Well now. Remember waaaaaaaaay back in June when we were hot in the middle of Operation: Baby? And I posted that although I wasn't pregnant, I also wasn't experiencing anything even remotely resembling a period?
Yeah. Well it's arrived. THREE FUCKING MONTHS LATER.
Seriously, three months (almost to the day) since my last period. Since then, we've put Operation: Baby on hold and I've gone back on the pill because I have some personal shit I need to address (via Dr. Crazy Palms, who is still kicking my ass and taking my name every session) before I feel like I'm really ready to successfully damage my own children the way I've been damaged.
For most of my life, when I'm on the pill, I "suppress" my period, meaning I skip the week of placebo pills and just go straight back to the hormone pills, which means I usually only have one or two periods in a year, which means I WIN!
Except now that I'm suppressing again after MONTHS OF NO UTERINE ACTION AT ALL ANYWAY, of course this is when the fucking shittiest part about being a woman decides to come and fuck with my life.
Welcome back tampons, you have not even been a little bit missed.
Feel like a fuckin bottle of wine, stuffed with a cork, laying sideways in the fridge, dripping all over the place anyway.
Get Boned.
Showing posts with label Operation: Baby. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Operation: Baby. Show all posts
Tuesday, August 16, 2011
Monday, June 20, 2011
Updated** Nopers
So I'm not even a little bit pregnant.
Except that I still don't know for sure, I'm just guessing based on the utter lack of symptoms, the negative pee test, and the fact that I had cramps so badly on Saturday that I wished for a swift death.
Ladies, you know what I'm talking about - the cramps which feel as if a sewer rat has climbed inside your abdomen via your belly button, which it ripped open with its bare feet, and has taken to leisurely gnawing the lining of your VERY SOUL one shred at a time, while using it's hind claws to scrape your cervix into bloody shreds of flesh and tears?
Those kind of cramps.
Except...wait for it...NO PERIOD YET.
Usually, my personal brand of rat gnawing cramps come at the same time as the hideous rush of dead uterus, but not this time.
Because of course not this time.
If I've learned anything during Operation: Baby, it's that my body is NOT to be trusted under any circumstances.
So I'm not pregnant. I think. Probably. Status pending.
So here: have some pictures while you wait.
***So Dr. Crazy Socks and I squared off this morning for the first time in, oh, a year-and-a-half. He remembered me, but not in the good way. He was - fittingly - wearing crazy socks, either some kind of pink trout or salmon, I couldn't bring myself to ask, and he confirmed that indeed, I am still crazy. More appointments pending, including one with a psychiatrist. Apparently Dr. Crazy Socks feels he is in over his head re: fixing me. Because of course he does.
Except that I still don't know for sure, I'm just guessing based on the utter lack of symptoms, the negative pee test, and the fact that I had cramps so badly on Saturday that I wished for a swift death.
Ladies, you know what I'm talking about - the cramps which feel as if a sewer rat has climbed inside your abdomen via your belly button, which it ripped open with its bare feet, and has taken to leisurely gnawing the lining of your VERY SOUL one shred at a time, while using it's hind claws to scrape your cervix into bloody shreds of flesh and tears?
Those kind of cramps.
Except...wait for it...NO PERIOD YET.
Usually, my personal brand of rat gnawing cramps come at the same time as the hideous rush of dead uterus, but not this time.
Because of course not this time.
If I've learned anything during Operation: Baby, it's that my body is NOT to be trusted under any circumstances.
So I'm not pregnant. I think. Probably. Status pending.
So here: have some pictures while you wait.
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| Lily, secure in her guilt. That's a diaper she shredded. A BLOODY diaper. And it was stuck in her teeth. And we found a piece in Scary's shit. |
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| Scary, post-hair cut. She is so itty bitty now! |
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| A visual demonstration of why I love metal shows. I'd go for the t-shirts alone. But more to come on this...I've got some heart-to-sick, twisted heart coming with my favorite scary band, Fetus Heist. |
***So Dr. Crazy Socks and I squared off this morning for the first time in, oh, a year-and-a-half. He remembered me, but not in the good way. He was - fittingly - wearing crazy socks, either some kind of pink trout or salmon, I couldn't bring myself to ask, and he confirmed that indeed, I am still crazy. More appointments pending, including one with a psychiatrist. Apparently Dr. Crazy Socks feels he is in over his head re: fixing me. Because of course he does.
Friday, June 17, 2011
It could go either way
As of this moment, I am either pregnant or I am not pregnant. Crazy thought, huh, being one or the other? Because isn't that exactly what all human beings are at any given time? I am the first one ever.
It's hard to say which way the cookie will crumble, thanks to last month's royal fuck of a wonky 31-day cycle, which completely threw off my ovulation window calculations, thanks very much, Mrs. Testy Vagina & Co.
So my period is due today but has not started, which last month would have had me all twitterpated and poking my boobs to see if they're tender until I bruised them and actually MADE them tender. This month, I'm not sure that anything short of a fetus leg falling out of my coot would convince me I'm knocked up.
It is exactly such unexplainable swings in my moods from scary-obsessed to mildly blasé at most that has me scrambling to meet with Dr. Crazy Socks on Monday.
It's hard to say which way the cookie will crumble, thanks to last month's royal fuck of a wonky 31-day cycle, which completely threw off my ovulation window calculations, thanks very much, Mrs. Testy Vagina & Co.
So my period is due today but has not started, which last month would have had me all twitterpated and poking my boobs to see if they're tender until I bruised them and actually MADE them tender. This month, I'm not sure that anything short of a fetus leg falling out of my coot would convince me I'm knocked up.
