Spirit of the Tiger!

                When I get in a rage, I often think about my favorite animal, the tiger. I envision a tiger at peace, her tail lazily flopping up and down in some mild display of boredom. She’s a large beast, her great girth not so imposing though, until she stands up in a rage. I see this tiger’s teeth, as ferocious and ugly as murder, and I try to invoke just a bit of that.

                On Friday, I spent the majority of my day trying to finish up what I’d been so desperately trying to take care of… my Rhogam shot. I’ve waited twenty eight weeks to get it, and after my previous appointment, I was so completely stressed out that the idea of having to jump more hurdles to get this one thing was breaking me. I don’t understand how the medical field can insist that something like Rhogam is detrimental when having a baby, and then make it so difficult to come by?

                My day started at nine. I woke up, got ready, and headed out to the hospital. There I was told to go to the Labor and Delivery Floor. Once I arrived there, the nurses (who by the way, were extremely nice), told me that I needed to be registered, and that I couldn’t get my shot until I had blood taken and reviewed by a lab, the results would take about three to four hours to come back. Oh, and they told me that I HAD to have the shot the same day as the lab work. I never really did inquire further as to why, but apparently it all had to be done in one day, even though I would be allowed to leave the property while awaiting the results.

                I won’t delve too much into the annoyance I had to go through from there. Between going to the lab, being told I should have been given paperwork from Labor and Delivery, to going back to Labor and Delivery, then escorted at last to registration, I finally had blood drawn and was on my way out at about ten thirty in the morning. Tacking on about four hours to that, I gave work a call and let them know I might be late coming in, but I would make sure I had an excuse.

                Two o’clock p.m., I call the office to see if my results are ready. When they tell me it’ll be about an hour, I wait patiently, then decide I’m just going to head straight over because I’m starting to get anxious again – I had a sneaking suspicion at that point that things were going awry.

                The nurses in Labor and Delivery welcome me back, and let me know my lab work still hasn’t completed. They say maybe another hour, get me set up on a bed, strap some monitors over my belly to hear the baby’s heartbeat, and then throw on the device used to measure my BP and set it to go off every fifteen minutes. At that point, I start to get agitated. I didn’t understand why it was taking so long, nor why I was then being hooked up to monitors. Part of me guessed that they decided hearing the baby’s heartbeat would soothe me… little did they realize I don’t stay distracted for very long.

                At 3:40 the nurse returned to tell me that the lab had called, and that it was going to be another hour and a half. At this point, I started taking off monitors, which put quite the look on her face.

                “I  have to leave,” I told her, “I’ll be happy to come back another day when I can devote the whole day to this, but I just don’t have the time for this right now.”

                Scrambling, the nurse got right back on the phone with the lab, and talked them down to thirty minutes, which I agreed to. We didn’t bother putting the monitors back on.

                At four thirty, I was injected with Rhogam… finally.   They monitored me for an additional fifteen minutes to ensure I did not experience a reaction to it, then sent me on my way. Honestly, for all of that work, I expected a large, intimidating needle with a lot of fluid accompanied by a tremendous amount of pain.

                While the liquid was oily, the needle was small, and nurse who injected me very nice. She explained that relaxing the muscles would make it less painful, and even rolled it between her hands to try and warm it up since she also explained that cold liquids were more uncomfortable.

                This entire  process would prove not to be in vain though, as some interesting results came of it. To begin with, the nurses were extremely kind, and we did exchange a number of words. I was relieved to discover that my clinic’s head nurse would not be involved in the birthing process, and I found out that at this particular hospital the baby is not taken from the mother unless it is being taken into critical care. Yet probably most profound, I had been monitored for over an hour, blood pressure measured every fifteen minutes. I asked the nurse after how my blood pressure looked over all. She explained that it was a “little high” when I came in, probably because I was agitated or had worked myself up a good bit. However, over time it had dropped, even become a bit low. My ending BP was 112/70.

