ToBP

Toward the end of the pregnancy, moms-in-waiting are encouraged to make more frequent visits to the OB/GYN or midwife.  During one such visit, the midwife I saw indicated that she wrote in my file that I was suffering from ToBP.

ToBP (or TBP) is a very common condition and nothing too serious--or at least, nothing anyone else takes seriously.  It's an acronym for Tired of Being Pregnant.

And she was right.  I was very tired of being pregnant.  I was also just very tired.  And sore.  And constantly having heartburn.  People kept telling me I would have relief once the baby "dropped".  Not so.  He was so large that it was almost indistinguishable when he did hang a little lower inside my belly.  And he kept kicking me.  Hard.

It's not unusual, therefore, for women to start feeling a little resentful of their wee one.  I began asking the little dear to hurry up and come on out, as I was sure he was sufficiently done cooking in the oven.

About a week before my due date, I wrote a diatribe denouncing all the "evils" of pregnancy that a woman experiences, even when things go perfectly well.  For example, the worse a woman's morning sickness, the better, they say.   (I kept track on a calendar of every time my nausea turned productive.  Jackson was VERY healthy.)

My conclusions then were somewhat superficial, though I still support them more than a year since:

1. Women deserve to be thanked for enduring an entire pregnancy, regardless of whether or not they were good parents afterward
2. The only reasons women willingly get impregnated subsequent to the first time are either induced by alcohol or the result of some form of amnesia, possibly both
3. The first child was probably the result of alcohol or amnesia, too

Sure, there are couples out there who naively seek to deliberately create their own temporary opaque human aquariums.  These people are also usually the ones who have a difficult time conceiving.  Coincidence?  I think not.  These types remind me of the beer called Celebration, put out by Sierra Nevada.

The back story:  A completely awesome group of people gathers each Saturday night at a house in Tampa.  One night, while I was a regular attendee, an unsuspecting member of our group purchased a 6-pack of Celebration.  He took a sip of his bottle and pronounced it foul and undrinkable.  Of the 10 or so of us there that night, nearly every one proceeded to then attempt to try a taste of something so putrid it needed to be experienced first hand.  A final assessment of Celebration deemed the flavor reminiscent of beer that had been regurgitated and strained through dirty pantyhose before being rebottled.  

"Oh, it's terrible!" 

"Let me try!"

Now, I'm not essaying to tell people not to have children.  Far from it!  But it's not all roses and sunshine.  For a year and a half, I never once slept a full night through.  For the first 6 months of Jackson's life, I spent a great deal of time wearing clothing covered in spit up, since he had reflux issues.  Conception, pregnancy, birth, and infancy are not for the delicate of manners.  They are gross.  Period.

And then...well, I have historically been a typical Floridian, feeling chill at 72F.  I used to keep my thermostat set to about 80F or 82F in the summer, and was quite fine with it.  However, the last month of my pregnancy was spent burning hot.  In December.  With the air conditioning running.  Poor Andrew, my darling husband, suffered manfully while I pushed the thermostat down to 62F at night, kicking off the blankets because it was sooo hot.

We were ready for Jackson to find the light at the end of the tunnel and venture forth into a brave new world.

Doula Selection

After reading about doulas in our prenatal books, Andrew and I decided that a labor doula would be very helpful to have.  Our reasoning was that:

1. We could afford one (in the end, we paid about $575)
2. Outside of ourselves and hospital staff, we had no local network of support during labor
3. With my hip malfunctions (from that cruel hormone relaxin) and my cervical disc herniation (from a pre-conception car accident), we wanted someone who could help me be as comfortable as possible
4. Andrew's general level of sympathy is not very, shall we say, "developed" and he was honest about that upfront -- he wanted me to have the best possible experience.  (n.b. Andrew entered this one; it does not mean he was wanting to shirk his responsibilities as a father at the birth--just wanted help!)
5. Given the stress of labor and delivery, it made sense to want someone a bit emotionally removed who could remain clearheaded and help to enforce our preferences and rights as parents-to-be

So, I queried my midwife for suggestions for a doula.  At first she was reluctant to offer any, stating that whichever midwife from the practice was on call would stay with me during my labor.  (Ironically, she turned out to be the midwife on duty, and perhaps it was because I had a doula and perhaps not, but she was NOT around much at all until close to pushing time!)  Eventually she surrendered the name of a local midwife named Daniela.