It is exactly such unexplainable swings in my moods from scary-obsessed to mildly blasé at most that has me scrambling to meet with Dr. Crazy Socks on Monday.
Monday, June 06, 2011
Booze baby, burning blood
Okay, so @NamelessFriend didn't get a tattoo after all and she didn't even BOTHER to run it by me first. I haven't actually spoken to her yet, so I don't know if she totally changed her mind or if she just had to postpone the ink because she was too drunk, but either way, I am reporting her for underage consumption.
Why? Because, Christine...you are turning twenty...your eyes are getting heavy...when I snap my fingers, you will bestow upon my your (what do most kids drink these days?) Mike's Hard Lemonade (which I will spike with actual alcohol when I get home) and you won't remember a thing...oh, and throw in those white heels while you're at it...
I spent my weekend in the sun so I'm a bit pink today, which is awesome because, at least with my skin, the burn kind of sneaks up like a cat stalking a sparrow, which is to say that I don't hear the burn coming until it's too late, and when I wake up decapitated in heaven, it feels like the sun tossed me around and then bit me a little bit. The feeling gets stronger as the color of my skin changes, so now that it's been a full 12ish hours since I retreated inside, my thighs may as well be on fire.
Right vicinity, wrong unit.
I did have to take a break from skin-cancering myself to drive all the way to a non-puppy-selling pet store to pick up more fucking DIAPERS for Lily, who is still "in heat" which means that if she is non-diapered for any moment of time, then she leaves a trail of bloody drips behind her. It's easier to find her, sure, but THERE IS DOGGY UTERUS ON MY FLOOR and also Gray says she smells like a fat lady, which I know from experience is not a good thing.
Um, and the other morning, Gray and I may have been baby-making (is it odd that my dog and I are ovulating together?) and I glanced down to see Lily sitting at attention, big grin on her face, tail slapping the wall like my head into the headboard. I'm pretty sure she was rooting for Gray, but part of me wonders if she thought she'd be next.
I would pay to see those puppies.
She also sits on the deck or at the door and instead of whining softly at the appearance of a person, she moans and howls loudly at the appearance of ABSOLUTELY NOTHING, which translated from dog language means FUCK ME, BOYS.
Tell me something...are diapers for humans this expensive? Because if so, I *maybe* just decided that I don't want kids after all.
Why? Because, Christine...you are turning twenty...your eyes are getting heavy...when I snap my fingers, you will bestow upon my your (what do most kids drink these days?) Mike's Hard Lemonade (which I will spike with actual alcohol when I get home) and you won't remember a thing...oh, and throw in those white heels while you're at it...
I spent my weekend in the sun so I'm a bit pink today, which is awesome because, at least with my skin, the burn kind of sneaks up like a cat stalking a sparrow, which is to say that I don't hear the burn coming until it's too late, and when I wake up decapitated in heaven, it feels like the sun tossed me around and then bit me a little bit. The feeling gets stronger as the color of my skin changes, so now that it's been a full 12ish hours since I retreated inside, my thighs may as well be on fire.
Right vicinity, wrong unit.
I did have to take a break from skin-cancering myself to drive all the way to a non-puppy-selling pet store to pick up more fucking DIAPERS for Lily, who is still "in heat" which means that if she is non-diapered for any moment of time, then she leaves a trail of bloody drips behind her. It's easier to find her, sure, but THERE IS DOGGY UTERUS ON MY FLOOR and also Gray says she smells like a fat lady, which I know from experience is not a good thing.
Um, and the other morning, Gray and I may have been baby-making (is it odd that my dog and I are ovulating together?) and I glanced down to see Lily sitting at attention, big grin on her face, tail slapping the wall like my head into the headboard. I'm pretty sure she was rooting for Gray, but part of me wonders if she thought she'd be next.
I would pay to see those puppies.
She also sits on the deck or at the door and instead of whining softly at the appearance of a person, she moans and howls loudly at the appearance of ABSOLUTELY NOTHING, which translated from dog language means FUCK ME, BOYS.
Tell me something...are diapers for humans this expensive? Because if so, I *maybe* just decided that I don't want kids after all.
Wednesday, May 18, 2011
It feels exactly the same so I'm pretty sure my reproductive organs are staging a bloody coup
Well I'm not pregnant, so that baby bump musta-could-be attributed to the burrito I ate.
I'm most upset because that blows my "burritos are slimming" theory all to hell.
In a grand gesture of Impatience, I went to the doctor and had them perform a blood test to confirm what I already suspected - that Gray's little swimmers aren't so much "swimming" as they are "wearing water wings and splashing each other" - but the results of that blood test proved to be the difference between one margarita with dinner and three margaritas with each course of dinner, so it turned out to be well worth the trouble.
Then OF COURSE I started bleeding like a stuck pig in the middle of that night.
I guess when my uterus realized I was onto its mind games, it decided to wave the red flag and go back to business as usual. Which is fine with me because I've been dying to use those PH balanced tampons ever since BlogHer last year, but I kept forgetting I had them because the package looks like my box of Sponge Bob band aids, and while I've been tempted to use Sponge Bob on my vag before (excuse me, but aren't band aids MADE for things that are bleeding?)...I never did.
I remembered my PH balanced tampons this time because I'm hyper-conscious of my vagina's emotional state this week, but also because I abstained from buying regular old imbalanced tampons in the hopes I wouldn't need them for a while, and so when the blood gushed, it was either 1) Wear the PH balanced tampons or 2) Shove in an old wine cork and hope I don't need the corkscrew to get it out. Then I realized my wine comes with screw tops these days, and that option seemed like unnecessary vaginal torture.
