Over the weekend, I got a sub from Publix. An italian sub, with DELI MEAT, OMG. DON'T YOU KNOW YOU'LL GIVE YOUR BABY LISTERIA AND HE'LL DIE?! To which I say, I knew the risks, and it was a chance I took, knowing I have better odds of being struck by lightning or winning the lottery than I do of contracting listeria from a fucking deli sub and potentially killing my resident fetus.
Anyway, Monday rolls around and Spagett is not his or her usual kicky, active self. And then I thought, well, you know, maybe I did kill my kid with listeria. And then I started getting menstrual-like cramps low down in my belly, and that plus the other thing had me rolling to the hospital.
IT WASN'T LISTERIA. IT WAS PRE-TERM LABOR!
They put me in an observation room with a monitor for Spagett's heartbeat, and a monitor to check for contractions. Yeah, apparently I was having contractions, and couldn't even feel the bitches except for a tightening in my guts. It wasn't painful. It wasn't what I expected. And when they took my blood pressure, HOLY CRAP. It was through the fucking roof. I mean like 160/100 and then the labor and delivery doctors came in and said "we're going to keep you under observation for a few hours to make sure you're not dilating and that your blood pressure goes back down."
I was promptly whisked away to a more private room where three doctors proceeded to do things to my vagina that my own husband would balk at. I had swabs inside my bagina, hands in my vagoo! Turns out my cervix was beginning to thin out and dilate. LIKE IT SHOULD WHEN YOU'RE IN LABOR, NOT AT 33 WEEKS! Also, no one, no woman ever prepared me for how motherfucking PAINFUL a pelvic exam is. LADIES, YOU FAILED ME. There was so much pain and pressure when they jammed their hands in there that if I had had to go #1 or even #2, it would have all flown out. All over the doctor with his arm buried to the wrist in my flippy flaps, and in my opinion, what he was doing was bad, but not bad enough to warrant that kind of punishment.
Anyway, two hours later, my blood pressure was still high, and another pelvic revealed further cervical thinning and dilation. Also, one of the swab tests they'd done showed the presence of a protein called fetal fibronectin, which is a pretty good indicator that the bun in your oven is not staying there much longer, no matter how underdone it may be. And also those contractions never went away, and were in fact still coming pretty regularly, and also still very NOT PAINFUL.
They started giving me a drug called Procardia, which is primarily used for angina pain, but it also works really really well at lowering blood pressure and stopping contractions (who ever figured that out?). It did what it was supposed to, and I was admitted. Also, I got buttshots, aka STEROIDS.
Because steroids accelerate fetal lung development. And the doctors were/are convinced Spagett is not going to be a Christmas baby after all. More like a Thanksgiving baby, if everything goes well.
The hospital is a noisy place, even at night, and I am a light sleeper, so it was no surprise to me when I could not sleep a wink all night in that place. Between the blood pressure checks every fifteen minutes, to the alarms beeping on my monitors, to the fact that I had to get up and unhook myself from the monitors every time I needed to use the toilet... I didn't sleep.
I had butt shots, hands in my vagoo, ANOTHER TWENTY FOUR HOUR URINE COLLECTION TEST, monitors on stomach and arm and finger continuously for over 24 hours, an IV that kept getting tangled up in EVERYTHING, and no sleep for an eight months pregnant woman in over 36 hours, and the part that finally made me cry was when they discharged me with a big bottle of Procardia and ordered my ass on bedrest. I was fine until then! Laughing and joking with the staff up to that point, but once we left the labor and delivery floor, I cried and couldn't stop all the way home.
And then I wanted to cry again when I got home and went potty and instead of clean toilet paper, came back with a big slug looking chunk of brown and red mucous. And I had to call labor and delivery back and ask what I should do if I'd passed my mucous plug. They said "nothing, just relax. Come back in if you start leaking fluid, or you start having contractions again."
So my tired ass went to bed and passed out.