                I let the nurse know why I was so interested, that my clinical nurse had said I have “red flags” for preeclampsia. The reaction I received made me feel good, as the attending nurse’s face contorted.

                “No, no,” she said, “I don’t even know why she would tell you that.”

                Needless to say, I was left relieved to have finally gotten the shot, and furious with my clinic.

                How much half truths, or lies, have I been receiving? Vincent thinks I have this outrageous mistrust in doctors, that I will refute anything they say. The truth is, I do to a reasonable extent, but for the most part, I want to know that I am safe. I’m an average woman, although I question things to a higher degree than most. Still, this is a prime example of how even someone such as myself, the cautious type, had been pulled along, and made to feel foolish.

                To make matters even more extreme, the next night I got to talking with my father, and a friend of his who is currently in nursing school and very close to finishing. She just completed her course concerning prenatal care and labor, and was very informative. She explained to me that inductions are very common, but reaffirmed my previous research that they are nothing akin to natural childbirth despite what my clinical nurse had told both Vincent and myself.

                I felt so awful and angry, and to make matters worse, I had this image in my head of her, enjoying her weekend, not giving a damn about me since I had so easily been mislead.

                Sunday morning… couldn’t sleep. I organized my thoughts, wrote and rewrote them, and then made the call. I left her a nasty message. Not cussing or calling her names… that trash is not my style. But I did let her have it.

                I told her:

                This is Amanda Keller, you saw me Thursday morning. I’m calling because I’m very upset right now, so much that I’m pretty sure my blood pressure is high again. This is the second time you’ve overreacted to a situation. First, when the unidentified antibody showed up. You said it was definitely an issue, that it couldn’t be anything else but something to do with the pregnancy. Then I go to the specialist and find out it’s nothing.

                Now, you said I have the red flags for preeclampsia. I was monitored for over an hour at Baptist Hospital while waiting for my Rhogam shot, and they say my blood pressure was a little high because I was agitated but after I calmed down, that it is fine, that I absolutely don’t have the symptoms. Do me a favor, next time I gain ten, twenty, or even fifty pounds, don’t freak out, run out of the room, come back and  take my blood pressure and then wonder why it’s gone up.

                And another thing, I also talked to a recent nursing student. I don’t understand how you say the synthetic drug used in inductions is akin to normal childbirth when they are flat out teaching the students it’s not. I don’t know when you went to nursing school, or when you got your information, or perhaps the rest of the world is lying to me. However, it seems like it’s a lot easier for my to verify what everyone else is saying than what you have told me.

                I apologize for leaving this message to you, but I’m stressed over this, and while you have told me that emotions don’t affect the baby, that’s another thing I learned: that the higher blood pressure and stress associated with the emotions mean that they do affect him. I may be a first time mother, but I don’t need this and I can’t believe you made me feel bad about myself!

                : Then I hung up.

                Still upset, but greatly relieved, I vented to Vincent later that night. What a relief it was to have him home. While I am certain it was the last thing he wanted to hear about so soon after his return, I couldn’t emphasize enough how foolish I felt, and how much it had upset me that we had been taken advantage of.

                Then, there’s the pride aspect of it. I wonder, will I feel proud of myself if later in life I have to tell my son, “Well, I didn’t like or agree with any of the things that were done to me, but I just didn’t do anything about it.” I told Vincent, I’d rather be seen as a tyrant than someone who will be walked over. What kind of example will I set for my own child if I can’t feel proud of my own decisions, or stand behind them. Granted, I admit I thought that I would be able to wait until he was in school before I started having to defend my son and myself (..looking forward to that first parent-teacher conference), but I guess that was silly of me to think that.

                My clinical nurse called me this morning. I suspected she would, but what I wasn’t prepared for was how docile she sounded. I expected we would have a phone chat, and I was ready to answer, reminding myself of the tiger. Instead, she tells me, “I got your message and we don’t want you feeling bad so why don’t you come in and see the doctor and he can talk to you.” I told her I couldn’t today, and she asked if I was sure. I said maybe tomorrow.