I called Daniela and scheduled an informal interview with her at our home.  Andrew researched online for appropriate questions to ask her, and we added a few of our own:  just what exactly is it that a doula does?  After we had a chance to interrogate our prospective doula (who turned out to be a midwife as well, specializing in home births) about any manner of things, including the name and number of her hairdresser (her hair was fabulous!), my husband and I conferred.

While Daniela was perfectly agreeable, she was also somewhat mousy.  She seemed affronted by our unusual questions (which were likely the result of a certain amount of anxiety on our part) but tried to hide it while remaining reasonably cheerful.  Then we struck gold:  she had a back-up doula!

As Daniela was both doula and midwife, she seemed overly qualified to the point where it was practically insulting for us to hire her as "only" a doula.  Her back-up doula, however, was a doula AND a massage therapist, which was exactly what we had hoped to find.  We politely requested Sabrina's contact information so that we might interview her as well, and in the process I fear we may have offended Daniela--though I suspect she was secretly glad not to have further dealings with us, the "crazy" couple with the odd sense of humor!

Andrew and I were nervous about a second interview, but we were better prepared this time around.  Still, we felt little need to pretend to be people we were not since our true personalities were likely to resurface in the excitement of labor and delivery.

Sabrina was a godsend!  From the moment she arrived I felt very comfortable with her, almost as though she were my own sister.  She even bears a strong resemblance to my actual sister!  While at first she was rather uncertain of how to interpret our strangeness, Sabrina quickly warmed to us and seemed to even enjoy our often unexpected injections of humor into the whole process.

One thing that was very impressive to us was her apparent level of organization.  She had paperwork for us to complete with basic information about ourselves and what restrictions and allowances we wanted to have in place at Jackson's evacuation from my uterus.  Her payment plan was very straightforward and reasonable--and it included a free prenatal massage!  For control freaks such as ourselves, Sabrina was the ideal candidate.

As we only met her a month before my due date, she returned on only 2 or 3 other occasions before the birth itself for training sessions.  Sabrina had recently learned some new techniques for helping laboring moms to cope with the pain.  Andrew and I accepted our tutorials, which included an emphasis on changing focus.

One lesson in particular involved us holding a piece of ice inside a closed fist for a given duration.  We had to look around at various objects and focus on basic concepts about them:  green couch, wood chair, the feel of carpet on bare feet, etc. while trying to maintain steady breathing and minimal awareness of the ice.

Any laboring mother can tell you that ice is no substitute for the real deal, but for learning a basic trick to use in labor, ice sufficed quite well.  [Please, if you try this yourself, exercise caution as prolonged exposure to ice can severely damage your skin!]

Everyone has their own individual preferences and comfort levels.  When it came down to it, Sabrina was chosen by us because not only did she exude confidence, but she also helped us to feel relaxed and comfortable.  Giving birth is stressful enough an experience that anything that can be done to mitigate that stress rather than exacerbate it is much appreciated by all those involved.  Andrew and I knew that we could rely on Sabrina to help serve as an ambassador to hospital staff, someone who would state and reaffirm and enforce our individual preferences in dealing with both medical professionals--and ourselves!

Baby Showers Bring...Who Knows What

At some point in the average American woman's pregnancy, people begin to ask about a baby shower for the child waiting to be born.  There are many reasons they ask:

1. They want to plan a party for you.
2. They want to know how much money you expect them to spend on a child they will probably rarely ever see.
3. They don't know what else to ask an obviously pregnant woman.
4. They want to try to find something else to be doing that day so that, if and when they are invited, they can bow out of any obligation of attending.
5. They want to tell you about their own baby shower experiences, so the question is really just a lead-in.
6. They want to tell you how to handle things for a baby shower.
7. And finally, they might just want to be sure you intend to invite them should you have a baby shower.