And the funniest part of all this? I DEFINITELY DO NOT HAVE PREECLAMPSIA. The repeat urine test came back with protein level of 7. You must have a level of over 300 for it to be considered preeclampsia. So there is that.
Anyway, I'm at home now. Bedrest is actually not so bad: its a great excuse to just sit around and be lazy all day and get Sid to do things for me. The Procardia really makes me loopy, so I spend a lot of time napping, which is fine with me.
Thursday, November 5, 2009
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
oh, I saw this one coming...
I had an OB appointment out at the naval base yesterday, met my new midwife, and everything seemed to be going pretty well. My weight gain was spot on, and there were only a few blood tests I needed, simple things like thyroid function and platelets. Nothing major.
But it turns out that my blood pressure is high. Every other appointment I've had, it's been totally normal, 120/60, absolutely textbook perfect. But this time it was 150/90. Yeah. So now I have to go back to the hospital to have a bunch more tests done today to rule out preeclampsia. Oh joy!
Surprisingly enough, I don't really feel worried. Sure, preeclampsia would be bad. Very bad, actually. But that might not be what this is, after all. And before I raise my blood pressure further and stress myself all out to hell, I want to know that I actually have something to freak out about.
But it turns out that my blood pressure is high. Every other appointment I've had, it's been totally normal, 120/60, absolutely textbook perfect. But this time it was 150/90. Yeah. So now I have to go back to the hospital to have a bunch more tests done today to rule out preeclampsia. Oh joy!
Surprisingly enough, I don't really feel worried. Sure, preeclampsia would be bad. Very bad, actually. But that might not be what this is, after all. And before I raise my blood pressure further and stress myself all out to hell, I want to know that I actually have something to freak out about.
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
just call me the Bitchy Wizzle Beast
I can't stop peeing.
Seriously.
I wake up every hour and a half during the night to go take the hugest horse pisses, and I can't understand where all this water is coming from. Because I make sure not to drink anything after 6 pm. And yet I'm still up all night having these huge bladder-busting wees. Wizzles so big that it's physically painful to get out of bed and stumble to the bathroom, and then act of voiding pisses off my uterus and gives me braxton-hicks contractions.
Holy shit, that's a huge fucking piss.
Added to the fact that I'm barely sleeping at night with all this peeing, I'm not used to the heat and I am DYING. DYING I SAY. Tired and overheated, that's my Florida Experience so far.
I fucking hate Florida.
Seriously.
I wake up every hour and a half during the night to go take the hugest horse pisses, and I can't understand where all this water is coming from. Because I make sure not to drink anything after 6 pm. And yet I'm still up all night having these huge bladder-busting wees. Wizzles so big that it's physically painful to get out of bed and stumble to the bathroom, and then act of voiding pisses off my uterus and gives me braxton-hicks contractions.
Holy shit, that's a huge fucking piss.
Added to the fact that I'm barely sleeping at night with all this peeing, I'm not used to the heat and I am DYING. DYING I SAY. Tired and overheated, that's my Florida Experience so far.
I fucking hate Florida.
Saturday, September 19, 2009
the kind of person I might actually despise
If I met myself on a message board, or even in real life, I think I'd find myself to be exactly the kind of person I claim to hate: one of those people who just get lucky.
Okay, we certainly struggled to get pregnant, but after that? It's been pretty smooth sailing. I haven't gained a ton of weight. There have been no scares with contractions or anything like that. I'm not terribly uncomfortable like a lot of women at seven months. All my bloodwork has been totally normal: no false positives on the AFP screen, no antibodies, no high blood glucose... it's been absolutely by-the book.
And my thyroid has behaved so well! Lots of women with hypothyroidism find that they must increase their medication while pregnant. I've made it to seven months without needing a single dosage change, and beyond that, my TSH has been progressively lower and lower at each check. I started this pregnancy with my TSH fluctuating between about 2 to 2.5, and when it was checked last week, it came back at 0.8. That's great! That's fucking fantastic! I never expected to be one of those rare lucky ones whose thyroid function actually improves: if this improvement continues, I may be able to stop taking meds altogether, and wouldn't that be nice?