                So I call my family, who offered some great perspective in all their wisdom. The first was my father, who advised, “Why do they want you to come in? You‘ve been cleared by other medical professionals as being ok. If you don’t want to go in… don’t. Tell them if he wants to see you, he can at your next appointment, but that you don’t feel like being stressed out by going into the clinic again.” Ect. Ect.

                Then, my mother, who asks, “If he just wanted to talk to you why couldn’t he over the phone? Every time you go into that clinic someone gets billed for your visit, be it our tax dollars or someone else’s.” Which is completely true. All of the extra tests which were ordered, going to the specialist, moving my appointments closer together because of the supposed preeclampsia… all of this costs taxpayer money.

                My concern, however, was also that the nurse is going to use the doctor to her defense, which I completely expect. They apparently have been in league for years… so, seeing him as someone with more authority, I’m sure she expects me to sit down and listen to him explain why inductions are practical as well as safe ect.

                So I called back… office was closed again (seems to happen a lot even on weekdays), and left a message for the front desk that my schedule’s tight, and I’ll just keep my appointment for the tenth. If the doctor has anything to say to me, I let her know he could see me at my appointment or call me. I keep thinking about the tiger, and how I want to be seen.

               

                How many other women, I wonder, have been lied to, or strung along? I hear about them all the time… friends who were deceived. Then, there is the great majority. The women who tell me that all three of their births were induced, for example, and they seemed normal. Why? Well, imagine, if you don’t do any research, that the first birth sets you up for the next one and so forth. If you put your trust in the hands of a professional who told you the things I had been told and you did not question them, I suppose you would come to expect it from all of your births.

                Now, in no way am I mocking mothers who are happy being induced. I realize that this comprises the majority of the American population at this point. Only when I talk to those learned in the subject, or foreigners do they stare in wonder and remark at how incredibly irresponsible it seems to have an induction purely for the convenience of it. As I’ve said before, America is the land of convenience, so I suppose it would seem perfectly natural for childbirth to play along into that.

                However, some of the best advice I’ve gotten in my time, “If a procedure is not medically necessary, then you probably don’t want to have it done.” I personally, feel in no way scared of childbirth.. anxious, certainly as well as curious and excited. But my body was made for this, right? It’s the other people I’m concerned about.

                My father drives quite confidently. On the road, he is brilliant, smooth, he knows the laws and maneuvers accordingly.  Yet often times, I cringe at the way he drives. The other day, he commented on this and I told him, “I trust you. I understand you know what you were doing, but just because you do doesn’t mean anyone else abides. What’s to stop someone in the next lane from swerving over recklessly and hitting us?” It’s the perfect metaphor really.

If it’s not one thing…

                ….it’s another. Sometimes I wonder if my nurse, or doctor doesn’t want to make me miserable on purpose. No, that would be too much attention paid to my case. I suspect rather, that pregnancies are treated a lot more like cows, as I’ve said before. I imagine that we cows are just herded along, and every time we undergo inspection there’s always room for improvement. Either you’re a little heavy, or you’re a little thin. Also, if there’s a “red flag” for anything, the most extreme, worst case scenario is noted, often with little to no real explanation.

                I say this because I have already once undergone an unnecessary scare with my RH factor. Being told you have an antibody that might try to kill your baby can put you under a lot of stress. When you find out that it’s really nothing you are so relieved that you forget how angry you should be with the practitioner who (in my humble opinion) handled the situation so poorly.

                Now, it’s another. I was so happy to go to my appointment today. I knew I’d gained weight. In fact I told my nurse right away I had complaints to whine to her concerning my new swelling body. My hands are swollen, my feet swell up to a ridiculous level. I figured I was retaining water at a very troublesome level, but thought she would recommend something like taking some water pills to flush my system and of course lowering salt intake. As I’m in my third trimester, I also suspected that now was the real time I was going to start getting heavy with little to no effort.