The funny thing about baby showers is the wide variety of reactions people have toward them.  I have known people to make some truly amazing faces at the mere suggestion they attend such a party--and not just men, either.  

Part of the problem stems from parties these people have attended in the past which have permanently scarred them or at least negatively colored their views on prenatal celebrations.  Typically resulting from parties planned by a friend or family member, unsuspecting attendees have been forced to participate in all sorts of "undignified" antics.  These include diapering a stuffed animal while blindfolded, drinking games with baby bottles, and fumblingly guessing at the circumference of the mom-to-be's belly.  (The latter was actually played at one of my 2 baby showers for Jackson; I guessed the closest!)  While some truly enjoy these frivolities, many others are made to feel horribly uncomfortable by them and begin to hide from baby shower invites (see #4 above).

Some make a face less of disgust and more of excitement.  They may even scream and jump erratically.  (n.b. These are typically NOT men.)  These are often the same people who enjoy planning games like Pin the Diaper on the Teddy Bear and making Diaper Cakes.

Andrew and I canvassed all these issues while determining our strategy for baby planning.  We are both very much control-freaks, and we wanted anyone who attended to be under as little stress as possible.  The main problems we faced were that our friends and family almost exclusively lived at least 2 hour's drive away (and in two distantly separated locations) and that we needed to know how much of our own funds we would need to budget for whatever other people did not want to buy for us.

Eventually we devised a plan to have 3 (later downsized to 2) baby showers.  One was being hosted by Andrew's parents in Tallahassee, and the other by my sister in Tarpon Springs.  A third we had considered hosting somewhere here in Gainesville, but in our frustration and exhaustion we scrapped the idea.  Being the sort who like to have a hold of the reins of any project involving our time, Andrew and I felt exasperated by the efforts being made for us.

In an effort to save us money, my sister had hoped to host the party over Thanksgiving holidays to help minimize our number of trips to town (and thus hotel and dining costs).  This would have been just 3 weeks before my due date, however, and far too close for our comfort, therefore.  Our goal was to have Jackson's nursery completely prepared by then so that, should he be a sweetheart and arrive early, we would have all the tools we would need to appease him.  Eventually we convinced her that earlier was better than later, and the final decision was made to have both showers in October, 2 weeks apart.

The Tallahassee one came first and was a great success.  My mother-in-law cooked a vast (and I do mean vast!) spread of yummy foods, and we spent the day enjoying an open house of visitors.  The initial plan was for guests to arrive between 1pm and 5pm, but the result was a party that lasted 8 hours until we had to usher people out the door.  Still, we had a very intimate visit with each group of attendees in a pleasant and relaxed atmosphere. 

Our subsequent shower in Tarpon Springs was, perhaps, overly ambitious.  A wide variety of my friends and acquaintances were invited to a Greek lunch cafe, none of whom had received any sort of written invitation.  (My sister had some sort of conflict with the post office that I never fully interpreted.)  Vanessa had planned a number of guessing games that entertained people, while some very awkward family/friend combinations occurred due to the cramped quarters of the back room we inhabited.  Overall, the party was still a great success--in more than one way!  As a consequence of meeting at Jackson's baby shower, my friends Chirag and Juliet met one another, and 9 months later they were married!  (No children between them; they both began graduate school a month after tying the knot.)

On discussion during the process and afterward, Andrew and I felt that if ever we were to have another baby shower, we would plan it ourselves.  Having some greater hindsight and recalling how busy we were at the time, I think the main consideration is really just that the person planning the shower needs to understand and accept what is important to YOU in regard to any prenatal partying.  For example, next time we send invitations and/or Thank You cards, we're using the US Post Office's website.  And if we ever have another baby shower with single people, we'll hand out condoms for the after party.