Now, where do I get off, being so goddamn lucky? I just about make myself sick. Trust me that I know I could have it a lot worse than I do, and I am so grateful that this has been, all in all, a very easy and fairly enjoyable pregnancy so far (if we conveniently forget the vomiting and heartburn). I wouldn't be surprised if I made up for all this sunshine-and-roses with a heinous labor and delivery.
Okay, we certainly struggled to get pregnant, but after that? It's been pretty smooth sailing. I haven't gained a ton of weight. There have been no scares with contractions or anything like that. I'm not terribly uncomfortable like a lot of women at seven months. All my bloodwork has been totally normal: no false positives on the AFP screen, no antibodies, no high blood glucose... it's been absolutely by-the book.
And my thyroid has behaved so well! Lots of women with hypothyroidism find that they must increase their medication while pregnant. I've made it to seven months without needing a single dosage change, and beyond that, my TSH has been progressively lower and lower at each check. I started this pregnancy with my TSH fluctuating between about 2 to 2.5, and when it was checked last week, it came back at 0.8. That's great! That's fucking fantastic! I never expected to be one of those rare lucky ones whose thyroid function actually improves: if this improvement continues, I may be able to stop taking meds altogether, and wouldn't that be nice?
Now, where do I get off, being so goddamn lucky? I just about make myself sick. Trust me that I know I could have it a lot worse than I do, and I am so grateful that this has been, all in all, a very easy and fairly enjoyable pregnancy so far (if we conveniently forget the vomiting and heartburn). I wouldn't be surprised if I made up for all this sunshine-and-roses with a heinous labor and delivery.
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
a chapter is closing
We've known for quite a while now that we would be moving, but it still doesn't seem real. Of all people, I should probably understand the fundamental concept as well as anyone - after all, I am the one who packed up my books, sorted out the cabinets, and went through all my clothes. I am the one who started preparing for the move! I should know we're moving! But every time I see a calendar, it hits me like a fist. The movers are coming next week. Holy shit, we are really going to leave this house behind.
Part of me is ready to make the change. This house is old, poorly insulated, and I'm fairly sure that the roof needs replacing. It leaks in the attic during rainstorms, and the toilet clogs on absolutely nothing. The bathroom sink drains at a snail's pace, and stubbornly refuses to change no matter what we do. During the winter, it never gets above 65 degrees in the living room, and that is the warmest room of the house. In the spring, slugs find their way in here from somewhere, and we find dried out slug corpses on the rugs. The cabinet doors don't close all the way, and if they do, they never STAY closed. And did I mention the transient ant colonies that terrorized us for two years straight? Yeah, that was a barrel of laughs. And now the roaming gangs of box elders that have not only taken over our house, but the entire neighborhood? Oh, and I can't forget the big trees that make autumn such a chore: you can't get away with raking once or twice, oh no, you need to be out there every weekend.
In short, this house...can be a huge pain in the ass.
And yet this is the house Sid and I have lived in for almost five years. This is the first place we shared together. This is where we learned to be a couple, after two years of dating long-distance. This is where we laughed and cried and argued and built our life together. I will be sad to leave that part of our history behind.
But at the same time, I remind myself I won't be leaving it behind at all. Because every time I think of all the important moments of our lives in our years here, I will think of this house. When I remember waiting for Sid to come home from work so I could show him the positive pregnancy test in my pocket, I will recall standing on the porch in the late afternoon sunlight of early spring. I can't think of the butterflies in my stomach without remembering how cold the painted boards on that porch were against my bare feet. When I think of the times Sid went out on deployment, or was sent out during emergencies, I can't help but be reminded of how we said our goodbyes in the kitchen, and a room that was normally full of life suddenly felt so bleak and empty after he left.
I think, overall, I am looking forward to the move, because it will signify a new chapter in our lives: in the old house, we needed to learn how to function as a pair, and in the new house, we'll have to learn how to function as a family.