                What I got was much more troubling. After describing my swelling, the nurse looked at my feet, and noted that early in the day I did seem to have a bit of swelling (what she failed to note was that I had only been awake for about an hour at that point). We discussed possible issues such as salt, and then it was on to taking my weight. Ten pounds. She was howling, and I mean she wasn’t doing the “that’s not a good sign,” light pep talk, but actually making troublesome grunts and moans. “Ten pounds!” she whined after it was all said and done. I already felt just dreadful.  My heart starts racing as she says she will be right back, and I imagine that she’s going to get the doctor to yell at me.

                When the nurse returns, she takes my blood pressure, then says that it has “gone up a little,” as well. She starts going over my diet. What did I have for breakfast this morning?

                “Nothing.”

                “Why?”

                “I was tired and not really hungry.”

                “What do you normally have.”

                “Eggs.”

                So she starts looking over my diet the past couple days, and I admit to having had chips the other day with my sandwich, and ice cream on another occasion. She asks if I drink soda or juice, I tell her I drink tea mainly, and when she asks if I sweeten I let her know it’s typically artificial sweetener.

                So after that she returns to her desk, and whines, “I don’t want you to get preeclampsia.”

                Well what on earth is that? Like I’m not going to ask!

                She ends up describing it as being water weight gain, high blood pressure, and protein in the urine… two of the three symptoms I have for mild case scenario.

                I tell her I don’t understand why, it seems like all the people I know gained huge amounts of weight… and they didn’t have all these problems. She responds saying that it’s because it’s water weight. Then proceeds to scare me by telling me worst case scenarios. Such as the possibility of me having to be confined to bed rest… worst case scenario (when you get headaches, blurred vision due to the pressures on the kidney and brain) early delivery.

                “Ummm.. isn’t that kind of counterproductive? Like gaining weight but then you get confined to bed? I’d hate lying down all day.”

                Apparently, no. Confining a woman to bed, despite the weight I’d probably gain from eating and not moving, is totally reasonable even if it does stress you out. Why? Because it helps to allow for better passage of water through the body.

                I told her I still didn’t understand. Sure they’re symptoms, but just because you have them, how can three symptoms of something which (after research) doesn’t even have a clear definition or cause mean you have this problem? Well, those are two red flags.. she replied. Now I have to return to more frequent appointments, and oh yeah, even though I never had a glucose test to begin with, they decided to perform one today to, “make sure we’re not dealing with that,” as the nurse said. `

                Oh yes, and I didn’t even get my shot… the important solution to the first issue of the RH factor. No, I can’t have that at the clinic, I have to go to the hospital, have blood work done there, and then get it. So while the nurse decided to give me the order for it today, I said screw it, I’ll go tomorrow and deal with the glucose test today. I didn’t really feel like having all my blood taken and injected in one round.

                So I went to the lab, where I had three vials of blood drawn, since they are also running a score of other general analysis at the nurse’s request. I have a bruise on my right arm from the initial draw, then had to drink a bottle of glucose drink and sit in the office for an hour so they could perform another blood test for the after effects.

                I can’t help but feel conflicted. The first part of me thinks that this office is just anxious to classify me as a high risk pregnancy, just for the sake of the extra money on the government’s behalf, and because if I am classified high risk, they can pretty much dictate exactly how my delivery will go and when, and I really can’t refuse without seeming like I don’t care enough about my child.

                The other part of me just feels guilty. After the nurse telling me about this, I received some scant reading material but was able to look it up online at work. Even though no real cause can be identified, I feel like everything I put into my body is potentially harming poor Cesar. I ate a subway sandwich, and wondered how much salt it had and if it would stress him out. I have to start counting kicks too, she said, to make sure he’s not under stress. I just feel awful, like I’m crushing him or pumping him full of garbage that will harm him and me. Apparently everything is bad for me, which I just can’t follow.