We're trying to make amends, my vag and me.
It wouldn't be a normal "time of the month" if I didn't experience some of the horrifying "chunks down the shower drain, holy god, did my uterus maul a small rodent, what the fuck WAS that?" and then I decided it must have been my remaining shreds of dignity that plopped out.
I'd been looking for those.
I'm most upset because that blows my "burritos are slimming" theory all to hell.
In a grand gesture of Impatience, I went to the doctor and had them perform a blood test to confirm what I already suspected - that Gray's little swimmers aren't so much "swimming" as they are "wearing water wings and splashing each other" - but the results of that blood test proved to be the difference between one margarita with dinner and three margaritas with each course of dinner, so it turned out to be well worth the trouble.
Then OF COURSE I started bleeding like a stuck pig in the middle of that night.
I guess when my uterus realized I was onto its mind games, it decided to wave the red flag and go back to business as usual. Which is fine with me because I've been dying to use those PH balanced tampons ever since BlogHer last year, but I kept forgetting I had them because the package looks like my box of Sponge Bob band aids, and while I've been tempted to use Sponge Bob on my vag before (excuse me, but aren't band aids MADE for things that are bleeding?)...I never did.
I remembered my PH balanced tampons this time because I'm hyper-conscious of my vagina's emotional state this week, but also because I abstained from buying regular old imbalanced tampons in the hopes I wouldn't need them for a while, and so when the blood gushed, it was either 1) Wear the PH balanced tampons or 2) Shove in an old wine cork and hope I don't need the corkscrew to get it out. Then I realized my wine comes with screw tops these days, and that option seemed like unnecessary vaginal torture.
We're trying to make amends, my vag and me.
It wouldn't be a normal "time of the month" if I didn't experience some of the horrifying "chunks down the shower drain, holy god, did my uterus maul a small rodent, what the fuck WAS that?" and then I decided it must have been my remaining shreds of dignity that plopped out.
I'd been looking for those.
Monday, May 16, 2011
No news is...super confusing
So I'm not pregnant. Except that I'm also not-NOT pregnant.
I'm exactly where I've been for the past two weeks which is the frustrating space of not knowing if I'm between Ovulation and Conception or Ovulation and Shedding Uterus, depending on how the whole Operation: Baby strike went the first go-round.
What I'm trying to say that is I still have no fucking clue what is going on.
On Friday, I was completely convinced that I am not pregnant and I was happily resigned to knowing we'd have to try again this month. When we have out of state visitor's sleeping 10 feet away. When I'm tired from hosting out of state visitors.
On Saturday, when my period declined it's standard invitation (VERY UNUSUAL FOR ME), my happy resignation turned into frantic peeing on sticks, but all the pee tests are negative (even the early detection tests taken two days after my period was due), so basically my body is messing with me for shoots and googles, and it serves me right for obsessing, right?
This is exactly like not being able to buy Season 6 of How I Met Your Mother - even though I'm dying to watch it - because Season 6 is, like, not over yet, and stuff.
The other minor symptoms I'm experiencing could be early pregnancy symptoms OR they could be in my head and NOT ACTUALLY HAPPENING AT ALL.
I've been talking to my uterus all weekend, saying stuff like, "Either be pregnant or be empty. It's your call, but fucking pick one already," and "BLEED, MOTHERFUCKER!"
The lack of finality is making me all question-y , and the only other explanation I can come up with for my late period is stress, which seems like a given when you've met me before, but I'm not actually very stressed out right now. I'm ready to know if I'm pregnant, I'm ready to BE pregnant, but I'm also enjoying my time at home with the dogs and the hubby and watching our very own fat robin who is nesting next door and plotting the deaths of the legion of dandelions in our yard and replacing worn out breaker switches and hosting dinner parties. I'm busy, but it's all very FUN, lazy business.
So is my insomnia + shingles outbreak + late period all a sign of my secret stress?
Or am I knocked up with the world's strangest spawn?
Is my giant, flappy labia involved in this mess? Do my boobs hurt because I keep squeezing them to see if they hurt? Or do they just hurt when I squeeze them because they hurt?
It's all very confusing.
Oh, and also - Lily wants to live in the trunk of my car. Or underneath the deck. I haven't decided which she'd prefer, but she's almost gotten locked in/stuck in both places this week, so it's kind of a toss up.
I'm exactly where I've been for the past two weeks which is the frustrating space of not knowing if I'm between Ovulation and Conception or Ovulation and Shedding Uterus, depending on how the whole Operation: Baby strike went the first go-round.
What I'm trying to say that is I still have no fucking clue what is going on.
On Friday, I was completely convinced that I am not pregnant and I was happily resigned to knowing we'd have to try again this month. When we have out of state visitor's sleeping 10 feet away. When I'm tired from hosting out of state visitors.
On Saturday, when my period declined it's standard invitation (VERY UNUSUAL FOR ME), my happy resignation turned into frantic peeing on sticks, but all the pee tests are negative (even the early detection tests taken two days after my period was due), so basically my body is messing with me for shoots and googles, and it serves me right for obsessing, right?
This is exactly like not being able to buy Season 6 of How I Met Your Mother - even though I'm dying to watch it - because Season 6 is, like, not over yet, and stuff.
The other minor symptoms I'm experiencing could be early pregnancy symptoms OR they could be in my head and NOT ACTUALLY HAPPENING AT ALL.
