Please know that while I'll endeavor to refrain from undue graphic descriptions of my various and sundry bodily happenings in the entries that follow, there is a certain amount of goo and gore that must be discussed, or at the very least implied, when a pregnant woman talks or writes about anything related to pregnancy. If the stuff that makes up and at time flows from our bodies grosses you out, don't read what I have to say. If you do anyway, do NOT complain to me about it! Just put on your big girl(or boy) panties and deal, ok?
There. Disclaimers are handled. On to the meat of this.
I suppose the first thing I should record here is the physical status of our pregnancy. It's fine, and we've identified at least one fetal heartbeat. Based on ultrasound findings and a careful analysis of the impeccable records I've kept of my bizarre cyclical goings on, the babe(s) is(are) due on or about the middle of May.
I was instructed on Thursday afternoon to go straight to the assessment center at Woman's hospital, due to a bit of bleeding and cramping. For once, I actually did exactly as I was told, and arrived at the hospital terrified and accompanied by my dear sister-in-law, as Master Cakes was out of town until later that evening. There are few things I can think of that are less suitable for a text message than this, but since he doesn't check voice mail with any regularity, and because he can't exactly use his phone while he's flying the damned plane, I had no choice.
It had a weird kind of going-back-in-time quality, like somehow I'd slipped on a banana peel and landed during WWII. "En route to Woman's Hospital for an ultrasound STOP Bleeding STOP Doc is concerned about our baby STOP Please come as soon as you land STOP"
The Mr. landed about an hour into my wait, and so joined me for the remaining three hours, and we did our best to be calm and keep the nervous chatter to a minimum while I lay in a quiet room on the most awfully-named piece of medical bedding that exists in the Free World. Yes, folks, I spent my time lying on a "Gyney." ANd if that's not enought to make a person think she's REALLY nuts and living in a whacky parallel dimension, I don't know what is.
The entire time, we were both certain that we'd soon have to break the news to our two boys that their tiny sibling(s) had just... stopped growing. But, because the Universe is generally a pretty forgiving place, we got a wonderful surprise in the form of a single flickering pixel on the black and white screen in the ultrasound room. Flick. Flick. Flick. Flick. Flick. No question. Cardiac Activity. The tech was reticent to identify it as such, but after I assured her that we would NOT be taking that flicker as a guarantee of any sort, and that we were both well aware of the million or so things that could still go wrong, she relaxed and said that yes, it did indeed appear to be the baby's heartbeat, but that she really wanted to get the Radiologist in to look at it, just to be sure.
He came in a few minutes later, and said to us some of the sweetest words we've ever heard: "Hi, Mr. and Mrs. Cakes? I'm Dr. Ruiz. I have some good news. You have a VERY cute baby." Gawd, it was so warm and fuzzy, I had to pinch myself to be sure I hadn't inadvertenly found my way onto the set of a Lifetime movie! Of course, both of us instantly teared up. Ok, I sobbed like the hormonal madwoman that I am. He teared up.
Being discharged (such an UGLY word in the context of female healthcare!) from the hospital involved admonitions that we should observe strict "pelvic rest" and that I should be on bed rest until my follow-up appointment on Monday. HAH! The whole "pelvic rest" is such a pathetic euphamism, but totally unecessary anyway. After all, I'm so sensitive to smells of ALL sorts, that I can no longer go grocery shopping, because I swear there is a CLOUD of RAW DEAD ANIMAL STENCH permeating the atmosphere of every single grocery store in town!
Surely, no one in my "condition" could bear to get close enough to another human being, regardless of how loved and cherished he might be to her, to let him BREATHE on her!?!?
And since we're talking about smells, here's a new one: Despite the fact that cooking is and always has been one of my all time favorite things to do, I CAN'T COOK! The very thought of cooking makes me queasy, because with cooking comes, you guessed it, cooking odors! Ralph!
For the twenty or so years that I've been preparing meals, I have prided myself in the genius frugality of preparing damned near EVERYTHING from scratch, from chocloate syrup (think Hershey's) to chicken stock to, well, EVERYTHING. And now? My choices were: A. Become a regular at the Golden Starches drive through, thereby supersizing my unsuspecting-but-content-because-Happy-Meal-Toys-are-cool children, or B. Spend ridiculous amounts of money on enough frozen/microwaveable/non-foul-smelling(to me) food to keep my crew fed for about the next eight weeks. Of course, I opted for option B. At least this way my kids will get a few veggies.
My sweet husband has assured me that most people in this country always eat frozen food, and that my children will not spend years on a therapist's couch because Mommy didn't make scratch meals for the first trimester of their baby sister's pregnancy. Or brother. We don't know yet. As overactive as my hurl reflex is right now, I am for once proud to have shoved a ball gag in the mouth of that Little Voice Inside My Head, so she's not berating me nonstop the way I've always thought she would if I so much as considered serving my kids something that I didn't make from basic ingredients in my own kitchen. So far, no one has complained. I am afraid I might actually be able to get used to this!
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I have a new trick I'm going to try out for the smell thing. It's so simple I can't believe I've never thought of it before, and it is most perplexing that I've never read about it in ANY pregnancy book. I call it "The Autopsy Trick." Coroners and other folks who make their livings in and around Death often apply a liberal coating of Mentholatum or VapoRub just under their noses before proceeding with any particularly, um, fragrant work. Apparently, the menthol overwhelms and confuses the olfactory receptors, thereby blocking the nose from detecting any other smells. I now have a jar of Mentholatum in my purse, and will be using it religiously any time I think I might need an odor shield. Hell, maybe when they decide I no longer have to rest my pelvis, I can use Mentholatum to get around the whole issue of being breathed upon. It could acutaly work!
Yeah, so SURPRISE! I'm tired as hell. Oh, and that's another issue, but I'll get to it later. Right now, I'm going to try to sleep, and hope the Bladder Fairy stays away for at least a couple of hours. Stay tuned for these exciting chapters:
Boycotting Blockbuster
and
Why Smoothie King Chaps My Ass
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