                I don’t understand how pregnancy is considered different for every woman, but then doctors insist you fit into categories. When I was early on, I was eating too many carbs… cereal was bad for me.. everything was bad if it had carbs. Now all of the sudden, it’s nuts, yogurt, and fruit I should be eating, along with cereal. Oh and before walking was such a healthy exercise, as was belly dancing and any kind of core work out. Now I should be laying down, I should have my feet up all the time, even when sitting. I can tell she’s even reconsidering her original statement that I would be able to work until delivery, since she asked about my job then openly concluded I was probably on my feet a lot.

                It’s just completely disheartening. To tell the truth, I also get frustrated because I don’t feel the doctor knows me very well at all. Today she asked me about scars I had on my stomach, and I replied “Remember? We talked about that at my very first visit.. they are from years ago.” It’s hard, in my opinion, to diagnose someone with anything if you don’t have a solid, accurate picture of the kind of life they are living. I’m not saying I am healthy or that I don’t have this preeclampsia. I just feel that using scare tactics and jumping to worse case scenarios is a little unfair, and I can’t help but feel that the office is not out to protect me, but rather to prove a case. It’s as if they think they have a lead, and now they really, really want to prove it. I feel like once again, if anything goes wrong, it’s all my fault, and they have a case as to why it would be, like they are always on top of covering their own asses.  

                I can only hope I passed the glucose test to her satisfactory, or else I am going to be hearing about that in the next couple of weeks as well. Oh, who am I kidding… of course I’m going to be hearing about it. I’m sure she’s going to tell me just how bad it is, or how close I was to failing if I managed not to.

                To be honest, I sometimes wonder if the stress is worth it. I’m starting to think that if I have another child, I’m better off making few appointments, or making myself readily unavailable to them. And no, it’s not because I don’t care about my children. It’s because after talking with other women, I’m beginning to realize that this practice of making the patient feel some extent of guilt is typical. A coworker of mine describes it as their way of, “making sure that if something does go wrong, they can say they brought it up, that they never promised you a healthy baby or that you were doing everything right.” Another friend reassured me that after watching his wife have three kids, “They just want to make sure you go to your next appointment.”

                In any case the best and most accurate advice I’ve been given throughout the day is just not to worry about it. In an effort to make me laugh, after telling my coworker how I had two of the three symptoms of preeclampsia, she said, “You should have told your nurse, ‘Well you act like a bitch. When I come in the office I don’t like you, and when I leave the office I don’t like you. That’s three out of three symptoms of being a bitch so I guess you are one.’”

It’s… a monster!

So, to pass the time at work I thought, what better way than to watch some horrifying childbirth videos! I decided to go to youtube, type it in, and sneak a peek at what’s to come.

                And truthfully, I really think the whole, “It’s sooo gross,” thing is overdone. Probably because in this instance, it’s me being the gross one! Then again, I've always been fascinated by disgusting things, and being grossed out is kind of fun for me - as people popping pimples, bloody scratches, what it looks like to have a parasite in you, ect. Birth kind of falls into that category - gross, disgusting, but oddly fascinating.

      Yet I suppose, when you spend a whole nine months carrying around someone, feeling pretty then incredibly fat, restricted from doing this or that, experiencing the slow progress of pains and swelling veins , a small period of time spent in the complete disarray of unpleasant seems, well kind of like a single star amongst the billions. My mom used to tell me that whenever I was in trouble to think of the worst thing I’ve ever been trough. Not physically painful, mind you (as many women will say – childbirth is the worst pain!), but rather the worst kind of pain. The pain of life, of losing out, of the stuff we learn as kids to prepare us for adulthood. My mother would tell me to think back on those times, and remember that I got through those, so I can get through this as well. Of course, I custom tailored her serene wisdom to fit my personality, and I usually say something crass like, “Just remember, no matter how much you wish you could die, that a car would randomly hit you or a heart attack will strike, you’re probably not going to die, so you might as well suck it up and keep going.”