I've been talking to my uterus all weekend, saying stuff like, "Either be pregnant or be empty. It's your call, but fucking pick one already," and "BLEED, MOTHERFUCKER!"
The lack of finality is making me all question-y , and the only other explanation I can come up with for my late period is stress, which seems like a given when you've met me before, but I'm not actually very stressed out right now. I'm ready to know if I'm pregnant, I'm ready to BE pregnant, but I'm also enjoying my time at home with the dogs and the hubby and watching our very own fat robin who is nesting next door and plotting the deaths of the legion of dandelions in our yard and replacing worn out breaker switches and hosting dinner parties. I'm busy, but it's all very FUN, lazy business.
So is my insomnia + shingles outbreak + late period all a sign of my secret stress?
Or am I knocked up with the world's strangest spawn?
Is my giant, flappy labia involved in this mess? Do my boobs hurt because I keep squeezing them to see if they hurt? Or do they just hurt when I squeeze them because they hurt?
It's all very confusing.
Oh, and also - Lily wants to live in the trunk of my car. Or underneath the deck. I haven't decided which she'd prefer, but she's almost gotten locked in/stuck in both places this week, so it's kind of a toss up.
Thursday, May 05, 2011
Maybe I should break my arm again
I have a giant rash on my left shoulder and arm, and I'm pretty sure it's a stress rash from HAVING TO WAIT TO FIND OUT IF I'M PREGNANT.
Have I mentioned I'm not good at waiting?
I'm trying desperately to distract myself, keeping busy every day at work and when I get home, but there isn't one second of the day that my mind isn't flashing an internal neon sign and screaming at me that I don't know if I'm pregnant, I could be pregnant, I might not be pregnant, I have no way of knowing if I'm pregnant, I MUST KNOW RIGHT NOW.
Gray doesn't understand the stress involved. He listed of a dozen other semi-major things we have gong on, and said his mind keeps busy mulling those things over instead, and then I punched him in the gut and told him to suck on his busy mind. Because I mull every one of those things over (except Mortal Kombat) every day, too, and apparently I've got a speedy mental processor, because it's like I wake up in the morning and go,
"Three days until payday *mental list off all the bills we need to pay*, Gray might be starting a second job *mental list of all the money he would make and how I can spend it*, Lily ate two sticks of butter and Scary tried to bite the kitchen island when it snuck up on her...dogs are both still in need of major training *mental list of all the ways I could dismember them and shove their pieces down the garbage disposal*, need to fix the garbage disposal *mental note to google how to fix the garbage disposal*, I start taking summer classes next week *mental list of all the shit I need to buy for school*, have to remember to take my prenatal vitimin *OMFG I MIGHT BE PREGNANT*"
And then it's all over from there. The rest of my waking hours are spent alternating between thoughts about pregnancy, worries about miscarriage, *mental list of acceptable baby names*, cringing about cervical mucus, and wondering if I'm pregnant.
Last night I decided to take one of those "early detection" pregnancy tests that are supposed to work up to five days before your next expected period is due.
Last night was exactly eleven days prior to my next expected period, so I figured my chances of getting an accurate reading were, oh, SO FUCKING GOOD.
Okay, okay, fine. I knew I was wasting a pregnancy test and my time, but was there a tiny little part of me that thought that just ::maybe:: it would come back positive? Maybe just 1% chance?
Yes, I figured there might be a tiny chance, and so during the requisite three minutes waiting for my pee to soak into the stick, I contemplated the best way to disappear into another country to escape all the scientists who would want to study me because I'm the only woman on earth who got an accurate pregnancy result before her body even knew it was pregnant.
It was negative, of course, which leaves me exactly where I was this time yesterday, which is HELL, if you're wondering.
Maybe I shouldn't have quit smoking pot. Seems like that would help right about now.
Here, have a squirrel:
Have I mentioned I'm not good at waiting?
I'm trying desperately to distract myself, keeping busy every day at work and when I get home, but there isn't one second of the day that my mind isn't flashing an internal neon sign and screaming at me that I don't know if I'm pregnant, I could be pregnant, I might not be pregnant, I have no way of knowing if I'm pregnant, I MUST KNOW RIGHT NOW.
Gray doesn't understand the stress involved. He listed of a dozen other semi-major things we have gong on, and said his mind keeps busy mulling those things over instead, and then I punched him in the gut and told him to suck on his busy mind. Because I mull every one of those things over (except Mortal Kombat) every day, too, and apparently I've got a speedy mental processor, because it's like I wake up in the morning and go,
"Three days until payday *mental list off all the bills we need to pay*, Gray might be starting a second job *mental list of all the money he would make and how I can spend it*, Lily ate two sticks of butter and Scary tried to bite the kitchen island when it snuck up on her...dogs are both still in need of major training *mental list of all the ways I could dismember them and shove their pieces down the garbage disposal*, need to fix the garbage disposal *mental note to google how to fix the garbage disposal*, I start taking summer classes next week *mental list of all the shit I need to buy for school*, have to remember to take my prenatal vitimin *OMFG I MIGHT BE PREGNANT*"
And then it's all over from there. The rest of my waking hours are spent alternating between thoughts about pregnancy, worries about miscarriage, *mental list of acceptable baby names*, cringing about cervical mucus, and wondering if I'm pregnant.
Last night I decided to take one of those "early detection" pregnancy tests that are supposed to work up to five days before your next expected period is due.
Last night was exactly eleven days prior to my next expected period, so I figured my chances of getting an accurate reading were, oh, SO FUCKING GOOD.