Part of me is ready to make the change. This house is old, poorly insulated, and I'm fairly sure that the roof needs replacing. It leaks in the attic during rainstorms, and the toilet clogs on absolutely nothing. The bathroom sink drains at a snail's pace, and stubbornly refuses to change no matter what we do. During the winter, it never gets above 65 degrees in the living room, and that is the warmest room of the house. In the spring, slugs find their way in here from somewhere, and we find dried out slug corpses on the rugs. The cabinet doors don't close all the way, and if they do, they never STAY closed. And did I mention the transient ant colonies that terrorized us for two years straight? Yeah, that was a barrel of laughs. And now the roaming gangs of box elders that have not only taken over our house, but the entire neighborhood? Oh, and I can't forget the big trees that make autumn such a chore: you can't get away with raking once or twice, oh no, you need to be out there every weekend.
In short, this house...can be a huge pain in the ass.
And yet this is the house Sid and I have lived in for almost five years. This is the first place we shared together. This is where we learned to be a couple, after two years of dating long-distance. This is where we laughed and cried and argued and built our life together. I will be sad to leave that part of our history behind.
But at the same time, I remind myself I won't be leaving it behind at all. Because every time I think of all the important moments of our lives in our years here, I will think of this house. When I remember waiting for Sid to come home from work so I could show him the positive pregnancy test in my pocket, I will recall standing on the porch in the late afternoon sunlight of early spring. I can't think of the butterflies in my stomach without remembering how cold the painted boards on that porch were against my bare feet. When I think of the times Sid went out on deployment, or was sent out during emergencies, I can't help but be reminded of how we said our goodbyes in the kitchen, and a room that was normally full of life suddenly felt so bleak and empty after he left.
I think, overall, I am looking forward to the move, because it will signify a new chapter in our lives: in the old house, we needed to learn how to function as a pair, and in the new house, we'll have to learn how to function as a family.
Monday, August 31, 2009
clutter
We moved into Manson Homestead in January of 2005, though the nickname came much later. We brought just ourselves and two cats, and what little furniture we had (a bed and a sofa) arrived almost a full week after we did. We started out here with nothing, literally nothing. Now we've been here for a pretty decent four and a half years, and along the way we've managed to accumulate another cat and a houseful of possessions. I am continually shocked at how much CLUTTER we managed to make in that time, how DIRTY the undersink cabinets got when I wasn't looking. And where the fuck did all these fucking cat hair tumbleweeds come from?
We'd decided we were going to move ourselves. We were going to pack up everything on our own and move it with help from friends and family. And then after a couple of days where I spent all my time lifting and bending and crouching and cleaning and packing, I ended up having some ugly menstrual-type cramps (and some bleeding, but I think that was from something else), and we threw in the towel. The Navy is going to move us. The Navy is going to hire professional movers to come in and pack all our stuff, move it all and unpack it at our new house.
This means Sid and I are left doing damage control. Because I know they aren't going to scrub the doorframes, or the cabinets, or the baseboards, or anything like that. And our landlady was cool with us not repainting before we left, so long as we cleaned up before we left. And that was kind of a given! What were we going to do, leave our dirty finger marks on the white paint for someone else to scrub?
So I've been trying to pace myself and do a little bit each day. My task for the past week has been cleaning out all the cabinets in the house. And noodly FSM, you'd never freaking BELIEVE the sheer amount of CRAP that got stashed in our cabinets simply because we didn't know where else to put the shit. Grocery bags and caulking guns and a showerhead and old license plates and a soggy box of industrial staples... just to name a few. I'm in awe at how much we packed into those small spaces. I feel like such a goddamn packrat.
We'd decided we were going to move ourselves. We were going to pack up everything on our own and move it with help from friends and family. And then after a couple of days where I spent all my time lifting and bending and crouching and cleaning and packing, I ended up having some ugly menstrual-type cramps (and some bleeding, but I think that was from something else), and we threw in the towel. The Navy is going to move us. The Navy is going to hire professional movers to come in and pack all our stuff, move it all and unpack it at our new house.