                So when I think about actually having the baby, I think that, of my many years… it will soon seem like a small speck, a series of blurry photographs, hardly recognizable in the mind. Of course, such an occasion will always be marked as precious, but over time I think reality gives way to memory, which is never very reliable. Our recollections become tainted by the emotions we felt at the time. If overall, having a baby was stressful and miserable, the memory will become an exaggerated version of those feelings. We will recall the worst of events.. same with feelings of joy and happiness.

                Anyway, to put it simply, I’m not really as worried as I thought I would be about the actual process of delivering. Oh I’m certain I will feel anxious when the time comes. I love having control and the loss of it will not be pleasant. But the actual bodily process isn’t too dramatic for me. After all, when you sit back and realize that hey, that’s how you were born, and the person before you, and the person next to you, and your friend (hey, C-sections are fairly strange looking to some as well)… it starts to lose its mystery.

                Now, on that note.. do I think males should be as understanding? No way. I completely empathize with men who think that sort of sight might cause emotional damage. It’s not a chance I’d recommend taking if they have any reservations about it at all. I suppose that’s why it’s called a “woman thing” and why early on women did not even allow men into the same room.

                It’s strange, but at times I do feel like my life has well prepared me for this future. Perhaps I was not entirely ready for it, but looking back on some of the things I’ve been through. I recall those “worst of times.” I remember scrubbing fecal cat matter out of the carpet, on my hands and knees with gloves. Honestly, a bit of baby poop doesn’t scare me at all. I remember living in filth, thinking each day that if I could just start with what was in front of me and work my way out that eventually it would be done. Probably why I’m such a neat freak now, on a side note! I remember being  at the end of my rope, several times over in my early twenties, and now even though it has only been a few years later, those times seem so distant and yet I have grown so very much.

                I am so grateful I never got pregnant when I was younger. What a dreadful time it would be! Looking back, I realize that having made all the mistakes I did, being in those moments when I thought I should just die, then having to own up and pick up the pieces of my life… it made me a solid person, for better or worse. But I have those experiences. I’m not a nineteen year old who is going to try to raise a baby while still making those kinds of mistakes to figure out who I am. I’m certainly in a much better place now, and I am certain if I keep on this track I can only become stronger.

                On a side note, it’s funny to me that so many women talk about pregnancy dreams and say that they dream about an alien. Supposedly that’s natural because the thought of what’s growing inside you can make you feel like there’s a little monster in you. Probably also helps to tie into the fear and grossness of childbirth.

                However, what about those who are like me? We dream about the opposite. I dream about myself being the monster, about trying to explain to my pretty little son about the monster I am, or that I am running away from crazy religious fanatics, trying to protect him because they want to kill myself and him. No, I do not dream about strange creatures in me or giving birth to a monster. I dream that I am the creature, and that my own kid might not even understand.

                And then there was Vince. Who, by the way, has been incredibly good to me. I should make mention of last night.  I sleep on the “inside” of the bed, meaning I am closest to the wall. Lately it has begun to pose a problem, as my acrobatics aren’t as smooth when I’m in the midst of sleeping. In other words, when I have to get up in the middle of the night, several times over, I perform a series of incredibly awesome maneuvers to bounce over him! Well, like growing older, suddenly the body seems different little by little. Tasks involving coordination and balance when I’m half asleep just aren’t what they used to be. I actually ended up crashing into the fan by our bed, which is lacking the over and so the plastic blades made quite a commotion against my skin.

                He asked if I was alright, having been stirred from his sleep, and when I told him I was alright, I figured he would promptly go back to sleep. I reemerged from the bathroom just a few moments later, and didn’t spy him right away on the bed.