Okay, okay, fine. I knew I was wasting a pregnancy test and my time, but was there a tiny little part of me that thought that just ::maybe:: it would come back positive? Maybe just 1% chance?
Yes, I figured there might be a tiny chance, and so during the requisite three minutes waiting for my pee to soak into the stick, I contemplated the best way to disappear into another country to escape all the scientists who would want to study me because I'm the only woman on earth who got an accurate pregnancy result before her body even knew it was pregnant.
It was negative, of course, which leaves me exactly where I was this time yesterday, which is HELL, if you're wondering.
Maybe I shouldn't have quit smoking pot. Seems like that would help right about now.
Here, have a squirrel:
Monday, May 02, 2011
And also, Zzzzzzzz
I slept all weekend.
No, really. ALL WEEKEND, I SLEPT. And I wasn't even drinking. Nor am I sick.
I am, however, hoping that I'm pregnant.
It's way too early for symptoms, right? Except I remember that last time, I was exhausted. Inexplicably exhausted. Wake-up-at-noon-nap-time-at-1:30-laziest-dogs-on-earth-think-I-must-be-dying-or-something-bed-time-by-7:00 exhausted.
That's the same exhaustion that hit me on the head Saturday, so the OMGIWANTTOBEKNOCKEDUP part of me thinks that I must be pregnant, and maybe it takes a hell of a lot of energy to...allow an egg to embed itself in my uterine wall? Help the little egg divide cells like it's going out of style?
CONVINCE MYSELF I'M PREGNANT INSTEAD OF REMAINING (reasonably) HOPEFUL AND INDIFFERENT?
Yeah, that's the most likely.
Even though I may be jumping the gun, I can tell you that the men on the field made a valiant effort, it should be good, the pieces are in place, I cannot believe I'm agreeing to procreate with a man who never stops quoting Brett Farve (even in the off-season) and I cannot believe I've turned into the woman who quotes him right back.
If we're not pregnant, then it was a hell of a try, and I'll be taking consolation gifts in the form of 1.75L vodka and some Swisher Sweets. There will be approximately 2 weeks in between Sad Face pregnancy test and the recommencement of Operation: Baby. Why not console myself with a little liquid happiness?
But if we ARE pregnant...have a drink for me, wouldja?
(Christ, now I have to wait two weeks to find out how this story begins. Please, please please - let me begin vomiting uncontrollably before then. I cannot take the suspense.)
No, really. ALL WEEKEND, I SLEPT. And I wasn't even drinking. Nor am I sick.
I am, however, hoping that I'm pregnant.
It's way too early for symptoms, right? Except I remember that last time, I was exhausted. Inexplicably exhausted. Wake-up-at-noon-nap-time-at-1:30-laziest-dogs-on-earth-think-I-must-be-dying-or-something-bed-time-by-7:00 exhausted.
That's the same exhaustion that hit me on the head Saturday, so the OMGIWANTTOBEKNOCKEDUP part of me thinks that I must be pregnant, and maybe it takes a hell of a lot of energy to...allow an egg to embed itself in my uterine wall? Help the little egg divide cells like it's going out of style?
CONVINCE MYSELF I'M PREGNANT INSTEAD OF REMAINING (reasonably) HOPEFUL AND INDIFFERENT?
Yeah, that's the most likely.
Even though I may be jumping the gun, I can tell you that the men on the field made a valiant effort, it should be good, the pieces are in place, I cannot believe I'm agreeing to procreate with a man who never stops quoting Brett Farve (even in the off-season) and I cannot believe I've turned into the woman who quotes him right back.
If we're not pregnant, then it was a hell of a try, and I'll be taking consolation gifts in the form of 1.75L vodka and some Swisher Sweets. There will be approximately 2 weeks in between Sad Face pregnancy test and the recommencement of Operation: Baby. Why not console myself with a little liquid happiness?
But if we ARE pregnant...have a drink for me, wouldja?
(Christ, now I have to wait two weeks to find out how this story begins. Please, please please - let me begin vomiting uncontrollably before then. I cannot take the suspense.)
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
We're considering installing a chair lift
Well, we got the green light from our OBGYN to Make! Babies! Promptly!
Most people don't think to visit the doctor before conception, but I had a lot of google time on my hands as I waited for the goddamn class D seizure/migraine medication to clear out of my body, so when I read (on a very medically sound message board, I am sure) that a preconception check-up was sometimes recommended, it took less than forty-five seconds for me to schedule that appointment.
Except that's not true because that's not how it happened.
See, when my neurologists assured me that my traumatic brain injury, skull fracture, parietal lobe bruising, and related cervical nerve damage would in no way effect my future pregnancies, I didn't believe them for a fucking second.
It doesn't seem possible that a head injury can just...dissipate and go away like a broken arm or a bad reaction to shell fish. My past experience with brain injuries, albeit from the sidelines, was telling me a different story.
In December when I was finally given the okay to begin DOING ACTUAL THINGS again, I emailed my faithful OBGYN (we'll call him Dr. Noggin for the sake of not saying "OBGYN" every six sentences) and although he had already been notified of my injuries (via fax)((at my request)) by the hospital where I'd been treated, he didn't yet know the whole story. When I explained what had happened to the best of my knowledge, I was met with a response that didn't surprise me, but DID scare me a little.