Separation Anxiety

One of my goals in writing this blog is to highlight some of the things no one seems willing to talk about with pregnancy and child-rearing.  I'm a fairly candid person, so I'm not too shy to describe some of the less appealing parts along the way.  Among such seldom-mentioned experiences are the sometimes painful consequences of the hormone relaxin--and worse.

Throughout my pregnancy, there were frequent surprises.  Andrew and I had read the books that are published on human gestation, so we knew that the excessive production of gas was "normal."  When I had a resting heart rate of over 100bpm at 3 months gestation, that was also fairly "normal", though I normally have between 60-70bpm.

What we were not prepared to experience, however, was what my midwife termed as a change in my 'environment.'  When she says environment, though, she doesn't mean that I'm in a new place.  She means that my lady bits have changed in pH and other chemicals may be lurking in the dark.  These changed environs do not combine well with sensitive skin.  Enter my darling husband Andrew.

Darling husband Andrew became mad at me; he had developed a rash.  Suspicions arose on both our parts as to how he came to develop such a rash -- and only as a consequence of coitus.  This was the second trimester, the alleged golden period of pregnancy in which both partners are back at it like rabbits.  We, on the other hand, were questioning one another's honesty and integrity regarding STD cleanliness.  Luckily we trusted one another enough to ask the midwife what could be the cause.  She had a brilliant solution:  prescribe me nipple cream.  Problem solved!  His rash cleared up after a few applications of topical cream, but afterward...intercourse became more sparse in frequency.  Getting some action now meant a fate far worse than pregnancy -- "cock rot", as he called it -- of which he was naturally terrified.  He was grouchy; I was defensive.  Let's face it, have a burning member is only good when it's a metaphor, right?  But there was not a thing I could do to ameliorate the situation.  (If we were good at the whole condom thing, there wouldn't have been a pregnancy in the first place.)  While we were able to work through it, a certain spark had been lost in the bedroom that took a very long time to return.

Several weeks afterward, we traveled across the state so Andrew could be best man in a wedding.  On the beach.  In the afternoon.  In August.  In Florida.  (Perhaps the setting helps explain why that marriage only lasted until the first anniversary?)  I digress.

The night before the wedding, Andrew and I stayed in a hotel room de gratis, and snuggled comfortably (if Platonically) into the expansive king size bed.  Being the good rule-follower, I had developed techniques for left-side lying in order to help the baby.  (They almost never explain it, but supposedly it has something to do with blood flow to the uterus.)  Pregnancy was never greatly comfortable, but I had begun to find it tolerable and increasingly agreeable.  Overnight, literally, this changed.  During the night, the pillow I kept between my legs snuck its way out.  I awoke to find myself immobilized.

This is not a metaphor, either.  I had to beg Andrew to help me turn onto my back, which caused me to make all sorts of unattractive faces.  Further facial contortions resulted when I finally managed to be removed from the bed.  "Things" were not where they belonged.  What I didn't know then is that they would remain out of sorts until 4 months later when I had the opportunity to eject my darling little parasite.  Still, he was kicking away to his little heart's content to let me know everything was just fine and dandy inside.

Walking became a challenge.  This was especially entertaining as, while on this ill-fated trip I received good news:  I had been hired for the position I had interviewed a few hours before hitting the road.  Bad enough I had had to make sure my new employer was aware that I was an egg waiting to hatch, but I felt obligated to pretend that I was in perfect health.  So, the herniated disc in my neck?  Oh, no problem!  The painful exercise of moving?  No big deal....

Finally I surrendered and got a referral from my midwife to a local physical therapy group.  There I was told the cause of my pain:  the hormone relaxin, present in all pregnant women, had gone ape-doody crazy and decided to segregate the bones of my pelvis to ridiculous levels.  While the therapy helped briefly, typically by the time I walked back my car to drive home, all the corrections and repositionings had gone haywire already, and my poor pelvis was in pain again.