                It took me a moment, and then I saw he had moved to my side, and just as I noticed this he wearily admitted that he was going to switch with me for the evening. Giving up his prized side of the bed was quite nice… I think I felt quite enamored, mainly because I know how cocky he tends to be about having his side of the bed.  

                Tomorrow evening he leaves for his own personal vacation. I imagine I will miss him quite a bit, although I have decided to keep myself occupied by being lazy, eating badly, and watching horror movies! On Thursday I have an appointment to finally have my shot… the one reason I have committed myself so fervently to the doctor. I actually missed my appointment this morning, for some reason having thought it was tomorrow. Well, at least I will be able to relax tonight with Vincent and not have to feel pressured to wake up so early.

Snow and Sand People

So going to Michigan was completely fulfilling! Before I left, I reminded myself that time passes in the blink of an eye, and that I was really going for my mother. She wanted to see me, and my grandparents are unable to travel, so the trip wasn’t so much for me as it was for their enjoyment. For all that my mother has put up with, I could suck it up. I told myself I wasn’t going to nap in the middle of the day, and I wasn’t going to become whiny or homesick because, after all, I would be coming back in just a few short days!

So there were a few upsets while visiting, but I’m happy to report they were not my doing! I wish I could have spent more quality time with my mom and dad, but it was so nice to get up and out, moving around. And Vincent must have missed me on some minor level, for he was good enough to call me at night, which was soothing and reassuring.

While I was there, the weather was perfect. Forty degree days, and yet the snow was thick on the ground so it did not melt. We went shopping on and off, and I picked up a few items, such as a carrier for the baby, a few movies to add to the “kid’s collection” I’ve decided to work on, and even a couple extra maternity bits of clothing.

However, with all the fun, I have to admit I’m at month six, and suddenly my body has turned against me with a vengeance! While the weight problem has been a concern from the beginning, now it’s as if each pound is posing a new problem.  When I was younger, I had a sharp pain in my heel. Imagine a knife, being jabbed into the heel, down to the tip of the bone. The doctor believed I had a heel spur, and while this was never fully resolved, the problem finally came under control (probably because I lost weight, for I have fluctuated throughout my life). The pain has returned, activated by this weight gain of mine, along with my swelling. It hurts to walk, to stand, which makes it hard in turn, to be very active. Not to mention, now I’m swelling like a balloon. While a coworker pointed out it might be from salt, I was certain I had decreased my salt intake. Besides, I drink at least 2 liters of water a day, and that does not include the other abundance of liquids I drink. I’m thirsty all of the time, yet while my hydration seems fine, suddenly the bones in my feet have disappeared! My hands swell throughout the day, sometimes becoming numb especially if I am actively doing something engaging. If I relax on the couch in a position not sitting up (lying down), as soon as I sit up I feel my hips, waist, and back ache. I gather that my hips are shifting, or the ligaments loosening as I have read. However, all of this seems quite sudden, and I am left to wonder how much will start to change from day to day. Still, I remain resilient to a degree! I have practiced painting my toenails a different way, and shaving my legs is the same as always. Too bad I look like a huge blowup doll.

Sometimes I feel really pretty, beautiful like I am spiritually serene, at the peak of some mystery. Other times, I wonder if I will ever go back to being pretty, or if those around me will see me as a mother figure, and be afraid to think of me as sexy. Vincent is going out of town this week, to Mexico, and I’m certain there will be many “hot” girls on the beaches. I wonder if he ever feels like I will never be attractive again.

In the meantime, while I was in Michigan, I did make a snow family with my parents to commemorate or little family. I hope that I can add the pictures here soon, but it may take some time since we are having computer troubles currently.  My mother constructed a Vincent snowman, my father made me, and I made little Cesar! I really thought it would be something nice for our future, to look back on.  And, with any luck I have successfully convinced Vincent to make a grouping of sand people while he is in Mexico. I think that would just be splendid, something very unique! Then again, he is going with seven other males, so hopefully he won’t become embarrassed and back out.  