Dr. Noggin said there were definitely risks and concerns, namely my "focal neurological deficits" (my loss of hearing and my dizziness, which have since gone away completely, and my loss of taste and smell, which have not), high blood pressure during pregnancy, and pushing during labor and delivery. Basically, we have to be wary of anything that could potentially knock a blood clot loose in my brain and cause...well...whatever they cause, and while that is always true of any pregnant woman, apparently women with TBIs in their past are at a much greater risk.
Dr. Noggin forwarded my information to a perinatologist (high-risk pregnancy specialist) at the Mayo Clinic for more information, and he came back with even more semi-scary news.
Though I knew this already, it was something else entirely when he said, "Your head injury is the most important thing in your medical history now, NO QUESTION ABOUT IT." Dammit, I guess Mummy Hand must take a back burner. Forever.
He said that we'd "re-evaluate next year," which is now, and said he'd prefer to see us back in his office before we made the decision to commence Operation: Get In My Belleh, Baby.
So we went, and although it was a much happier appointment than the last time we were there together, it was still a little nerve-wracking. We found ourselves beyond punchy and giggling like little girls over something involving head cheese and the word "moist". I, of course, was starving because I'd fasted all day in preparation for my cholesterol test, and Gray was exhausted, probably from playing too much Mortal Kombat, and so there we sat, in the room full of miniature vaginas, models of ovaries and diagrams of cervical positions, laughing so loudly that we drew a bit of attention to ourselves.
When Dr. Noggin came into the room, it was time for business. He began with, "So you're normal now," and when neither Gray nor I could answer that in the affirmative, he chuckled and said, "Well, not "normal," but better. Head-wise."
There is no mistaking me for "normal."
I expected some questions about my brain to be interspersed with others about my menstrual cycles, my lifestyle, exercise, immunizations, and all the other topics I'd googled about preconception check-ups. What I didn't expect was a very pointed interrogation about my brain injury, doctors, time in the hospital, recovery, symptoms, headaches, medication, mood, and other completely brain-centric questions. He also had me sign a form so he could get my last CT scan. Just in case, he said.
I was a little taken aback because at this point in my recovery, I consider myself back to how I was before, even though that doesn't equal "normal".
But as Dr. Noggin pointed out, a traumatic brain injury resulting in ten days in the hospital, some of those in ICU, is not something that I can ever "gloss over," not for the rest of my life. And I'm beginning to realize that the implications of one stupid fucking fall down the basement stairs will be much farther-reaching into the rest of my years on this earth than I ever imagined.
So by the end of the appointment, we got the green light, but I feel it was granted in a near-begrudging manner, and with very strict orders to report any type of change in vision, hearing, motor skills, touch, ANYTHING WHATSOEVER OUT OF THE ORDINARY, and Dr. Noggin said he would not hesitate to order and MRI and refer me to a high-risk specialist if my blood pressure rises or other warning signs present themselves.
I don't think he'd hesitate to spank me if I neglected to follow his orders.
Most people don't think to visit the doctor before conception, but I had a lot of google time on my hands as I waited for the goddamn class D seizure/migraine medication to clear out of my body, so when I read (on a very medically sound message board, I am sure) that a preconception check-up was sometimes recommended, it took less than forty-five seconds for me to schedule that appointment.
Except that's not true because that's not how it happened.
See, when my neurologists assured me that my traumatic brain injury, skull fracture, parietal lobe bruising, and related cervical nerve damage would in no way effect my future pregnancies, I didn't believe them for a fucking second.
It doesn't seem possible that a head injury can just...dissipate and go away like a broken arm or a bad reaction to shell fish. My past experience with brain injuries, albeit from the sidelines, was telling me a different story.
In December when I was finally given the okay to begin DOING ACTUAL THINGS again, I emailed my faithful OBGYN (we'll call him Dr. Noggin for the sake of not saying "OBGYN" every six sentences) and although he had already been notified of my injuries (via fax)((at my request)) by the hospital where I'd been treated, he didn't yet know the whole story. When I explained what had happened to the best of my knowledge, I was met with a response that didn't surprise me, but DID scare me a little.
Dr. Noggin said there were definitely risks and concerns, namely my "focal neurological deficits" (my loss of hearing and my dizziness, which have since gone away completely, and my loss of taste and smell, which have not), high blood pressure during pregnancy, and pushing during labor and delivery. Basically, we have to be wary of anything that could potentially knock a blood clot loose in my brain and cause...well...whatever they cause, and while that is always true of any pregnant woman, apparently women with TBIs in their past are at a much greater risk.
Dr. Noggin forwarded my information to a perinatologist (high-risk pregnancy specialist) at the Mayo Clinic for more information, and he came back with even more semi-scary news.
Though I knew this already, it was something else entirely when he said, "Your head injury is the most important thing in your medical history now, NO QUESTION ABOUT IT." Dammit, I guess Mummy Hand must take a back burner. Forever.
He said that we'd "re-evaluate next year," which is now, and said he'd prefer to see us back in his office before we made the decision to commence Operation: Get In My Belleh, Baby.
So we went, and although it was a much happier appointment than the last time we were there together, it was still a little nerve-wracking. We found ourselves beyond punchy and giggling like little girls over something involving head cheese and the word "moist". I, of course, was starving because I'd fasted all day in preparation for my cholesterol test, and Gray was exhausted, probably from playing too much Mortal Kombat, and so there we sat, in the room full of miniature vaginas, models of ovaries and diagrams of cervical positions, laughing so loudly that we drew a bit of attention to ourselves.
When Dr. Noggin came into the room, it was time for business. He began with, "So you're normal now," and when neither Gray nor I could answer that in the affirmative, he chuckled and said, "Well, not "normal," but better. Head-wise."
