about a few weeks back. It also might be a factor of the cautious Web-driven economy: information that's available for free isn't very lucrative, is it?)

So... I'll share my details. I'll try not to be all squicky about it, but I do want to be realistic.

...

My problems began with a few spots -- the proverbial "not with a bang, but a whimper." The blood was light and rusty brown, which fell (as I thought/hoped) within the realm of "normal." A lot of women bleed during gestation, and according to my CNM (certified nurse-midwife), half of the women who do report bleeding go on to have normal and successful pregnancies.

This was on a Tuesday evening, in my comfortable-but-dull hotel room. The blood wasn't copious, but there was enough spotting to startle me. And I'd been away on business for over a week, helping prepare a client to go live on new software. Needless to say, I was getting sick of being so far from home, especially right before Xmas.

I fretted a bit about this, but tried to maintain a positive outlook, and hoped that it would go away. And I didn't want the Mister to worry -- I'm a superhero, don't you know? I'm invincible, and so is my tadpole! Since I am key to his happiness, why, I should maintain it by keeping his happy-bubble fully intact! -- but of course, he is as deeply invested in our reproduction as I am, so it seemed ridiculous not to tell him. (Besides, although I'd probably never admit it, I didn't really want to worry alone.)

I didn't sleep much that night, partially because of the worry, and partially because I was due to go home the next evening (finally!). The next morning, no blood. This cheered me up considerably; I happily let the Mister know that things were fine.

And then, late the next morning (Wednesday), it started again. Still dark and rusty, still spotty, but definitely there.

At some point (I don't remember when), I realized that my breasts weren't tender anymore. This freaked me out most of all. If you've read my initial post, you might remember that before the pregnancy was confirmed, the increased sensitivity was one of the main reasons I knew something was Different. And now they were just normal, boring, everyday boobs again. I kept hoping that I'd just gotten used to them being wide awake, but it just seemed wrong.

I phoned my clinic, and they were cautious about claiming that it was or wasn't okay, but reassured me that sometimes bleeding does occur, and that if it turned bright red and started coming out a lot more heavily, I should really start worrying. I was on the schedule for an ultrasound that Friday, but they moved my appointment up to the nearest available slot, which was on Thursday.

I changed my flight and flew home a few hours earlier, which bewildered my coworkers. I hadn't told them about the pregnancy. Things were happening fast, and there was nowhere at the client site to have a private conversation, so out it came: "I'm pregnant, something is wrong, and I'm going home." They offered tentative, very surprised congratulations; I came as close as I've ever come to actually losing composure at work, choked up a bit, and advised them, "You might want to hold off on those."

So, yes -- home I came. The bleeding didn't increase, but continued at a steady spot.

When I got home, I got a call from the clinic: due to an administrative error, they couldn't see me on Thursday after all, so I'd have to wait until Friday. Fantastic.

The wait was unremarkable, but hellish. I slunk around the house in pajamas, relieved to be away from the client, happy to be home, but worried about the kid. I kept having thoughts like, Our baby might be dead, and there's not a damned thing I can do about it. The spotting continued, but increased a little, and turned a brighter red (which, as I'd been advised, was a Bad Sign). I also started having cramps, which were physically no worse than those of a low-level menstrual period, but the mental anguish amplified their effects.

On Thursday night I dreamed of a two-headed kitten, and of realizing that I would have to let it go, since there's no way it could survive. (I'll write about that in another post.)

On Friday, which was Winter Solstice (how poetic!), I started to find livery-looking blood clots in my discharge. The sadness grew. It didn't seem like there was much hope at this point. The Mister tried to stay positive, and I think he succeeded more than I did; I think he tried to treat it like a normal day on which we'd get some good news, and perhaps get to see our baby squirming on a monitor. On the other hand, I was pretty sure it was over for this little one. And yet I still clung to a little spark of light in my mind, the idea that maybe I was just a "bleeder," and that I might just be worn out from the trip.

The time finally came for the ultrasound. Now, I absolutely love my clinic; I've been going there for many years for the usual well-woman oil change and inspection, and have consistently been impressed with their supportive and compassionate care. Unfortunately, the new assistant who took my initial info proved to be rather insensitive.

After I reminded her that I was bleeding and fairly sure that I was miscarrying, she said, "Well, we'll get your ultrasound going in a few. Just in case everything is okay, here's a new-parent folder for you!" She proudly leafed through the contents for me; it contained a bunch of photocopied info about pregnancy care, a copy of a magazine about babies, timelines about the kid's growth in the womb, that sort of thing.

Great.