Above: Snow family. I'm the fat one on the right.. Vince is the left and Cesar in the middle. Updated on 01/01/11 Below: Mom, Dad, and he snow family. Updated 01/01/11

Above: My mom and I at dinner! Updated 01/01/11

A few days, and I’ll be out of here…

     I’m sure Vincent is really looking forward to some time without me. I can’t believe we have managed to stay calm since we began living together in December, especially considering my sensitivity, easily disturbed temper, and whining!  There have been a couple of moments in which we have come close to having an argument, but have thankfully avoided them (just so people don’t think it’s all perfect).

                Sometimes I feel like I am too pushy, or too needy, and that it’s only a matter of time before he gets irritated and tells me he’s had enough. I have to constantly remind myself that we are better than that, and to try and enjoy the time we spend together rather than worry about it so much. Still, with a baby looming not so far off, I think it’s unavoidable for worries not to begin to surface. I think they are for him, he’s just not as vocal as I am about it.

                Still, what he does talk to me about makes me smile. Apparently, Vincent is looking forward to the day that Cesar is old enough to build a fort with him. I picture it as some half made thing in the living room or bedroom from a table or mattresses. He plans to make a sign that says, NO GIRLS ALOUD, and for them both to go play in it.

                Sometimes we talk about which of the two of us will be the stricter parent. Will Cesar dread the “I’m going to tell your father!” or “Wait until your mother hears about this,” threat? I always say I think it’s going to be me. I like to lecture a lot for the sake of hearing my own voice, and I’m a no nonsense, temperamental person. I practice with our two cats. Seems to me that I’m always the one getting after them!

                Although in his defense, Vincent has high standards too. He might surprise me.

                My doctor tried to warn me that at this stage a lot of women, “turn in.” I’m not really sure what that means, but I don’t think it necessarily applies to me. I say that because from the context she used it, it sounded as though she was referring to a more reflective state. Unfortunately, I’ve always been reflective (as you can see from my past writings) and I have always overanalyzed things. I think the most reflective I have been through this whole pregnancy was more towards the beginning, as I was getting used to the idea, questioning myself. Now, there is a lot more anxiety, sure. Sometimes I think I just can’t do this, that I’d rather stay pregnant a little while longer. After all, I can sleep in, eat, complain.

                But beyond the usual pressures I am focusing a lot on making myself feel spoiled! Plus, Cesar is so calm that sometimes I actually forget that I’m pregnant. I know that sounds horrid, but he’s so calm and sweet, that I just think I’m really fat sometimes!

I ordered my birthing gown today.. which I thought was a nice treat. I hope it fits well, because I would hate to deliver in a nasty hospital gown. By having my own choice in that, hopefully I will feel a little less estranged! Been painting my nails a bit lately, and I’m actually looking forward to going to Michigan. Everything I was feeling the other week was fixed after I spoke with my mother and with Vincent. My mother encouraged me to focus on myself, on working on my self esteem, and as I warned she did say, “Buy yourself something!” So I intend to do lots of shopping while in Michigan.

                Meanwhile, I have been pondering something nice to do for Vincent also. He really has been such a great support, and Valentine’s day is coming up so that’s pretty perfect timing. Well, truth be told, most of my Valentine’s days have been spent with my family, since it’s my mother’s birthday. I’ve never really had the opportunity to see it as a romantic holiday, and that’s probably lucky for me since Vincent really doesn’t care for the holiday anyway. Still, I will be in Michigan then, celebrating with my mom, but I figured perhaps I should try to do something nice or buy something as a show of appreciation. However, the problem remains that Vincent is extremely picky, and being that he doesn’t care for Valentine’s day I can’t buy chocolate (oh yeah he hates chocolate as well)           or cards. So I’m a bit confused. How do you show someone gratitude or that you care very much about them when they seem to get what they want on their own? Hmmmm…