There is no mistaking me for "normal."
I expected some questions about my brain to be interspersed with others about my menstrual cycles, my lifestyle, exercise, immunizations, and all the other topics I'd googled about preconception check-ups. What I didn't expect was a very pointed interrogation about my brain injury, doctors, time in the hospital, recovery, symptoms, headaches, medication, mood, and other completely brain-centric questions. He also had me sign a form so he could get my last CT scan. Just in case, he said.
I was a little taken aback because at this point in my recovery, I consider myself back to how I was before, even though that doesn't equal "normal".
But as Dr. Noggin pointed out, a traumatic brain injury resulting in ten days in the hospital, some of those in ICU, is not something that I can ever "gloss over," not for the rest of my life. And I'm beginning to realize that the implications of one stupid fucking fall down the basement stairs will be much farther-reaching into the rest of my years on this earth than I ever imagined.
So by the end of the appointment, we got the green light, but I feel it was granted in a near-begrudging manner, and with very strict orders to report any type of change in vision, hearing, motor skills, touch, ANYTHING WHATSOEVER OUT OF THE ORDINARY, and Dr. Noggin said he would not hesitate to order and MRI and refer me to a high-risk specialist if my blood pressure rises or other warning signs present themselves.
I don't think he'd hesitate to spank me if I neglected to follow his orders.
Thursday, April 21, 2011
I'm also scheduled for a fasting cholesterol test. I cannot possibly be old enough for that.
Tomorrow is the Big Day.
Gray and I are returning, not triumphantly, but at least happily, to the OBGYN where we went for our first lost pregnancy, this time to do a preconception check-up and catch up with the very best vag doc in the entire world, who Gray loves (in a strictly-hetero way) because of their mutual love of vintage Metallica.
Do you understand what I'm saying? Because I don't think you do. You don't seem nearly excited enough.
WE CAN HAZ BABIEZ MAKING.
I've literally run out of preconception topics to google. There is nothing left to learn, aside from the scheduled post-brain injury implications during pregnancy, labor and delivery. Otherwise, I've been taking a prenatal vitamin since January, I stopped birth control at the same time, I've been off the dangerous seizure medication for three of the neurologist-advised "two-and-a-half to three" months. I'm cutting back on coffee. I'm getting more exercise. Gray is eating better and losing some weight to prepare for chasing around toddlers. And, you know, SEX.
Aside from stocking up on lube, there isn't much left to do now but wait for my ovulation window to slide itself right on open so we can shove our spawn through the crack.
I AM NOT A PATIENT PERSON (yes, the implications of impatience for motherhood have been brought to my attention, thank you for reminding me, asshole) and yet I've been waiting. Nay, WE have been waiting. We've been waiting for three years, both by chance and by choice, and I can assure you that we are both capital-R ready.
Now that we're closing in on the prospect of having children, I must begin the process of trying to calm the fuck down, for the love of god talk about something besides cervical mucus already, stop wasting all the pregnancy tests because we just had sex 30 MINUTES AGO, and I should probably stop buying newborn onesies with adult slangs on them, but that's mostly because of child protective services and stuff.
We're also terrified about losing another pregnancy, but as per our ::totally calm and coherent:: discussions last time, we wanted to wait to try again until I was prepared to face the idea that another miscarriage is possible. It's not likely, it's not a given, it's not even a particularly high risk, but it's possible.
I wasn't prepared for that idea the first time, but now I hope I am.
I think I am.
And also SCREEEEEEE FOR BABY MAKING WINDOWS!
I hope this blog will soon return to its original purpose, which was to chronicle the ooey and the gooey parts my of pregnancy.
Don't worry - I'll still be a fucking badass.
I'll just have bigger tits.
Gray and I are returning, not triumphantly, but at least happily, to the OBGYN where we went for our first lost pregnancy, this time to do a preconception check-up and catch up with the very best vag doc in the entire world, who Gray loves (in a strictly-hetero way) because of their mutual love of vintage Metallica.
Do you understand what I'm saying? Because I don't think you do. You don't seem nearly excited enough.
WE CAN HAZ BABIEZ MAKING.
I've literally run out of preconception topics to google. There is nothing left to learn, aside from the scheduled post-brain injury implications during pregnancy, labor and delivery. Otherwise, I've been taking a prenatal vitamin since January, I stopped birth control at the same time, I've been off the dangerous seizure medication for three of the neurologist-advised "two-and-a-half to three" months. I'm cutting back on coffee. I'm getting more exercise. Gray is eating better and losing some weight to prepare for chasing around toddlers. And, you know, SEX.
Aside from stocking up on lube, there isn't much left to do now but wait for my ovulation window to slide itself right on open so we can shove our spawn through the crack.
I AM NOT A PATIENT PERSON (yes, the implications of impatience for motherhood have been brought to my attention, thank you for reminding me, asshole) and yet I've been waiting. Nay, WE have been waiting. We've been waiting for three years, both by chance and by choice, and I can assure you that we are both capital-R ready.
Now that we're closing in on the prospect of having children, I must begin the process of trying to calm the fuck down, for the love of god talk about something besides cervical mucus already, stop wasting all the pregnancy tests because we just had sex 30 MINUTES AGO, and I should probably stop buying newborn onesies with adult slangs on them, but that's mostly because of child protective services and stuff.
We're also terrified about losing another pregnancy, but as per our ::totally calm and coherent:: discussions last time, we wanted to wait to try again until I was prepared to face the idea that another miscarriage is possible. It's not likely, it's not a given, it's not even a particularly high risk, but it's possible.