The muscles of my buttocks, lower abdomen, and all the little bits that hold things together were strained and pained from the extra workload shirked by my joints.  To top it off, over time the misalignment shifted so that the bones of my pelvis were grinding together at the front.  Good times, good times.

Yet...for all that, somehow I made it through the last 4 months without losing my sanity.  It helped to know that it could have been way worse (i.e. preeclampsia, miscarriage, anencephaly).  Even more it helped me to know the cause--and that the end was in sight.  My hip problems disappeared immediately post partum.  And knowing that, in the end, I gave birth naturally to a nearly 10lb child helped explain all the prep work my body was doing to make it all possible!

Iron Poisoning & Morning Sickness

Once I knew I had a bun in the oven, I decided to be a responsible mom-to-be and immediately went to the local natural foods store and purchased some prenatal vitamins.

This I will never do again.

One thing I have since learned is that there are no regulations on what can be termed "prenatal" vitamins.  So, whatever amounts of various vitamins the manufacturers care to include, they can and do.

Within a week of beginning to take these vitamins, I moved the first stage of my belongings to Andrew's apartment--and I forgot to bring my special vitamins.  So, I went out and bought some more of a different brand, also from the all-natural section of the store.  A day or so later, I was having serious pains in my digestive tract.  We weren't sure of the cause at first, but it seemed like it might be a passing thing, so we continued on our 2+ hour journey to collect more of my horde of items from my old apartment.  After arriving there, we learned that it may have been related to constipation, so we got some laxatives.

Pain was constant and intense.  Several doses of laxatives later, and about 48 hours into the pain with no relief, we decided to go to the ER.  I had no health insurance.

At first, everything seemed to go well.  The medical professionals wanted to run tests to try and ascertain the status of the baby.  (We did not yet know the vitamins were the cause of my pain.)  An inept almost-nurse stabbed me several times over trying to take a blood sample.  Then I was catheterized.  They reverse-filled my bladder with water so that an ultrasound image could show my uterus.  [I was later billed $50 for a pharmacy item, which turned out to be that bag of water!]

Then I got to see Jackson for the first time!  He was so, so tiny, having only gestated about 5 weeks at that point.  Just the tiniest little flicker on a black and white monitor showed Andrew and I our little darling's heartbeat and a body smaller than the tip of my pinky finger.

Shortly afterward, the catheter was removed without the little air bubble that held it in fully deflated (youch!  hurt to pee for weeks!).  A doctor appeared for the first time and probed my belly for a few seconds, then left without introducing himself or even offering a diagnosis.  I was ejected from the hospital with no clue as to the origin of my problem and forced to sign papers swearing that I would pay the bills they would send me.

They handed me a prescription for more laxatives and sent me out the door.

The next day I was due to start a new job near my new home.  I had to call and delay my job start.  The second day, I decided I still needed treatment.  I was rejected from the health department pending paperwork, then I was rejected from a walk-in clinic after they finally realized that I was pregnant.  "We don't serve your kind here."

Finally, I ended up back at another ER.  I waited for triage in a filthy room while a pair of hookers fought to get their drunk pimp allowed to stay inside with them.

After a few hours waiting at the ER, I finally got a nurse (a very competent man with a good sense of humor) and then my favorite person of the month:  Dr. Prabhu.  The doc was a young man with thinning hair, but he really knew his stuff.  He explained to us about the 3 types of iron used in vitamin pills, why I was in so much pain (my stomach lining was missing much of its mucous), and then he helped me out.  I was so dehydrated from being barely able to ingest anything for days, plus all the laxatives, so they stuck me on a saline drip.  He gave me Maalox and some directions for other relief, and I finally started to feel better.

Nervous about the prospect of losing my new job, I tried to work right away.  This was abig  mistake, as I began morning sickness that day and still was exhausted and in pain.  My new employer and I quickly agreed that I was in no condition to work and that a replacement was best found.  The next 8 weeks I spent on bed rest, for the most part.