Before I gathered the presence of mind to punch her, she was done, and she left. She might or might not have sensed my frustration; I'd love to believe that obvious fury contributed to her hasty exit, but I'm not sure. I've been told that I am rather telegraphic when I'm pissed, but I had other things on my mind at the time, so who knows how well it came through?

Anyway...

The ultrasound confirmed the miscarriage. That's all there is to say about it, really. The vaginal probe hurt like hell, of course; things were sore in there. I remember asking the CNM if there was any chance this pregnancy could have been ectopic, so she checked things out pretty carefully and found no reason to suspect it.

Our nurse-midwife was amazing, completely supportive, and straightforward about what to expect in the days to come. It seemed as though things were already starting to (and I hate this term, although it's so truthful about the process) expel, so it was just a matter of waiting for nature to take its course. If it didn't, we'd schedule a D&C. (I'll talk a little more on that topic in a later post, too.)

She ordered a series of blood tests over the next week. The intent was to monitor my rapidly falling HCG levels. HCG is "the pregnancy hormone," human chorionic gonadotropin, produced at first by the embryo and later by the placenta. It's present in the urine of a pregnant woman, and it's what a pregnancy test looks for when you pee on the little stick. Those tests just tell you "yes" or "no," though, and the blood tests, in contrast, can monitor the actual levels of hormone present in the body.

If the tissue and placenta are expelled (or removed) as they should be, the HCG count, numerically represented in the test output, should drop to zero. And, true to form, my numbers went from 11,000 to 2,000 to under 600 in a matter of a few days. Pregnant, not so pregnant... kablooey. In a couple of weeks, I'll get tested again to make sure the count has actually reached zero. If not, it means that there's still placental tissue in the uterus, which will prevent me from getting pregnant again. (If unused placental cells stick around for long, they can also become precancerous -- another reason to be vigilant.)

So -- yes -- miscarriage has resulted in a number of blood tests. My inner elbows are bruised all to hell; I look like a junkie. If I tell anyone, while wearing short sleeves, that I've recently had a miscarriage, they might glance snootily downward as if to say, "Well, no wonder."

The expulsion hasn't been fun, either. Most women have experienced bad menstrual cramps, so that's a fitting starting point for the description. This has felt like three horrible periods put together. Imagine, if you will, someone cheerfully kicking you in the gut while wearing platform boots. (And imagine dealing with that while surrounded by family members at Xmas, trying to put on a brave face and have fun exchanging presents!)

When I asked about how much bleeding to expect (more specifically, "At what point should I haul my butt to a hospital if it gets really bad?"), the CNM said this: "If you're completely soaking more than three or four pads in an hour, you'll definitely want to call us." In my case, fortunately, it never did reach that degree.

There were a lot of blood clots, which are nothing new in the land of menstruation, but are unnerving in this context and amount. I wasn't mentally prepared for the bits of greyish, gristley tissue that also began to show up. I could actually feel them emerging, and couldn't bear to look at them more closely.

I never did actually see the remains of our kid, and didn't want to.

That's the sum of it. I'd love to end with some kind of reassuring, uplifting statement, but I don't really have one. Even though I am thankful for my amazing partner (who has been completely wonderful through all of this, and has been grieving right along with me) and for my health, there is no way to make this sound any better than it was. It completely, truly, and royally sucked.

One bit of satisfaction: my CNM (who happens to be the director of the clinic) completely reamed that medical assistant about the stupid new-parent folder. And called to let me know, and to apologise again for the assistant's insensitivity.

Well...

2007-12-30T08:37:00.000-06:00

The little one didn't make it.

The problems began while I was out of town, on a business trip from hell, the week before Xmas. They continued after I hurried home. A sonogram on Solstice confirmed the miscarriage.

The Mister and I are both very sad about it, to say the least. The timing was awful in some respects, and nice in others; the family was in town for the holidays, and it was good to have the company. And both of us took a nice, long break from work, which might have been more difficult if this hadn't happened over the major winter holidays.

Fortunately I'm still healthy, and there is no evident, major physical problem that contributed or caused this. Our hopes are high for next time, and we intend to start trying again very soon. Still, it's bittersweet; my mind grapples with the idea that there's no clear reason...

During my frantic, misery-driven bouts of surfing before the miscarriage was confirmed, I found a lot of posts that echoed my pain and fear (other women looking for help and reassurance during their own miscarriages), some posts that offered (or tried to offer) comfort and factual info, and not much that really told me what to expect. In a couple of follow-up posts, I'll contribute my share. I might not have anything major or groundbreaking to say, but perhaps it'll be of use to someone...

Is it really that easy, or that cute?