I wasn't prepared for that idea the first time, but now I hope I am.
I think I am.
And also SCREEEEEEE FOR BABY MAKING WINDOWS!
I hope this blog will soon return to its original purpose, which was to chronicle the ooey and the gooey parts my of pregnancy.
Don't worry - I'll still be a fucking badass.
I'll just have bigger tits.
Thursday, April 07, 2011
Nozema, on the other hand, is in mourning
I stopped taking hormonal birth control in January in preparation for Operation: Damn You Vagina, Swallow, Don't Spit and the skin on my torso, though pasty-white and semi-scarred, certainly has not erupted in the violent display of porous infections known as "truncal acne" that I feared it would.
Therefore it is obvious that my hideous brush with Backne from Hell during the winter of 2008-2009 was definitely due to the miscarriage of baby Gage. At that time, in the MONTHS following the miscarriage, I hypothesized that my mortifying skin condition was a combination of my terrible genes (inherited from my mom) and those very same hormones (laugh! cry! laugh! growl! cry!) which caused the Backne from Hell. My poor torso didn't begin to heal until I started taking birth control again.
This time, I not only quit suppressing my periods (which I've done for a decade, give or take), but went off of the pill entirely, I can assure you that there has been NO lack of emotional bipolarism, and I assume my rapid shifts from raucus laughter to inexplicable weeping is due almost entirely to my crazy-ass hormones that are now free to course through my body without the barrier of ortho-cyclen to block them.
I may be fucking crazy right now, and I may cry with joy if you tell me your morning poop was shaped like a banana, but I can assure you that every zit on my body is visible on my face.
And that's something.
Therefore it is obvious that my hideous brush with Backne from Hell during the winter of 2008-2009 was definitely due to the miscarriage of baby Gage. At that time, in the MONTHS following the miscarriage, I hypothesized that my mortifying skin condition was a combination of my terrible genes (inherited from my mom) and those very same hormones (laugh! cry! laugh! growl! cry!) which caused the Backne from Hell. My poor torso didn't begin to heal until I started taking birth control again.
This time, I not only quit suppressing my periods (which I've done for a decade, give or take), but went off of the pill entirely, I can assure you that there has been NO lack of emotional bipolarism, and I assume my rapid shifts from raucus laughter to inexplicable weeping is due almost entirely to my crazy-ass hormones that are now free to course through my body without the barrier of ortho-cyclen to block them.
I may be fucking crazy right now, and I may cry with joy if you tell me your morning poop was shaped like a banana, but I can assure you that every zit on my body is visible on my face.
And that's something.
Wednesday, April 06, 2011
We're already doing it wrong
I'd forgotten how quickly the helpful conception/pregnancy/parenthood advice comes rolling in once the announcement of sex/conception/pregnancy/motherhood is proclaimed.
Since I began alerting the media about Operation: I'm a Dirty Mommy Slut, I've been told to
That sounds a lot like, "Find the hidden pot of gold on the other end of the rainbow, shove all those doubloons in your pockets, then climb the rainbow to reach your diamond-encrusted unicorn which will fly you to your magical castle in the sky where a lifetime supply of Skittles awaits you."
In other words, it sounds great, but HIGHLY IMPLAUSIBLE even under normal circumstances (i.e., when we're not having sex like stoic robots more than once a day for a week, meaning when I'm not having to wear adult diapers just to cushion my pelvic bones from any hard surface upon which I might sit because they are suddenly made of bruises and tears).
On the plus side, I'm still a Verified Conception away from the gory miscarriage stories from misguided friends about complete strangers whose shattered lives I don't really need to know about while I'm busy trying not to miscarry myself. I know this phase is coming, and I've stocked up on hot pink earplugs for the occasion(s).
What I'm saying, I guess, is that people are givers when it comes to unsolicited advice, and I shouldn't be surprised. It's payback time since I am the Queen of "You know what you should do?"
Damn my giant mouth.
Since I began alerting the media about Operation: I'm a Dirty Mommy Slut, I've been told to
- Try to incorporate a Rabbit vibrator because "men always love a show"
- Not to try to get pregnant, just to "wait and see what happens" because it worked for this particular lady (Clearly she's never met me before. Patience and non-impulsivity skipped over my gene pool).
- Not only to try to get pregnant, but to try a LOT throughout the entire estimated ovulation window
- To be sure Gray and I climax simultaneously because...something about the angle of the lady bits is supposed to help in some way
That sounds a lot like, "Find the hidden pot of gold on the other end of the rainbow, shove all those doubloons in your pockets, then climb the rainbow to reach your diamond-encrusted unicorn which will fly you to your magical castle in the sky where a lifetime supply of Skittles awaits you."
In other words, it sounds great, but HIGHLY IMPLAUSIBLE even under normal circumstances (i.e., when we're not having sex like stoic robots more than once a day for a week, meaning when I'm not having to wear adult diapers just to cushion my pelvic bones from any hard surface upon which I might sit because they are suddenly made of bruises and tears).
On the plus side, I'm still a Verified Conception away from the gory miscarriage stories from misguided friends about complete strangers whose shattered lives I don't really need to know about while I'm busy trying not to miscarry myself. I know this phase is coming, and I've stocked up on hot pink earplugs for the occasion(s).
What I'm saying, I guess, is that people are givers when it comes to unsolicited advice, and I shouldn't be surprised. It's payback time since I am the Queen of "You know what you should do?"
Damn my giant mouth.
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