The oddest part of the whole experience (besides the doubt everyone expressed that iron could be so unforgiving) was the reaction Andrew and I had towards Dr. Prabhu.  For whatever reason, we both agreed that if we were zombies, his head would look extremely tasty--a delicacy of sorts.

The first ER visit was more like something out of a sitcom.  My mother had been present, at my request, as she was the only one outside of Andrew who knew about my pregnancy yet.  With Andrew on my left and Mom on my right, we expressed our sincere amazement at how I had been impregnated so easily in the first place.  My brave fiance then declared that it was my fault, telling my mother that I should have listened to him.  After all, "I told her not to swallow!"

"I'm What?!?"

Let's rewind.

March 24th, 2007, Andrew and I went to a party.  We had a disagreement on the way home, but we made up.  We made up very, very well.  VERY well.  Ahem.

So, we finally went to sleep a little after 3am, and yet before 10am even rolled around, I woke up feeling happier and more complete than I could ever remember feeling.  Lately I had been thinking a lot about a story my mother had told me.  Apparently when she woke up the morning after I was conceived, she rolled over and told my father she was pregnant.  I was the second child, so I thought it was reasonable enough that she would remember, since it had then only been 9 months since she'd given birth to my older sister.

With my own feelings on waking that morning most likely (says my hindsight) in a cloud of excessive oxytocin production, I rolled over and told Andrew I was pregnant.  He was too exhausted to share my cheerful exuberance, nor did he remember this statement.  I let him sleep for a few more hours, and in the interim, I made an effusively loving entry about Andrew in my diary.  It's sickeningly dripping with adoration, and I reread it now and again.  (I still feel the same way, really, but I have to be careful not to fluff his ego TOO much.)

Fast forward 4 weeks.  My period was late.  Only 4 days late, mind you, but late all the same.  My previous period had been 13 days late, which was abnormal for me, and in the end it just came down to me stressing too much over the possibility of being pregnant.  So, I told myself I was just going to take a pregnancy test to resolve the issue so I could stop worrying.

By this time, I had been feeling really fatigued and had just explained it away with a variety of excuses.  My cheese crackers tasted funny, all of a sudden, and so did my apple juice.  At first I thought perhaps a power outage had caused the drastic flavor changes, but that seemed ridiculous when I considered the crackers.  Strangely enough, I had also been craving sappy old movies and musicals, and it was a rare thing for me to watch a movie (I haven't owned a TV in 7 years; don't miss it a bit!), so I was watching DVDs every night on my PC.

All those abnormalities were forgotten by the time I was taking this test, quite casually, by myself before preparing to go to a Pampered Chef party at the same house as 4 weeks prior.  I looked at the result.  Then I looked at it again.  "I'm what?!?"

Without panicking, I quickly fired off a text message to Andrew to go outside at work and call me.  He did, and in the most serious and skeptical manner, my darling Andrew whom I love and adore said, "Go take another test, and call me back."

Well, I didn't have a chance until after the party, and we agreed not to discuss it with anyone else until we were sure.  My mom became the exception, as she was the one to attend the party with me, and Andrew and I were currently unmarried and traveling 2+ hours each weekend for our "dates".  We had also only been dating for 4 months at the time of discovery.

I finally did take another pregnancy test at Andrew's insistence, making a late-night run to the pharmacy.  It confirmed things.  (I still have these dear little mementos--my Jackson "piss sticks"--stored away, though I don't really know why.)

Now what?  Luckily Andrew and I were in the process of having me move in with him, and I had already secured full-time employment in town and begun to tell all my clients (being then self-employed in a variety of capacities; see About Me) that a replacement would need to be found.  This did not help resolve my feelings of panic about the idea of moving away from all my relatives just when I was about to sprout a family of my own.

There is a happy continuation (eventually) to this story, but for now, I will leave you.