2007-12-20T16:24:00.000-06:00

Behold this terribly kawaii potty-training video/advertisement from Japan. I especially dig the confetti.

Something I must have:

2007-12-14T20:38:00.000-06:00

Baby's First Mythos, a board book that uses Lovecraft's Elder Gods to illustrate the ABCs and 123s. Awesome!

Two tidbits

2007-12-14T20:14:00.001-06:00

One: business travel while pregnant is a bit of a pain, mostly because of the food restrictions. Realizing that my immune system is functioning a little lower these days, and due to that whole listeria thing, I've been behaving and avoiding the temptations of Subway, which is usually one of my ubiquitous, healthy, grab-and-go defaults.

Ye gods, I am so feckin' sick of grilled chicken right now.

Two: check it out! The kid sounds like a cute chompy-monster from a video game!

You are [approx.] 49 days pregnant.
[Approx.] 231 days to go!
By now, the division between the cerebral hemispheres (two halves of your baby’s brain) is well marked. The upper and lower jaws are present. Your baby weighs about .00004 ounce (.001 g). That’s about as heavy as an eyelash from your lower lid.

Cautionary tales

2007-12-14T19:41:00.001-06:00

Another blog pointed me to this article, the sad tale of a woman who drank heavily while pregnant:

In my frustration, I'm ashamed to say I ended up in bed with another man. My boyfriend came home and found us together. It was over - and I got pregnant with the other man's baby.

For weeks after I found out I couldn't eat or sleep and alcohol dulled the pain.

It hit me worst at weekends. I'd have a bottle of wine for breakfast then more until I passed out. I would down about four bottles on my own.

She goes on to describe a steep spiral of depression, during which she planned suicide and nearly went through with it. Although she stopped drinking at the five-month mark, her son was (of course) born with fetal alcohol syndrome, and his mental and emotional challenges have brought considerable grief to their lives.

The woman in this story has my respect for eventually recognizing the effects of alcohol, and for trying to help others. She now gives talks at schools and colleges about fetal alcohol syndrome, warning young women not to drink during pregnancy. But here's what makes the whole story that much sadder: she does not seem to consider her depression to be a significant part of the equation, at least in this retelling, even though it is clearly a major part of the story.

It bugs me. Mental illness is so often misunderstood, and its effects are so easily shrugged off or blamed on other presenting factors. I don't mean to imply that she wasn't at all responsible for her choices; there's no way to know or judge that. But I do think the depression should be recognized here, and I hope she does encourage awareness of it in her activist work.

And this is going to sound terribly, terribly petty, but here's another pet peeve: cautionary tales like this are everywhere in the pregnancy pop-lit. The whole culture is rife with scare tactics, as if one sip of wine from a friend's glass the day before you deliver is going to completely ruin your kid's life. It's rather like the Very Special Video we all watched at some point in high school, in which a kid takes a feeble puff on a joint, then marches his scrawny butt right up the stairs and flings himself off the building. Do we not already know that the extreme cases are awful? Where is the balance? Where is the sense of reason? Why are we expected to base our decisions on fear, not on fact?

Lessons in pregnancy: The "hot potato" effect

2007-12-03T15:09:00.000-06:00

Pregnancy has made me a "hot potato," it seems. Not in the sense that I am pleasantly starchy and should be served with chives and pepper, but in the sense that once that little pink label is made public, people view you differently.

The tale of the day: my allergies are horrid right now for some reason. I've done enough research to know that some over-the-counter meds are fine, and others are not; I've had recommendations from my clinic on OTC meds that I can take safely. And this stuff checked out with my own research, too.

The trouble is that the OTC stuff on that list offers a rather short-term effect. I wanted to find out whether a 12-hour low-dose antihistamine would also be acceptable for a early pregnancy in a normal, healthy person, so that I might avoid waking up abruptly at 4am, wheezing and drooling and snorting loudly enough to wake up the Mister. Really, it's not a huge deal; I thought the answers would be simple, and that someone might be willing to talk to me about basic risks inherent in using these particular chemicals during pregnancy, so that I could make an informed decision about whether to research it more.

Thinking this would be easy, I tried two local pharmacies, both of them chains that are common in this area. I got stonewalled. No one would talk to me. All they would say to me was, "You have to ask your doctor." Also, as a test at both places, I held up a bottle of saline spray, and asked whether this might help me feel better and be safe for pregnancy. (Yes, saline. Salt water that you spray into your nose. It is quite harmless.) The response? "You'll have to ask your doctor."