This means Sid and I are left doing damage control. Because I know they aren't going to scrub the doorframes, or the cabinets, or the baseboards, or anything like that. And our landlady was cool with us not repainting before we left, so long as we cleaned up before we left. And that was kind of a given! What were we going to do, leave our dirty finger marks on the white paint for someone else to scrub?
So I've been trying to pace myself and do a little bit each day. My task for the past week has been cleaning out all the cabinets in the house. And noodly FSM, you'd never freaking BELIEVE the sheer amount of CRAP that got stashed in our cabinets simply because we didn't know where else to put the shit. Grocery bags and caulking guns and a showerhead and old license plates and a soggy box of industrial staples... just to name a few. I'm in awe at how much we packed into those small spaces. I feel like such a goddamn packrat.
Monday, August 24, 2009
home sweet home
Staying with Sid's dad and grandmother was an exercise in patience and tongue-biting, and it would be an understatement to say I am glad to be home. I am fucking relieved to be home. It was just one thing after another while we were there, and I was on my last nerve due to all the traveling and lack of sleep... so yeah. It was interesting, to say the least.
Elder Manson started in on his "well, I guess I have to take back the baseball bat and the cleats and the glove..." and I cut him down in a cold minute. "That's awfully mean, why can't a girl use those things?" And he hemmed and hawed and tried to feed me a lame line of bullshit about boys and girls sizing being different. Close, but no cigar, Elder Manson! Try again!
And then we found out that Grandmother, Eldest Manson, has failed her drivers test and continues to drive. Blind in one eye and hardly able to get about under her own steam, this woman is still plonking herself down behind the wheel to operate a vehicle. I am staying far, far away from that one.
And then the water was terribly hard and dried out my skin and caused such a pizza-faced breakout that I was afraid to look in the mirror. Nothing like walking around with a bad case of the zits to really boost yer self-esteem!
And then, and then, and then! We ate off plastic silverware the entire time we were there because someone, I don't know who and I don't care who, simply rinsed off the dirty silverware and stuck that shit back in the drawer. Didn't scrub it with hot water and soap, didn't run it through the dishwasher, just stuck that crusty mess back to be used again. I'm not much of a housekeeper myself, but the overall state of that kitchen was appalling. My kitchen may be cluttered and the porcelain sink may be in dire need of a bleaching, but for fuck's sake, at least it's clean!
I keep telling myself that they mean well, but I can only tolerate the elder Mansons in small doses.
Elder Manson started in on his "well, I guess I have to take back the baseball bat and the cleats and the glove..." and I cut him down in a cold minute. "That's awfully mean, why can't a girl use those things?" And he hemmed and hawed and tried to feed me a lame line of bullshit about boys and girls sizing being different. Close, but no cigar, Elder Manson! Try again!
And then we found out that Grandmother, Eldest Manson, has failed her drivers test and continues to drive. Blind in one eye and hardly able to get about under her own steam, this woman is still plonking herself down behind the wheel to operate a vehicle. I am staying far, far away from that one.
And then the water was terribly hard and dried out my skin and caused such a pizza-faced breakout that I was afraid to look in the mirror. Nothing like walking around with a bad case of the zits to really boost yer self-esteem!
And then, and then, and then! We ate off plastic silverware the entire time we were there because someone, I don't know who and I don't care who, simply rinsed off the dirty silverware and stuck that shit back in the drawer. Didn't scrub it with hot water and soap, didn't run it through the dishwasher, just stuck that crusty mess back to be used again. I'm not much of a housekeeper myself, but the overall state of that kitchen was appalling. My kitchen may be cluttered and the porcelain sink may be in dire need of a bleaching, but for fuck's sake, at least it's clean!
I keep telling myself that they mean well, but I can only tolerate the elder Mansons in small doses.
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