I understand the mechanics, in this litigation-happy culture, of Covering One's Arse. I also understand that every pregnancy is probably a little different, and that some of them have special factors, and that not everyone is fortunate as I am, in the sense of things going so well. However, I am not of the belief that a healthy, normal pregnancy must be "managed" by some authority figure.

I've apparently got a big, glowing, neon red "LIABILITY" stamp on my forehead now.

Honestly! Saline, people!

2007-11-26T13:05:00.000-06:00

During a lunchtime surf, another blog pointed me to this poll in Parenting magazine. The question:

Is it okay for a stay-at-home mom to also have a full-time nanny or use daycare?

The quote they chose to accompany the "No" statistic is what got me:

43% [of over 1500 responses]: No

"Taking care of my family is my job. If I hired a nanny, it would be like a secretary having a secretary." —Emily Broadway, Robeline, LA

I'm not one to snark at people for their choices; everybody's got to find the solutions that work for them. However, I'm more than willing to snark about counter-progressive word choices. Honestly -- a "secretary"?

So this is how it begins.

2007-11-21T09:22:00.000-06:00

The idea of reproducing, at least when it makes the conceptual shift from "abstraction" to "Well, there it is!" is pretty big. I'll certainly admit that. And for me and the Mister, it's a very happy thing, one we've been looking forward to. Just think -- at last, a MINION!

The mechanics of discovery, however, are really not very interesting.

My first sign that something had changed? The boobs.

I've never been emotionally involved with mine, to be honest. I take them for granted, although I know I shouldn't. They are objects of Womanly Squish; they have mass and volume. They fill out my clothing attractively enough, and they certainly keep the Mister amused (gravitational pull?). Most of the time, they just get in the way, and they require specialized equipment (especially during workouts) and an infuriating level of attention paid to clothing, lest I risk too much curve or cleavage for the business environment. Life must be easier, I've thought in pettier moments, for the flat-chested.

They've never been particularly sensitive before, either. This has always struck me as some kind of cosmic practical joke. (I'm more convinced of that now than ever. Good one, Universe.)

Not long ago, the ol' twin gazelles began to hoot and holler and moan. Seriously. I couldn't shut them up. They swelled and became oversensitive to pretty much any contact, including that of typical clothing. They howled all damned day and night, which, I'm sure, distracted anyone within earshot and inspired dogs within a five-mile radius to bay at the moon in kind.

Shortly after that, Aunt Flow got mugged on her way to my house. I thought I saw her on the doorstep, but she disappeared again. I figured she might have gone a little senile (I am almost 35, after all -- practically a crone*), and imagined her circling the neighborhood, peering at doors and confusing pedestrians.

[* - Yes, that is sarcasm. I understand the realities of fertility declining as a woman grows older, but the panicked cultural institution of the Biological Clock(tm) is, in my opinion, bullshit.]

And then came the heartburn. Mild, yes, but atypical for me.

And then came the peeing-on-a-stick. The purchasing of said stick, for me, was a sweet and self-conscious moment, but not exactly momentous. I dropped a store-brand two-pack into the cart at Target with the paper towels and canned soup. The stick-peeing itself involved a few awkward points of decision. "What if I screw this up and don't pee on it for precisely five seconds, as the instructions insist? Do I just start peeing and then aim the thing, or should I try to place it and then start peeing? Which counting method is more accurate -- should I go with one-one-thousand or one-Mississippi?"

When people conduct pregnancy tests on TV, there's a cultivated sense of drama about that post-pee waiting period, which varies a little among tests. It's as if there's a tiny drum-roll programmed into the stick, and it never seems to reveal itself until the tah-DAAAH! moment pre-planned in the story.

For me, the special little blue line whooshed right into place almost immediately, during the first of those five seconds. Yep. I must be SUPER-pregnant, I thought.

(And about the stick: I've read that some women keep theirs forever, as some kind of urine-encrusted memento. After the festivities of revealing the news to the Mister, I elected to toss mine. Seriously, what the heck does one do with such a thing? Do you glue it into a scrapbook? The test I used had a cap that you can put back on, over the swab end, so at least it wouldn't leave a weird puddle-stain on the page...)

Anyway: yes. Noisy boobs (they STILL will not shut up), missing menses (after a little of what I now recognize as implantation spotting), heartburn, and wee-on-a-stick.

As of this writing, I am somewhere between three and four weeks pregnant.

Of course, this is massive, profound, life-changing. But it doesn't fully register that way yet. It's kind of like reading The Hobbit for the first time after you've already read the Lord of the Rings books, and you find the passage in which Bilbo finds the ring, which seems so innocent and understated and bonus-trinkety at the time, but, heh, you know better...